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The guy was making his teeth itch. Jim was beginning to believe that Blair was leaving his boxers wadded up on the bathroom floor just to piss him off. A little passive aggressive fuck-you for all the house rules he could write off with a dutiful nod and a 'Sure, Jim. Will do.'
And it does piss him off... The smell of him, a little gust of Sandburg musk, like some kind of intangible booby-trap. Like a goddamned ambush. Wake up, throw off the sheets, a little morning stretch, dig around in the old breadbasket to air things out, then downstairs to get his daily slap in the face in the form of a cold shower courtesy of Sandburg's excessive cream rinsing.
But even before that, there's that sneaky little cloud of Sandburg gliding in right under the radar, while he's bare assed and just about to step into the shower and it's... Blair, a resinous note under all that stupid conditioner in the air. And his dick just sits up and begs.
Sandburg's been under the impression that he's just not a morning person; if Blair knew that Jim's ritualistic AM bad mood was being caused by his own smelly laundry, he might not drape it all over the house.
Cold shower, disappointed dick, crap attitude guaranteed for the next half-hour or so.
"Sandburg."
He looked up from the kitchen table, and said, "Yeah?" around a mouthful of kashi and soymilk.
"You wanna get your underwear out of my bathroom?"
For just a second, his eyebrows crunched his expression into something that made it plain that Blair was annoyed with him. But he smoothed it out, gamely set his bowl down and slipped past Jim into the bathroom muttering, "Hello, nasty" under his breath.
He skinned the boxers off the floor and walked two steps toward his bedroom before flinging them onto his own floor, already islanded with crumpled button-downs and bunched up socks. The breeze of the tossed clothing made the curtain that served as a door sway a little. Then he went back to the ladder-backed chair he'd been sitting in and scooped up another mouthful of healthy whole grains.
"That's it?"
When Blair didn't respond, Jim stalked over to him, working up a glower while Sandburg calmly munched his breakfast.
"No 'Sorry about that', no 'Whoa, hey, I totally flaked', no 'Won't happen again, Jim?'"
Sandburg set his spoon down and turned his entire body to face Jim, peering up at him past his eyeglasses, which had a single orphan eyelash anchored to one of the lenses.
"You know, it's my bathroom, too, Jim."
"Gonna claim squatter's rights now, buddy? Cause I don't see any rent checks coming my way."
Shit. He can't believe he said that. He didn't give a rat's ass about rent; the day after Sandburg had crossed the loft threshold with a Barbary Ape draped over his shoulder, he'd stopped even thinking about asking.
A week. Right.
Blair's whole face got tight; it didn't change his expression so much as set it.
"Most household arguments revolve around money. But you're a cop. You already know that. But do you really want to go head to head about this? About some imaginary tally sheet?"
Jim's options were limited. Stick to his guns and bluster about something he really didn't give a shit about, or back down, mumble something, drop his eyes and just take his morning shower. He didn't like his odds in the argument category; Blair seemed immune to or amused by every intimidation tactic Jim had at his disposal, and there was a real possibility the whole thing could escalate right past the redline, pushing Sandburg right out the door. And he didn't want that. Rationally, he didn't want that, but right now he was pissed, gummy eyed and half-hard and ready to have a go at Sandburg.
"You've been here two years, and I've never seen a goddamned dime."
Sandburg took off his glasses, folded them and lay them on the table next to his wet spoon. Then he stood up and rubbed his palms against the thighs of his jeans. They were clean, and so was his T-shirt, but his unbuttoned flannel was still stale with cigarette smoke from the bar on Conroy they'd been at three nights before. As it wasn't obviously stained, it was plain Blair had deemed it 'clean enough'. But something else had caught Jim's attention; there was a thin sort of burning smell not like overheated wiring, but more like dust toasting on a lightbulb. A dry, ugly whiff of it clung to Blair's slow, controlled exhalation.
Anger. Blair smelled angry or maybe just disappointed.
"What did we have for dinner last night, Jim?"
"If you're gonna weasel out of this conversation, fine" and Jim turned on his heel, wildly glad that Sandburg had backed down first.
"Answer the question, Jim."
Jim tuned around and blinked at his roommate. If he'd been fully dressed, he would have crossed his arms over his chest and just glared, but somehow, with only his boxers and a fresh towel over his shoulders, he simply answered.
"Some kind of lentil thing. With peppers."
Blair nodded, a single inclination of his head.
"And who cooked it?"
"You did. So what? I cook, too."
Another slow, somehow infuriating nod from Sandburg.
"You do. Noodles. The occasional lasagna. Jim, I cooked dinner four nights this week. I would estimate I do let's say 70 percent of the food preparation in this loft. Breakfast and dinner mostly. We eat out a lot so let me bring that percentage down to 65 or so. I don't think you'd have too big a slice on this particular pie chart, do you?"
Jim hung on to the ends of his towel and tried to think of something combative, but Blair continued on.
"When was the last time you went grocery shopping?"
Jim smirked.
"Last night."
"Jim, you brought home a half gallon of vanilla ice cream and a six pack of Killian's Red. That doesn't even count, man." Blair took three steps and tilted his chin up at Jim. He looked for all the world like a 12-year-old picking a fight with a tenth-grader.
The kid had probably gotten his teeth kicked in every other afternoon while he'd been in junior high, Jim thought.
He gave Blair a quick once over; the defiant chin, the square shoulders, the big hands, the slightest impression of a boxer's crouch.
Maybe not, he acceded.
"The hunting may be your purview, Jim, but the gathering pretty much falls to me. When was the last time you went to Bryant's Organic for sun-dried tomatoes, or plantains, or artichokes that aren't basted in pesticides? Remember that time you forgot to rinse that apple you got at 7-11 and your eyelids swelled up?"
Jim tensed; panic was ratcheting up inside, like a dreaded relative on an elevator coming to your floor
Blair hadn't even raised his voice.
"So. Shopping and cooking. Let's start there."
Blair crossed to the couch, where his laptop sat open and sighing on the coffee table. He sat down and a few keystrokes later he read aloud: "'A typical Combined Food Preparation and Service Worker working in Cascade, Washington earns a median base salary of $18,436'." Even working part time, I think I clear the rent hurtle pretty easily. But let's add it up 'A Dietitian working in Cascade earns a median base salary of $42,611. Well, we're on a roll, now, huh? A typical Police Detective earns between"
Jim thinks he may be shaking, and he's not sure why.
"Enough! I get it. I get it, Sandburg, all right?"
Blair closed the laptop and fixed his eyes on Jim.
"Do you? Really? Do you really think you can live without me? I sure hope so, because you couldn't afford me on your best day at the stock market, Jim. Do you have any idea what a consultant with a master's degree makes? A specialist in the field?"
Blair was flushed, his hands lax on the faded knees of his jeans. No gesticulation, no barking, no in-your-face attitude, just a sort of resignation that was somehow frightening.
"Think about it a second. Seriously. But get this: you'd better get used to having me around, because at the rate I'm going, I'll never be able to afford to move out."
"What the hell are you talking about, Sandburg? You'll manage to talk somebody into hiring you one day"
Blair made a sound like a laugh that had gotten stuck.
"Not in Anthropology. Not with this dissertation. Not with the medical bills and the student loans. Man, you really have no idea, do you?"
Jim blinked, his mouth dry from hanging open and empty.
"But"
"Look, all I'm saying is, we call it even, Jim. Okay? Because it's not like I'm gonna mail you a bill for my services. I mean, I'd never try to sue the PD for damages or anything"
"Medical bills from when you got shot?"
"Gee, Jim, d'ya think? Do you have any fucking idea how much helicopter rescues cost these days? How about last minute open-ended round trip tickets to Peru? Not to mention the implied costs of the illnesses I could have contracted, since we didn't have time for anything like vaccinations first, let alone visas."
"Just" and he pressed a hand against Sandburg's mouth, feeling Blair's fast, heavy breath press against his palm. "Just stop it a minute, okay? Just I need to work this out a little." He slumped into the couch beside his friend and tried not to feel like the floor was heaving.
After a long silence, Jim leaned forward and asked, "How much money are we talking about here? For the medical bills, anyway."
"Jim. It's really It's really not important."
"Of course it's important! It's your fucking future, here."
"It's not like you can just write me a check, Jim, even if I had a reasonable sum in mind. But you could always adopt me as your ward, a la Bruce Wayne, or you know, you could just buy me some goddamned health insurance" He trailed off, eyes bleak. "I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't mean to lay this guilt trip on you, seriously, but it's just been. Getting to me a little, you know? I mean, I owe you a lot, more than I can ever repay, I know, and I'm not talking about rent, but I think I deserve a little credit here, too, right?"
Jim found himself patting Blair's hand, like he would his Aunt Janet's. He closed his hand around Sandburg's and gripped it tight.
"Sandburg. Blair. I don't believe the shit that comes out of my mouth half the time, and Jesus, I'm sorry, okay?"
"Okay," Blair answered. Then he leaned back, relaxing into the couch, his thigh warm and solid, hand still held, now loosely, in Jim's.
"Just. If there's anything I can do The insurance thing, I mean. Let me look into it."
For a moment, Jim was sure he'd say no, but eventually Blair gave him a slight tip of the chin indicating acceptance.
"So you'll tell me, right? If there's anything I can do?" He could tell he sounded a little pathetic, eager to please, but he was so damned glad Blair wasn't rubbing his sudden apparent lack of a professional future in Jim's face, so glad Blair was set on staying, he would have promised anything. He was grateful, too, for the simple reprieve from thinking about it.
There'd be plenty of time to brood later, draw up a plan of attack
"You could suck me." Blair said it as he would have said, 'I could use a ride to the U.' or 'We could buy mango nectar next time.' "The world's always a little shinier right after an orgasm."
It threw Jim completely. He could feel the blood spark low in his belly and he froze, hands spread against his own naked thighs. Blair sat just as still, his hair still damp, darker than it would be when it had dried. His face was impassive, his eyelids lowered slightly, speculative, as if he were deciding what he should pack for lunch.
If Jim hadn't been a Sentinel, he'd have had no idea what to make of Blair's statement. But he could smell it Blair, scent like the tendril of smoke that winds out of a candle wick when you blow it out, wafting over Jim, an odor of crushed coriander, or maybe even hashish.
"I'm late for work," Jim responded, as if that were the only thing keeping him from burying his face in Blair's box.
"Me, too," Blair answered amiably, but he didn't move.
Jim stared at his roommate, in his worn jeans and his second-wearing shirt. He tried to remember the last big-ticket item Blair'd shelled out for, and he could only come up with hiking boots. The ticket to Peru, maybe.
This was a guy who made the most of what he had, and who didn't really have a whole hell of a lot when you got right down to it. It seemed pretty likely that he was gonna deep-six his dissertation. He'd said about as much. And then what?
Blair's hand tightened in his and then slipped out from under Jim's.
"You're late for work, Jim."
He'd been late before. He could even call in. He turned his head, but before he could even open his mouth, Blair had gotten to his feet and rested a hand briefly on the top of Jim's head. It was weird, almost priestly, but it was touch, and Jim could feel Blair putting this whole debate, with the possible messy sex on the side, on hold.
"We'll talk later, okay? I'll be home around four."
Jim nodded a little, and followed Blair out the door with his eyes.