Archive of Our Own ^beta

Notes: the usual disclaimers about profit making and ownership of copyright.

Summary: Jim and Blair are together and then something happens.

arnings: no fluffy cuddly stuff here. Some Sensitive Plants may find it upsetting.

It may seem a cliche but the first time I saw him I thought, 'you can be had'. Damn, but I was right. That 'don't mess with me' style is just that, a style, skin deep only and once I got beyond that, he was as gentle as a lamb. Okay, a lamb with a panther's growl, but still, what else could I expect? He's an average, tough- guy cop with average tough-guy cop tastes and he never but never pretends to be anything else. Gruff exterior, heart of gold? Oh, come on, a cliche, right?

I leap before I look, I've always been that way and I've been blessed with a resilience that makes any hard landings easier. It took, what, all of five seconds for me to decide to go for it. I think you just know when someone is interested, or available, or interested in becoming available, don't you? Tall, well built, military hard-ass attitude? What's not to want? So I took a deep breath and gazed up at him through my lashes and, when he didn't mind being gazed at, I threw a pass: which he caught very neatly.

The next day, apart from not being able to sit down (man, can he fuck), I didn't notice Jim treated me any different than before. To say I was relieved would be an understatement. Mornings after are so not cool, but Jim seemed okay with the whole deal. I'd secretly been sure he'd get clingy; he was of that generation after all, and he didn't strike me as the most light hearted fellow in the world. But he confounded me, yet again - in fact, I'm not sure who was sending out stronger 'no strings' vibes, him or me.

Hog heaven or what? My living breathing thesis subject, a private safe place to stay, a buff body to keep me warm whenever I wanted it. And best of all, it turned out Jim was an okay guy.

His house rules were a pain, sure, but after living in picturesque student squalor since I was 14 or thereabouts, it was kind of refreshing to be clean and tidy - La Vie Boheme gets old after a while. He was generous with stuff, too, he paid for the groceries more often than not and trade didn't even cross my mind, Jim's too 'clean' for that, you know? He saw things pretty simply, he's really quite a simple guy: he had the salary so he bought the food, I had the skill so I did the cooking.

You want to know what the best thing was about Jim as a friend? It's dull but well, the fact is, it's because he was just so damn reliable.

Most of my friends are lots of fun and the light of my life, but Jim was simply solid as a rock (as dense as one, sometimes, sure, but so what?) If I wanted lights and sparkling conversation I had to look elsewhere but the nights I wanted a steady pair of eyes and capable hands, then I'd go home to the loft, home to Jim.

Not glamorous? No. And it doesn't sound exciting, either, does it? Who knows, maybe I'm getting too old for glamour and excitement? Maybe I'm just - getting old?

I can't believe I never even thought about it ending - but I didn't. It didn't seem important. No, that's the wrong word. It didn't seem necessary, that's it. It just didn't seem necessary to think about any of it, because - well, because Jim would always be there when I wanted him and fucking with Jim suited me just fine and when it ended, as I supposed it would one day, I figured I'd be the one to do it, I'd move on, find someone, a woman probably, I'd be the one leaving and Jim would be the one left behind and we'd remain friends and that would be all, a-double-ell, all. But that seemed so far away, a misty future land of maybe - this year next year sometime never... so I didn't think about it.

Not that thinking about it would have helped any.

***

I'd met Justina in the U bookshop - she was pondering Herodotus in the original and she had legs up to her nostrils and didn't seem shy of sharing their beauty with the world. What's a guy to do? So, I asked her out, she agreed and the date was going extremely well: Justina was wonderful company, sexy and beautiful and parts of my body started to get quite enthusiastic about maybe going home with her and exploring areas of mutual interest. It was as I was phrasing this as tactfully and seductively as I knew how (and rearranging my pants), that some Man Mountain hulked over the horizon, declared itself as Justina's boyfriend, swept her away and left me at the table, looking at the check and the prospect of an empty bed.

Or - not. So I paid the check and drove home and maybe I was a little glad the evening had turned out this way after all: I'd not had the Ellison special 'fuck me to tears' treatment in a while and Justina, though beautiful, could never make me feel the way Jim made me feel.

So, I bounced into the loft and - he wasn't there.

It took me almost three minutes to convince myself he really actually and truly wasn't there - I called his name, even checked upstairs. It was unprecedented. Confusing. Annoying, to tell the truth. Here was I, ripe and ready to climb into his lap and stay there until dawn, and the big guy was nowhere to be found. I slammed a few doors - I mean, I didn't expect him to be grateful, exactly, when I let him fuck me, but I think it deserved a little appreciation, at the very least. I'm young, cute, considered attractive... maybe he should be grateful, damn it all. But he - dumb bastard - wasn't there.

Well, big tough, it was his loss.

Then I noticed the answering machine showed one message waiting. First, the distinctive sound of a connection then a deep confident sounding voice. "James, James, its me, I'm at the Hyatt Regency believe it or not and I know you said any time I was in Casc..." then Jim must have picked up because the message stopped. I checked the time of the message: 20.25.

Problem solved, Mycroft. Some friend of Jim's was in town, had phoned and Jim had gone out to meet up with his buddy. Simple. Frustrating (and the frantic animal in my jeans agreed with that) but nothing drastic. I was calm, now, I was reasonable. After all these months (seventeen to be precise), this was the very first time Jim hadn't been there when I'd wanted him to be. Heh, I'm not unreasonable, I'm not some possessive harpy. Jim had met up with a friend and I hoped he was having a good time. That's all. No need to get annoyed. Nothing to get angry over. Chill, I told myself sternly, chill.

I wondered, determined not to care, who the deep confident voiced man was - and incidentally where the hell he got off calling my Jim 'James' - but that was annoying me again, so I just climbed under the shower and wacked off dutifully. Bed before 10 on a Friday night? Man, I am getting old, no question.

I fell asleep, not quite happy and certainly not relaxed and I had the strangest dream that the sky was falling.

***

Noises from the living room and kitchen, water running and voices - two voices. One of the voices I knew very well, the other one I thought I recognized, especially when it said 'James' a few times. I grabbed my spectacles and inspected the clock. 9.37. Well, they sure weren't making any effort to leave me undisturbed, I'd just stroll on out there and meet this 'James' person.

I managed a casual entrance, shrugging into my robe and making 'good morning' noises. They both turned to me and Jim, for once, actually looked surprised. What, he'd not sensed me there? I felt a tiny twitch of anger but dismissed it, reaching for curiosity instead. "Oh, hi Jim." Cool. Very cool.

"Chief," just like always, affectionate even, glad to see me. "Chief, this is an old buddy of mine from way back," and he turned to share a smile with the 'James' man, "Bulldog to his friends," and the 'James' man held out a big firm hand and offered a flat out genuine 'glad to meet you'. Now, I'm not one to judge people without due consideration but I have to say I loathed him, at once, instinctively and without apology: loathed, loathed, loathed. Maybe the fact Jim was still wearing yesterday's clothes had something to do with it, maybe not.

I talked, I can't remember what about, the usual shit about how great it was when old buddies met up, shared a few cold ones, great, man, just great, all the while Jim was getting the coffee and setting out the cups. He poured for Bulldog before me.

"So, Bulldog, nickname, huh?" and buried the rest in the java jive.

"It's a long and ugly story," Jim was almost laughing and damn, they were sharing that 'we know something you don't know' smile, the one that makes you feel about 12 years old, you know the one.

I can take a hint. I drank my coffee with some speed, determined not to be hounded out of my own home but ready to show I was no third wheel and that I, at least, had a life. "Gotta run man," I set my coffee cup down, "good to meet you Bulldog, maybe you'll be here later?" and god, but I prayed for an answer something like: 'No, I'm sorry, I'm on my way to join the Foreign Legion before being posted to Outer Mongolia and you'll never see me again'. Which would have sweetened my whole day.

As if. No, I get the depressing: "I hope so, I'm here for the rest of the week, maybe we can..." and the 'maybe we can' drifted off as Jim poured more coffee and started in about dinner that night and how he wanted to show Bulldog the harbour.

I was so out of there - I was clean and dressed and in my office within fifty minutes, ready to get on with stacks of work and not at all - at all - interested in showing Bulldog the harbour - yeah, from the bottom up.

Not that I figured I'd get the chance; the Bulldog was an inch taller than Jim (which made him six-two), built to the same specifications only even bigger if anything - and every bit as grimly handsome. I mean, if you go for that Big Daddy type then he was It.

I graded papers diligently and severely. I just hoped this Bulldog was actually as 'straight arrow' as he seemed, we'd had more than enough of faces from the past bringing trouble. I didn't want Jim involved in anything, getting hurt maybe. I was quite pleased with myself when I thought of it that way, it was natural to be concerned - it was just me being a good friend.

I finished grading my papers and sat back, triumphantly, in a much better mood all of a sudden: I remembered this Bulldog character was only in town for, what, a week? Okay, maybe Jim would see him every day, or every night, but what damage could one little week do? At the end of it all, Jim would come home.

***

Call it masochism, call it looking out for a friend, but I did join them for dinner that night. I could have called up any one of a dozen people to spend time with but I felt I owed it to Jim, somehow, to be friendly to his friend. And of course, I told myself, I wanted to make sure Jim didn't get too involved with this Bulldog character, or get hurt or upset in any way.

It was a weird, almost tortured evening, looking back. I sometimes forget just exactly how stunning Jim is. He's easy on the eyes anyway but the baggy pants and dark sweaters he wears most of the time really do him no justice at all. I've seen him in a tux and that's a pleasure of a different kind but that night, I don't know, he looked - young. Clean, tight jeans, a very new white silk shirt, jacket. Simple enough. But when he loped down the stairs, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

He cleans up real well, let's leave it at that.

"Can we take your car?" Jim asked casually enough. "I don't want to leave you stranded or you might want to take off."

I must have looked really dumb for a moment and then the lightbulb went on over my head. I'm not sure how, but I did manage to keep my face together. "Sure," I was proud of how cool I sounded. And why not? No big deal. I'd drive to the restaurant, we'd meet this Bulldog character, share a meal, drinks, I'd sit and listen and say appropriately funny and grown up things and then I'd leave (in my own car) and Jim and the Bulldog would - would - would do whatever it was they wanted to do. Yeah. Well. Whatever.

I was quiet during dinner, not that anyone actually noticed or seemed to care. Jim was positively chatty, for him. The Bulldog listened and when he spoke it was to the point and illuminated dry humour and a steel-trap intelligence. I looked at them sat opposite me across the dinner table. They - they looked good. They also looked as if they were good together.

I made it through dessert and offered to pay my part of the check, an offer which was, predictably, refused and then I got out with some talk of meeting friends at a club. "Ah, the energy of youth," the Bulldog said, "Kids today," Jim said and they saw me leave with a smile, then I drove home and walked into the bathroom and puked up my guts.

***

So, a week? Bulldog had said a week. Did that mean he'd be leaving Friday morning? In which case that was only five days. Or did he mean a whole week, like seven days? And he'd be leaving on Sunday night, the last flight out with Jim suitably teary-eyed at the terminal, waving goodbye? A week is a long time, but I needed to know how long. I - desperately - needed to know.

Jim reappeared back in my life at about 8 on Sunday evening. Well, actually, at 8.17 precisely, not that I was actually paying attention, precisely. I was all set, laptop open, piles of books, a pencil keeping my hair bundled: cue 'industrious room mate not at all concerned about absence of friend'. Orson Welles couldn't have framed the shot better. "Hi, Jim." Even the dialogue was perfect.

"Hi," he sounded glad to see me. In fact, he sounded glad, period. Cheerful. As if he'd been having a good time. "I'm making some fresh," and he waved the coffee canister at me. I nodded, closed the laptop screen before he could see I was playing Solitaire (and losing) and flopped down on the couch.

"Had a good time?" oh, how casual we can sound.

"Just great," not a flicker of remorse, consciousness or discomfort, "we took Bulldog's rented car and drove down to the Sound - oh, don't ask how many shrimp I ate," and he patted his flat tummy contentedly.

"He's a good friend?" and I sounded so pleased for him, I almost convinced myself.

"One of the best," Jim said it with some feeling, "he's just - one of the best," and he'd obviously been about to say something else but changed his mind.

Now, for my master plan: "Great, I was wondering, if he's going to be around next Saturday? There's a faculty subsidized charity preview of the new exhibition at the Metro Museum, I've got a fistful of tickets, hoping maybe Simon and some of the crew would take 'em off my hands, you too Jim, its for a good cause, only ten bucks."

Jim took a slug of coffee and looked at me; in a heartbeat the whole situation turned around. "No, we'll be - somewhere else. Sorry, Blair, if you'd mentioned it earlier..." another drink and I watched, chained to the way Jim's tongue licked at his lips, "but Bulldog's already made some plans. I'll be away from Friday."

I think my face made an 'oh' movement. "Ah, well, worth a shot."

"It usually is," he said, and I got the distinct impression we weren't talking about exhibition tickets any more, "it usually is." He leaned over and pulled the pencil from my hair, so the bundle fell apart and I had hair all over my face. How attractive. Considering I'd not bothered to wash it that morning, just how totally attractive. "Are you okay with all this, Chief?" quite gentle, really meaning it.

What else could I do? "Yeah, Jim, really, yeah, sure I'm okay."

And he nodded and smiled at me, then turned on the tv and I went back to my laptop and did some real work this time.

***

Work was work and for once it saved my sanity. Jim was busy at the precinct, following leads, doing his job as diligently as ever. Yet I wasn't the only one to notice how cheerful he was, even Simon commented on it, asked me if I'd taken to putting happy pills in Jim's morning mocha in fact. I laughed and disclaimed all knowledge and concentrated on looking busy and for most of the time I kept out of the way, made sure I had plans for lunch every day, that I had a movie or a friend to see each evening. With some heroism I even made plans to stay out all night on Wednesday, letting Jim know the loft was available for - for anything he wanted it to be available for.

My heroism was its own reward, all Jim did was smile and ruffle my hair and say "Thanks, kid," more amused than anything else.

I don't know if the loft was used for - for anything they wanted to use it for. Jim only said general 'yes we had a great time' type comments that meant nothing and there was no evidence at the scene the following day (and yes, I did despise myself for looking and yes, I looked anyway).

It was the longest week of my life. Jim seemed happy enough, relaxed and he didn't avoid Bulldog's name in conversation; there wasn't anything secretive about it, although he was discreet enough about any details. Somehow, I got the impression that discretion was more for Bulldog's sake than his own, or mine. He told me Bulldog was in law enforcement but in a different way (a federal way, I guessed), that Bulldog was divorced and they had known each other a long time and - finally a light at the end of the tunnel - that Bulldog wanted to take the both of us out to dinner his last night in Cascade. His last night.

"Oh," I paused, making it obvious I was thinking about it, "I'm not sure, Jim, when would that be?"

"Sunday, we'll be back from - we'll be back by Sunday evening, no later than 7. Say 8? Would that be okay with you? I'd like it Chief, he's - I want you to get to know him, he's," and Jim Stone Faced Panther Hearted Sentinel actually blushed, "he's important to me."

I reared back, laughed, put my hands up, my usual reaction to bad news that I'm desperately trying to pretend is just fine, "Woah, I should start saving for a gift certificate maybe?" treating it as a joke.

"No," stern but amused underneath, "don't be dumb," and he touched my cheek, the lightest possible touch, the back of his thumb so soft against the curve of my face. "He's known me almost as long as you've been alive, Chief." There was no hint of a reproach in Jim's words or voice. So why did I feel two inches tall?

"Sunday, eight, I'll be there," and I meant it too, it was such a small thing to do for him. God knows, he'd met enough of my girlfriends and most of them lasted approximately six weeks. This man had been part of Jim's life for decades. If I knew anything about my Jim at all, I knew this much: the more something meant to him, the less he talked about it. He'd never mentioned this man at all. Therefore... therefore I wanted to get away from there real fast, the loft, Jim, his gentleness and the haunting sense that something, something was ending, that something was leaving me. "Do I have to dress up?" I asked, covering my escape and as I headed out, I heard Jim laugh and say, no, I didn't and that he was looking forward to it.

***

I didn't see Jim again, not to talk too, not properly. He had work and so did I, then it was Friday and as I came in with some grocery shopping he was heading out, carrying a typically minimalist kit-bag over one shoulder. There was a look in his eyes - I don't know, I'd never seen it before. I called out "have a good time," and shut the door behind him.

That weekend passed - slowly.

***

They arrived back like newly-weds, in a whirl of greetings and coffee and talk, both of them carrying that fresh air feeling as if they had traveled many miles together, that the distance still separated them from me and the rest of the world. Shared moments, finishing each other's sentences, you know the sort of thing, nothing special, just your average dagger through the heart? You know.

Then the Bulldog took charge, shepherding us all out, leading the way, driving his simple suitably rugged rented 4x4 to a small cosy restaurant by the harbour serving simple suitably rugged food, hearty steaks and crunchy salads, fresh bread and the most delicious Pinot Noir I'd ever tasted.

I was included in their conversations, not as some awkward 'add on' optional extra but as a friend to both, part of Jim's life and work. There wasn't one moment that I was made to feel extraneous, or that I was intruding, that they wanted me gone. I've never felt lonelier in my life.

Bulldog paid the bill and we drove back to the loft, Jim beside Bulldog in the front, and I looked out of the window at the rain slick streets, the city oddly beautiful at times like this, yellow halogen lamps turned to amber cabochons, improbable and lovely. Bulldog's voice, low and gritty and amused, saying something to Jim, Jim's reply a simple 'oh yes', the briefest touch, Jim's left hand on Bulldog's shoulder. The delicious wine was still warm in my stomach, yet I felt hungry, hollow, all at once, a famine victim in the midst of plenty.

I scrambled out of the car, ready to say goodbye and watch them drive away, for Jim to spend the night with Bulldog (again), for me to be alone (again), for the loft to be an empty space I lived in rather than my home. But Jim got out too, and Bulldog followed. Determined to be grown up, I said my piece as well as I could, that it had been a great evening and nice to meet him and hoped we would keep in touch and take care and good journey. I shook the man's hand again and if anything, loathed him even more than that first time.

"Thanks, Blair, it has been great to meet you, you look after my boy, now, you hear?" it was a meaningless enough remark but I got the distinct impression the previous athlete had just handed me the Olympic torch. I mumbled something, turned away and went inside, simply gravity that made me stop in the dark doorway, made me watch what happened next.

Bulldog gathered Jim close in one strong arm and hugged him. And Jim hugged back, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle: in public, in the street, the way any old friends would touch, would hug; and yet I felt ashamed to watch it, it was so intimate, almost unbearably tender. I had been right, that first time, they did look good together.

"Look after yourself James, that's an order," Bulldog said, very low.

"I will," Jim replied and tilted his head.

Perhaps they kissed. I don't know, I closed my eyes.

***

I was quiet for almost two weeks. Naomi would call it 'processing' - Jim just called it brooding. But he let me be: we went to work as usual, we ate and watched tv and shared pizza as usual, made idle plans to go camping at the weekend, all as usual. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't even really unhappy, or jealous, or any of that bad stuff I'd almost expected. I slept, I ate, I still enjoyed Jim's company - I even sat on his knee one night and he cuddled me with his customary firmness and skill and it was as nice as it had ever been, maybe even nicer. But I grew up, somewhere in those two weeks, it was a Before and After time, not good or bad, necessarily, but something changed. Probably, that something was me.

There was almost a serenity about it. Truths faced and facts dealt with and all in all, it had been relatively bloodless. What I was, what Jim was, what we had - seeing it all for the first time, seeing it clearly, 20:20 vision, for the first time: I'd always known Jim was a simple man, at the centre of himself, he's just 'Jim' and he always will be. There are very few initials carved in that particular oak-tree heart, very few and consequently very deep. I'm just glad I'm there at all, simple, no fancy scrollwork, one word: Blair.

And maybe, when I'm very brave and grown up, when Jim has realised I won't leave him, when even I have realised I won't leave him, I will ask him about Bulldog: to prove once and for all that I don't mind. And if he answers, that will prove something too.

End

4,485 words 6 April 1998

Optional information: I listened to 'Fascination' by Everything but the Girl while I wrote this. Thanks go to Katrina Bowen for an American beta-reading.