Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blair Sandburg was not a police officer, but he wasn't a fool either, and he knew the sound of his bedroom door being opened even in the throes of his dreams. He forced himself to lay still, eyes shifted toward the door, hoping crazily that the guy would just take his boom box and get the fuck out before Jim woke up and all hell broke loose.

Jim.

"Jim?" he whispered, as the figure in the doorway came closer.

"Sorry, Sandburg. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay, man. Everything cool?"

"I thought I heard something."

"Nothing here, man. You sure you're okay?"

Jim made a noise that sounded like an assent, and left, shutting the door tight behind him.

Something was up, that much was clear. But if Jim didn't want to talk about it, Blair wasn't going to lose any sleep at . . . three-twenty-eight in the morning. Maybe they would talk about it over breakfast.

That was how it started.

They didn't talk about it over breakfast, and Blair figured it was a fluke, one of those things Jim had to do because he was Jim, and/or a Sentinel, and besides, a little scare and five minutes of sleep was nothing to get worked up over, not when you considered all of the truly freaky things he and Jim had already dealt with.

But that night his doorknob rattled again.

This time Blair didn't say anything, just lay there silently while Jim stood in the doorway and watched. If he were dialed up (and Blair suspected that he was), Jim could tell that he was awake, the man could smell the difference between two different batches of the same cologne--Blair Asleep and Blair Awake couldn't be that difficult -- but Blair figured that if Jim wanted to talk about whatever it was that bothered him, he would. He'd let it be, and Jim would work it out.

Thinking such thoughts, Blair fell back to sleep, and, after a while, Jim left.

By the seventh night, it had become routine. Blair would awaken to the sound of his doorknob turning at two or three or four in the morning. Jim would step inside, breathing lightly, and stand over the bed. Usually, Blair would lie still and feign sleep until he actually drifted off, but this night he didn't. He kept his eyes open, and when Jim came to stand over him, he looked up.

He couldn't see Jim's face in the darkness, but Jim could see his, he knew, and he hoped that his look would prod Jim to speak, to open up, man and let the poison out, so that they both could get a full night for a change.

It didn't.

Jim stood motionless as if he was carved of marble, breathing lightly, staring down, and Blair felt like a jerk staring up into the blackness where Jim's head probably was. Well, no rest for the wicked, he thought, and gave up.

"Tell me about it, man," he said softly.

Jim sighed.

"I'm having a dream. You're dead. I come down and check."

"Sounds fairly standard," Blair said, sitting up.

"It isn't."

"No, I didn't mean . . . I meant anxiety dreams are pretty standard. You wanna sit down, Jim? You're kind of wierding me out just hovering over me like that." He felt the mattress dip as Jim sat.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked, after a minute.

"No, Chief, I don't."

"Okay, okay. What do you want to do, then, 'cause I can tell you right now that this whole standing watch thing is not working out for me at all."

"Was there a question in there somewhere, Sandburg?"

The voice was gruff, shaky. Whatever details the dream had included must be bad to drive Jim to this -- to watching instead of talking, to sitting in misery at the edge of the bed instead of doing something about it.

"Here, here," Blair said, scooting over on the bed. "Sleep here."

"What?"

Ah, the familiar Jim growl. That was better. "Sleep here. The dream is bothering you, right? And you coming down here to check on me every night is bothering me, so we kill two birds with one stone. Stay here."

"I don't know, Sandburg . . ."

Blair shifted once more, closer to the wall. "Jim, we can deal with the dreams in the morning. Just get into the bed, man."

He heard the older man sigh, then felt the bed shift again, and Jim was lying next to him. Blair lay on his side, back against the wall, assiduously not touching his partner, but the man was so big Blair didn't know how he was going to escape that particular action for the rest of the night. Jim had his arms folded over his chest.

"Better?" Blair asked, rubbing Jim's forearm.

"Hmm," Jim answered, and Blair felt the vibration in his fingertips.

"Need more blankets?"

"Shut up, Sandburg."

"Okay, all right." Blair chuckled a little. He knew that Jim's feelings were unfounded, that everything was fine, but he felt safer with Jim here, between him and the door. Tucking his hand under the pillow, he went to sleep.

It went on like that for a month or so. Jim would go upstairs to his room and get ready for bed, then show up in Blair's doorway in a T-shirt and boxers, climb into the bed, turn his back to Blair and fall asleep.

They had talked about the dream of course, that first morning, and Blair had gone off to school convinced that Jim would be fine once he had gotten off his chest, but Jim's appearance in his room at quarter to three disabused him of that notion. Since then, they had slept together every night, inches apart, and Blair woke up every morning nestled against the warm solid form of his roommate. He found himself waiting for those moments, the few minutes in the morning before the alarm went off when he could be pressed close against Jim Ellison's body and not worry about it. He found himself anticipating Saturday and Sunday mornings with all the excitement of a kid waiting for his favorite show because he could wake up early and lie there in the morning light and watch his partner sleep. He found himself holding his breath when Jim got up to pee in the early morning hours, afraid that he wouldn't return, and then sighing with relief when he did.

In other words, he found himself starting to like it.

So Blair Sandburg did what he always did whenever he was afraid of getting too close to someone else--he went out on Friday night and had a cheerful bout of purely recreational sex.

That ought to do it, he thought, when he came in at 1:30 in the morning, boxers in his pocket. Jim would have gone to bed hours ago, figuring him for a lost cause, leaving him alone for a night. They could talk about it tomorrow.

Blair stepped into his dark room and stripped out of his clothes, throwing them into a corner. He walked over to his bed and pulled the sheets back--

--and discovered his partner.

"Jeez!" he whispered, leaping back, groping for some shorts. He'd almost gotten into bed, well, naturally, with Jim lying right there. Blair struggled into some boxers he found crumpled on the floor, hoping they were relatively clean. Then he approached the bed slowly, almost like it was a mean dog, and slid between the sheets, crossing his arms over his chest. Jim sighed, and shifted, and was still.

What was he doing?

That was the real question here. He, Blair Sandburg, lady's man, had just gotten out of the bed of Suzy Coed to come home and lie next to his male cop partner, who apparently couldn't sleep with him there like some sort of whacked out teddy bear. And Blair was letting it happen. Hell, he had made it happen!

Blair sighed.

"Chief?" Jim mumbled, hand groping toward him.

"Yeah, it's me."

"How was she?"

"She -- uh. What are you talking about, man? Who?"

"I can smell it on you, Sandburg."

"Oh, um, right man. Fine. You know. Um, Fine."

Jim chuckled. "Then what are you doing back here?"

"What are you doing in my bed?"

"I've been here for a while, Chief, or hadn't you noticed?"

"No, Jim, I mean, what are you doing here?"

Jim rolled onto his back, expelling his breath in one loud whoosh. "I don't know, Chief. Let's just go to sleep, okay?"

"Fine."

Blair rolled onto his side, away from his partner. He should just get up, get up and sleep on the couch, because this was too messed up, too much trouble. Something was going on with Jim, that much was obvious, but it didn't have to be his deal too, it didn't have to be his problem. He could just walk away.

Couldn't he?

That was the question that chased him down into dreamland.

Some time in the night, Jim Ellison rolled over, drawn unconsciously by the smell of sex and heat on the body next to him, and folded his arms around his partner. He pulled Blair to his chest, cradling the man's head on his shoulder, drawing him up so the soft breath caressed his cheek. And that was how Blair woke up the next morning, early, because it was a Saturday.

He stirred gently at first, confused because he was sure he had come home the night before, but there was undoubtedly someone in the bed with him, and said someone was damn near squeezing him to death. His eyes fluttered open, and all he saw was the collarbone, and wide expanse of white T-shirt. Jim.

He came into himself, waking slowly, feeling Jim's arms around him, feeling his own arm curled on Jim's chest, the rush of breath over his mouth.

"Jim," he murmured, wriggling a little. "Jim."

"Hmm?" Jim mumbled.

"Time to get up," Blair hissed, struggling against the embrace.

Abruptly, Jim rolled over on top of him, pinning his arms between them, and sealed him mouth over Blair's, probing gently with his tongue, kissing deep and thoroughly, holding him down with his lips and his body. Then, Jim rolled back, pulling Blair on top of him, and sighed. He hadn't opened his eyes once.

Blair sprawled on top of the larger man, breathless and dazed.

What was that?

Dreaming, that was it, Jim was dreaming. He thought that Blair was girl. It was the hair, man! Jim was dreaming and thought he was a girl because of the hair.

"Jim," he whispered. "It's me, Blair. Let me up."

Jim's voice rumbled out of his chest, loud and startlingly lucid.

"Go back to sleep, Sandburg, or I'll kiss you again."

Blair lay still for a moment before settling his arm around Jim's waist. He'd do what he was told for now, but they were definitely going to talk about this in the morning.

End Rest.