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Jim pressed his fist into his stomach, trying to make it stop twisting.
It wasn't fear, he told himself, it was anger. He was angry at Blair.
Because Blair, goddamn him, was acting normal. Jim wasn't sure how
Blair should be acting, but it wasn't fair that Blair wasn't acting
upset, or angry, or contrite, or whatever.
Let's face it, Jim thought, I was really rotten to him last night.
He shoved aside the thought of how Blair had treated him that morning, not wanting to feel the coolness of the refrigerator against his shoulders and hands, the strain of muscle in his thighs; not wanting to remember the heat and smell of Blair's cock against his face, close enough to take in his mouth.
Not that he had. He didn't do that sort of thing.
If he were gay he might, but he wasn't.
Blair had called him repressed, which Jim knew already, but he wasn't repressing that.
He played a few games of solitaire on his computer, and watched Blair going over reports out of the corner of his eye. His roommate was wearing glasses, bits of hair falling out of his ponytail, breathing steady and untroubled. I hate you, Jim thought at him. I hate you.
He must have moved or made a noise, because Blair looked up, his eyes calm behind the glasses. "What, Jim?" he said.
"We need to talk."
"Oh, we do?"
"In the break room. Now."
"I see," said Blair, but he put down the report he was reading and stood up.
Jim followed him to the break room, watching the movement of Blair's ass under his jeans. He wondered if he could tell, from the way Blair moved, just how hard he'd gotten fucked the night before. Because he knew it had happened. He'd smelled it.
He couldn't not have smelled it when Blair came in.
It wasn't like he was trying to notice it.
They reached the break room, which was mercifully empty. Jim went to the vending machine to get a candy bar, but Blair stayed just inside the room, watching him. "So," he said. "You wanted to talk."
"Um," said Jim, staring down at the Snickers bar that he hadn't wanted in the first place. He could hear Blair breathing, steadily, calmly. He swallowed and looked across the room at his friend. "I was, um, out of line. Last night." His eyes flicked to the bruises on Blair's wrist. "You're not--really hurt, are you, or anything?"
He knew the answer, but he had to hear it.
"I'm bruised a bit, but I've been hurt worse. And in the same cause, in case you were wondering."
Jim tossed the candy on the table and met Blair's eyes. "So."
"So?"
"So, Chief--are you gay?"
There was no answer but a wry grin.
"Chief?"
"Jim," Blair said, slowly, "do you think straight boys know how to suck cock like that?"
"Well--" said Jim, confused by the question, "I hadn't--um."
And Blair was grinning again, like he knew he'd won. "You're going to have to get this language thing down if we're ever going to have a conversation."
Jim could feel the anger growing in the pit of his stomach, writhing inside him, twisting his guts into knots. He clenched his jaw to keep from clenching his fists. Blair watched him for a moment, and then said "I know exactly what I am, Jim, which is more than I can say for you. I don't think I've ever met someone better at lying to himself than you are."
Jim gritted his teeth. "I'm not lying to myself, Sandburg." He picked up the Snickers and stared at it, then looked back at Blair. "Is this some stupid game of yours, trying to get me to admit that I'm gay? Is it some dumb stunt to get stuff for your dissertation or something?"
The upward flicker of Blair's eyebrows was his only answer.
"Because I'm not." He knew his voice was getting louder, edging out of normal range into yelling. He stepped closer, wanting to intimidate the smaller man, make him back down. Blair didn't move. "You got that, Sandburg? I don't need your fucking head games." He moved closer still, into Blair's personal space, into the warm flush of body heat.
Blair tilted his head back and looked up. Fuck, Jim thought, fuck fuck fuck I shouldn't have gotten this close--but then it was too late, because Blair reached up and kissed him. Blair's mouth was rough and hot, his teeth sharp where they pressed into Jim's lips, his tongue strong and insistent. Jim jerked back, pulling away from Blair; reaching out for Blair. He felt abruptly disconnected from himself, as if he were someone else, looking on. Blair's bruised wrist was warm in his hand, and Blair's body was too hot, too close. He jerked on the wrist, shoving Blair back, shaking with the need to hurt him, to hit him, maybe to break the wrist or the ribs this time.
Blair sucking his cock was one thing. Blair kissing him was something else altogether.
Even as he moved, he could see that Blair wasn't surprised this time, that last night had been easy because Blair had been relaxed and hadn't been expecting anything. And so when Blair slipped out of his grasp and swung the door between them, knocking him out into the hall, Jim realized that Blair had deliberately provoked him; had positioned himself so that Jim would try just what he'd tried and get hit by the door.
And Jim had fallen for it. Sandburg, Jim reflected, was possibly the most creative fighter he'd ever met. He looked up at his roommate from his position on the floor, feeling the anger in his stomach transmute into genuine panic. This was too much like this morning, too much like Blair, quiet and frightening, saying "Suck me" in his warm baritone voice, the same voice he used to talk Jim out of zones.
Blair smiled at him. "I'm sorry, Jim, didn't see you coming." He sounded normal, and the people walking through the hall didn't even blink. "You OK?" He held out his hand, and Jim took it and let Blair pull him to his feet.
"I'm fine, Sandburg," he said.
"Good." Blair turned and headed back to Major Crime, and Jim watched him, the mashed Snickers bar, still in its wrapper, melting in his hand.
---
Jim sat on the couch in the loft, listening to Blair take a shower. Blair was humming softly to himself, and Jim could hear soap-slick fingers moving through chest hair and down to Blair's groin; the soft wet sound of Blair washing his genitals. The panic in Jim's stomach hadn't eased; it had gnawed at him all afternoon until he wasn't sure he could go home with Blair.
He had no idea how to react to Blair.
Which, of course, was what had gotten them into this situation in the first place. He'd thrown Blair out last night, and the instant he'd gotten back inside and seen the Sonics game still playing, he'd known it had been stupid. It wasn't as if he hadn't asked. And it wasn't as if it weren't a normal sort of question for a guy who'd just sucked another guy off to ask. Just out of wanting-to-know-where-it-stands.
Rough trade, Blair had called it this morning.
And then Blair had gotten a little rough himself.
"Hey."
Jim jumped at the light touch on his shoulder, and turned to see Blair standing next to him. He could smell warm, damp skin under Blair's sweats; smell soap and musk. He remembered smelling those scents that morning as Blair stood over him; remembered nuzzling into that heat, feeling the crisp hair brush his face and the faint tang of salt on his lips.
He remembered shaking with the effort not to do as Blair told him. "Suck me," Blair had said, and fear and pleasure had knotted twin fists into his gut and held him there, too frightened to obey, but not quite wanting to turn away.
He'd liked the way Blair smelled, clean and healthy and male; liked the way he smelled now, close by.
He turned his head and brushed against Blair's hip, felt Blair's fingers slipping through his hair. "This isn't me," he whispered. "It's not."
"It isn't?" Blair said, and Jim flinched. "Who is it, then?"
He could almost taste Blair through the soft fleece; almost imagine the texture of Blair's skin against his tongue. And then he remembered Blair's mouth on his, harsh and hurting; Blair's anger, Blair's violent disregard.
I deserve it, Jim thought, and felt the panic unknot a little inside him. I deserve it.
He pressed his mouth to Blair's hip, and felt the fingers press against the back of his head. The fabric slid and stretched until he could feel the erection underneath.
Blair slid the sweats down, slipping them past Jim's mouth, brushing his thumb over Jim's lips. "Suck me," he said, softly, pushing Jim's shoulder until Jim yielded to the pressure and moved off the couch, kneeling before Blair. "Come on, Jim."
"I can't," Jim said, feeling the skin of Blair's hip under his cheek. "Don't make me." He wanted to stand up, to snap Blair's sweats back up over his hips and pretend none of this had happened. That he'd never said "I'll give you the remote if you blow me"; that Blair had laughed it off; that he hadn't thrown Blair out or pushed his buttons that morning or threatened him at the station or this--resting his head against Blair, seeing and smelling the arousal--that this, in particular, had never happened.
But Blair hadn't let go of his head.
Hadn't let go, and hadn't said anything.
"Chief, don't make me do this." Blair's fingers rubbed the back of his neck, soothing tense muscles. "Please. Don't make me." The fingers tightened, and then relaxed: enough that he could get away, if he tried.
He didn't try.
"Open your mouth," Blair said.
Jim let his lips part a little, breathed out onto Blair's cock. "I can't."
The fingers began to rub the back of his neck again, and then he felt the hand move away to brush his shoulder and then the top of his head, like a benediction.
He reached up to touch Blair's hips, resting his palms flat on the skin.
"If it's not you," Blair said, his voice still soft, "then who is it?"
End