Work Text:
"If it's not you, then who is it?"
Jim inhaled, feeling his entire body shudder. His hands were resting on the skin of Blair's hips, his cheek in the hollow between hipbone and groin. He could smell Blair, smell soap and skin and the lingering scent of cotton and detergent. "If it's not you, then who is it?"
He felt the muscles under his fingers tense, and then Blair was gone. He let his hands drop, and raised his head, relieved at not having to answer. He took a deep breath, feeling the fear twist inside him, and met Blair's eyes. "I would have. This morning. If you'd made me."
"Yeah." Blair yanked his sweats back up and looked at Jim, his head to one side. "I was a real jerk, wasn't I?"
"So was I. Last night."
"Yeah, you were."
Jim sat back on his heels, trying to ease the strain in his legs. If he thought about the strain in his legs, he couldn't feel the knotting in his stomach.
"Oh, for pity's--Jim, get up."
Jim got up.
Blair glared at him briefly, then hopped over the back of the couch and sprawled in one of the corners. Jim moved carefully around the couch to sit in the nearby armchair. Just because it was more comfortable.
It had nothing to do with being too vulnerable to Blair if he sat on the couch.
He crossed his arms and settled into the chair.
Blair sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "So. Why did you?"
"Why did I what?"
"Don't give me this shit, Jim Ellison, I am in no mood."
Jim blinked and looked down. "Why did I ask you to--to suck me off? Or why did I hit you?"
"Yes."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I don't know?"
"Don't you fucking lie to me, or I swear I'll kick your ass."
Jim swallowed and decided to go on the offensive. "Well, why the hell did you?"
"Suck you off? Because I like sucking guys off, you asshole, and you're, like, a fucking wet dream."
Jim blinked. "You liked it?"
"Yes. I liked it. Took a bit of getting used to, back when I was eighteen, but--once you get the gag reflex down, it's pretty fun."
"Fun? How the hell is it fun?"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that some women might enjoy giving head?"
"Well--"
"So why can't I?"
"You're--"
"Flamingly queer?"
Jim shook his head. "No. You're not. That's my point."
"Is there something wrong with being gay without being a fucking stereotype?"
"No, but--"
"Nevermind, nevermind--that's not the real issue here, Jim."
"Well, what is?"
"Why did you ask me to suck you off, and why did you let me, and why did you hit me afterwards? So. Why did you?" Blair had his head cocked again, and Jim realized, uncomfortably, that Blair was honestly interested in the answer.
He stood up and headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water. "I didn't think you would."
"Well," Blair said dryly, "at least you're not lying anymore, but you're still avoiding the question."
"I'm not--"
"You are." Blair ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Come back here and sit down. Just--shut up and let me talk for a little, OK?"
Jim walked back over to the chair and sat down, balancing his glass on the arm with shaking fingers. "Fine, Sandburg. Talk."
"Fine." Jim watched as Blair closed his eyes and turned away for a moment before continuing. "I was really angry with you. What you did was--possibly the most fucked-up thing you've ever done to me. And I wanted--still want--to hurt you back for it. Only--I thought it was a boxing match. Everyone knows the score--you go in, you fight, you could get badly hurt but that's the way it is. It's a blood sport, but an honest one, OK? This morning, I realized it wasn't a boxing match. I was--you had no idea, did you? It was like I was hunting this defenseless thing, or kicking a puppy, or something." He looked back at Jim. "So, I thought--OK, I'll get him to figure it out, then it'll be a boxing match, only you were more scared than I thought."
"I'm not scared of you, Sandburg."
"No, you're not, you asshole--you're scared of you."
"Why the hell would I be scared of me?"
"Because you wanted me to suck you off. And you wanted to return the favor. And you'd rather hurt me than admit that to yourself."
Jim tightened his fingers on his glass, grateful that he was far enough away from Blair that Blair couldn't see him shaking. "I didn't want you to. And I would have, but only if you made me--you'd have to make me."
Blair shook his head. "Did I make you tonight? Was I forcing you in any way tonight?"
"Goddammit, Blair, I'm not attracted to you, don't you get it? You're a guy, and I don't like guys. OK? Just drop it." He glared over at his roommate, and saw the look of annoyance and confusion smooth out of Blair's face.
He supposed that Blair had just figured something out, but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to like whatever it was. He took a sip of water, feeling the fear again, fear that made his body tremble and his palms slick with sweat. He remembered the skin of Blair's hips under his hands, and wanted that again, wanted warm living flesh against his own.
"Jim."
He swallowed and set the glass down on the coffee table. "Yeah?"
"You know that I love you, right?"
"Shit." Jim closed his eyes, remembering Blair's hands and mouth on him, last night; Blair smelling of anger and musk and sex God-knows-where with God-knows-who and how that had felt--fear and fury and loathing tearing at his insides at the thought of Blair with a man.
Blair with men.
Blair, head thrown back, sweat on his throat, crying out, his fingers clenching and unclenching in bedsheets.
Jim shifted in the chair. That image shouldn't be arousing; he shouldn't even have thought of it. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and then he picked up the water glass again, and its cool sides were like the door of the refrigerator, smooth and slick, and less than twelve hours ago Blair had pushed him against the fridge and Blair's hand had been holding his head and he'd--
He'd almost--
--but he hadn't. And he wouldn't have, unless Blair made him.
But Blair hadn't made him.
Blair had backed off. Walked away.
Blair was watching him now, not moving, not talking--just watching, and waiting.
Blair loved him.
Jim set the glass back down and stood up. He walked to the kitchen island, then turned and looked back at Blair, who hadn't moved.
He'd begged Blair not to make him, but Blair hadn't been forcing him, not tonight. Blair had been gentle with him, his hands firm and sure; his warm voice soothing. And Jim had wanted to, and hadn't wanted to, but he had wanted and still wanted Blair's skin against his hands.
He liked the way Blair smelled. He'd liked that about this morning--the scents warm and comforting, even when he'd been afraid. He'd liked it this evening. He'd always liked the way Blair smelled, almost from the first moment--holding Blair against the wall of his office at Ranier, feeling that strong body against him--fabric softener, detergent, soap, skin, hair, sex--Blair had felt incredible, smelled incredible.
He wondered what he would have done if Blair had kissed him then, when he'd needed answers so desperately. He wondered if he would have gone down on his knees willingly then; sucked Blair off in desperation and in hope.
Blair's hair had brushed his thighs last night; Blair's strong hands had held his hips, and Jim had loved it, loved the feel of it--a man's mouth on him, a man's hands.
"Jim."
Jim blinked. "Chief?"
"You OK?"
"Yeah." He shuddered and ran a hand through his hair. Blair moved then, aggressively, crossing the room and ending up just a little too close.
"How many time do I have to tell you not to fucking lie to me, Jim? I'm fucking sick of you lying to me. Now, are you OK?"
Jim met his roommate's eyes. "No, I'm not fucking OK, Sandburg. I'm--I don't know what the fuck I am." Blair took one step closer, and Jim was acutely aware of the counter at his back, preventing him from moving away.
"I'm not a rapist, Jim, and I'm not going to let you make me into one."
"I didn't say you were."
Blair smacked him lightly on the forehead. "No, you just acted like I was making you do something you didn't want to do."
"I didn't want to--"
"Don't lie to me. Don't lie to you. You're--you're acting like the heroine of some stupid fucking romance novel. 'Please, Pirate King, don't wave your pulsating rod at me like that! Please, Pirate King, don't fuck me. Oh, I liked that, but it wasn't my fucking fault, so I am still pure!'"
"I don't need to listen to this." Jim stepped forward and pushed Blair out of his way, feeling the warmth of Blair's chest against his arm. He headed up the stairs to his bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other and a headache starting in his left temple. He closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, trying to relax.
So he liked the way Blair smelled. And felt. And yesterday he'd asked Blair to--and Blair had--and he'd liked that, liked that it was Blair.
It didn't mean anything. So Blair was...well, whatever Blair was, Jim could live with it. It didn't mean anything about him. He crooked an arm over his eyes and laid his other hand flat on his stomach and tried to sleep.
The bed shifted, and Jim jerked as cool hands touched his arm. "Come on. I know you've got a headache--this'll help." Blair laid a damp cloth over his eyes, and Jim wondered if it had all been a dream--one long nightmare that he wouldn't remember in the morning; if only the headache was real. Blair's fingers pressed on the cloth, lightly, and Jim could smell him, so close, too close; Blair smelled of soap and musk and cotton.
Jim raised his hand and touched Blair's shoulder, bare warm skin sliding under his fingers. He let the hand slide of its own free will down Blair's arm, down until it came to rest on Blair's hip, just above the waistband of his sweats. He let himself feel it, warm, thrumming with blood, tiny imperfections rough against his palm.
"I'm fucked up, aren't I?" he said, running his thumb over the sharpness of Blair's hipbone. He felt the air and skin vibrate as Blair laughed--a real laugh, warm and friendly, free of anger or tension. He knew that he shouldn't be touching Blair like this, but it didn't seem to matter.
"Yeah," Blair said, "you're fucked up." Jim felt heat on his skin; cool hands on his shoulders, and then Blair was kissing him.
He's brushed his teeth, Jim thought, he tastes like mint now but this afternoon he tasted like cheese and dijon mustard.
He raised his other hand and pushed Blair away. "Blair--"
"What?"
"I'm not gay."
Blair took the cloth off of Jim's eyes. "So what are you?"
"It's just--I mean, I don't mind if you are, OK? I don't mind. It's just not me."
Blair whapped him with the cloth. "You're OK with me being with men, but you get violent with me when I ask a simple question? I don't buy it."
"Look--"
"No. I don't fucking buy it, OK?"
"I don't know what you want me to say, Sandburg."
"What do you want to say?"
Jim swallowed and looked up at him. "You said you liked it."
"Yeah, I like it."
"So--you--I don't understand how you can like it."
Blair set the cloth on Jim's nightstand and leaned down. "You'll never know unless you try it." He kissed Jim again, and Jim felt one of Blair's hands sliding down his side and coming to rest at the waistband of his khakis; Blair's body pressing down on his.
Jim turned his face away, pushing at Blair's shoulders. "Blair--"
And the fear inside him twisted, and he curled around it; curled his body underneath Blair's and began to shake. "Hey," Blair said, "hey, Jim--Jim..." and he felt the tears come, hot and acid, as Blair held him.
--
The End