A Glimpse Through An Interstice Caught

ByHeuradys

May 2000

Disclaimer: Ah, would they were mine....but everyone knows they're not.

Warning & Rating: Ok, so it's not overwhelmingly angst-filled, and in fact may cause sugar shock; there's only minor owwies & h/c, no death, mayhem, or destruction; it's not beta'd; no wild monkey-sex; minor naughty language, but nothing I wouldn't use in front of my mother - I'd give it a weak PG (Like kids under 13 don't swear).

But it's my dues, and it's a virgin sacrifice. Yes, my first fic posted anywhere.

Please be gentle. My muse is cowering under the bed with his stuffed panther and wolf (we're fireproof, but they're not). He didn't want to torture Jim & Blair too much while watching 10 solid hours of TS.

A Glimpse Through An Interstice Caught
By Heuradys

I'd been waiting for almost two hours, unwilling to give up, by the time he wandered, half-frozen, into the bar. His glasses fogged up instantly, and I couldn't help but chuckle when he cursed. He was swaddled in enough layers that he looked about twice his weight.

Peeling him out of that myriad of layers and warming him with my body heat crossed my mind before I caught myself.

Yeah, Ellison, you've got it bad.

Giving up your partner for a winter stakeout because H has the flu and you have a sprained ankle from tripping over a panicked cat, and missing him the entire time, worrying about him the whole time. Never mind that he'd volunteered for it.

God, I'd been more worried than I thought. I was almost giddy with relief, and I couldn't wipe the dopey grin off my face. Oh, believe me, I tried. I didn't want him to know how... how he affected me by just being with me.

I watched him from the little oasis of quiet in the dim corner booth I'd staked out. My guide, my partner, my best friend.

The man I love.

There were tiny droplets on his eyelashes where snowflakes had died, and his hair looked like a spider-web all dew-spangled, catching the neon, reflecting tiny shards of color.
Beautiful.

Oh, yeah. Really bad. Sugar shock. To steal a line from Rent: That's poetic; that's pathetic. Maybe it's the scotch.

Keep thinking that, Ellison. It's only the scotch.

Delude yourself into thinking it's only tonight you noticed, not years ago.

Damn yourself for a romantic fool.

Twelve hours without Sandburg, alone with my existential doubts, and I'm suddenly a bundle of nerves. I shouldn't be allowed to think that long about my life and exactly how (naked) and where (in my bed) I wanted Blair to be in it, and how he'd react if he knew. He'd disappear without even thinking about it. All the sacrifices he'd made for me irregardless. Never since I'd known him had he expressed interest in a guy.

I'm getting too old for that kind of angst over a straight man.

Just try to be happy to spend the evening with him as your best friend, Jim, like you have for all those years.

Taking a swallow of the scotch I'd been nursing, I shifted on the wooden bench seat. My ankle was aching steadily, and I stretched my left leg up to rest on the opposite seat. I didn't want to dial it down; it was keeping me from zoning in the comfort of the bar. It was a very comfortable place, all dark woods, fireplaces, and couches, booths, and tables arranged for groups, small or large, and either seclusion or openness was possible in the warm room.

One pool table, if we were interested, which neither of us usually was. Darts - both electronic and honest-to-god, insurance risk, real darts.

Poetry readings every Monday. Yeah, I'd come with Sandburg a few times, and actually counted one of the poets - a man a few years my senior, with great masses of grey hair and a beard squirrels could hide in - as a friend.

Surprised? We'd struck up a conversation one night after he'd come offstage and Sandburg was occupied with a game of what the regulars called 'grope darts' - the object of which was the opposing teams feeling up each other in an attempt to influence their accuracy. Yeah, more Sandburg's type of game; he could go pro. Talking with Warren about poetry, whiskey, and time in the Armed Forces was much more my speed.

We'd chatted for a while before I'd moved to my booth. Now he was sitting at the bar writing in a leather-bound notebook, whiskey in front of him neglected, occasionally exchanging blown kisses with a pretty girl with a long black braid.

Great food, too, with enough variety to keep Sandburg happy.

Relatively quiet, now, during the break after the band's first set. My view of the tiny stage was obscured, but I didn't like the band for their looks. I particularly liked the way the three guitars harmonized, personally. I don't know what Sandburg liked about them, but there were a few songs they did that really affected him. They affected me, too, but it was mostly the enjoyment I got from watching his face as he listened with his whole body, his eyes closed and passionate tension running through him.

God, I love him. I love watching him.

He rubbed his hands together, and scanned the bar. Grinned like a madman when he finally spotted me, and wove his way through the crowd, limping a bit, without touching a single person.

"Hey, Jim, sorry I'm so late, man. How's the ankle?" Honest contrition and concern in those damned eyes of his. He looked so tired that I couldn't be that mad.

"Better. A bit achy. I tried to call you." I couldn't keep the reproach out of my voice.

He dropped into the booth beside me with a sigh. His chilled body, so near, sent a wave of cold and heat through mine. "Battery in the phone died, and I've got absolutely NO change on me so I couldn't call you. You know I would have, man."

"Yeah, I do, Chief." I ruffled his damp hair. "But you know I worry. How'd the stakeout go?"

"Didn't see a thing." He grimaced. "Boring and freezing - as usual."

"How can you be freezing? You're wearing at least half your wardrobe. Drop a few layers and stay a while."

His glare was disdainful. "Very funny. Feel my hands and tell me I'm not freezing; I can hardly move them. I lost my damned gloves, man." His hands were icy, with more than a tinge of bluish-white.

"Christ, Chief, you've got frostbite. Didn't Rafe have a spare pair?" I didn't rub the damaged skin, just cupped my hands around the frozen fingers.

"Well, we kind of traded off wearing his, but..." His voice trailed off, and his forehead creased with pain. "Oh, man, I'm starting to feel my feet again."

"You want to head home?"

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "I just got here. I've been looking forward to this all day. I'll live. Besides, I'm sooo starving! I didn't have time for lunch today."

I caught our waitress' eye, and nodded. She waved her response, and headed into the kitchen. "Hope you don't mind, but I ordered for you, Chief."

He cocked his head at me. "You know, unless it's swimming in grease, I don't think I do. What am I having?"

I couldn't help the smile. For once I knew absolutely that he'd approve what I'd chosen. The bar's owner was a diminutive Welshman with more energy than even Sandburg, and an excellent cook. Needless to say, they got along well. "John's special lamb stew. Gwen's been holding the last two portions for half an hour."

He winced in pain, but grinned. "That alone is worth a three mile walk!" The grin froze on his face, but the expression in his eyes shifted to panic and guilt.

"You walked here." I lifted his hands, eyeing the frostbitten digits. "Why? That was dumb, Sandburg."

He ducked his head, pulling his hands out of mine. "C'mon, Jim, don't start, okay? The Volvo froze up. I know it was stupid, but..." His voice dropped to 'sentinel-only' levels. "I didn't want to just go home. I -"

I waited. He chewed his lip.

"It's stupid, man, but.. I missed you." He shrugged, and his eyes closed. "I -"

I wrapped my arm around his shoulders, and pulled him against me. He was shivering. "I missed you, too, Chief. Come on, let's get you out of some of those layers so you warm up."

I helped, and he managed to get out of the top four layers, laughing when I wadded each one up and tossed them on the other side of the booth. The laughter stopped as his frozen fingers started to regain their feeling, and sudden tears sprang into his eyes. "Shit, that hurts!"

"Give 'em here, Sandburg."

His eyes widened when, instead of wrapping my own hands around them again, I lifted my sweater and, hissing at the frigid touch, pressed them to my stomach and pulled the sweater back down over them.

He tried to pull them away. "Hey, man, you don't have to do that."

I held them in place with my left hand. "No, I don't have to. Got a problem with it? No? End of subject." I wrapped my right arm around his shoulders again, and he snuggled against me with a sigh.

"I don't think I'll ever feel warm again."

Even though his hands were that cold, they were certainly sending warmth through me. Okay, having his body nestled against my side wasn't helping.

You know, I always thought I'd not be able to deal with showing Blair more than friendly attention in public. Another thing I was wrong about. This place was as public as any, and not a single person was paying any attention to the two of us basically cuddling there. Any other time, I think he would have had plenty to say about it, commenting and lecturing about the reasons why or why not, but for now he seemed content to be quiet. It didn't bother me. I just let myself enjoy the time before our food came, holding him as he shivered and pretended to be stoic in his suffering.

Gwen grinned wryly at us, raising one pierced eyebrow, as she set our order on the table. Blair had tracked her progress from the kitchen with an expression of longing and expectation that I wished, in my heart, had been directed at me. "Damn, Blair," she said, "if I could get a woman to look at me the way you watched my tray I'd be the happiest dyke on the planet."

"Hey, the only thing I was missing was comfort food." He cocked his head to look at her, and the brush of his wet hair on my face and the shifting of his hands on my stomach almost made me gasp. His gaze shifted from her to me. "You okay, man?"

"Ankle," I lied valiantly, moving it a little and allowing the slight pain to reflect on my face.

Gwen rolled her eyes at me, gave me a secret little smile, and moved on to deliver the balance on her tray.

His eyes met mine, and for several very long moments neither of us spoke while he searched my eyes for something. I broke the staring contest first, reaching for a fork. "What, Sandburg?"

"Nothing, man." He was lying, but I let him. "Hey, have they played 'Ride On' yet tonight?"

The band resumed the stage, and the random seeming sounds of tuning blurted through the speakers. "We tune because we care," announced the lead guitarist, his whiskey voice rough, when audience protest rose at a particularly ugly tone.

"No, they haven't." I stabbed a chunk of lamb from the stew.

Blair's hands moved against my stomach, and I held them there tightly, shifting so we were facing each other. "Hey, man, I need my hands."

I brought the lamb to his lips. "What for? They're not thawed enough to hold a fork."

I hoped I sounded as casual and unconcerned to him as I did to myself.

Another long silence between us. I held my breath, waiting for him to object, hoping he wouldn't. His body tensed suddenly then relaxed, and a muscle in his leg twitched against mine. "Yeah," he breathed. His eyes closed, and he allowed me to feed him.

My world shrank to include only him. It was natural; I've got a Blair-Sandburg-centric worldview. His hands lightly caressed my stomach through my undershirt, and each brush of his fingers sent delicious shivers through me. We ate in silence, the ambient noise of the bar, the band, and the people around us providing us with minimal distractions.

And I was happy.

It was so simple, so calm amidst the chaos around us. Just to watch his face, to feel the trembling of his hands as the skin thawed, to listen to the sound of his heart and his breath, and to take care of him. My God, the man had walked three miles in the dead of winter just to spend this time with me, because he missed me - someone he spent nearly every waking hour with, and I felt humbled by that. Yet another example of what he'll do for me. He's not exactly a hothouse flower, but he's not designed for the cold.

He'd given up his academic career for me, jumped out of a plane, died...

He had to love me. No one would put up with the shit I'd heaped on him for any other reason.

Why was I enough of an idiot not to realize that until then? Some detective.

But was the kind of love I felt for him the same as he felt for me? Shit, I'd faced death so many times, but the potential of losing his friendship was somehow more of a threat. My hormones, while nowhere near as excitable as his, weren't worth that loss.

I could appreciate the luxury of taking care of him like this, though, and dream, hope, and wish that I was doing it for him as his lover.

The optimist in me wondered if he kept his eyes closed because he was imagining the same thing; the pessimist believed he was imagining one of his multitude of female conquests.

The high color on his cheeks from the frigid wind faded to more healthy tones while I watched, and his nose started to run. "You can have your hands back now, Chief. That's where I draw the line."

His eyes opened, startled, and he blinked at me. "Huh?"

"Blow your nose," I hinted. "You're a veritable mucous fountain."

The now warm hands left my body, and I felt oddly bereft. Once he blew his nose, the moment grew awkward, and the world intruded again. He looked around the room, eyes lighting on the large mural of rural Ireland on one wall. "Hey, they added more to it!"

"I don't know. Adding the Enterprise is one thing, but Pinky and the Brain next to the well is a bit much."

"Didn't you notice that the last time we were here? I was talking about the little cop car." He grinned at me. "Kind of makes us part of the place, huh?"

"That's what John said when he put it there." I sipped my scotch. "He likes you. Lucky you're not a woman, Chief."

He tugged the glass out of my hand and toasted the sentiment wholeheartedly. "No shit, man, but he's harmless." The little Welshman, energy level aside, was blessed with hyperactive flirting. I suppose, in many ways, he was more of a table-leg humping dog than Sandburg; Blair didn't actively flirt with every woman he met - just most of them.

I laughed at the grimace he made when the scotch hit his taste buds. A deep shudder went through his entire body, and his eyes teared up when he swallowed. "What the hell is that shit?" he asked hoarsely.

"Laphroaig." I snagged the glass back from him. "You telling me you've never had it before?"

He rolled his eyes at me. "I think I'd remember something that nasty, man. How can you even drink it?"

"Acquired taste." I shrugged. "You warmer yet?" I tried to make the question as nonchalant as I could, wanting nothing more than his body against mine. I shifted on the seat, moving into the corner and propping up my other leg, knee bent. My wounded ankle spasmed, just a twinge, as I put that foot back on the ground.

He scooted back toward me, turning so his back was facing me. "Freezing, man," he grinned over his shoulder.

I wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him snug against me, shifting so he was between my thighs. "Better?" His hair was in my face, and strands clung to my lips as I spoke.

I didn't have to see the smile. "Oh, yeah. You're a furnace, man."

Silence again, bittersweet.

His hands found mine, after half an hour or so filled with music and the slow sound of his relaxed heartbeat, and our fingers intertwined. His were still cold, and I let myself caress them, warming them more. Soon the set would be over, and he'd want to go talk to the band. I'd lose this closeness and comfort, if... if I didn't risk everything.

Yeah, Jim, just shut the hell up and listen to the music.

The band began the song he wanted to hear, and he tensed. I watched his eyes close as his heart sped up. I tightened my hold on him, listening with him, waiting for the song to end.

He sighed when it finished, a song of unrequited love.

I hadn't paid attention before.

"Blair," I whispered before he could open his eyes.

"Yeah?"

Now or never, Ellison. He's right where you want him, but will he stay there when you say it? Only one way to find out.

"Yeah?" he repeated.

"I've been in love with you for years, you know." I let my lips brush his ear.

His hands clenched on mine. "Why didn't you ever say anything before, Jim?"

"Same reason you haven't. We're a couple of idiots." I held my breath, and when he didn't say anything, I let it out in a depressed sigh. "Okay, so I'm an idiot." I tried to pull my hands free from his, my heart going supernova.

"No way, man! I've been waiting to hear that for so long you've got to give me the time to soak it in!" He turned his head to meet my eyes, and it suddenly felt like the supernova reversed and I was in the middle of a star being born. The expression he'd looked at Gwen's tray with was a pale ghost of the one he was giving me now. "I'm in love with you, too, idiot. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Absolutely, Chief." He let go of my hands, and I moved them to cradle his face with my palms.

One chaste, whiskey and lamb flavored kiss later, we parted to gather our things. As he put all those layers back on his grin grew interestingly shy. I think he realized the same thing I did; I'd be peeling those layers off once we got home.

Finally.

He picked the book I'd intended to read off the table while I got my jacket on. "Leaves of Grass, huh?"

I took it from his hand. "Let's go home. Literature lessons later."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A GLIMPSE through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around
the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated
in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently
approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold
me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of
drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking
little, perhaps not a word.

1860 -Whitman

End