TITLE: Mourning

AUTHOR: Pisces

PAIRING: TS

WARNINGS: first time, angst

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is just a mostly-plotless little thing I whipped up in the last week. Feedback is always appreciated.

by Pisces

"Hey Jim, do you mind if I borrow this?"

Blair pulled on the leather jacket even as he spoke. Shrugging, he tried to make the shoulder seams rise above his biceps. He stretched his arms and pushed the sleeves above his wrists, trying to stand taller, look more at ease in the borrowed jacket. Who was he kidding? The academy had filled out his frame, but not that much.

Jim watched him with a befuddled expression, but turned away when Blair tried to meet his eyes. Jim shrugged, directing his gaze towards the dark television.

"Go ahead," he said.

Chief, Blair thought. Go ahead, Chief. Trying to distract himself from the missing endearment, he studied the way Jim's jacket fit him. He felt like a three-year-old again, trying on Naomi's dresses before he learned that there were some things that even enlightened men just didn't do. But the cleaners still didn't know if they could get the bloodstains out of Blair's own leather jacket.

"Yeah. Well . . ." Blair shrugged and Jim echoed it, still not meeting his eyes. The wall of silence, a steady presence between the two of them in the long months following Blair's graduation from the academy, grew tall again. Blair suddenly longed to scale it. "Come with me," he said.

Shocked, Jim finally surrendered enough to look at him. The sentinel's mouth moved, but he couldn't seem to force the words out.

"Come on! You don't have anything planned."

How long since they'd spent time together, apart from work and dreary silence at the loft? Blair counted backwards in his mind, finding only a few instances. His graduation party, the Dread concert for his birthday . . . but those had been months ago.

"We could skip the club if you wanted," he hurried on, hating the note of desperation in his voice. "Chris and Jamie would understand. We could get a drink, hang out for a while, or maybe catch a movie. What do you say?"

Jim shook his head, his blue eyes shining in the dim lamplight.

"Please, Jim," Blair whispered.

"I can't. Not tonight, Blair. Maybe some other time, okay?"

"Yeah." Blair swallowed, forcing his disappointment down. "Sure. I'll see you later, then."

"Bye, Chief." Jim offered him a small smile, and Blair returned it, his heart squeezing at the once-familiar nickname.

"Bye, Jim."

* * *

Blair's footsteps hesitated outside the loft. Jim's heart leapt, and he struggled to keep his breathing calm. Blair could decide to come back in, maybe repeat his offer. But after a moment, Blair's steady footfall resumed, heading down the hall and towards the stairs. Exhaling softly, Jim leaned back against the sofa, refusing to acknowledge the well of loneliness rising in his stomach.

He pictured Blair standing once more at the doorway, Jim's jacket pooled around his shoulders and his eyes wide and pleading, framed by the now-short curls. Physically, at least, the academy had been good for Blair. Most of his shirts now strained against the fullness of his chest and arms, while his jeans were all a little too loose in the waist. Four years ago, Jim had overheard a woman call Blair adorable. Now, she'd probably call him a hunk. Or a babe. Whatever term women were using now.

Jim closed his eyes, yearning for the Blair of four years ago. He remembered the whisper of silken curls constantly sliding against each other, whispering for Jim to abandon propriety and bury his hands in them. On the day Blair had his hair cut for the academy, Jim had furtively snatched a handful of the long curls from the salon floor. He kept the strands of hair in his pocket, tied together with a piece of string,. His pocket . . .

Eyes snapping open, Jim patted first one pocket of his jeans, and then the other. Shit. He forced himself to relax, running the day's events through his mind. He remembered holding the tiny bundle of hair during the murder investigation, trying to replace the smell of blood with Blair's familiar scent. Afterwards, he hadn't returned the hair to his jeans pocket, but rather to his jacket pocket.

Blair had his jacket.

Jim leapt to his feet. Extending his senses outward, he searched for his friend. Maybe Blair was still close enough to catch. Jim could retrieve the jacket somehow, and recover the stolen hair before Blair found it. Screwing his eyes shut, Jim concentrated on hearing, hoping that his own desperation would prevent a zone out.

He heard the heartbeat first. Blair was still surprisingly close by. The street outside, Jim realized, piggy-backing his sense of smell and coming across gasoline and motor oil, muffled by the overwhelming scent of baking bread from the diner downstairs. Maybe the Volvo was having problems again.

No, Jim decided, even as he barreled out of the loft door and down the stairs. The engine wasn't running; Blair probably hadn't started it yet. Focusing once more on hearing, Jim realized that Blair's heartbeat was unusually fast. A soft scent of distress rose off his roommate, evident even under the usual smells of the street. Praying that Blair hadn't reached into the pocket yet, Jim burst out of the building and into the street.

Blair knelt at the side of the road. He glanced up as Jim approached him, offering the older man a watery smile. Jim knelt beside Blair, following his gaze into the gutter.

A dead bird lie stiffly atop some old leaves. Fingers tracing the air over the matted feathers, Blair whispered, "The Dani people believed that a bird and a snake once had a contest to decide the fate of mankind. See Jim, many pre-industrial cultures believed that snakes were immortal, that they shed their skins and were reborn. So if the snake won the contest, man, too, would be immortal." Blair sighed heavily. "But the bird won, and since then, men have died like birds."

Jim placed a hand on Blair's shoulder, dialing up his sense of touch to feel Blair's body heat beneath the leather. Blair shivered. Jim tried to believe the tremors came from his touch, and not the chilly autumn air.

"You'd better get going, buddy," he said.

Blair stood slowly, shaking his head. "I'm not really in the mood for dancing anymore, Jim." He shivered again, sticking his hands inside the jacket pockets to warm them. His brows rose in surprise, and he dug into the pocket, face scrunched up in curiosity. Jim grimaced.

Blair pulled out the bouquet of curls. For a moment, he stared blankly at it. Then his fingers moved slowly through the chestnut hair, and his mouth formed a silent "o" of understanding. Blair turned to Jim with an undecipherable expression.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Jim hung his head, blood rushing to his cheeks and ears. Blair stared a moment longer, his mouth opening and closing with unsaid words. Finally he shook himself and said, "We need to talk, Jim."

* * *

When they reached the loft, Jim headed for the fridge. He pulled out a beer for himself, offering one to Blair as well. Blair took it, draining half of it in one swallow. Jim dropped into a kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands. Blair's eyes blazed along the back of his neck. Blair's footsteps reverberated on the floor behind him, finally stopping just behind Jim's chair.

"I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim stiffened in surprise. "What?"

"I should have seen what was going on." Blair moved forward, pressing his hands against Jim's shoulder. Jim flinched at the touch, closing his eyes, but didn't move away. Blair rubbed gentle circles into Jim's back, his palms and fingers burning their imprint into Jim's skin, even beneath the heavy sweater and the undershirt beneath it.

"Look at me, Jim." Blair's voice was soft, but with an insistent edge behind it.

Slowly, Jim turned in his chair. Blair's fingers shifted their grip on his shoulders, but didn't release him. Fighting terror, Jim looked up into Blair's eyes. They were dark, worried, but with an underlying sparkle of warmth that reached deep into Jim's stomach, relaxing the clenched muscles.

"That's right," Blair breathed. "Look at me."

Jim's eyes moved slowly over Blair's face. The high forehead, now framed by the shorter smattering of curls; the sea-blue eyes, their color dampened, just a little, by the soft disposable contacts; the full, berry-toned lips; and the pale skin, smudged with a stubbly shadow along the jaw and cheeks . . . Jim soaked it all in, drawing the vision down into the marrow of his bones.

"We can't keep going on like this, man," Blair said. "You're mourning me, when I haven't even died."

Jim shuddered. "The fountain . . ."

"I'm not talking about the fountain, Jim. I'm talking about this." Blair reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to reveal his badge. "The dissertation, the academy, all of it, man. You need to let go of it."

"I'm not sure if I can do that, Chief. You gave up a lot for me. A man can't just forget that."

"I'm not asking you to." Recklessly ignoring house rule thirty-six, Blair lifted himself onto the kitchen table, swinging his feet in the air. "But Jim, you need to realize that I don't regret my decision."

"You don't?"

"No! Jim, every day that I'm out on the streets with you, I'm making a difference. Every murder we stop, every criminal we put away, somewhere, all of that counts." Blair smiled, and for a moment, Jim thought he saw the old Blair, idealism radiant in his face and voice. "I always wanted to change the world, man," Blair continued. "Now I'm actually doing it."

A reluctant smile cut across Jim's face, softening the harsh set of his jaw. "It'll take a long time to save the world at our rate, Chief."

"Yeah, maybe." Blair grinned. "But you know, the time a man spends fighting crime is not deducted from the rest of his life."

"Oh yeah? Who said that?"

"A very wise cop I once knew."

Jim snorted. "You mean a smart-assed anthropologist."

"Hey, man, they're one and the same."

"I think I'm starting to figure that out," Jim whispered, standing and turning to face the table. Never breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of Blair. Blair shivered, close enough that the movement echoed through the air, whispering along Jim's skin.

"You always were a slow learner," Blair said, the words softened by his sweet, almost shy, smile. Swallowing, he lifted his hands off the table, threading his fingers together behind Jim's neck. Jim smiled at the motion, nuzzling the stubbly underside of Blair's jaw and breathing in shaving cream, sweat, and sweet, undiluted Blair. "Are you sure about this?" Blair whispered.

Jim smiled, pressing his lips to Blair's throat and raining soft kisses up the curve of Blair's chin. "For once, Chief, I think I know what I'm doing," he murmured, flicking his tongue out to taste the full bottom lip.

Forgotten, the bundle of hair fell to the floor. Now, Jim Ellison had more important things to hold on to.

The End.