Drifting awake from an erotic dream that had his whole body thrumming with desire, Jim opened his eyes to a dark bedroom, not sure for a moment if he *was* awake. Senses muddled by sleep, all he could be sure of was that Blair was spooned up behind him, one arm draped over his waist, breathing into the middle of his back. In the few months they had been sharing a bed that had become their favored sleeping position, mostly because Jim enjoyed having that well-haired chest against his back.
Somewhere along the way his libido had apparently decided it liked having Blair plastered against him, too, if the massive hard-on tenting his boxers was anything to go by. It was practically buzzing with the need to be touched, and, unusually for him, so were his nipples. His lips were extra sensitive, and he craved one of Blair's luscious kisses with an almost uncomfortable intensity.
Without thinking Jim reached down to adjust himself, but the fabric of his shorts was suddenly unbearably rough on his skin. Slipping them off, he sighed in relief that was all too short-lived. Without that minor distraction his need stridently took center stage, and he reluctantly considered waking Blair to ask for help getting relief. It was that or take care of it himself, and he honestly couldn't decide at that moment which was the lesser of two evils: waking Blair or potentially pissing him off by not sharing with him.
Then Blair mumbled indistinctly and tried to snuggle in closer, his hand brushing over Jim's erection, as if sensing even in his sleep that Jim wanted him. Inching back into him even more, he whispered, "Blair," telling himself that if his voice didn't wake him up right away, he'd just make himself go back to sleep.
Fitting his lap tightly against Jim's backside, Blair made another sleepy noise, and his dick stirred lazily. His scent warmed with desire, inflaming Jim's even more, and Blair squirmed even closer as he instinctively responded to his body's awakening arousal. Already low on his hips because of their loose fit, his boxers slid lower, freeing his lengthening cock. It nuzzled into the crevasse between Jim's thighs, right against his ass, making itself at home and doing interesting things to the sensitive flesh there.
Vaguely remembering once having sex between a girl's legs instead of going all the way, Jim shifted to accommodate Blair's cock and was rewarded by another murmur of his name. That was all the encouragement he needed, and he covered Blair's hand with his own, guiding it down to his cock. The thrill from the not-yet familiar touch was all he could stand, and he shoved into their combined grip, helplessly giving himself over to passion. As he did, Blair moaned and thrust, his growing length nudging at the base of Jim's balls, sending a pang through his middle that had him willingly meeting the next stroke.
The tendrils of his climax began to gather in Jim's gut, but as good as the slow, dreamy rocking was, it wasn't enough. His longing for one of Blair's kisses, or for the sweep of his chest hair over his achingly aware nipples, became an almost physical pain for him, and Jim mentally scrabbled after something he could use to help him finish. Head thrown back, he brought his free hand down from under his pillow and lightly scraped over his thumbnail over a hard bud.
A powerful bolt of sensation yanked all through him, and Jim lost the steady rhythm he and Blair had built, hips jerking raggedly. It sent Blair's cock higher than it had gone before, digging ever so slightly into the guardian muscle of Jim's opening before sliding down between his thighs again. As minor as that penetration was, it was unexpectedly *wonderful,* and Jim groaned, involuntarily angling his body to get more. Blair's next eager thrust came even closer to entering him, and the very possibility that Blair might open him completely, fill him with the most vulnerable part of Blair himself, drove Jim past pleasure and into ecstasy.
Stiffening, too lost in sensation to even whimper, Jim came, dimly aware of Blair's cry of release and the sudden wet heat between his thighs. That ripped another iota of relief from him in a mind-blinding flash, and when it passed all he could do was lay there and tremble, more physically sated than he had ever been in his life.
It wasn't until the last quivers of pleasure had passed and Blair was snoring softly into the middle of Jim's back that a viciously snide voice in the back of his mind asked him exactly what had just happened here. Surely he hadn't permitted a man to nearly stick his dick up his ass? And liked it? Liked it a lot?
Shutting down that voice with a skill born of needing to silence it far too often, he concentrated on locating the wipes he had learned to keep a nightstand drawer for clean up after sex. Tidying first Blair, then almost unwillingly, himself, Jim lay staring into the night, vainly trying to go back to sleep. Before too long, though, he admitted it wasn't going to happen and the dark made it far too easy for his thoughts to go places he didn't want to go tonight - if ever. He slipped out of bed, taking care to make sure that Blair was well-covered and cozy, then dressed, for once grateful his gifts made it possible for him to do so efficiently and silently without turning on a light.
Once downstairs, he stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room, not sure what to do, but positive he didn't want to risk waking Blair just yet. That meant either sitting silently in the dark or leaving, and of the two options, leaving actually appealed to him the most. Grasping after any idea at all, his stomach volunteered the information that food wasn't a bad idea, and Jim was out of the door before he stopped to consider that not many restaurants were open in the middle of the night.
After he reached his truck, though, he mentally ran through list of twenty-four hour joints that all cops knew almost by osmosis, trying to find one that he thought he could stand. Again his appetite prompted him, reminding him that the Biloxi Dinner had some of the best waffles he'd ever tasted, and it wasn't that far. Nodding to himself in sudden decision, Jim aimed the truck in that direction, determinedly thinking of nothing except if he wanted syrup or fruit on his waffles.
When he there, the simple familiarity of bright lights, cooking smells, and the peculiar quiet that settled over even the most popular of places at 4 a.m. settled his jangling nerve-endings. He'd always liked this diner because of the open floor plan with the booth-like benches running around the edges of the main room, matched with regular tables and chairs, and the bare minimum of more tables filling the middle. Mirrors, glass panel room dividers, and well-polished metal added to the visibility, and there were at least three easy to reach exits from just about any point in the room. Even the color scheme of tans, creams and ivy green was easy on the eye and the only reason Jim didn't frequent it more often was because the place was too popular to get into without a long wait during normal business hours.
A young blonde waitress looking far too perky for the hour led him to a table in one corner, promised coffee, then scurried off so fast that she roused his curiosity enough to follow her with his hearing. A moment later he grinned down at his menu. She and the cook on duty were in the middle of some heavy-duty flirting, which probably accounted for her cheery demeanor. And it seemed romance was in the air in general. The couple on the opposite side of the room, almost directly across from him, had their heads close together over their table, talking intently, as if they were alone.
Giving them their privacy, he gave his attention to the menu, and when the waitress came back with his coffee a surprisingly short time later, considering her distraction, he gave his order: fruit *and* syrup, both on the side. The indulgence, as small as it was, made him feel even better, and he sipped at his coffee while waiting for his food, realizing that he was enjoying being alone for a change, too. Not that he wouldn't rather have Blair with him, he admitted to himself with surprising ease.
But right here, right now, a little solitude was in order while he... processed... or soul-searched or whatever the hell it was you did when you were trying to come to terms with a part of yourself you had never suspected existed. Jim was honest enough to face that if he were left to his own devices, he would bury the knowledge under a thousand layers of denial and cheerfully forget about it. Then, too, If it weren't for Blair, there would have been no *need* to deal with the discovery that he enjoyed having his asshole played with.
Not that Jim was willing to trade Blair for peace of mind on the subject. They had come too far in their relationship for him to consider even pretending he didn't want the intimacy and passion that had slowly become such a part of their lives together. Still, if Blair were with him right now, his all too perceptive partner would know that something was wrong and most likely wouldn't be willing to let the matter rest until they'd gotten to the bottom of it.
And he was going to, damn it, he was, but he was entitled to a decent meal first, wasn't he? Since he was awake and up so early, he could go to the gym to work off the calories before going on duty, not that he needed to worry about that with the work load he was laboring under. What harm could a small treat do, really?
Abruptly realizing he was working himself up to being angry over something that had nothing to do with the real problem at hand, Jim ruthlessly reined himself in and worked instead on using his senses to find out if his breakfast was ready. Soft kissing sounds convinced him that the food might be a little late getting to him, and good humor partly restored, he idly checked out the other couple to see how far they had progressed during their cozy chat.
Not very far, he decided, studying her tense, withdrawn figure, cop intuition suddenly speaking up loud and clear. Her head with its dark curls was bowed and her thin shoulders were hunched as if she were expecting a blow. The reflection of her in the mirror on the wall to the side showed that she was fiddling with something under cover of the tablecloth. Zeroing in, Jim saw that it was a can of mace, and a second later his other senses reported more signs of fear. Her scent was rich with it and her heartbeat was pounding so loudly it was a wonder her 'date' couldn't hear it.
Or maybe he could, Jim thought, eyes narrowing, disgust rolling through his stomach. And the slick-looking bastard likes it. He's getting off on her terror, gloating to himself and puffing up with self-importance like he's done something to brag about. The satisfaction dimmed though when she pulled herself together, sitting up straighter, brown eyes meeting his hard blue ones with relative composure, though her hands were knotted around the mace.
"No," she said softly, but firmly. "I mean it. No. I've talked to Helen about you, and she was relieved that I brought it up first because she could see what you were doing long before I did. So you can't get me fired from my job, Jeffrey, and you can't run me out of my own house because it's *my" house, in my name, not yours, you didn't file the paperwork in time, did you, because you were so sure you had me under your thumb. Go find some one else to victimize. If I see you again anywhere near me, I'll file a restraining order on you."
Hands slowly closing to fists on the table in obvious threat, Jeffrey leaned forward and snarled, "You'll do what I tell you to, bitch, or I'll remind you the hard way who's the boss here."
"Beat me all you want; that just gives me more evidence to get you locked away," she said with wobbly defiance that was all the more impressive because its unsteadiness. "There were witnesses last time; more carelessness on your part." Sitting back slightly, she sighed, sounding totally exhausted. "Just go away, Jeffrey. There's plenty more foolish, lonely women out there for you to prey on. Just go away and leave me alone."
Whatever good looks 'Jeffrey' might have had to attract her were gone under a mask of rage that raised sentinel hackles instantly. He glanced around the room as if making sure they were alone, fury either causing him to miss Jim or to dismiss him as unimportant. "Who do you think you are, Leslie?" Jeffrey asked, sounding as if he wanted to shout the question at the top of his lungs. "Just who the fuck do you think you are?"
Mutely she shook her head, refusing to give him ammunition for a verbal confrontation, not that he appeared to need it. His expression went empty in a way that would have frightened any one watching, and he repeated emotionlessly, reaching inside his jacket, "Just who do you think you are?"
On his feet before he could honestly say he saw the gun, Jim reached for his own weapon and his badge, calling out clearly, "Police. Hold it right there."
Jeffrey's eyes flashed up to him, filled with an unholy combination of determination, fear and a sick sort of relief, then dropped back to the woman opposite him. At the same time Leslie jumped, half-turning to look back over her shoulder and accidentally shielding her companion from Jim's best shot. Reading Jeffrey's intentions with absolution certainty, both from experience and intuition, Jim shifted his angle as he brought his gun up, going for a killing shot without hesitation, repeating his identity and order.
Microscopic as that delay was, it was all that Jeffrey needed. He fired the moment he could, hitting Leslie in the head almost the same second Jim pulled the trigger himself. Forever after he would ask himself if he could have changed his aim to disable in that heartbeat between the first shot and his, knowing that Jeffrey had already killed his lover rather than let her escape him. Or if he truly believed that the next bullet had his name on it because Jeffrey wouldn't have hesitated to kill him too, badge or not, simply because he was arrogant enough to think he could get away with it.
At the time, though, Jim went by the book, keeping his gun trained on his target slumped over on the bench seat until he reached the victim on the floor by the table, by procedure confirming with an unnecessary check on her pulse that the wound had been fatal. In the background he could hear the waitress and cook rush out into the main dining room, her screaming, him shouting outraged questions. Jim spared them both a glance. "911 - now!" When neither moved to act, he held up his badge and repeated, "911."
Sobbing, the waitress fled to obey, but the cook swallowed hard, once, face going white and stepped forward. "Is she dead?"
Holstering his gun and standing, Jim said tiredly, looking down at a woman who had died only because she loved the wrong person, "She was dead the minute she agreed to meet him again."
* * *
Far too many hours later, minus his shield and gun, Jim slammed into his truck in the parking building of the station, and roared out of his spot, no destination in mind except 'away.' Internal Affairs hadn't waited to jump on his backside, calling him into interview almost before the bodies could have made it to the morgue, no doubt believing they actually had a chance to nail his hide to the wall after so many failed attempts. They claimed that Jim had fired his gun only because the other man had been armed, and the woman had become an innocent by-stander when her companion had defended himself against an unidentified shooter.
Their case had been almost impossible for Jim's rep to argue against. No one had seen or heard Jim warn the perp, the waitress hadn't seen any signs of discord between the pair while she had been waiting on them, and, most damning, the can of mace had gone missing, along with the victim's purse.
So far the department hadn't been able to identify Leslie, which meant that there had been no way to collaborate the details of the exchange Jim had overheard in the restaurant. Not that he had risked giving anyone except Simon Banks that piece of information. With the possibility of credible evidence to back up Jim's claims, Banks hadn't had any trouble getting the rest of Major Crimes on board, though he had had to practically force Jim to promise to stay out of it and trust the others to do their job.
Deftly maneuvering through traffic at just barely safe speeds, Jim tiredly thought that the only good thing in the entire fiasco was that Blair hadn't been there to take on a share of the accusations and suspicion. His partner had been doing vital leg-work on another case entirely, and the single, brief phone call that Jim had managed to get in before all hell had broken loose had necessarily been limited to a 'get the work done, it's just IA's usual bullshit' line of conversation. There was nothing Blair could have done to make it easier for Jim to swallow the garbage IA cops with their own personal agendas had thrown at him, anyway.
Stopping at a light and rubbing at his eyes, Jim admitted to himself that, in the end, it was the thought of Blair suffering from the fallout if he lost it that had gotten him through the interminable interviews without punching someone - or throwing the badge in their faces and simply stalking off. A part of him wanted to go find Blair right now and to hell with the fact that he was under suspension and officially off any case, even as one as important as the one they... Blair... was working on. Just seeing his partner would help calm the frustration and fury riding him, and if they could find a few minutes to be alone and touch, Jim might be able to get rid of enough of the rest to be able to come up with a plan to clear himself.
He had gone so far as to take a turn that would put him on an intercept course with him when what he was doing sunk in. Screeching onto a side street and coming to a bone-shuddering halt, he asked himself viciously just what the hell he was doing? Running to Blair like a kid running to his mommy to kiss a boo-boo better? Digging a deeper hole for himself by interfering with another case while he was on suspension? When the fuck had he lost his balls, let alone his common sense?
Teeth locked over a shout of pure fury, Jim fought a rage he had no outlet for and which he could not afford to turn inward on himself, every muscle vibrating with the battle. It was exhaustion and hunger that finally came to his aid. His body simply couldn't maintain the level of energy it was pouring into emotion and cut it off, leaving him feeling leaden and brain-dead. Staring numbly at the filthy alley around him, he tried to think of something to do besides just sit there, but nothing presented itself.
At last a faint fragrance caught his attention; not too far away someone was cooking a steak over an open grill. That woke up his appetite, big time, unpleasantly reminding him that he hadn't gotten his waffles that morning and lunch had consisted of a candy bar snatched while from a machine in the break room while on the run between interviews. So food would probably be a good idea; all he had to decide was what and where.
The loft flashed through his mind, but he ruthlessly dismissed it. For reasons he didn't look at too carefully he didn't want to go home just yet. Another whiff of the cooking steak put him in motion; it smelled just like the ones fixed at a place on the beachfront he had been meaning to try for ages. A long drive maybe, but what else did he have to do with his time now?
Shoving that thought away before it had time to turn into misery, Jim put the truck in gear and put all his attention on driving safely and sanely, only because it gave him something productive to concentrate on. To his surprise, it worked to a degree, and he relaxed somewhat, beginning to enjoy the sunny late afternoon, cool though it was. When the first scent of the ocean, along with the faint crash of the breakers, hit him, awakening memories of the beach and surfing, he relaxed even more.
With that at the back of his mind, he parked farther away from the boardwalk than he had originally meant and walked along the shore, for once letting his senses command the moment. Feeling as close to normal as he could, under the circumstances, he eventually wandered toward the restaurant, only to find that it had changed hands and become a yuppie-style pub. Jim hesitated, but hearing told him the place was all but deserted, and that suited him just fine, so he went in, expecting to sneer at the brass, glass and green, only to be pleasantly surprised.
Inside was dark, polished wood, from paneling to chairs to tables, with real fabric tablecloths on the tables in tall booths that were upholstered in maroon leather. It was quiet without being threateningly so, like a library or crime scene could be, and the lighting was provided by old-fashioned lamps, along with electric ones designed to look like them. The over-all effect was as if someone had taken an English gentleman's den and turned it into a restaurant.
Deciding the atmosphere made the trip worthwhile even if the food was only mediocre, Jim obeyed the sign that invited him to seat himself, choosing a booth in the corner farthest from the door. It put him across the room from the antique-looking bar that had a chalkboard at one side listing the day's specials, which, at the moment, were all sandwiches billed as being thick and on homemade bread. A waitress in everyday clothes appeared out of a door on the other end of the bar, her lovely face already wreathed in a genuine smile of welcome, not the fake professional kind.
"Get you a beer while you look over the menu?" she asked cheerfully, handing one to Jim.
Why the heck not, Jim thought, and nodded, surprised when she tilted her head to one side, then correctly guessed what brand he liked. "You do that often?" he asked, grinning.
"Good at it, too." She grinned back, then went to get the beer, coming back quickly.
"It all looks good," Jim said, giving the menu a little shake, as if that would help him make up his mind.
Leaning companionably on one of the supports for the booth, she said, "All tastes pretty darned good, if I do say so myself. But for you, go for the beef on rye; rare, cooked right on the premises. Tell us how you want it and we'll build it to spec; got just about anything you could think of to put on a real he-man style sandwich."
"Spicy brown mustard?" Jim asked, mock suspiciously.
"Best there is," she said with just the right amount of challenge in her voice to get him to look her over.
She was looking back, feminine interest glinting in her eyes, and he made a show of giving her five and a half feet a slow study, letting his frank appreciation show. About his age, maybe a few years older, he decided analytically, but not showing it that much at all. The body under her faded jeans and plain tee shirt looked firm and healthy, and while he could see a few glints of gray in the roots of her sandy brown hair, she'd covered it with a very natural looking dye that turned it into blonde highlights.
Catching a hint of her natural scent, he hid a smug smile. She liked what she saw, too; with a little coaxing he could get her into bed if he wanted. A part of him didn't think that was such a bad idea, at all, reminding him somewhat sharply that it had been what felt like forever since he'd been buried to the hilt in a woman. Besides it felt good to be checked out like he was a treat she couldn't wait to get her hands on.
What harm could a little flirting do? Jim asked himself, not really letting himself consider either the question or the honest answer to it. It had only taken him a split second to give her the once over and make his decision, and he said without missing a beat, matching her tone exactly, "What do I get if I don't agree?"
"Why, I go out and get the mustard you think is best and build you another sandwich." She waited moment for effect, then added, "After giving the gulls the one that didn't meet your approval, of course."
Chuckling, Jim settled back comfortably and took a swig of his beer. Reading her nametag, he said, "You're on, Kaitlyn. I want the beef so rare it's wondering what happened to the rest of the cow, cole slaw on one side, mustard and swiss cheese on the other side, and more mustard on the side for dipping."
Not writing it down, Kaitlyn said, "Done. And if you so much as blink when I ask you if you want fries with that, I'll personally make sure that beef's so tough you'll need a chain saw for it."
Giving an exaggerated show of not changing expression, he asked with honest curiosity, "What kind of fries?"
"Big, thick, crispy on the outside, scalding hot and moist on the inside, absolutely delicious and totally salty fries," she answered dryly.
"Do you honestly expect the poor things to live up to that billing, now? Talk about anxiety performance."
Kaitlyn laughed, shook her head at him, and left, calling back over her shoulder, "Going to take about fifteen minutes for them to psych themselves up for you. Door on the left over there takes you into a room with pool table, dart board, that kind of thing."
Taking her up on the suggestion, Jim spent the time idly chasing balls around the pool table, and chatting with her as she stopped by between customers. It didn't take him long to learn that she and her brother owned the place, along with several other establishments along the boardwalk, and that they were trying to make the area a family place, year-round, catering to stay-home moms in the morning, young teens in the late afternoon and older ones in the evening. They mutually commiserated on the lack of safe places and wholesome entertainment for kids in general, and the sad condition of the world as a whole, and by the time he finished his admittedly perfect sandwich, they were on a direct line for spending the night together.
Lingering over his last beer, Jim watched the place fill with dads stopping in for a quick one after dropping off their youngsters at the arcade and amusement center. Trying very hard to distract himself with trivialities as Kaitlyn finished her shift, he guessed at which ones would stay until time to pick up their kids again and which ones would be lured out to try some of the entertainment themselves. Then the door swung open, letting in a rush of cool evening air. It carried a single warm current that found its way to Jim, wafting its tendrils across his cheeks like two tender palms cupping his face before kissing him.
The caring, almost affectionate touch evoked memories of Blair so clearly that Jim could all but see him standing in front of him, wearing the dazed, happy look he often had after a passionate kiss. Longing for him rose up in Jim, potent and demanding, before his guilt and confusion flooded in to first match, then cover, it. Flushing, he hurriedly swallowed the dregs from his bottle, suddenly hating himself for trying to cover the day's misery in the arms of a woman who deserved better instead of finding the arms where he belonged. And wondering why the hell *wasn't* he with Blair.
Cowardice would have sent Jim into the dark before Kaitlyn could come back to his table, but honor wouldn't let him go. When she stopped by again, sitting down on the other side, he fumbled for words to both apologize and let her know that she *was* beautiful - he was just an idiot.
Before he could speak, she said lightly, eyes still scanning the room, "Two more tables to finish up, then I'm off for the night. Care to come with me while I check out how the staff at the arcade and miniature golf course are doing?"
Taking the opening, Jim said apologetically, "I don't think I should."
Either his tone or the refusal itself caught her attention. Kaitlyn focused on him abruptly, her smile dimming considerably. Glancing at his ring finger, apparently reflexively, she said sharply, "Take a few blows to your ego from her today?"
"No," Jim could say honestly, if misleadingly. "But I have taken more than a few punches in the gut today, mostly from the job. I'm a cop."
That dimmed her smile even more, but then it slowly came back, this time filled with sympathy. "Is it as bad as the tv shows say it is?"
"Hard to say; I can't stand to watch cop shows on the tube," he said dryly. "Keep wanting to yell at them about procedure."
That turned her back into the cheerful lady that he had first met, and Kaitlyn said, "Got a friend who's a nurse who won't watch doctor shows for the same reason." She studied his hand again, then asked with only a shade of uncertainty in her voice, "So why not improve the day by a nice stroll along the boardwalk with some hopefully agreeable company."
"Because I'd be wearing that ring you keep looking for if we'd met a few months later," Jim said, guilt trying to take over again. "There are just some things that have to be worked out before it goes that far, or at least, I think it's going to go that far." Not wanting the flash of pain he could see in her eyes dig in and take root, he added quietly, "I came in here feeling like shit and let myself get a boost from a warm, beautiful woman with a good heart. That wasn't right of me or fair to you. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have let things go so far without coming clean to you."
"Damn straight, you shouldn't have," Kaitlyn snapped, but she was looking him over thoughtfully, as if she understood more than his words had said. "So why isn't she with you?"
"Job has to be done even if I'm not the one on duty," Jim said, shrugging dismissively, feeling even more of an idiot and wanting Blair that much more. Not wanting any more questions, he stood, putting bills down for the tab, careful to tip only what was appropriate. He wanted to add something else to make the whole tricky situation easier, but couldn't think of anything, but, "Thank you."
"Well, 'you're welcome' isn't a good response to that," she said, a tiny smile flirting with her lips. "And 'fuck you' is a bit too...extreme. So how 'bout thank you for a pleasant diversion on a slow afternoon?"
Relieved that he hadn't cost her any lasting pain, he brushed a knuckle over her cheek, letting his expression tell her of his regrets, then left, not pausing or looking back even when heard her tiredly sigh the word, 'men' in exasperation. Stopping on the other side of the closed door, he stepped into the gloom beside it, eyes closed against a wave of pure self-loathing. Had he really sunk so low that he had to prove to himself that he was still a man by betraying Blair and involving an innocent woman in his problems?
For the longest time Jim stood there battling his demons, not at all sure he would win, and increasingly worried if he *could.* Eventually he locked the turmoil down enough that he could think about what to do next, though that question was no easier than any of the others tormenting him. For lack of anything better to do, yet again, pushing away the urge to seek out Blair, he started watching people as they passed, none seeing him for the concealment of shadows and stillness.
It wasn't that different from being on stakeout or guard duty, and that familiarity, slight though it was, was enough to clear his mind again. The scene itself was familiar, too, with laughing children being tugged along by tired parents trying their best to get into the spirit of the outing, and older kids - not that far from the running, jumping, screaming stage themselves - trying to pretend they were so above the whole place. Only restless eyes and the occasional stifled smile betrayed just how false their pose of boredom was, and as Jim stood there, he saw more than one succumb to the atmosphere of play and let themselves have fun.
Here and there were a few couples, holding hands and strolling close together, nostalgic about their own childhoods and daring each other to revisit those long-ago delights. Lone adults were rare, but the ones he saw clearly belonged, either an employee of one of the businesses taking a break or giving off an air of waiting patiently to be rejoined by family. So when he spotted one man trailing furtively after three young girls, taking pains not to be seen by them, Jim's cop instincts sat up and took notice, pulling him back to the job whether he officially belonged there or not.
Slipping from his hiding place, Jim tailed his target, trying to pinpoint why he seemed familiar to him. Then the sallow, skinny man rubbed his mouth, which was already red and raw-looking, and that single action allowed Jim to identify him as a child rapist he had put away while still in Vice. Mentally counting the years, he frowned. Terry Delpino should have still been in prison, enjoying the attentions of other cons who had no respect or liking for short-eyes. Especially one who liked to mutilate his victims so that he would be the last one to ever have them sexually.
It was Delpino's practice sessions on prostitutes that had led Jim to him, giving Jim the break that brought him to Banks attention. Figures I'd run into him today, of all days, Jim thought sourly. If he somehow managed to keep his nose clean and convince the parole board that he'd been reformed by therapy, he could be out. Son of a bitch. Wonder how long it took him to decide to go hunting again. And what did he learn in prison that makes him think he can get away with it this time?
On the chance that all Delpino was doing was a little 'window shopping,' Jim hung back, fairly certain that the area was too populated and brightly lit for the pervert to make a move. He'd tail him until Delpino went back to his crib or whatever for the night, then make a call to find out who his parole officer was. For child molesters, one condition of parole was usually to stay away from places where kids congregated, which meant Jim could get him put back in jail where he belonged.
After a while, though, he had to re-think his plan. Delpino obviously *knew* the area; knew it well. When the girls stopped to giggle and look around, he always had a cranny to slide into to be out of sight. When they went into a shop where he would stand out, he knew where to stop and wait so he wouldn't be spotted when they came out. To Jim's experienced eye, Delpino was waiting or hoping for something, and that impression was backed up by his ever-increasing heart rate and barely controlled panting.
It wasn't until the girls checked their money and decided to go into the fun house that all the pieces fell into place for Jim. Thanks to his conversation with Kaitlyn, whose brother owned the place, he knew that the centerpiece was a maze of mirrors that was rigged so that it could be constantly changed. Every week she and her brother designed a new path and set it up, and for anyone knowing the secret of how the mirrors were moved, it was the perfect lair to lay in wait for a victim.
He picked up his speed, closing the gap between him and Delpino, but the crowd was heavier, slowing his progress. Reaching for his badge to clear the way, he cursed himself and the fools at IA, but didn't stop trying to get to the girls in time. Helplessly he watched them turn over their money, laughing and teasing each other about being permanently lost in the maze, only to be followed a discrete time later by Delpino.
Coming to a screeching halt at the ticket booth, Jim reached for his wallet for cash, saw that it was a man behind the cash register, and reconsidered his next move. "Look, are you Mickey?"
Looking up from his till, the short, balding man with Kaitlyn's green eyes said gruffly, "Yeah?"
Trying to project maximum sincerity, Jim said, "I'm a cop. For reasons I can't go into, I'm not carrying my badge, but check with Kaitlyn, she'll vouch for me."
"So?" Mickey said with a mix of disinterest and suspicion.
"I just saw a convicted child molester follow some girls into the fun house. I'm not sure, but I think he's up to no good, and even if he's not, he shouldn't be within a hundred yards of them. Could you let me go in behind him to keep an eye on him, then call police dispatch to explain what's going on? They'll send officers to pick him up for parole violation."
Suspicion definitely won out, and Mickey looked him over carefully, weighing what he saw. "How do I know you're not just trying to make trouble for someone you've got a grudge against?"
Holding out his wallet, Jim said, "Take this until the cops get here. If I'm lying, you can press charges - just falsely claiming to be a detective can get me arrested. If that is Delpino I saw go in, you just took a molester off the streets. Isn't that worth a risk?"
Slowly taking the billfold from him, Mickey flipped the sections until he could see Jim's drivers license, then jabbed a thumb toward the entrance. "I'll call. Kait, too, so you'd better not be jerking me around. I'll kill you for using her name under false pretenses."
Already in motion, Jim said, "She'd help and make it slow."
Mickey snorted, and a great deal of the suspicion faded as he picked up a cell phone. Not waiting for him to make the call, Jim ran into the building, bypassing the entries into various play areas and trying to pick up on the voices of one of the girls Delpino was after. He found them in the ball pool, making the typical adolescent jokes about balls, and a moment later he found Delpino - or his frantically racing heartbeat, at any rate.
He was already in the mirror maze, and Jim entered slowly, sure the pervert had a peephole to watch who came and went to be able to snatch his victim. Not paying any attention to the visual distraction of his own reflection bouncing at him from every direction, he navigated by sound as he learned to do the first time he'd encountered a mirror maze. It wasn't until he caught Delpino's viciously muttered, "Fucking Ellison! It's fucking Ellison," that it occurred to him that he could become a target.
He turned toward the sound as a section of mirror swung away and Delpino leaped at him, fist high and filled with a hypodermic needle. Blocking the downward swing with his arm, Jim tried for a punch with his free hand, but Delpino had picked up a few moves along the way. The blow didn't connect solidly, but skidded off the side of his jaw, not even slowing him down. Instinctively Jim went for an elbow to the solar plexus next, but Delpino was already pivoting away, sliding his fist along Jim's arm, trying to dig in with the needle.
The tip caught in Jim's jacket, then broke off as the syringe fell to the ground, tearing his sleeve as it did. Delpino panicked and started flailing madly, forgetting any skill at self-defense he might have learned. The wild swings were hard to predict and counter, but Jim fended them off, looking for the one shot that would bring Delpino down. Several kids turned around a corner, saw them fighting, and ran back the way they had come, yelling for help. That fueled Delpino's desperation, and he put everything he had into a roundhouse blow that glanced off the side of Jim's head, stunning him.
A hard shove sent Jim to his knees, but Delpino didn't follow through. Escape seemed to be the only thing he wanted, and he ran, going the opposite direction from the kids. Shaking his head in a vain effort to clear it, Jim forced himself into a half-crouch, one hand on the ground to brace himself, but couldn't make it to his feet for pursuit. Concentrating, he followed Delpino with his hearing, sagging a little in relief when the man ran right into the arms of uniformed officers who were waiting with Mickey. Pulling in a long, slow breath, he braced himself for another attempt at standing, and took a look around to locate the nearest exit.
And couldn't find it. All he could see were endless images of himself, some distorted, some showing his worn, battered self all too plainly. Each rippled into the next with hardly a boundary to show where one began and another ended, and all of them seemed to be staring blankly at nothing. Blinking, vision suddenly blurring, he tried to dismiss what he was seeing to work with another sense, but his eyes insisted on attempting to translate what they saw into something he could understand.
One moment Jim saw himself as a Vice cop, earring and long-gone beard in place, chin up at a defiant angle. The next instant he was a groom, wearing a tux and ready for his wedding day. Next he was in dress uniform, standing at attention... in fatigues, Ranger beret at a jaunty angle.... in the torn and tattered remains, Chopec paint covering bare skin... all pieces and parts of who he had been, what he had done, but none of them *him.*
Without warning the images multiplied, then fractured, so that none of the multitude of Jim Ellisons was complete. Reaching for one - whether to search for the missing parts amidst all the other reflections or confirm that it was all an illusion, he didn't know - his fingers glanced off the cold glass, scattering the pieces more, as if he'd thrown a dozen jigsaw puzzles to the floor. Shaking his head in a futile attempt to deny what he was seeing, he lifted his hands to rub at his eyes, lost his balance, and fell heavily, forehead hitting the solid metal track supporting the base of the mirrors. Grateful for the excuse, he fled into darkness on the wave of pain, hiding from himself in the nothingness of unconsciousness.
He would have stayed there indefinitely, but eventually his body and his conscience ganged up on him and dragged him back to awareness, fighting all the way. Reluctantly Jim opened his eyes, expecting to find he was in the hospital again, but what he saw was the ceiling of his own home, lit by the uncertain flickering of candles. Moving slowly to gauge how much pain was waiting for him, he turned his face into what he recognized was the cushion of the couch, hoping against hope that the day he had just lived through was only a bizarre dream.
Which wouldn't explain what he was doing on the couch, since he clearly remembered climbing up the stairs with Blair to go to bed that night. Automatically reaching with his senses for his partner, Jim was startled when they told him in no uncertain terms that he was right next to him. Twisting carefully to be able to see where he could feel a slight weight pressing into his hip and a strong grip on his wrist, he found Blair kneeling on the floor by the couch, head on the cushion next to Jim and sound asleep.
From the worry lines etched into Blair's face and the death hold, Jim gave up on his fantasy that the day hadn't really happened, and returned to staring at the ceiling, clueless about what to do next. There weren't any answers there, not that he had expected for there to be, but a soft creak from Blair's body as he instinctively tried to get more comfortable on the hard floor gave Jim a plan of action, small though it was. Easing out of Blair's hold on him, he sat up and slid down to sit next to him, studying the angles of his position for the best way to get him stretched out on the couch without waking him.
With a stealth and care that would have made his Ranger drill sergeant proud, Jim got an arm under Blair's knees, one around his back, then hoisted with a steady, even push as if he were lifting weights. Jim laid him flat, but the moment he would have slipped his arm out from under his head, Blair's eyes snapped open, focusing on his right away.
"Jim, man!" Grabbing the back of his collar as if expecting him to make for a get away, Blair sat up. "Jeffrey Rossman, he has to have done it before. From your description of his meet with Leslie, how confident he was, already carrying the gun, he *has* to have done the same thing to other women, at least to some degree. So I had Dan take his fingerprints and we're running them; we already know that his i.d. was fake. The real Jeffrey Rossman is something like eighty-five years old, according to the DMV."
Expression blank from habit more than anything else, Jim listened to the flow of information, too bemused by how Blair had clicked awake, already talking, mind already working at top speed, to do anything *but* listen. When he stayed silent too long, though, Blair dropped his gaze, but tightened his grip and changed topics. "The guy at the fun house - Mickey Folley? - he called the department, asked for the captain of Major Crimes, because of your business cards in your wallet. Simon took the call and we were on our way to the boardwalk when we heard the officer down. Uniforms thought Delpino had drugged you because of the broken needle they found next to you, but I got there before the EMT's. Looked to me like the needle hadn't broken skin, and man, all those mirrors, half of them with distorted images, and you had this serious scrape on the side of your head - headache? Dizziness? Nausea? no? Um, anyway I thought it might be more a sense thing than a med thing and talked everybody into letting me take you home, but I promised Simon that a hospital was...."
Laying his forefinger gently over his lips, Jim silenced Blair, easily finding a smile to reassure him that he wasn't upset with the decisions he had made or irritated by the spate of anxious babbling. "How do you do that?" he asked wonderingly.
Nervously, pushing a curl back from his face, Blair asked back, "Do what?"
"Come out swinging like that. Thinking on your feet, ready to improvise at the drop of a hat, changing gears so fast that it makes me dizzy."
"That. Oh." Making one of those lightning changes Jim had just been admiring, Blair shrugged dismissively. "Genetics? Experience? Necessity? All of the above? It's just how I work, I guess."
"Isn't it hard?"
"Exhausting." Blair grinned suddenly. "That's where you come in."
"Me? How?"
Blair considered him for a moment, and said, "Take this shit with I.A. for instance. Say - not that there's a hope in hell, but just say - that they make a case against you and get you kicked off the force. I'll bet you already have a couple of backup plans in place, just in case something like this ever happened."
"EMT if I was physically fit and prosecuting attorney's office if I was out for disability," Jim said matter-of-factly.
"See? Now me, I have no clue, but I'm pretty sure I'll find a way to fix things so that we can still be partners for the sentinel thing. I'll probably have to take a flyer at two or three different angles before I get it all worked out, but we both know I will."
Tracing a single lock of hair from scalp to end, then wrapping it around his finger, Jim said, "Yeah, I pretty much count on that."
"Really? Wow." Blair all but beamed at him, leaning in closer, his other hand coming up to curl at the nape of Jim's neck. "And I pretty much count on you being there for me, too. Holding down the fort, giving me a safe place to rest, a chance to be quiet and meditate, shoot down some of the more ridiculous stuff that bubbles up out of me, maybe have a suggestion or two that can get me started down another path, if I need it."
Touching their foreheads together, he said with the shy, hesitant smile Jim was beginning to suspect was for him alone, "You're my source, man, in the archaic meaning."
"I'm a spring in the desert?" Jim asked, fingers following the curve of Blair's ear, idly jangling his hoop earrings.
"For me, anyway. Kind of a goofy image, I know."
"I like it," he said softly. "Sounds vital and primal at the same time."
"Exactly!" Blair sighed and nuzzled against Jim's face. "That's how you feel to me; that's what our love feels like to me."
Stroking along the line of his jaw, trying to encourage Blair to do what he could read in his heartbeat and scent that he wanted to do, Jim admitted, "I've spent most of the day feeling dickless and useless, trying to convince myself that the badge doesn't make the man. You did it with three words - source, vital, primal."
With a snort, Blair said, "If some weird-assed accident made you an eunuch with big tits, you'd still be more of a man than most of those morons at I.A."
Jim couldn't stifle a smile at that, though humor was not where he wanted Sandburg's mind to be going. It seemed to work better than his careful petting, though. Blair's pupils expanded with desire until there was only a halo of velvet blue left, and he touched his lips to Jim's, barely caressing them. As delicate as the kiss was, it was exactly what he wanted, and he waited patiently for Blair to return. At the next press of his mouth, Jim released a long breath that wasn't enough for a sigh, but held welcome and invitation that lured Blair back almost immediately.
This time he dipped deeper, and Jim readily opened to him, using every scrap of knowledge he had about what Blair liked best in a kiss. When Blair pressed closer, Jim took it as a hint and leaned back until he was flat on his back, Blair on top of him. His mind shut down after that, lost in the sweetness of Blair's lips on his, leaving him barely self-aware enough to help when Blair starting tugging away clothes.
When they were skin-to-skin, Jim wrapped his arms around Blair's waist, pulling him close and bringing their groins into alignment. With a soft cry deep in his throat, Blair rocked against him, and Jim dropped a foot to the floor to brace himself, opening his thighs wide. Already eagerly anticipating more, Jim met Blair's next wild thrust with a muffled grunt of effort.
Without warning, Blair went very, very still, though his whole body trembled with the suppressed need to continue. Locking his elbows, Blair lifted away, head hanging down almost to his chest. "Wait, wait!" he panted.
At the same moment Jim snatched his hands away to lock them into the cushions, Blair added, "No, it's okay, you didn't do anything wrong, you didn't hurt me. It's just..." He sucked in a shaky breath. "We're going too far too fast, here."
"Feels good to me," Jim muttered, restlessly running his hands up and down Blair's arms to coax him into lying back down again.
"No argument from me." Despite his words, Blair slowly sat back on his heels, leaving his palms on Jim's upper thighs as the only contact between them. "Look, it's possible that maybe I mislead you a little how exactly how comfortable I am with the physical thing. You know, leading by example by acting more confident that I was. Am."
Reaching up to tease a curl, hoping to keep him distracted enough that his brain didn't engage completely, Jim said softly, "Maybe I'm more confident than I thought I'd be."
Looking down his body to where they had rested together so intimately, Blair shivered in obvious arousal, but said, "*This* ready? The last thing I ever expected was for you to be willing to turn over for me, and it's one of those things that I haven't been sure I wanted to try myself. Yet you like act like you've given it lots of thought."
"Some," Jim admitted reluctantly.
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Blair swiped Jim's hand away from where it was playing with his hair. "For how long?"
"Does it matter?" Jim asked, stretching up to try to claim Blair's mouth.
Avoiding him, erection fading noticeably, Blair said, "Yes, it does. How long?"
Giving up, Jim shrugged with his expression. "Willingly? This morning, but it's been in the back of my mind as a possibility all along."
"This morning!" To his dismay he could see Blair's mind begin to race, and he stifled an aggravated growl. Blair caught him at it, frowned, and said thoughtfully, "You blame yourself for not being able to save Leslie, don't you? And they took your badge today. That's a big part of who you see yourself as. That hall of mirrors? One symptom of identity crisis is not being able to stand the sight of your own reflection."
Blair took a deep breath and said with forced calm, "Jim, making yourself deal with something you're not ready for isn't the way to go if you need to see if you can be with me and still feel like a man."
"That's not why we got into this." At his skeptical glare, Jim added, "Okay, so it was there, but not for long, and that's *not* the reason." He leaned up on one elbow, cupping Blair's face in his palm. "It's because of those three words you used earlier. I've spent the entire day running away from you when my every gut feeling was to go find you, and all because making love with you supposed to be ugly, disgusting - emasculating. It's not. It never has been. Not a single one of the baby steps we've been taking a kiss at a time has been anything but...."
"Primal," Blair broke in softly. "Vital. A spring in the desert."
"I needed to remind myself of that. That all that counts is what is between us, not what other people think of it. That loving you might change me, but not who and what I am down at the bone of me. Do you understand?"
"Better than you might think," Blair said, finally giving in and letting Jim pull him back down on top of him. "I've spent a lot of sleepless nights worried that it was wrong of me to ask you to make the change from het to bi; that I'm doing a damage to you that I'm not going to see or understand until it's too late to fix or heal. You've already got so much shit to deal with."
Chuckling, Jim shook his head, not sure how to tell Blair he was laughing more at himself than him. "That why you still want to take things slow? So that we can be sure we're not making a mistake?"
"We," Blair said firmly, stubbornly, "Are *not* a mistake." He kissed the tip of Jim's nose, eyes still worried. "But you were born straight, with no interest in men. You can't blame me for making sure that it was for a specific reason, as far as your sentinel abilities are concerned."
"I'm not saying slow and steady isn't the way to go anymore." Jim nuzzled at Blair's throat, smugly pleased when a chill chased over him, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I guess I at least want to do whatever's next."
Twisting so Jim could nibble on the other side of his neck, Blair murmured, in that case..." He suddenly scrambled away, wicked grin in place. "Let's take this to the bedroom."
Laughing, Jim sat up, taking the hand Blair offered, and let himself be led up to their big bed. Once up there, Blair playfully knocked him down onto the mattress, pointed a finger at him and ordered, "Stay!" He raced downstairs and Jim bemusedly followed him with his hearing as Blair gathered up candles, hand towels and some things from a drawer in his office. Arms filled, he ran back up the steps and dumped it all on the nightstand before bouncing onto the bed himself.
Jim caught him mid-bounce, arms and legs going around him for a full-body hug, somewhat surprised to find that Blair was harder than ever. Moaning, Blair kissed him hungrily; all Jim needed to regain any ground he had lost, too. He would have been happy just to do that until they both finished, but Blair slowly drew away, reluctance in every line of his body, until he was kneeling between Jim's legs again.
"I want to take a good look at you," Blair said a bit breathlessly. "Take my time instead of sneaking peeks, or pretending to politely look the other way."
"You've seen me naked before," Jim protested. "I've never been exactly body shy."
"Yes, you've been nude in front of me," Blair said seriously. "But that's not the same as being able to look my fill." He hesitated, but went on. "Or knowing that it's okay to want to look at you and get excited when I do."
Understanding exactly what Blair meant, Jim asked, "Want me on my stomach or back?"
Relief flashed over Blair's expression, but he summoned up a cocky grin. "Both, of course."
"Of course," Jim said, matching the tone. But he closed his eyes - sure for some reason that would make things easier for Blair - and settled down as if to go to sleep on his back, one arm over his chest, the other beside his head on the pillow. It was less difficult than he had expected to simply lie there and wait, partly because he could hear how much his display was affecting him. Blair's heart rate was through the roof and a deaf man could have sensed how harsh his breathing was.
Blair being Blair, though, couldn't look without touching, at least a little. A finger followed the line of muscle on Jim's upper arm; a knuckle traced over the ridge of hip, then knee. It was a respectful, almost reverent contact, as if Blair were being allowed to handle a rare treasure, and Jim began to find the scrutiny appealing, if not out-and-out erotic. At Blair's murmured command to roll over, he did so willingly, lifting a knee to accommodate his hard-on and not at all concerned that he was exposing the most intimate part of himself.
Blair, it seemed though, cared a great deal. He gulped loudly and his heart impossibly sped up another notch. The scent of his lust began to tickle at Jim's nose, and waiting for more from his lover suddenly became much more difficult to do. The whisper of flesh over flesh broke the last of Jim's control. He peeked over one shoulder to see Blair slowly stroking himself, eyes fixed on the opening to Jim's body. For a split second the snide voice in Jim's mind was back, asking nastily if he was really going to let that neo-hippie punk touch him like *that.*
Jim silenced it forever with a silent, happy, Damn straight, I am, if he wants to, if just thinking about it gets him this turned on.
Turning to his side and opening his arms, Jim said, "This is one centerfold that you can do more with than look, Chief."
Blair tightened his grip on himself, groaning. "Hang on... just... hang on... want to, uh...." With his free hand he fumbled for a tube of astrolube that was on the nightstand. Fingers shaking, he got the top off and squeezed a dollop onto his palm, then onto his cock.
Killing the flash of fear that said loudly that he wasn't ready to go that far just yet, Jim started to turn back to his stomach, but Blair stopped him by taking his dick in a slippery grasp. With a deep moan Jim shoved into the hold, astonished that something as simple as being masturbated would feel so *good.*
"Gets better," Blair promised hoarsely. "Much better."
"How!"
"Like this." Blair gingerly lay beside him, belly-to-belly, the lube creating a slick chamber that let their cocks move over each other in a gliding dance of amazing pleasure.
Jim didn't need any prompting to thrust, and if he'd had any intent of taking his time, the first caress of the myriad of small hairs covering Blair's abdomen over his cock killed them. It was like having a million massaging tongues lashing his length, tantalizing each nerve a thousand times over. Distantly, dimly, he tried to hold back enough not to hurt his lover, but Blair only drove him faster and harder by using every bit of strength he had to meet his every thrust.
Climax crashed over him, stealing breath, sight and thought, leaving only ecstasy and Blair's trembling body to anchor him. A long, languid time later his brain wandered back to find his hands easing up and down Blair's back, soothing his way back toward sanity as well.
Face hot and sweaty against the hollow of Jim's shoulder, Blair panted, "That was...God! Jim... that was...."
"Yeah," Jim agreed breathlessly. "It was."
Blair chuckled tiredly, tried to squirm even closer, and muttered, "I can't believe it keeps getting better and better between us. Not just the sex, either. Makes me wonder just how good turning over for you is going to be."
To his surprise, Jim's cock twitched hard at that thought, despite how sated he felt. Blair couldn't help but feel it, too, and he sighed in a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Down, boy. We've got a long way to go before we get to that."
"But we're going to make it," Jim said positively, not feeling a single doubt.
Blair drew back enough to be able to see into his face, his questioning expression fading to match Jim's certainty. "Badge or no badge, cop or no cop?"
"No matter what, Blair." Jim made the words more than a promise, and more than just to his lover.
Blair smiled his sweet, shy smile, then sealed the promise with a kiss. Snuggling back down against Jim's chest, he starting making plans on how to kick IA's case out of the water, along with some serious IA ass.
Jim didn't doubt for minute that he would. finis