The Classification of Waterfowl
by Zelempa
For TS Secret Santa 2007 (the original post, which also contains the full text you see here and where you can comment, is located here.) My recipient, sassyinkpen, wished: "I wouldn't mind seeing a real honest to god date between the guys (whether all goes well or not *g*)." No holiday theme, but it takes place in general winterishness. Spoilers to 3x14 Mirror Image.
Many thanks as always to my beautiful and talented beta, Yolsaffbridge.
I. THE DINNER
"Extortion is such an ugly word," said Gammett, as he stood between Jim and Blair in the elevator.
"You were threatening to kill people if they didn't give you money," Blair pointed out. "What else do you call it?"
"Don't encourage him," warned Jim.
"Encouragement. Thank you, Detective."
"I'm not encouraging, I'm just asking."
"Well, don't ask," said Jim.
Simon executed a neat double-take when he saw them, and Jim racked his brains for a reason he might be in trouble. Nothing sprang to mind. This arrest had been a cakewalk, and he'd hardly had to use any of that particular brand of police work that he called "necessary force" and Simon called "insane stunts" and Blair called "I hope you've left me something nice in your will." (As a matter of fact he had, but Blair didn't have to know that.)
"What are you still doing here, Jim? I thought you had the night off!"
Oh, that. "Ran into a little friend of Mason's," Jim explained, and Gammett waved his cuffed hands helpfully.
"Brown, book this guy. Jim, get out of here before you start seeing things. More than usual," Simon added under his breath, and audible probably only to Jim.
"Sir, Mason is still on the loose..."
"We can handle it, Jim! Get out of here! Oh, Sandburg, let me see you a moment."
Jim raised his eyebrows at Blair, and went to his desk to double-check the Mason file. Blair emerged a moment later looking stunned.
"What'd he say? It's not some kind of issue with your credentials, is it?" Jim was sure the other shoe would drop one of these days.
"No, actually, he said... good work." Blair still looked shell-shocked. "With that Avenging Angel guy, you know, Chapel."
"Well, you deserve it, Chief. You really went above and beyond on that one."
Finally Blair's face lit up into a grin.
"Hey, we have the night off, let's celebrate," Jim suggested. "Unless, you probably have a date, huh? Stacy is it, now?"
"No, she's--well, you know how it is," Blair smile flickered for a moment, but then thankfully returned full force. "Let's celebrate, definitely. Buy me dinner?"
"That's not celebrating. I always buy you dinner," said Jim. "Because you never have any money."
"I mean buy me dinner," said Blair. "Dinner. Dinner. You know, dinner. You know?"
"Frighteningly, yes," Jim sighed. "Come on. I guess we'll need to go home and put on ties."
"No clip-ons," said Blair.
"You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?" said Jim.
*
"It smells like a birthday party," Jim complained as they entered the restaurant.
"Candles!" Blair cried happily, peering into the dining room.
"Great, like I don't get enough with you filling the loft with them and doing your weird voodoo rituals."
"I think it gives the place atmosphere."
"Sure, Chief, it's real romantic," Jim rolled his eyes. "Is this what it's like to be on a date with the great Casanova Sandburg?"
"You kidding? I've never been on a date this datelike."
"Hm." Jim managed a tight shrug with crossed arms. "So far, I'm not impressed."
"Well, my real skills come at the end of the date," Blair leered.
"Ugh," said Jim.
"Ellison, party of two?"
"You know we'll never get through dinner without Simon calling us to some emergency," Blair pointed out as they were led to their table.
Jim nodded philosophically. "My entire personal life is an exercise in futility. I've grown accustomed to it."
"Here you are," said the waitress, with a pleasant smile that turned to alarm as Blair practically knocked her out of the way in his rush to yank Jim's hand off the back of his chair and to make a big production of pulling it out for him and gesturing to it elaborately.
Jim shoved him away. "Sit down, you goon!"
*
"You don't have to glare at everybody," said Blair.
"You don't have to smirk at everybody," said Jim.
"I'm not! I'm just... looking friendly."
"Friendly," said Jim.
"Friendly," nodded Blair. "Hey, I am looking good tonight. Might as well work it, you know?"
Jim grunted. At the time, it had been a great relief to him to come down from the bedroom and find Blair waiting for him in a slick little black suit and with his hair pulled back neatly to reveal his shiniest spiral earring. Jim had been afraid that he would look ridiculous in his dark grey coat and slacks escorting Blair in a funky hemp sport jacket or something. Now that they were really out in public in their best girl-impressing finery for this non-occasion, though, he was beginning to feel self-conscious.
At least Blair wasn't wearing that horrible cologne he insisted made him irresistible to women. Jim thought he wore too much, and said so. Often. Blair maintained that Jim was an unfit judge of such things.
"Check out that girl over there. The blonde. No, don't look! Be cool!"
"Sandburg," Jim warned.
"She's looking at you and, you know, fingering the stem of her glass." Blair nodded suggestively. "You know what that means."
"Means nothing."
"It means she's attracted to you," Blair informed him. "You gotta admit, man, the fact is, you look good in a suit. And I don't say this as a friend, but as an objective scientist."
"That doesn't mean shit. You want to know how you know if someone's attracted to you? Faster heartbeat, higher body heat, a sort of," Jim gestured, finding his words inadequate to communicate the experience, "there's a scent..."
"The rest of us here on Earth don't have your powers of observation."
"Maybe you should try actually-- paying-- attention," said Jim, punctuating the last three words with knocks to Blair's forehead.
"I pay attention! I pay plenty of attention. I'm an observer, I observe."
"Nodding and saying 'That's interesting, tell me more' while dialing the phone under the table? Not the traditional definition of paying attention."
"Hey, that was one time, and I didn't see you complaining when the backup came."
"I'm not complaining, I'm just saying you're a liar."
"It's not lying..."
"Yuh-huh. Bear in mind that if I hear the word 'obfuscation' out of your mouth one more time you're going to be on the receiving end of a severe Indian burn."
"It's not--it's not that either. It's, just, you know, a code, right? Like a dating code."
"You don't date by any code I know," grumbled Jim, pretending to examine the menu, even though he knew and Blair knew that an order of steak was pretty much inevitable.
"Not code like 'code of chivalry', code like 'secret code'. You know, like how 'sweet' means 'no chemistry' and 'coffee' means 'sex'? No?" Blair shook his head, searching Jim's face for recognition. "You've never been invited up to a girl's place for 'coffee'?"
"I have," said Jim defensively. "I just..."
"Oh my God. Jim. Tell me you didn't say no because you didn't want any coffee!"
"Caffeine after ten makes me feel like I'm on stakeout," Jim explained.
Blair laughed just a little too long. "Oh man. Do I have to guide your love life, too?"
"Fuck you," said Jim.
"At least someone will," said Blair, ducking as a dinner roll sailed at his face.
*
"...I'm just saying, you could make some effort to clean up after yourself. You've got, what, tribal masks in the..."
"Oh my God, Jim. Nag, nag, nag. What are you, my wife?"
"Me? If anything, you're my wife," said Jim. "I pay your bills!"
Blair laughed like he'd told a joke. "I make you breakfast!"
"And disgusting soup when I'm sick," added Jim, getting into it.
"Hell, I take you to the doctor!"
They were both laughing, now.
"I do your laundry!"
"I fix your car!"
"Your mother shows me your baby pictures!"
"You're my emergency contact at the university!"
"I've arranged to leave you valuable property in the event of my death!"
Blair's smile froze. "What?"
"Yeah, uh, you're getting the loft," said Jim casually, suddenly regarding the empty wine glass in his hand with suspicion.
Blair frowned. "That's... What? Me?"
"Why not? It's your home too."
"But I--" The levity had entirely vanished. "I wouldn't want to live there after... I mean, not alone. Not without you."
"So sell it. What do I care? I'm dead," Jim reminded him.
"Don't talk like that, I don't want to hear that!"
"It's a dangerous line of work we're in, in case you haven't noticed. Those aren't rubber bullets they've been shooting at us, Chief."
"I know! I know! Believe me, I've reconciled myself to my own mortality. First ten or twelve near-death experiences will do that to you. It's just your death I don't--I mean--let me delude myself into thinking that's not a possibility, okay?"
"I'm not Superman," said Jim.
"Superman's not immortal anyway. It's just--I mean... shit, Jim... my whole life is about you. My work, my studies..."
"About the Sentinel, you mean," Jim corrected in a low voice.
"Semantics," said Blair with a wave of his hand.
"Not semantics," Jim insisted. "You, you think that's all I am--"
"No, no, damnit, Jim--look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"
"Forget it," said Jim, irritably. Then, because he didn't want to be fighting with Sandburg, he made the effort to soften. "Hey. This is supposed to be a celebration, right? Let's not talk about work."
"Yeah, okay," Blair agreed gratefully. "Tonight's about you and me. Finally getting a chance to relax."
"I'll drink to that," said Jim, raising his glass.
*
"I... am... Iron Man!"
"No. Stop. Just stop. You're giving me a headache."
"Well, you do it, then."
"No."
"Come on, I want to see if your Sentinel abilities give you perfect pitch."
"One, what happened to not talking about work? Two, you can't do 'Iron Man' with only two glasses. Three, everyone in the restaurant is staring at us."
"We could ask the waitress for more cups."
"I can't take you anywhere."
"Correction: you can't take me to a fancy restaurant. You could probably take me to, like, an amusement park, or a zoo."
"Well, yeah. Didn't you spend most of your childhood in the monkey cage?"
"Walked into that one, huh?"
"Sure did."
*
When the phone rang they went into action, the old well-oiled machine: Blair reached into Jim's jacket on the chair next to him and handed Jim the wallet as he answered the phone. Jim went up to the hostess to settle the bill even though they were only halfway into the main course, because if they had to move, they had to move.
When he was done he hung around the door waiting for Blair to come up with the coats, but when it didn't happen after a minute or two, he went back to the table. Blair was calmly eating, phone lying by his dessert spoon.
"What happened? What's the emergency?"
"Nothing, man, everything's fine," said Blair, still sounding a little shocked himself as Jim settled into his place. "Just Naomi. She wants to know your birthday."
Jim choked on his wine. "I'd hardly call that 'fine'."
*
Simon still hadn't called by the time they were through with their meals, and it was a pleasant enough night, so they decided to take a detour by the park on the way back to the truck. They were usually too busy in the docks and alleys and various other seedy underbelly-type places to enjoy this part of the town, with the year-round gardens and the trees decked out with fairy lights. The air was just cool enough to make their breath visible and put color in their cheeks, and they walked close together so as to pass heat from shoulder to shoulder (or, to be perfectly precise, mid-bicep to shoulder). Jim could smell the blossoms from some kind of white flower from a distance, but the scent remained soft and sweet, never overpowering, even as they approached. Jim picked one as they passed by, and played with it in his fingers as they walked.
"Ha-hey," said Blair, noticing. "A flower that doesn't make you sneeze."
"Yeah." Jim handed it to him. "Here. This scent suits you much better than that stupid cologne."
Blair was only disarmed for a moment, but it was long enough that Jim felt his stomach drop, suddenly and inexplicably, as if he were going up much too fast in an elevator. Blair recovered himself, "Ah, yeah, you know, you're probably right. I betcha Stacy will love it."
"Sure," said Jim dully. "Whatever."
He wasn't sure why the mention of her annoyed him so much--it wasn't as though he was jealous of her. Hey, he got enough time with Sandburg; at home, at work, and wasn't he out with Jim now, and not her? If the kid wanted a girlfriend, he was certainly entitled to one (or two or three). It wasn't her existence that Jim objected to, but the fact that Blair had brought her up now, pointedly, like he thought he had to--like he thought, what, that things were getting too gay otherwise? He of all people should know it wasn't like that-- it was, it was...
Okay, yeah, they were close--close enough so they made jokes about being each other's wives, and being on a date--but that was just because, well, it was an unusual situation. The Sentinel and Guide bond had no modern analogue, had it? But just because their friendship was closer than most it didn't mean... Suddenly Jim felt soured toward Blair, on every level, for misinterpreting and cheapening their entire partnership. Didn't he trust Jim? How dare he even entertain the suspicion that Jim was--was putting the moves on him? He of all people should know...!
You gave him a fucking flower, Ellison.
Shut up, brain!
"Hey. Are you okay? You're not about to zone, are you? Do you have to..."
"I'm fine," said Jim tersely.
Blair must have noted the unnecessary venom in Jim's voice, because he raised his hands. "Okay! Just--"
"Listen, maybe we'd better call it a night, okay, Chief?"
Jim expected a whole big hassle--having to convince Blair there was nothing wrong, to assuage with his Guidely concern, to deal with his people-person inability to understand the concept of willing solitude, none of which he was in the mood for at the moment--but after a moment Blair just said, "Yeah, maybe that's a good idea. I'll walk back. Gotta run some errands anyway."
Jim didn't inquire. "Errands" was probably dating code for something unmentionable. "See ya," he said, and walked off without a backward glance.
II. THE DANGER
Jim drove around aimlessly because he didn't want to go back to the loft. Sandburg might have brought Stacy or someone back there, and he was in no mood to play the sock-on-the-door, pretend-not-to-have-super-hearing game tonight. He went to a drugstore and bought some aspirin and a bottle of water but that only took a few minutes. He was looking for a bar with the right cheap-to-classy ratio when his phone rang. He flipped the speaker with one hand.
"Hate to bust in on your night off," came Simon's voice.
"Your timing couldn't be better, sir. A new development in the Mason case?"
"You could say that. He was found murdered."
"Oh," said Jim.
"Strangled and then shot. And we just got word from the group transporting Chapel..."
"Let me guess. He's missing."
"Give the man a prize."
"Right. On my way."
*
"Hey, Jim. Where's Sandburg?"
Jim shrugged. "Off enjoying life in his own Sandburgian way. What's the story? This guy still knocking off crime bosses?"
Simon nodded. "This time, he's got a plan. We just got a call about a break-in over the storage facility that's housing some of the prison records. Jim, if he figures a way to break in..."
"Bloodbath," said Jim grimly.
The phone rang, and Simon "Right"ed his way through a brief conversation, then turned back to Jim. "That was Joel. I sent him out on a hunch to Cassie's old apartment. Totally ransacked. She's lucky she's gone."
"So there's a revenge component to this," said Jim.
"Right, which means you need to watch your step on two counts. He may now know you've been undercover in the prison. And he definitely knows where you live."
Jim began to nod sagely but suddenly stopped short, panicked. "Sandburg."
*
The loft was empty, and just as they'd left it, thank God. No signs of forced entry or that anyone had been back. If Blair had come home it would be obvious, anyway; coat on the rack, jacket on the floor, probably, keys not in but infuriatingly close to the key bowl. Jim didn't stay long--just long enough to see the lecture notes strewn all over the kitchen table just as they'd left them, and to feel a pang of possibly unnecessary guilt at spending quite so much of his spare time giving Blair a hard time about them--and it was back out onto the street.
Simon was standing by the car, arguing with the phone. "Look, I don't know! Ask him yourself! Listen, I have better things to do with my time, lady. This conversation is over." He clicked off as Jim approached.
"He not there?"
"Not his current girlfriend," Simon explained testily. "Any luck?"
Jim shook his head. "Hasn't been there all night."
"You sure?"
"Positive, sir."
"You would know, I guess," said Simon warily. "Look, he probably just went to his current girlfriend's house, like you said," he added, with an attempt at dismissiveness; but Jim knew him well enough to catch the edge of concern in his voice. "Come on, let's head back and try to pick up the trail by the traditional means. The sooner we find this guy, the sooner--what?" he interrupted himself as Jim gripped his arm.
"He was here."
"Chapel?"
"Maybe. I don't remember his smell that clearly." Simon looked profoundly uncomfortable. "Sandburg, definitely."
"He lives here, Jim."
Jim shook his head. Blair had been here--and others, several--of course that was not surprising on a city street--burned rubber, motor oil... Flower? Jim examined the curb carefully. Stuck behind a crushed cigarette box was white petal. Jim jerked up to look at Simon; he, of course, hadn't seen it, and wouldn't know its significance if he had, but he understood Jim's look well enough. "Recently."
Simon frowned. "Why would he get this far and not go up to the loft?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Jim muttered, crouching down to taste the gravel.
*
Most cars did give off a unique emission of some kind, if you knew how to look for it--smell for it, taste for it. The car that Blair had met in front of the loft left occasional tire tracks which by themselves were insufficient for tracking in the city, but in conjunction with occasional pull-overs for taste tests while Simon took the time to ask his own personal God why He persisted in punishing him so, Jim managed to trail the car to the edge of a wooded area which was, surprise surprise, not far from the prison. He pulled off into a secluded truck stop and stopped near the only other parked car.
"It has occurred to you, hasn't it," said Simon as they approached the other car, "that this may very well be a wild goose chase."
"Mm," said Jim.
"And I assume it has further occurred to you that you need a warrant to search that vehicle?"
Jim frowned and examined the car. "I don't need a warrant... to see what can be seen... from the outside." He knelt and plucked a hair from the closed door. A long, brown, curly hair.
He brought it over to Simon, who looked up at him.
"Is it...?"
"Yeah," said Jim grimly.
Simon nodded. "You've earned yourself your backup." He pulled out his phone, then called to Jim's retreating back, "Hey! Where you going? They'll be here in twenty minutes."
Jim turned around, and still walking backwards, said, "If I'm not back when they get here give it another thirty."
"And then, your highness?"
"Your call, sir."
Simon frowned as he took in the unspoken implication. "Jim..."
"I don't want to spook them," said Jim. "It's Sandburg in there."
They locked eyes for half a second, then Simon sighed and waved him off.
*
Blair had left him a beauty of a trail. He'd dragged his feet through mud and dead leaves, stepped on every twig in his path, broken every low-hanging branch-end. It was a considerate gesture, even though it turned out not to be strictly necessary-- he hadn't known until now that he could track a person not wearing perfume or chewing Nicotine gum or something by smell alone, but it was easier in the woods than in the city. It helped, undoubtedly, that Blair was so familiar to him, and that he must have been sweating like a dog when they dragged him here, not that anyone could blame him. And then every once in awhile Jim caught the light perfume of that flower from the park--Blair still had it on him. That was also nice, somehow.
The visual trail ended abruptly: they must have cottoned to what he was doing and picked him up or something. But there was no doubt that Jim was still on the right trail. A little further on, nestled in the leaves on the ground, Jim found another petal. Just one. Blair hadn't known how close he was to his destination.
Sure enough, rounding an embankment, Jim found what he was after: a little tin-roofed hut in ill repair. Concealing himself behind a tree, Jim zoomed in through the dirty window. A dark, near-empty room--movement--Chapel, pacing. And--there he was. His hands were bound behind the chair and his ankles were strapped to the legs, and his hair was a wreck, half out of the ponytail, but other than that he looked unharmed, which was goddamn lucky for Chapel. His jaw was set and he had in his eyes that almost feral look of defiance. He opened his mouth and began speaking very quickly and emphatically. Jim tried to focus his hearing but he only succeeded in amplifying the sounds of the forest--birds and squirrels scurrying around, running water somewhere, traffic from the highway. Okay, time for WWSS (What Would Sandburg Say?) Breathe, he told himself. Listen to what you see. Hey, all he had to do was find his Guide's voice--that was a familiar enough exercise, right?
It all fell into place once he found it: "...seriously wacked!"
That was Blair all right.
"What you don't seem to understand is that we're on the same side." Chapel's low rumble. "We both bring wrongdoers to justice. Don't we, Cassie's Friend?"
"Yeah, well, your idea of justice could use a little work," said Blair. "Also, your idea of wrong. Actually you're downright wrong about wrong."
Good old Blair. You had to admire the kid's spunk. Here he was, strapped to a chair, facing down a mass murderer--and spiritedly carrying on a philosophical debate. His mouth was going to get him into serious trouble one of these days, but for now, Chapel seemed sufficiently amused. Jim kept his hearing attuned to the conversation as he slipped to a nearer tree.
"Tell me something, Cassie's Friend. What makes you so certain your truth is real truth?"
"Cause yours doesn't withstand careful scrutiny! All you're doing is playing with the definitions of the words 'right' and 'justice'--that's not truth, man, that's bullshit. You--kill--people!"
"And?"
"And, that's it! If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck then it's a duck, and you're a fucking duck, man. You do evil, wrong, reprehensible things, ergo, q.e.d., right? I mean, killing is pretty much the number one evil thing anywhere. You can't go around killing people and still be one of the good guys. The only people who can justify that are deluded madmen."
That hit a button, because Chapel reached for something--a knife--and Blair started fast-talking "Of course every moral system has room for development," and Jim threw himself forward to make the last long leap to the door--and felt himself grabbed from behind by two burly sets of arms. Fuck. He'd been too focused to notice the ambush--this is why he had Blair around, dammit--and before he could look around or surprise them with a throwdown, he felt something hard pressed against his temple. "Don't move!"
*
The two thugs, one woman and one man, both ridiculously strong and well-armed, manhandled Jim into the hut. Blair met his eye and his panic instantly melted to reassurance; stupid kid thought Jim had a plan.
Chapel was equally delighted to greet him. "Detective, so glad you could make it. You're just in time to witness the punishment of your friend." Chapel eyed Blair hungrily, his eyes glassy and protruding and Jim wondered how he ever could have thought Blair's expression looked crazy. Chapel began to trace the knife down the contours of Blair's face, and Blair drew in a breath, and Jim struggled so suddenly and violently that he actually managed to shake off his captors for a moment before they grabbed onto him and retrained their guns. Well then. Ex-military, definitely, the both of them.
"You don't like that," Chapel observed with interest.
"I thought you only went after the guilty," Jim gritted.
"Everyone is guilty."
"He's innocent."
"He's a liar." Chapel watched Jim, this time, as he pressed the point of the knife against Blair's neck, under his jaw, until a pearl of red appeared, and if Jim gave him exactly what he wanted by struggling violently and futilely, well, Jim wasn't exactly a model of self control at this point.
"His hands are clean! Take me! I've killed!" Chapel seemed to enjoy his performance and Jim only ceased because behind him Blair was shaking his head. Easy, Jim...
"You'll get your turn," said Chapel. "Now, where were we?"
"You were cutting up my face," Blair supplied. "But you forgot something."
"Oh?"
"Bolts," said Blair cryptically, and without warning he threw himself forward in his chair, knocking Chapel off balance; but Chapel grabbed at him as he toppled down, aiding Blair's downward trajectory so that his forehead slammed even harder into the concrete floor. Jim had to suppress his first instinct--to run to him and stop the bleeding--because the thugs would only have their guns swung over in Blair's direction for half a second, and he had a lot of elbowing and high kicking to get done in that window.
Jim sometimes suspected there was a sixth sense--something like body-movement-sense, kinesthetic sense--because when he went into a fighting frenzy it was a little like a zone. Or maybe that was just the product of his battle-training automatic pilot. The next time he was fully aware of what he was doing, the thugs were neatly dispatched in the corner, and he was standing over Chapel's broken body, hitting him repeatedly with a shovel he'd gotten--somewhere--and yelling "--and it quacks like a bastard, then it's--a motherfucking--bastard!", when his Guide's voice, soft and hoarse though it was, cut its way to his consciousness: "Jim."
"Blair," said Jim, and rushed to kneel by his side. Oh God, was he bleeding. Jim tried to turn him over but--Christ, the damn chair. Impatiently Jim took up the abandoned knife and snapped Blair's bonds, and threw the chair back, and hauled Blair into his arms, pressed the wound against his chest, and kissed Blair's forehead and his hair, and said "You'll be fine, you'll be fine, you'll be fine," as if saying it could make it true.
*
When Blair offered a shaky smile, drew his hand to his head, and said, "Okay, ow," Jim could have laughed out loud. Instead he said "You're a real idiot, Chief," and helped Blair to his feet.
"And losing brain cells by the second," said Blair. "I keep on with you, I'm going to be completely useless to the university."
"As I understand it, you already are."
"Point."
Jim could hear the backup teams arriving so he didn't bother to truss the villains, just hobbled outside with the coats over one arm ("Eh-eh-eh, you'll bleed all over them") and the other supporting Blair, and nodded at the hut as the officers darted up, "You'll want to bring some cuffs to that party."
"Ambulance is waiting back on the road," said Brown conversationally as he passed. "What up, Hairboy."
"How's it goin'," said Blair. "Love to the wife." Half his face was still buried in Jim's shoulder and he glanced up with his one visible eye. "The department seems to be getting pretty blase about this kind of thing."
"This is pretty much par for the course for us," Jim pointed out.
"I guess people can get used to any freaky situation if it comes on gradually enough. Like a frog in boiling water."
"Exactly which freaky situation are you talking about, here, Chief--your multiple concussions, your clinging to me like a monkey, or your general existence?"
"Hey, I'm not the one clinging, you're clinging, I'm good," said Blair, with a slight attempt to lift his head which was stayed by Jim's firm hand. "See?"
"Shut up and clot."
They trudged on a moment in silence and then Blair cleared his throat and said, casually, "So, tonight..."
"Yeah," said Jim.
"You know when we were out and we were all joking about how, ha ha, it's like we're on a date, only of course it wasn't a date at all, you know, it was just two guys hanging out at a fancy restaurant dressed up and eating steaks and talking about like work and sports and life and stuff?"
"Yeah," said Jim.
"That was pretty much a date, huh?"
"...Yyyeah," said Jim finally. "Looks like."
"Huh," said Blair. "Freaky."
III. THE DOORSTEP
"So, doorstep," said Blair.
"Yep," agreed Jim, joking, "I'd invite you in, but you live here." No sooner were the words out of his mouth that he remembered that they had agreed that the date joke was not so much a joke at all and inviting someone in after a date generally had a meaning attached to it which he hadn't intended at all. He fumbled with the keys, unlocked the door, and hastened inside.
As he headed up the loft stairs, Blair called from the kitchen, "Coffee?"
"It's four o'clock in the morning," said Jim.
"Decaf," Blair suggested.
"Do we even have decaf?"
"...No."
Jim threw the coats onto the bed, began unbuttoning his blood-stiff dress shirt, closed his eyes, tried to think.
Coffee means sex!
Hey, now, he told himself. It's not like that...
They were friends. Friends. ("I'm just looking friendly...") Sure, they had gone on what could fairly be described as a date. But what's in a name? They'd gone out hundreds of time; this one was just a little dressier, a little fancier, that's all. Can't a guy take another guy to a nice restaurant for a celebration? Whether a thing is dating or just going out and enjoying a friend's company--wasn't that a matter of intention? And they hadn't intended anything by it.
Okay, so the date had technically, sort of, ended with a kiss. It wasn't the first time one of them had lost himself a little in relief that the other one was all right. It was only natural; they always seemed to be getting into worrying scrapes. Jim had first kissed Blair's hair when he woke up from his Golden coma and at the time it hadn't seemed at all gay. ("It's about friendship!")
Really, all in all, this wasn't even an out-of-the-ordinary night for them.
Jim began to get the sinking feeling that observation that did more to condemn the friendship than it did to vindicate the night.
So maybe they had driven right through friendship and crossed over into Weirdsville. From the inside, it didn't feel that weird, but maybe he was (as Blair always worried) too close to see things clearly ("and I say this as an objective scientist"). They had gone on a date, without even realizing it--who does that?--both of them just on the same page, the same weird, inexplicable page. They hadn't intended it, but so what? They had done it anyway. The absurd romantic bent to the friendship was just something that had happened to them, so gradually they didn't notice it ("Like a frog in boiling water.")
Jim had never thought of himself as someone who believed in fate, but he wouldn't have believed in Sentinels, either, if it hadn't happened to him. It was a simple face that there was something working through him now--that he and Blair were part of some larger design. And fighting this definitely had the futile feeling of resisting the inevitable.
Or maybe that was just rationalization, because that dorky, brave, loveable kid with the surprisingly nice jacket and the oozing head wound and Jim's petals in his pocket was in his kitchen making him tea and quietly humming "Iron Man" and all he wanted to do was to go down there.
So he did. He went and stood next to Blair in front of the counter, and took the teacup, and took a sip, and made a face, and put it down. "That's terrible."
"It's an acquired taste," corrected Blair. He downed his tea in almost a single swallow and put the teacup in the sink. "Well, g'night."
Right. What was that he'd been thinking about fate and inevitability? Total bullshit. He was tired and confused. Blair was evidently fine with going on an admitted date with a friend and then just moving on, perhaps laughing at it one day as a funny thing they had done once, and really, that was the best possible outcome. Only possible outcome. There was no decision here--nothing else they could do, or would want to. "Night," he said.
And because it seemed right that there should be some show of appreciation, to show he was on board and that nothing was weird between them, Jim clapped a manful arm around Blair's shoulders.
But Blair must have misunderstood him, because he wrapped his arm tightly around Jim's waist, and turned his big blue eyes up to Jim's face, and damn, he was going for it, but hey, what the hell, it was the end of a good date, after all, right? Jim took a deep breath and squeezed Blair tighter and Blair squeezed back and flashed a smile and then let go and oh. He was just... okay then.
"Good night," Jim repeated, and stumbled back to the stairs, dazed, breathless, heart hammering in his chest. Behind him, Blair's bedroom door closed.
Jim trudged halfway up the steps, willing himself not the think, which was going surprisingly successfully. But then he paused.
His heart wasn't the only one thumping like a frightened jackrabbit's. Even from here Jim could feel the wafts of heat emanating from behind the door. And the smell--sweat and adrenaline, Blair-ness in overdrive.
There was no decision to be made because it had already been made. Whatever had changed between them had happened a long time ago. It looked like a duck, it quacked like a duck, and they'd been calling it a penguin.
He turned around, took a breath, stepped slowly down the stairs, crossed to Blair's door, and knocked hard. Blair opened it almost immediately, already at the boxers-and-unbuttoned-shirt stage of his undressing. "Yeah?"
"This is a doorstep?" Jim asked, indicating. "Right here?"
"Uh," said Blair.
Jim put his hands on either side of Blair's face, titled his head up, leaned down, and kissed his mouth. Blair gasped beneath him. Jim drew back, respectfully, onto his own side of the door.
Blair lifted a hand to his lips, then looked up at Jim. He looked shocked--hurt? No--his mouth was curling into a mischievous smile. He abruptly grabbed Jim by the shoulders and pulled his face close and gave him the kind of kiss he was famous for--wet, open-mouthed, lascivious. Working his tongue like it was a competition and he was going for the gold. Well, fine! Jim wrapped his arms tight around Blair's back, pressing their chests together, holding him close, kissing him in hard, deep gasps, like he'd been drowning for lack of him. Hey, this was as far as this thing could possibly go--further, in fact--so why not make it count.
When he grudgingly allowed Blair to come up for air he asked, softly, "Good date?"
Blair nodded vigorously.
Jim searched for another line--something that would carry on the joke without sounding too flip--he rejected "I'll call you" and "We'll have to do this again sometime", both of which for him meant "We shall never speak of this again," and Blair knew it; and although it was undoubtedly true, he didn't feel that it was an appropriate time to call attention to it.
Before he could find the perfect line, Blair beat him to it:
"Come on in."
No misinterpreting that.
*
As soon as Jim stepped in the room he felt awkward. What exactly were they doing, here? Kissing, that had been one thing; that felt--not to sound like Blair, here--symbolic, and right, and--holy, somehow? Like the natural progression of the primitive bond.
Blair looked up at him, with his blue eyes and red, swollen mouth, and dark hollows of cheekbones and under his eyes, and it occurred to Jim that he was beautiful, beautiful--occurred to him, also, that it had occurred to him before--when? Jim reached out, put a hand on Blair's cheek, twined his fingers into his hair, brushed it aside; exposed a place on his neck, and placed a kiss on it--kissed again, licked the soft skin, sucked it. Blair gasped and shrugged out of his shirt, and then slipped his hands underneath Jim's T-shirt, caressed his chest and his side--and all that felt right, and natural, too.
"You feel--you're perfect," murmured Blair behind his ear.
"Mm," Jim agreed, running his hands over the curve of Blair's back, biting his shoulder.
"God--I want you--I always wanted you..."
They stumbled back toward the bed, and Blair threw himself down, and Jim stood above and looked at him.
"Only I didn't know," said Blair earnestly. In his current outfit of wifebeater and boxers it was impossible to disguise his hardness--the bulge in his boxers, the flash of skin visible through the straining peephole--and Jim suddenly felt that this was wrong, all wrong. Blair apparently agreed; he offered no resistance when Jim reached for his waistband, and indeed helpfully slipped out of his shirt while Jim peeled off his boxers.
Blair lying on the bed, naked, erect, dark-eyed, palms open as if in surrender--that was right.
"I was," Blair continued. Jim was about to sit down beside him but Blair hit him with the back of his hand. "I was fighting it," Blair explained, as he took Jim by the hands, and guided him into position--kneeling over his body--oh yes; he was right, definitely, right you are on that one.
"And I didn't know," Blair added, unbuckling Jim's belt.
Jim leaned over him to mark the important places with kisses--the hollow of his collarbone, his unpierced right nipple, one of his ribs, his hip.
"I didn't know," said Blair, again, "until," and here he inhaled sharply as Jim placed a gentle kiss on the head of his cock.
Jim straightened up, suddenly feeling strange--strange at, as much as anything else, the lack of strangeness in that act--and searched Blair's face for some clue how to proceed. Blair pulled him down into a tight embrace. He was hot to the touch now, his entire body glowing gold and pink, and Jim wondered what mystical thing was happening to Blair before it occurred to him that maybe it was, huh, him. Blair ran one hand through Jim's short hair, which itself somehow made Jim shudder, and used the other to slip down the top of his slacks and boxers so that their bare cocks pressed hard into each other's thighs, and then cupped his ass and began to rock gently beneath him--and this wasn't what Jim had been expecting, not that Jim had any clear idea of what he was expecting, but it was good, and he swayed back, Blair murmuring, "Keep it low, keep it low, stay with me."
It was not until after they had rocked and gyrated into a frenzy, with Blair arching his back and groaning loud in the back of his throat (or perhaps he was, by normal standards, silent? Jim was too tuned in to him to judge accurately), scrabbling at his back, and then suddenly crying out, "Dial up, hard, NOW--" so that Jim, at once willfully obeying and set off by the sound of his voice, shockingly loud and ragged and low, let go completely of his groundings, and stars danced behind his eyes and the world seared, and there was nothing, nothing in the world but that moment, until Blair's face and Blair's voice slowly made their way back to him--"Jim, Jim, come back to me, man, Jim," big smile, "okay, as you were, just checking"--it was not until after that that Jim realized that an outside observer (should there, God forbid, be one) might have accurately described what he had just done as "humping some guy with his pants bunched around his calves", which, put that way, did not seem nearly as wondrous--ritual--spirit-walk-like--as it had felt to him at the time. Lying there, bare, hot, sticky, head pressed to his friend's chest, deft hands stroking his hair, surrounded by the thick and familiar scent of Blair and partnership and home, he couldn't bring himself much to care.
"You know," Blair murmured above him, "I don't usually put out on the first date."
"You lie." Jim slid his arms around Blair's warm, warm body, and Blair held him just as tightly.
After some time Jim wondered, "Uh...are we cuddling?"
"No. Never. Just a little manly embracing," said Blair.
"And... earlier..."
"Manly mutual pleasuring. Very, you know, ancient epic poetry. Heroic amity and all that."
"Okay," said Jim, and dozed off.
*
Next time he opened his eyes it was light and cold in the way only early morning can be. It took a moment to put together the oddities: unfamiliar bedspread, cramped limbs, foreign body--Blair--Blair's room--last night--oh God.
Jim steeled himself to expect the unexpected, propped himself uneasily on one elbow, and cautiously peered over the lump of blankets. Blair had wrapped himself in a tight cocoon. His face was mostly hidden in his hair but Jim could see enough to tell that he was slack-jawed and silly-looking. Jim let out a breath. Somehow that made things all right.
Now what? Leave? Pretend it never happened? Stay? Have a conversation? Both options seemed equally awful. He ran out of time to decide; Blair shook his hair back and cracked an eye open. "Hi."
"Hi," Jim tried.
"You cold? You look cold." Blair threw open his cocoon and offered Jim some blanket. Jim arranged it on himself modestly without moving, and they both remained on their opposite sides of the bed, strangely prim and proper.
"Hey," said Blair. "So, you're not going to freak out on me here, are you?"
Jim thought about it. "No," he decided finally. "It felt... right."
"You got that feeling, too? Jim," said Blair, leaning up and brushing his hair out of his face and looking Jim in the face with that expression of enthusiasm that was so dangerous on him, "Jim, I think we're onto something here."
"You think so, huh?"
"I mean--maybe this is what we're supposed to be doing, right? Maybe this is part of the bond--the spirit of the ancients working through us and--"
"The spirit of the ancients made us gay," Jim intoned.
"No, no, not gay exactly--I mean, they didn't have gay back then, did they?"
Jim frowned. "Didn't they?"
"Well, no, I mean, not the way we think of it now--with all this socio-political stuff mixed up in it--I mean, for them, it would have been all about, like I was saying, you know, epic heroes, warrior culture, mutual life-saving and adrenaline and okay, you're shaking your head, why?"
Even though he'd had a similar thought himself at the time, it didn't seem to work, now, in the harsh light of day. Jim tried to explain it. "Nobody made me--do this. Be with you," he said. "I wanted to."
"Well, yeah, of course. They want us to want to."
"No," said Jim firmly. "I know what it's like when it's--artifical. And, this isn't that. Blair," he said, "You're--I mean, I live with you, I work with you, I go on my goddamn vacations with you, and what's more, I, I want to. You don't understand how weird that is for me. The sex is peanuts."
Blair mouthed that to himself, amused.
"It's real, this--whatever this is--I don't think there's a word for it."
"For what?"
"You know," said Jim, uncomfortably. "Us. This thing here. How we--like each other. And respect each other."
"You respect me?"
"You know that, jackass. And, how we make a good team. How we help each other out. And..." Jim had been gazing furtively at Blair's mouth for some time, and now he swallowed, leaned over, and kissed it. It felt more thrilling now, somehow, than last night. Now there was no blaming exhaustion. It was a calculated, premeditated, of-sound-mind-and-body kiss.
"And that?" Blair asked, opening his eyes.
"That too," agreed Jim. "All of that."
"You know, Jim, in the anthropological field, there's a highly technical word for the kind of relationship you're describing here."
Jim racked his brain for a moment to figure out what kind of trick Blair was pulling and finally groaned, "Is it going to be 'love'?"
"Well, that fits, doesn't it?"
Jim thought about it as he pulled Blair close, held him protectively in the curve of his own body.
"Yeah," he agreed finally. "It fits."
The End