Archive of Our Own ^beta

These characters belong to rich people, which means not me. I am not rich. If I was rich, the high point of my day would be, I don't know, setting fire to hundred dollar bills, not feeding my fish. So don't sue me.

I have neither beta readers nor a firm grasp of grammar. I'm living on the edge. There are probably formatting and all other sorts of little errors all over the place. Life is harsh that way.

I think there might be a plot here, but I wrote the damn thing and I'm still not sure. So hey, pretend it's an easter egg hunt. Try to find a plot. Oh yeah, and I absolutly live for little messages appearing in my mailbox. Unless it's to tell me to get a beta reader or a dictionary. Because I know. Trust me.

He's talking to her again. Right there, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him chatting good-naturedly with that woman, talking about only god knows what. Probably picking out china patterns. I'm determinedly not watching, letting the scene take place out of the corner of my eye, beyond the clarifying range of my glasses. I can feel my fingers tighten to a white knuckled grip on the pen as I hear the rare sound of his laughter. That...that bitch just made him laugh. I hate her. I hate him. And I'm not feeling too kindly towards myself right now, either.

Okay, I suppose she's not a bitch. She couldn't be, to survive as secretary in a bullpen full of heavily armed guys with tempers shorter than new recruits' buzzcut. We went through a string of secretaries a mile long after Rhonda relocated with her husband to Seattle. Every day a different temp smiled up at us as we walked in the door, each still wearing the nice clothes that you only wear to a new job. The first temp had just about the worst permanent I've ever seen, and spent her first day shuffling papers around while attempting to type at the stellar rate of 10 words per minute. She took her things with her when she left, and was apparently smart to do so. Numbers 2 through 4 failed to grasp Simon's ridiculous filing and paperwork hierarchy system, and number 5 simply decided she'd prefer a job where her coworkers weren't occasionally walking into the office covered in blood and leading a swearing felon in handcuffs. Number six seemed promising until on her third day, Jim backed up from her and walked straight back to his desk. Several hours later, the notice for Anna to comply with a random drug test got delivered to her desk. She turned white, and I thanked every deity I knew that I'd finished my narcotic experimenting stage long before I met Jim.

The last one before this, a soft-spoken brunette that made even me look like a giant, fled the office in tears the first time that Simon bellowed a reprimand to her. Simon was crushed; like any man, he's terrified of being the cause of making a woman cry. We'd just managed to convince him that it wasn't his fault when a scary woman came by and announced that she'd be picking up all of Jeanette's things, since Jeanette apparently was too frightened to ever look at Simon again. That was certainly a fun day.

But this secretary, that woman that Jim was currently still talking to (not that I noticed), had survived the first day. And the second day. And the first week. And had even put up a little dish of Smarties candy by a name-plaque. I knew she was in for the duration when Brown gave her one of his patented Third Grade Spelling and Grammar case reports and she returned it to his desk with a dictionary and a bottle of white-out. A very large bottle of white-out.

None of this would have bothered me a bit, but the fact still remained that Jim obviously likes this woman, and dammit, Jim doesn't like new people. Never has. I'd always just assumed that this was a part of his whole Jungle-protecting, defend the territory thing, until about the third time we walked in to see a new secretary, and I watched as he made his now-usual arc around Rhonda's old desk. I'd been working on my dissertation earlier that morning, and it suddenly occurred to me to ask him why he went out of his way to avoid new people. So I did.

"Hmm, what's that, Chief?" He was looking at his computer screen with abnormal fascination, expecting me to, what, not notice that he didn't have a single program open? A black background is not that interesting.

There. Proof positive. He didn't want to answer the question. He rarely does want to answer a personal question, but he usually didn't go so far as to pretend he didn't hear my question. Right. He didn't hear. "I know you heard me Jim." It's pretty obvious that he didn't feel like talking about this subject. I'm a sensitive type guy. I can take a hint as to when a person doesn't want to talk to me about something. Luckily, I stopped giving a damn as to whether or not Jim would like to talk about something years ago, or I doubt I'd even know his address right now, much less share it.

"I saaaaaid..." He hates it when I draw out words. But I hate it when he thinks he can get away with simply not responding to what I say, so hey, we're even.

"All right, I heard you. What the hell brings this up now?" Avoidance. Although I guess it's a fair question. He was glaring at me, thinking that was going to make me drop the subject. Hah. "I just kinda noticed you were going out of your way to avoid the new secretary, and I was just wondering why you always do that. That avoiding thing." He knows what I'm talking about, this much is clear, which implies that he's doing it consciously, which implies...

"People stink." I blinked a couple of times, wondering what the hell that statement was in response to, and from the light pink tinge his face suddenly acquired, I don't think he meant to phrase whatever response he had in mind quite like that.

"Um, actually Jim, if you just give people a chance, that is, the non-criminal element of society, I think you'd find that on the whole, people are actually pretty decent. Overall. You know?" He brought up a hand and started rubbing the bridge of his nose, looking like he wished that he hadn't bothered to wake me up this morning.

"No, Chief, I don't mean it like that. What I'm trying to say is that, people...just it takes a while to acclimate ...to, you know, the various...things that a new person...like...their laundry detergent and stuff. Things."

I got it. "People smell." He looked relieved and kind of embarrassed at the same time, which I thought was incredibly adorable.

"Well yeah. There you go, another bit of wisdom. File that away, Darwin." He turned back to his computer, and I was left there pondering what he had just said. People stink. As in all people? I looked at the secretary in question, blithely typing away, unaware that people were discussing her personal hygiene not 20 feet away. She looked clean enough, no visible stains on her clothes, hair shiny, if slightly frizzy, and just generally...normal. So it took Jim a while to get used to people's smell. And he hadn't just said smell as in that they had an odor, he said stink, as in implying that he didn't generally appreciate the way that the average person smelled. And I dropped my book and Jim glared at me for like, the hundredth time that day, and while I was picking it up I tried to control my heart rate from the sudden, stupid, absolutely pointless worry that Jim didn't like the way that I smelled. As in, I stank.

The second we got home from the station I dropped my backpack and ran towards the bathroom. I was painfully aware of the fact that I'd slapped my snooze button several times too many this morning, and as a result, was quite a few hours overdue in my shower. Normally I'd sniff my underarms and maybe tie my hair back, but my hygiene was suddenly incredibly important to me. Jim didn't like people's smell. I started frantically stripping off my clothes, ignoring Jim's laughter as he yelled, "Hot date, Sandburg?" through the bathroom door.

Yeah, right. Hot date with about 150 bluebooks tonight. I stepped under the warm wash of the water and stared at my shampoo bottle, the brand that replaced my normal, dollar fifty discount bottle a couple days after I moved in. It didn't bother me particularly at the time, perhaps because I was still focused on Jim as a ticket to my doctorate, and not as, well, a man who's towels I now purposefully dry on extra-hot in an attempt to shrink them. I laughed about the shampoo switch at the time, asking him if he had a problem with strawberries that I should know about, and he just kinda smiled and claimed that he spilled my other bottle, and he'd bought this to replace it. I'd bought that brand ever since. Did he replace it because I stank? I could hear him now, puttering around in the kitchen, probably cooking something absolutely disgusting and grease-ridden on the mistaken notion that I was going out on some hot date tonight.

I suppose this was the newest of my ventures to try to subtly win over Jim to the "have sex with Sandburg" side of the fence. I know Jim is bi, but he's never showed a whit of interest in experiencing any of those bi tendencies with his short, longhaired roommate. Not that he of course, told me that he was bi, but I did some detective work. I saw him on a date with a guy while I was in the bookstore. I never said it was good detective work.

Ever since I realized that not only was I interested in relocating my boxer shorts to Jim's bedroom floor, but he was obviously not working his was towards inviting them to lie there, I'd been on a campaign to discover why. I'm a pretty self-assured guy. Okay, so I'm not tall, and I probably couldn't bench-press half of what he can, and maybe I can be a bit annoying, but on the whole the men and women of Cascade don't seem to have a problem inviting me into their beds. I could understand if Jim had say, had sex with me for a while and then realized that he was tired of hearing he talk about aboriginal tribes in bed all night, but he's not gotten tired of me. He's never gotten interested in the first place. And as I said, I still want to know why.

My first campaign to win Jim's sexual favor was to try to keep a bit quieter. As far as bringing sexual attraction towards me goes, it was a total failure. Jim didn't even notice me being quiet the first day. The second day he asked what bug had crawled up my butt and died, and on the third day he didn't talk to me. The entire day. Since my big plan was just to respond to subjects that he brought up, that meant that I found myself having to remain silent. It lasted for about 5 hours, until I finally broke down and realized that no matter how much sex keeping quiet could win me, I simply couldn't do it. I said, "Jim," and before I could say anything else, he just grinned. One of the biggest grins I'd seen on his face since I knew him. And said in a quiet voice, "I win." The dickhead.

The "keep the loft more clean" tactic died of natural causes during finals week. I was never really convinced of its effectiveness anyway. Very few people I know make their decisions on whom to have sex with due to their floor mopping skills. I tried working out more, I tried hanging out with him more, I tried hanging out with him less. I tried changing my appearance in every way short of a haircut, and the only one that got his attention was when I tried dressing more professionally. And that was just to say "Hey, pick me up some pocket protectors next time you're shopping at Nerds R Us, okay?" I want to have sex with him, but sometimes I'd also like to kick him square in the butt. Repeatedly. With steel toed boots.

So here I was in the shower, convinced I'd finally found it. The missing link. The reason as to why Jim wasn't interested in me. I remember reading somewhere that a person can't be sexually attracted to another person if they don't like the way they smell. And I'm ready to do whatever I can to improve that. I didn't know if I smelled bad, but then again, you never can tell something like that for yourself. So I soaped off again and again with the fragrance-free non-allergenic bath gel, and I wondered what else I could do to advance my newest Get Laid Quick scheme.

Later, patting my dripping hair with a towel I found what could possibly be the only clean sweat pants and t-shirt that I own. Do I really re-use clothes this much? All right, maybe I do. I don't wash my stuff all that much. I like to think it's because of water conservation and all that, but when you get right down to it, I'm lazy. But starting now, no more. Jim looked up as I carried a giant load of dirty clothes to the washing machines and announced, "Hey Sandburg. If you try to put all those clothes in the washing machine at once, you will personally be buying me a new one after the agitator gives out."

"Of course I wasn't intending to put all these clothes in at once." Maybe I had been, but that's no business of his. A man buys a washing machine and suddenly he rules the whole damn world. He smiled in a way that signified that he knew damn well I had been intending to shove clothes in there until the lid could barely close, and went back to watching basketball.

So my campaign of "keep clean" continued on, and if I took more than my scheduled shower a day, Jim didn't mention anything. He didn't even snicker too badly when all of my white shirts got tinged blue from not separating my laundry loads. But no matter how many showers I took, or how many times I washed my clothes, the man simply refused to start coming on to me. I thought back; he didn't avoid me when we first met, but neither was he too friendly. Does throwing me up against a wall count for sexual attraction, or against it? The jury is still out. But now I'm sitting here, and despite the fact that I've showered just this morning, and that every last article of my clothing has been washed since the last wearing, the man is sitting there, talking, maybe even flirting with that secretary. I give up. I turn around and start staring at my book, this time not even paying attention to Jim and the secretary. Maybe it's time to face the facts. Maybe Jim seriously, utterly, is not attracted to me. Maybe it's nothing I can change. I can feel my shoulders slump and now I'm focused on trying not to look as if I'm realizing it might be time to give up on the one thing that I want most in this world. I'm startled when a big hand comes out of nowhere and turns the book I was staring straight through right side up.

"Studying hard, Chief?" I look up, and Jim is looking kindly at me. He looks relaxed, content, a bit bemused, and most assuredly not turned on. I sigh and put the book in my bag.

"Yeah. Time to go?" He nods and we walk out of the bullpen. I look away when he cheerfully waves goodbye to the new secretary.

The habit of the last couple weeks is hard to break. As Jim rifles through the mail I drop my backpack and head for the shower. I've just thrown all of my clothes into the hamper when a sudden angry knocking at the bathroom door sends me jumping. I have just enough time to throw on a towel and open the door, and Jim is storming in, looking distinctly pissed off. It's a hell of a change from the relaxed and cheerful roommate that I walked through the door with not several minutes ago, and I have just enough time to wonder What the hell? before a postcard is waved in my face and I grab it, and holy SHIT, it's the water bill, and I'm suddenly thinking that cleanliness is next to godliness, but it's also next to poverty.

Jim hauls me out into the living room, ignoring my protests as I clutch on to my towel with one hand and a water bill that I have a pretty good idea is all my fault with another.

"Do you want to talk about this recent fascination of yours with water?" I fidget a bit, and suddenly I realize how Jim feels all those times I make him talk about something he really, really doesn't feel like discussing. Jim always tries at this point for a diversion, and I figure as long as we're reversing roles, I might as well get the full Jim Ellison experience. Avoid the question. I say the first thing that pops into my mind.

"You talked with that secretary for like, half an hour today." Oh shit. I did not just say that. Jim is looking at me like I'm either insane or a complete blithering moron, and I'm afraid I might have to agree with him on this count. I can feel my face burning with embarrassment.

"Yeeeeees..." Shit, he's drawing out his words. Looks like he's getting the full Blair Sandburg experience, and I can't say I enjoy this either. "She's new. She's nice. Is there some law against talking to people that I should know about, Sandburg?" I'm suddenly, unaccountably angry at him.

"What, she doesn't smell?" I'm getting more mature by the second. Jim looks even more confused and then he seems to remember our conversation.

"No, she doesn't stink, Sandburg. She smells kind of nice. Like Christmas." Now I'm confused.

"Christmas?"

"Yeah, Christmas. Peppermint. Her girlfriend runs a botanical store. She uses all of this peppermint stuff that they have there." I'm fighting between elation at the mentioning of the word girlfriend, lingering resentment at the fact that Jim talked to this girl long enough to find out where she bought her toiletries, and disgust at myself for acting like such a child. Jim doesn't appear to be done yelling at me yet, avoidance or no.

"I still don't see what the hell what our secretary uses for body wash has to do with you running up a water bill that..." He stops suddenly and drops his head back against the couch, sighing in disbelief. Jim understands. They didn't make him a detective for nothing.

"For Christ's sake Sandburg, I didn't say that you stink. Do you really think I'd live with someone who smelled bad? I'd go insane within the first week."

"Uh, Jim, correct me if I'm wrong, but you said people stink." Inwardly relieved as I may be, I still remember what he said. I was there.

"I never said that you did, though. I wasn't implying anything by that, Sandburg."

"Hey, what, suddenly I'm not a person? I'm an alien or something? I have a social security card. I can prove it. I am a person, Jim." He gives me a look that clearly shows that he's lost any interest he may have had in this conversation.

"Forget it, Sandburg. Just ease up on the water." He might be done, but I'm not. I've already humiliated myself, I might as well get everything out in the open while I seem to be doing such a good job.

He makes an abortive move to stand up, and I suddenly, for absolutely no reason announce, "You're gay." I was the person who said it, yet I realize I'm the one who looks surprised by the statement being said out loud. Jim just sits back down and looks even more resigned than before, if such a thing is possible.

"I should have known. You discuss every stinking thing that ever existed, Sandburg, but for some reason, for some strange reason, I thought that my sexual orientation might be left out of it. You know, since every other person in the world seems to understand that I probably don't want to discuss it, I thought you might choose that one subject to leave alone. I should have known. And since we're on the subject, I'm bi, and since we're on that subject now, what the hell is it to you?" He doesn't seem angry so much as just impatient. "What would you like me to do, wear a rainbow bracelet? Paint the truck purple?"

"Well you could come on to me, for one." I feel righteously indignant, until I realize that, yes, I just said that last bit out loud, and I have topped the embarrassment scale for the evening. I could take off my towel and run down the streets of Cascade naked and screaming, and it would not top what I just said. And I thought I was blushing earlier. I have no idea what has come over me this evening, but suddenly it's Speaking His Mind Sandburg on Parade, and I have never, ever in my entire time of knowing him, seen Jim Ellison's eyes get that big. He looks almost as surprised as I feel humiliated. I'd think it was funnier if I didn't feel like I could use a paper bag right now.

He coughed, then looked like he was about to speak and coughed again. "Blair..." More of a croak than an actual utterance of my name, but I'm not one to be making fun of the things that come out of other people's mouths tonight. "Blair...you're straight ." And, you know, I don't know what I expected, but I did not expect to have to defend my bisexuality.

"I am not."

Jim narrows his eyes and responds in the most mature fashion possible, "You are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

And in the half second it would take me to respond, I decide suddenly that if we're going to be all grade-schoolish about this, (and we are) then I might as well do some show and tell. I always did like it best, anyway. I grab the back of Jim's neck and he tenses up, but I don't particularly care. I'm leaning over him and my tongue is in his mouth and I feel the fuzziness of his cotton pants against my bare hips and I might not be running down the streets of Cascade, but I sure as hell dropped the towel. I decide that I'm just going to sit there and kiss him for as long as I want. For as long as he'll let me, anyway. I've had a shitty evening, and I think I deserve a little something to make up for it.

Jim suddenly closes his mouth and grips my arms, pulling me until I'm a few inches from his face. I stare at his lips for a second, and then I slowly look up into his eyes. A lot of shock, and a lot of...lust. He liked that. I'm suddenly so happy I feel like I might fall over, but hey, he's holding me up and I can see a hint of an answering grin on his face. I'm suddenly pinned against the opposite arm of the couch, and Jim has his tongue in my mouth and his hands are skimming all over my body. I let my head fall back as he starts kissing my neck, and he leans up until we're at eye level and announces, "Hell, I guess you aren't." It takes me a second to realize what he's talking about. I'll tell him I told you so some other time, maybe when I've got some clothes on and I'm not ready to hump his leg. He nuzzles his face into my throat and inhales and whispers, "You smell so good, Blair." I might have missed my second shower today, but to hell with that. Jim has both hands on my face and is kissing me breathless, and I've never felt so clean in my life.

End Clean by Ettalynn: [email protected]

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