Author's webpage: http://www.squidge.org/~pumpkin/cara/caraindex.html

Author's disclaimer: Jim and Blair belong to the ages. And to PetFly. Not to me. Alas!

Author's notes: Fear not! There are more War Stories to be posted soon.

The phone rang in Blair Sandburg's office at nearly 3:00 PM, delivering the bad news. Fortunately it was Friday; nobody was likely to take advantage of his few remaining office hours. Hastily scribbling a note to tack on the door, he let Molly help him struggle into the sleeves of his jacket and gave her a friendly farewell kiss on the cheek before trotting out to catch a bus home, futilely longing for his dear departed Corvair.

The trip home took forever, a torturous progression of rumbling, exhaust-scented stops and lurching starts courtesy of the Cascade Transit Authority. Arriving at Colette's, Blair skipped off the bus hurriedly and took the steps two at a time, too impatient to wait for the elevator. He burst through the door, breathless, only to find Jim sacked out on the couch. Quickly Blair modulated his movements to accommodate his sleeping roommate's need for quiet, hanging up his coat and his pack stealthily. Painkillers usually made Jim extra-drowsy, but given the location of this wound, he couldn't see Jim refusing them.

It was nearly dinnertime and Jim was likely to wake up extra grumpy, so he decided to make comfort food, heavy on the carbs for the endorphine boost. Two tuna melts with steaming hot Ore-Ida waffle fries later, Blair gently shook Jim's shoulder, moving his palm to press him back down to the couch when he would have instinctively surged upward to a sitting position.

"Take it easy on those stitches," he instructed, and put a plate on Jim's belly, uncapping a condensation dewed bottle of water and leaving it within easy reach. He remembered to use a coaster; Jim didn't need extra stress right now. "Want more salt?" The ultimate concession.

"Nah. This is fine." Jim's voice was groggy, but he attacked the food with determination nonetheless. "Missed lunch."

Blair nodded, his own mouth full. When he'd chewed and swallowed, he gestured at Jim's leg. "Joel said you nearly lost your balls, man. Not to mention other important apparatus. How'd you manage to get shot there?"

"I think it must have been a ricochet." Jim shifted uneasily at the reminder, carefully moving his right leg, which lay stretched out along the sofa, warmly encased in a pair of loose gray sweats.

"Oughtta invest in a kevlar jockstrap." Blair grinned, but Jim didn't respond in kind. Nervously Blair continued to babble, opening the subject that had weighed on his mind ever since the call. "Guess the doctors say you're going to need some nursing?" he hazarded, chewing on a french fry. He'd had a gunshot wound of his own stitched up, and he knew Jim wasn't going to be back to 100% any time soon, no matter how badly he wanted to be.

"Yeah." Jim looked away abruptly. "I'll hire a home-care--"

"Why?" Blair swallowed hurriedly. "I can take care of it. You always take care of me when I'm hurt, and you were a medic; you can tell me what to do." It was probably a bad idea to mix self-indulgence with caretaking, but no way was he letting somebody else get their hands on Jim's... he blushed a little, covered it by taking another french fry.

"Changing the dressing, antiseptic ointments, pain meds?" Blair guessed. "Sponge baths?" Jim wouldn't be able to get those stitches wet for a long time, and with that particular placement, there was no way to bathe or shower in the tub and keep them dry. Blair felt a pang of guilt and deliberately tried not to enjoy the prospect of bathing his partner's body. "Bedpan?" That was less pleasant to contemplate, partly because he knew it would embarrass Jim badly.

"I can walk a little on my own," Jim said stubbornly. "Enough to make it to the can, Sandburg."

Well, they'd have to see about that. Jim's pain meds hadn't worn off yet, and he'd wager good money Ellison was going to be singing a different tune as soon as they did. "But not up and down stairs. I'll clean off my futon, you can sleep in my room," Blair offered magnanimously. His respiration threatened to pick up a notch at the thought of the logical corollary to that-- he'd be sleeping in Jim's bed until his partner recovered enough to climb the stairs. He only wished that wouldn't put an end to his stay there.

Jim hesitated for a second, then responded with gruff predictability: "Thanks. Make yourself at home upstairs for the duration." He hesitated. "And don't mess anything up in there!" The threat had the sound of a knee-jerk reaction, automatic but not too dire.

Blair smiled a little, nodding. "I think I can manage that." He set his empty plate aside and finished his iced tea. "So, when's your next dose of meds, how often do I change the dressings and put on the salve?" Damn, Sandburg, don't sound so fucking eager.

"Right around nine. I had the first dose at three."

"Bedtime at nine then," Blair decreed, and Jim nodded, acquiescing.

Jim's underwear drawer. Forbidden fruit... of the Loom. Blair reached in for a pair of jockey briefs, feeling a whole lot like a shitheel. When Jim's pain meds had worn off, so had his own juvenile euphoria about getting to perform intimate services for his friend. Jim had tossed and turned all night, albeit carefully; Blair was embarrassed to realize exactly how well sound traveled from his bedroom up into Jim's. He'd done his own share of tossing, disturbed by the strange too-soft bed, aroused by the scent and aura of Jim in the room, and worried that the pain meds might have a depressive effect on his partner's breathing. Last night had been easy, but today--.

"Sandburg!" The agonized yelp mingled pain and annoyance. Blair bolted downstairs, jockey shorts dangling from his fist, and burst into the bathroom. Jim was trapped in redfaced misery, perched halfway on the seat, his underwear and sweats tangled around his ankles.

"Oh, man, that's gotta hurt." Blair carefully averted his eyes from Jim's exposed genitals, maneuvering his shoulder under Jim's arm and helping him lift himself from the painful position. "Still, it serves you right. You ought to know better than to try something like that on the first day without help." Humiliated by his failure, Jim accepted Blair's assistance almost angrily. Blair stepped on the offending clothes to anchor them, letting Jim lift his feet out, then levered him back into the bedroom and into bed.

Jim. Naked in my bed. Blair squelched the selfish thought firmly, putting his mind back to business. "Bedpan," he decreed, and when they were finished dealing with that, he maneuvered the legholes of the underwear he'd brought along over Jim's feet and deftly pulled them up, taking care to avoid touching Jim's cock with the elastic or with his fingers. It was more difficult than it looked; he had to lift the elastic of the leghole over the thick bandage on the inside of Jim's thigh, making sure it settled well behind the injury. He avoided looking at the underwear when he was done; it was intriguingly contoured where it lay against the quiescent shape of Jim's genitals.

"Now your meds, then I'll change the dressing." It was freshly bloodstained; Jim had probably strained the stitches with his little stunt in the bathroom. He fetched a glass of juice and helped his roommate lift up enough to swallow the pills, then gently parted Jim's legs and slid a towel under his bottom to protect the mattress, proud that his hands didn't shake as they slid up the insides of the hairy, muscular thighs. Blair pushed up his glasses nervously with the back of his forearm, wishing he had time to fasten back his hair before beginning the proceedings.

He peeled away the bandage as gingerly as possible, getting his first look at Jim's injury. The wound wasn't very deep, just a long stitched-together graze where the trajectory of the bullet had passed along the surface of Jim's inner thigh about an inch below the crease where his leg met his body. Blair winced, his testicles drawing up sympathetically. The shot couldn't have missed Jim's genitals by more than a hair.

Careful not to wet the lengthy wound, Blair very tenderly soaped and rinsed the residue of blood away from its perimeter. Contrary to his expectations, there was nothing sexual about this at all. The angry red edges of the bullet's path, the fresh blood around the strained stitches, and the bruised, bluing flesh in a wide circle around the wound made his stomach churn. Jim laid his forearm over his eyes, body taut-strung against the pain of being touched.

Finishing, Blair reapplied antibiotic salve, then opened a sterile bandage packet and laid the white cotton gauze over the ugly wound, taping it down lightly. As he did, his fingers inadvertently brushed along Jim's perineum, hidden just beyond the elastic at the leg of the underwear. He flinched very slightly, watching Jim's muscles clench for a moment in response, his face feeling hot and cold at once, hoping desperately that Jim didn't think tending a six-inch bullet wound was turning Blair on.

"That OK?" Blair asked softly, rinsing his slightly bloodstained fingers in the warm water.

"Yeah." Jim moved his arm, his mouth and eyes pinched with pain. "Soon as that pill starts working, Chief."

"Good." Blair blew a relieved breath and straightened, rolling unexpected tension out of his shoulders. He hadn't expected this to be such an ordeal. With any luck, he might not have to sponge-bathe Jim for at least a few days.

The problem with time is that it passes, Blair reflected, setting two bowls of hot water, one soapy and one clear, on the throw rug next to his bed. Jim was mending slowly, a fact that didn't improve his temper. He was as irritable as a starved bear and had more than half a mind to refuse the assistance he badly needed. Blair let him push himself, but not too much; Jim hated being vulnerable and dependent, but he only got to do things he could handle.

Unlike Blair, who wasn't too sure he could handle the current project. Or rather, he was sure he could handle it. He could handle it all too thoroughly. He just wasn't sure he could cope with it. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it, and he'd already procrastinated too long. He sighed, pretending to a faint indifference he didn't feel, and wet a clean cloth, wringing it out and moving it to touch Jim's body.

Long, hard-muscled legs. Sinews rigid at knee and ankle. Toes curiously vulnerable, pale, time-consuming to wash between, but hey, Jim was a Sentinel and Blair was an over-achiever. The white ribbed cotton underpants he'd put on Jim himself were a presence all their own in the periphery of his vision. He finished with Jim's shins and thighs quickly; he'd carefully modulated the temperature in the loft so his roommate wouldn't have a chance to sweat, so he wouldn't require serious scrubbing.

"Roll over." He journeyed up the long legs: rough, cleansing terrycloth swipes followed by a gentler rinse to remove soap from Jim's sensitive skin. Matter-of-factly he tugged the back of Jim's underpants down, then brought the cloth across the spare, muscled rounds that clenched at his touch and ran it down the dusky cleft before discarding it and taking a new one. Breathe: in, out. He forced a calm, relaxed rhythm. His hands wandered across the broad plain of back, tracing one muscle group at a time with an efficiency that concealed his admiration. He slid the cloth over the backs of the strong arms that lay folded under Jim's head, just because he could, promising himself it was a last indulgence, then made a liar of himself by carefully drying Jim's damp, clean skin with a waiting towel. "Wanna do the front yourself?"

The washcloth dangled invitingly as Jim rolled over without a word, but surprisingly he didn't reach to take it. His arm moved to lie over his face, covering his eyes. The posture was growing familiar to Blair; it meant that Ellison had resolutely submitted himself to his roommate's care. After a moment of hesitation Blair continued, rinsing and wringing out the cloth, soaping and rinsing Jim's beautifully muscled chest, paying special attention to cleaning the armpits.

He could do this part on his own. The phrase chased itself around Blair's mind, a singsong schoolground mantra, conforming itself to the hypnotic rhythm of his moving hands. A long wet swipe, he could do... and back again: this part on his own. Mundane, self-evident, it covered up the deeper voice, the exultant, terrified part of Blair that was chanting different words very quietly in the distance, quiet words with the intensity of a scream: He wants me to touch him.

Classic layered internal monologuing. Blair had frequently done journal exercises and guided meditations that isolated the different levels, reaching deeper and deeper until he found the stillness at his center and listened to the profundity it had to offer, but there was no stillness today. He moved the cloth across Jim's abs now, tending the washboard belly, essaying the startlingly intimate dip into Jim's round, inviting navel. He could do... this part on his own. The elastic of Jim's jockey shorts was in the way of further downward progress now. He dried Jim's chest, giving himself a little time.

As he did, words bubbled into Blair's throat and sat on his tongue, originating from a considerably shallower level of consciousness, from the place where casual masculine friendship resided. Hey, man, this is where you take over. Time to earn your keep around here. His lips didn't part to release them. Instead, his eyes rested on Jim's left hand. It had clenched tightly in the blanket, a quick pulse jumping visibly in the veins at the inside of the wrist. Blair's surged to match it. He wants me to touch him. The insistent cry reached his mind clearly, drowning the others with sudden certainty, and he dropped the cloth in warm water, rinsing and wringing it again.

If Jim Ellison wanted Blair Sandburg to touch him, then he was going to be touched, because there was nothing Blair wanted more than permission to touch him freely.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the undershorts, telling himself he'd done this before; he'd helped Jim change his underwear three times in as many days since the shooting. But this was the first time he was doing it with intent to touch what lay inside. Down they came, and he worked them over the bandage with practiced care. The quiet voice was shouting its crucially important messages again somewhere below the threshold of Blair's willingness to acknowledge it: He parted his legs for me. No time to listen to that, either. He tugged the underwear off Jim's ankles, to be replaced with a fresh pair when he was finished.

Soap. Use soap. You'll have to rinse. What the hell am I -doing-? His mind provided only a tangled jumble. He watched his hands move forward, cloth sheathing his fingers as they slid behind Jim's cock and lifted it from its wiry nest, running thoroughly along its slowly firming length-- He's getting hard! a scream from all levels at once--and over the crown. Perversely, he was keenly aware that he'd never taken the Hippocratic Oath. As he washed Jim, he wondered vaguely what it said about sexual detachment. It would be more than considerate to ignore this obviously involuntary response. Maybe it's not true arousal. Just a response to being touched. He'd had a girlfriend once who complained about being embarrassed when her nipples responded reflexively to an abdominal examination at the doctor's office; she hadn't wanted her male doctor to misunderstand; she'd been afraid he would think she was aroused by being examined. This could be the same thing. Or not. He couldn't be sure. Please let it be not.

Blair reached with his other hand bare, skin touching skin holy shit and held the stiffening organ out of the way as he bathed Jim's balls, then slid behind them to cleanse away sweat, stroking and rubbing the soft cloth over wiry hair and soft crinkled skin and the undamaged crease where his left inner thigh met his body.

Then he rinsed, hands shaking a little as he wrung the cloth-- rinse and repeat as much as you need to, don't leave any soap to irritate his skin-- touching the hardening shaft with his fingers again, feeling it fill and grow heavy inside his hand. He darted a nervous glance upward to find Jim lying perfectly still, the tendons in his neck prominent with harnessed tension, his muscles taut, his hand a white-knuckled fist in the blanket.

"All done." Blair was surprised by the emergence of his own voice, by the calm tenor of it compared to the wild cacophony clamoring inside himself. He patted Jim's groin perfunctorily with the dry towel, grabbed the fresh undershorts, maneuvered them up Jim's legs and over the wound, then drew the elastic up and over the hardened cock, trying not to notice the single gleaming drop welling at its tip. His knees were beginning to shake; he abruptly realized his own cock was heavy white iron inside his jeans. He was starting to realize had to get out before the voices in his head commanded either a nervous breakdown or a quick and dirty hand-job to relieve the pressure.

"There you go." He looked at the blanket, restricted by Jim's clenched fist, and tugged the coverlet over him instead. Let -him- deal with sorting it all out. ...Out. "I've got to go to the market for a few things." Again calm, just the very edge of his tone starting to fray. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and retreated with a bowl in the crook of each arm, strategically deciding to deal with dumping the washwater later. He wanted more.

The door opened and closed behind him; Blair took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time. By the time he reached the tarmac, he was grinning.

Unfortunately, the first sponge-bath proved itself the high point of the first week. In the aftermath, Jim turned surly and combative. Blair couldn't decide if he was reacting in disappointment or denial, but after battling him for a day he gave up in exasperation and declared him mostly independent, which was close enough to true. Jim could handle the bathroom on his own now, though with some difficulty. All he really needed was help changing the dressing and for someone else to handle most of the household chores.

After the third time Blair smugly served a dinner made out of unidentifiable greens and pointed out that if he'd been feeling a little more appreciated, he might have bestirred himself to cook something else, Jim mellowed out some, realizing his roommate wouldn't stand still for ill-treatment. His restraint grew more sincere as he recovered and became to do more things to keep himself occupied, though he always lay silent and still with his arm flung over his eyes while Blair tended his injury once a day over the next two weeks.

"So, when did the doctor say the stitches should come out?" Blair peeled the bandage off the wound to give it some air, pleased by the way the edges had knit together. He gathered pillows to arrange under Jim's back, propping him up to begin the strength and flexibility exercises the physical therapist had given him.

Jim pushed away a couple of case files he'd been working on and sighed, hitching himself into position, and began drawing his knee toward his chest, grimacing at the slight stretch. "Any time now. They pull when I bend my leg. They're probably just irritating the wound now."

Blair nodded. "When do you think I ought to take them out?"

"I'll take a look next time I'm near the hand mirror." Jim grunted with the effort of holding his leg aloft.

"I'll get one." Blair waited till Jim neared the end of his exercises and brought his own magnifying mirror from the bathroom closet. Finishing a set of reps, Jim released the stretch and bent his knee over a pillow. Blair positioned the mirror near Jim's thigh, and Jim covered Blair's hand with his own, adjusting the angle and peering critically at the reflected image.

"Tomorrow." he decreed. "But for now I think you need to tape it up again, Chief." Jim hesitated. "I think I stretched too much, I can see a little blood seeping around the last few stitches." Blair didn't see any, but he didn't have Sentinel senses. Still, something rang false; Jim's tone was a little odd, his face shuttered. He lay back quickly, covering his face with his arm, and opened his legs.

"You got it." Blair kept his voice casual though his internal alarms were clanging noisily and his adrenaline pumped hard, making him dizzy; he hadn't knelt between Jim's legs on the bed to bandage his wound for at least a week and a half, not since Jim healed enough to sit with his legs over the edge of the bed while Blair tended him.

Blair took a bandage and the sterile tape and knelt between Jim's thighs, reaching to push back the leg of his boxers to expose the length of the wound. He tore open a corner of the bandage packet with his teeth, but he couldn't handle everything at once; when he tried to lay it over the incision the cloth of Jim's boxer shorts kept slipping down to cover the area. Exasperated, Blair brushed the cloth back with his hand, this time holding it out of his way. Jim immediately grew even stiller and Blair suddenly realized the edge of his palm lay against something warm and yielding.

He was already on edge, and his cock jumped as he realized he was touching Jim's balls. His eyes immediately moved, focusing beyond what he'd been doing. Jim's perineum lay exposed to his gaze, veiled in varying degrees of shadow by the loose underwear, and he could see the soft, crinkled circle of Jim's anus nestled snugly at the base of the shadowed cleft in his muscular ass. Blair's cock gave an agonizing surge at the sight and his own nearness to it. His fingers froze momentarily in the act of pressing down the tape. Jim could probably feel the ghost of his breath over the tender, vulnerable skin, feel the heat of his palm.

He'd been wrong when he thought he'd grown accustomed to the intimacy of playing nurse for Jim's indelicately placed injury. Blair glanced to either side, finding Jim's muscular, widespread legs bracketing his body, and he cleared his throat, desperately trying to regain his composure. Jim hadn't let Blair bathe him again after the first incident, and he hadn't opened his legs for Blair to kneel between them for days. But here he was, in his bed with Jim, his partner's body spread open for him--

He blinked back the surge of lust, trapped between desire and uncertainty. The moment had stretched too long while his eyes and mind wandered, his hands remaining still, prolonging the subtle contact with Jim's genitals. Drawing back quickly, he looked up toward Jim's face, half-expecting to see traces of anger, hoping to find encouragement, but Jim lay quite still, his arm resting over his eyes, hiding himself from the sight of Blair tending his wound.

More denial. Blair sighed, his eyes dropping. Not enough information to take that final step. "I'll take them out for you whenever you want," he covered the awkward moment with speech and briskly pulled the edge of his Aztec-patterned sheets over Jim's legs and up to his waist. He sat up too fast and his head swam slightly, dizzily, as he duckwalked back, clumsily maneuvering to the edge of the mattress. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he stood and took a casual step away from the bed. Not enough, man. You want it? Well, I need something more to go on here.

"Thanks, Chief." Again came that detached, unemotional tone, giving him nothing, no clue or encouragement. Jim turned to his side and nestled his head into Blair's pillow, his eyes closing. Blair took another deep breath, the image of Jim tucked up in his bed once again searing itself into his retinas, causing his cock to surge again, hardening painfully inside his jeans. He was disappointed when Jim's eyes remained closed.

"Don't mention it. I'm gonna go ahead and turn in." He tried not to be obviously hasty as he left the room, but he didn't waste time about it, either. He wanted bed. Beer and then bed. And a long involved romance with old lady Palm and her five daughters, but he wasn't going to get that, not within earshot of Jim. Certainly not immediately after freaking out over touching Jim's balls and ogling his... assets. His hands clenched with frustration. Okay then. He'd have to settle for the beer, maybe make it two beers. Hell, how about a six-pack?

Yeah, a six-pack. And after the six-pack, then to bed. Upstairs to the lonely, wide, vacant expanse of mattress that still smelled just strongly enough of Jim to torment Blair in his sleep. His dreams in Jim's bed hadn't ever been exceptionally restful; tonight they'd be worse than usual. At the very least, it was highly unlikely his subconscious mind would be featuring entertainment of the feminine persuasion.

Maybe the six-pack would put him too far under to dream. He'd have to hope.

In spite of his good intentions and the three beers he actually found waiting for him in the fridge, Blair's night passed restlessly. The following evening found him entering his room again, where Jim lay waiting for him, fresh from washing himself at the sink in the bathroom-- skin glowing with health. Wet and scrubbed, Jim radiated impatient well-being and wore only a towel. Blair took one look and promptly turned on his heel and fled. Gotta get clean underwear. Yeah. That's a good excuse. He conveniently ignored the fact that Jim had been climbing steps on his own, if painfully, for the last two days. More difficult to ignore as he reached the top of the stairs and began to rummage in Jim's dresser was the memory that he'd taken a small stash of socks and shirts and pants and underwear down into his room for Jim's use well over a week ago.

Flushing, Blair braced his palms on the corners of the dresser and collected himself. Nothing for it but to march right back down and face the music. So to speak. He'd faced worse dangers, after all-- maniacs and serial killers and muggers and rapists and Simon Banks before he got his morning coffee. He'd translated obscure works from three dozen languages and analyzed them mercilessly, had insinuated himself into the cultures of hostile tribes of cannibals and headhunters, patiently teasing out their hidden secrets. Trying to be positive about what Jim meant by wearing a towel for this particular activity had to be a snap in comparison to that.

This had to be the sign he'd hoped for, and panicking would only make Jim more nervous about what he wanted. It was their last chance for Jim's wound to make this easier for them, for it to provide the opening gambit. This time... Blair drew a deep breath, staring at himself in the mirror. This time, he wasn't going to let the risks stop him.

He calmed himself quickly and sauntered back downstairs, taking refuge in his customary casual demeanor, pretending there was nothing at all unusual going on. Jim waited spread across Blair's bed with his arm flung over his face, the space beneath the towel an inviting shadow that drew Blair's eyes in spite of himself. A small pair of scissors lay on the mattress next to Jim's hip. Jim shifted, uncovering his face. "I got the stuff," Jim commented, his tone oddly wooden. He covered his eyes again abruptly.

Blair picked up the scissors and the tube of antibiotic cream that lay next to them. Awkward with tension, he laid a hand on the inside of Jim's knee and silently urged him to part his thighs, climbing clumsily between them. As he had the day before, Jim opened for him easily and Blair kept his eyes averted as he readied a paper towel for stitch disposal, bending forward with the scissors in hand.

Greater trust hath no man than to let his roommate near his balls with sharp cutting tools, Blair reassured himself philosophically. He pushed back the loose edge of the towel and peeled up the bandage, trying to look only at the wound on Jim's leg. Business first.

Viewed up close, the stitches indeed looked ready to come out, the individual loops loose and the once-angry red at their bases faded to a mildly irritated pink. The wound had sealed cleanly. Working the sharp point of the scissor under the loop of the knot, Blair delicately snipped the first black silk thread and tugged, wincing. It slid out with a little resistance. Jim bled slightly and Blair bit his lip with sympathy. "Doing OK?"

"Yeah." Short and to the point, but he was talking. "Keep going." Jim's voice sounded curt, perhaps a result of the pain, perhaps a result of the embarrassing, suggestive position. Blair steeled himself and bent in again, snipping the second thread and tugging it free. Great. Just about a thousand more to go.

Approximately ten stitches later he realized he would need to wipe away the smears of blood. "Be right back." Jim just grunted and Blair climbed off the bed to pad into the bathroom. Returning, he glanced at his roommate and froze for an instant. He'd managed to detach himself from what he was doing, but Jim hadn't. His jaw was set, his mouth almost defiant-- and his nipples were flushed, a deep sensual rose, quite erect. And they were not alone. His cock had tented the fabric of the loose white terrycloth towel he'd wrapped around his waist, perilously close to pushing through the slight overlap at the center.

"We're over half done," Blair reassured Jim, his decision irrevocably made, proud that his voice didn't sound strained. He returned to his position between Jim's thighs, pushing them apart with his palms and wiping away the occasional tiny bead of blood with the cloth he'd brought. Jim's balls, shadowed with dark wiry hair, lay heavy and inviting close to his cheek, and they were in the way as he moved his hands further back toward Jim's anus. His heart hammering with anticipation, Blair reached and pushed them gently aside, holding them back with his angled wrist, not wanting to risk an accident in the uncomfortably close quarters, especially given the sharp tips of the scissors he was wielding.

Snip and tug, faster now that he had gained proficiency and grown aware of Jim's reaction. Jim's flesh was warm against his wrist, his pulse beating rapidly in the veins that lay beneath the delicate, crepe-like skin. His anus spasmed once, then again, a dangerous motion given the nearness of the scissors. Blair's nostrils were filled with musk and the sharp scent of pre-come; he realized dizzily that Jim's cock had to be fully erect and leaking, but Jim lay perfectly still, his legs tense but not pushing inward.

Blair bent forward, intent on the last few stitches, and a curl of his hair escaped from behind his ear, brushing over Jim's balls. Jim inhaled with a sharp hiss, his hips twitching involuntarily, seeming to want to surge up into the butterfly-soft caress. It was almost an eager movement when considered in combination with his obvious arousal.

Blair pulled back the dangerous points of the scissors at the first hint of motion and held his breath for a moment, both his hands occupied, torn between finishing quickly and retrieving the stray hair to tuck behind his ear. But the damage was already done, so he chose to continue, worried that he might fumble something in his haste if he tried to retreat and then return. He cut the stitches quickly, all of the remaining ones in succession, then discarded the perilously sharp instrument and tugged them free one by one. Finished, he wiped Jim's thigh gently, hardly breathing in his eager haste.

Picking up the antiseptic ointment, he fumbled the cap and squeezed some of the contents onto his fingers, rubbing it gently into Jim's skin with a circular motion of his fingertips. The salve smelled terrible, but Blair barely noticed. It was too late to try not to notice the softness of the tender skin inside Jim's thigh or the tantalizing prickles where his hair had grown again. Impossible to disregard the urgent heat of his skin and the speed of his pulse.

He finished with the ointment at last, decided against prospecting between the cheeks of Jim's ass for the missing ointment cap. Quickly he taped a thin gauze pad over the row of small new wounds and slid his hands to Jim's thighs. He began to straighten, but his eyes were caught and he stilled halfway. The towel had parted on Jim's hips, probably when the touch of Blair's hair startled him into flinching. It lay open, leaving Jim's cock exposed, fiercely erect and standing slightly away from his body, having left a glistening wet spot on his belly just below his navel. He's hard for me. A dizzyingly delightful thought.

Blair's hand hung poised less than an inch from Jim's balls; he watched with anticipation as it came to life again and moved back toward Jim. Slid over the soft-skinned rounds and cupped beneath them, lifting. He swayed, bending forward, the sight of Jim's arousal drawing him inexorably.

He had cared for Jim diligently and intimately for more than three weeks now. But now Jim needed another kind of care, one that Blair could give him so easily, one that Blair longed and needed to give. He almost trembled, thinking of the potential rewards this step could bring both of them... Jim's admission of desire and need, his own willingness to give what was needed and receive Jim's own caring in return...

He hesitated centimeters from kissing Jim, prolonging the sweet savor of anticipation, of longing for the first time. His heard pounded, part of him waiting nervously for Jim to move, to protest, to strike with hand or foot... but Jim lay still, his arm still flung over his eyes, his body taut as piano-wire but unresisting. With a low, keening sound of want, Blair closed the distance between them and mouthed reverently at the tender skin of Jim's testicles, enjoying the touch of crisp hair yielding to his lips, feeling the solid rounds shifting under the gentle pressure of his mouth. Still Jim lay unmoving, except for a slight tremor that coursed through him and then faded as his body tightened even more, tightened without rejecting Blair, who slowly drew one of the heavy balls into his mouth and suckled, his lashes closing.

Jim lay still and allowed it.

Drunk on relief and pleasure, Blair let himself lick and nuzzle, tasting Jim's flesh with increasing confidence, his ointment-slick finger trailing softly over Jim's perineum, then tracing the tender crinkles of his anus. Jim twitched again, arching up against Blair's mouth, and Blair slid his free hand over Jim's belly, fingertips tracing through the smear of pre-come that waited there, touching his shallow navel and stroking the rippling muscle of his abdomen.

He kissed his way slowly up the length of Jim's slender but substantial cock, raising his gaze to check for a reaction again, but Jim's arm lay firmly over his eyes, unyielding, his posture sending a pang of nervousness through Blair, but he was committed now. Committed, and not about to withdraw without taking what he'd wanted for so long, without accepting the gift that was tacitly being granted him, without offering the gift of himself.

He dragged his tongue along the hardened flesh, licking with earnest happiness, inhaling Jim's scent eagerly, drawing it deep inside himself, loving the responsive quiver in Jim's belly. He kissed and nibbled, sucking at the rosy flesh, tracing the rim of the purpling crown with his nose before following the same path with his tongue. Smiling a little, he raised his head, lifting the stiffened shaft in his hand. With a final deep breath, Blair slid his mouth over the tip, pushing all the way down the shaft without pausing, simultaneously pressing his slickened finger deep inside Jim's body, body following Jim's motion as he arched up and gasped, the first sound he had made since Blair touched him.

Blair reached deeply, seeking, pressing-- and Jim exploded under him suddenly, rocking into the touch with a hoarse cry, the motion withdrawing his cock from Blair's throat. He thrust up again instinctively and Blair accepted him, then caressed him from within, teaching him the motion, coaxing him to move again. Faster, harder... penetrating and penetrated, Blair loved Jim as skillfully as he could, his heart filled with joy, ignoring the ache in his own cock where it swelled against the unyielding seam at the crotch of his jeans.

Focused on Jim's pleasure, he slid a second finger into him, syncopating the pressure on the pleasure point deep inside his lover, circling it over and over again, sucking strongly on Jim's cock, loving its bitter-salt taste on his tongue and the stretch of his mouth around its base. Jim's free hand crept down and locked in his hair, threading through the strands convulsively, and he bucked up suddenly, pushing Blair's head down. Blair stroked tenderly over Jim's prostate one last time and felt Jim's cock pulse hard in his mouth as he shot down Blair's throat. Once, twice, again-- then Jim's restraining hand loosened, releasing Blair, and he slid up to breathe, dizzy, savoring the residue of Jim's orgasm on his tongue.

Slipping his fingers out of Jim's suddenly lax body, he milked the softening shaft slowly, teasing out the last few drops, and licked them away, his eyes closed, the reduction of sensory input intensifying his pleasure in Jim's taste. Jim remained silent. Reluctantly Blair pulled back, some of his euphoria fading, knowing that he couldn't reasonably cling to the moment any longer. He fumbled and found the washcloth, currently making a damp spot on the mattress, gathering it up with the scissors and the antiseptic ointment, trying to ignore the shakiness in his knees and the aching need in his unsatisfied cock.

The lengthening silence abruptly felt heavy; Blair didn't look up. Jim lay perfectly still, unyielding. Shit. Doubt kicked in, belated but forcible, making hope and joy waver and disperse in a rush of fear and sudden, horrible embarrassment. He felt his cheeks drain of color, ashamed and confused by an increasing conviction that he'd taken unwanted advantage of Jim while he was vulnerable. He spotted the cap of the ointment lying near Jim's thigh and fumbled it onto the tube, tossing it onto the floor, scrabbling for the wet cloth, now making a damp spot on the cotton mattress, and the scissors, dangerously sharp, lying on the sheet between Jim's parted thighs. They joined the ointment summarily, the small thump only deepening the strained quiet.

Blair took a deep breath and lifted his knee, swinging his leg over Jim's thigh, and was afraid to be caught off-balance if Jim finally moved, but Jim's arm never slid from his face, never moved to push him upright. Aside from a slight tightening of his mouth, Jim didn't stir or speak as Blair gathered the medical supplies shakily, waiting for the thick, gathering silence to break. He finally stood in the door, glancing back at the still, tense body of the man to whom he had so optimistically made love. Confused, embarrassed... angry, he felt unwilling to let things go at this, reluctant to accept what had happened... as well as what had not. His mouth opened to speak, his mind unsure what might emerge: wavering between accusations, excuses, apologies, questions, and confessions.

Jim's unmoving body silenced him. The spread legs and the rigid, unmoving arm, the hidden eyes and the single twitch of the muscle in Jim's taut jaw moved him... pushing him away. They ejected him into the cold silence of the loft, where Blair stood for a long moment, soberly trying to understand how it could be possible to take advantage and be used simultaneously.

He moved mechanically to return the ointment and the scissors to the medicine cabinet, to throw away the used bandage and packaging, to deposit the bloodstained cloth in the washer and turn on the cold cycle. As he worked his cock withered in his jeans, shrinking, drawing into itself. There was no flicker of motion or sound from his bedroom, where Jim lay with his arousal sated, his thoughts still hidden behind the barrier of his arm, his closed lips, and his clenched jaw.

Finished, Blair deliberately lay down on the sofa. Silent, face closed, he covered himself with his striped afghan, turning his body in toward the cushions. He was used to things being difficult between him and Jim. Fear-based denial tended to make relationships interesting even at the best of times, and when it came to the progression of intimacy, he'd grown comfortably used to fighting like a bulldog for every inch of ground gained. He'd come to expect it, even to welcome it-- it had always been hard to move too fast and get in over his head where Jim was concerned. But this time he'd done it, not without Jim's complicity, and he had no idea how to begin to fix the damage they'd just done to one another.

Upstairs Jim's bed lay empty, unused.