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

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

Author's notes: Who, me? Pick a voice and a character's POV and stick to it for a whole series? Never!

The loft lay in darkness, silent to normal senses, but to Jim Ellison, his own body and Blair's filled the stillness with a torrent of sound. Hurricanes of breath accompanied by a random percussion of noise: ticking swallows, scuffs of movement, the persistent syncopated bass drum beat of two hearts. A cymbal-clap of lips closing. The snare-drum click of Jim's own eyelids meeting when he blinked. A symphony of rushing blood.

An hour ago he'd finally moved, eased cramping muscles, and laid his arm at his side. He'd done it stealthily, very slowly, as though Blair could hear twice as clearly as Jim himself. He was still lying in Blair's bed and the knowledge caused sensation to burn him, Blair's sheets and mattress like punishing coals beneath his body.

Blair had made love to him. Come in to tend him, looked once at the towel Jim had wrapped around his hips, bolted... and then come back. Returned with quiet, courageous determination and cared for his wound and though Jim never moved, never spoke, when Jim had gone hot and hard and needful... Blair had seen, and he had responded the way Jim had guiltily hoped he would. He'd given himself, the stroke of his careful fingertips and the warm, tender slickness of his willing mouth. He'd made a leap of daring, let his defenses down in faith, and flung himself into the abyss on the strength of Jim's tacit invitation.

Jim had lain still and allowed it, had quivered and trembled and shot his seed into Blair's wonderful warm mouth. But in the cold aftermath, with freezing air swirling around his wet, sagging cock, things had shattered. He'd stayed absolutely still and let Blair fall, lying frozen by the whirl of his own thoughts, selfishly shutting down around his own need to deny what had happened. He felt compelled to deny that he'd all but invited Blair to suck him, that he'd wanted it, that he'd spent much of the last weeks while Blair cared for him craving those hands and that mouth on his cock.

I didn't do anything, I just didn't stop him when he sucked me. That's OK, isn't it? The other boys do that, make the fags suck them off. I'm still all right, he's the one who wanted it, he's the faggot, not me-- Jim jerked his head to one side restlessly, hearing the childishness of the voice panicking in his own head, involuntarily picturing himself groveling in front of his own father, begging for a reassurance that would never come. In memory, William Ellison's graying brows beetled in contempt, his mouth pinching with disgust, and Jim shuddered.

Unable to bear the voices of his own stillness any longer, Jim got up, moving stiffly on legs that still felt shaky, ignoring the twinges of pain from the tiny, freshly-disturbed suture wounds biting along the edges of the larger scar where the bullet had creased his leg. His hearing automatically zeroed in on Blair, who did not stir in response to Jim's quiet motions. Good. He couldn't face Blair right now, couldn't stand up to the accusation that would come from a silent, pain-filled stare or to the guilt that would shroud him silently in response to the alternative of averted eyes and self-protective posture.

Blair lay on the sofa, curled almost fetal under the coarse striped afghan that usually lay folded along its back. Jim's eyes slid along his tight-bunched form automatically before he could remember to jerk them away, feeling guilty at the intrusion. He could easily guess why his bed had been rejected. It had to be Blair's quiet way of telling Jim that he might be used once, but never twice. Sandburg wanted to be in Jim's bed only as much as he thought Jim wanted him in it.

Sandburg in his bed. God. Confusion boiled through him again, lust and nausea, fear and pure sweaty-palmed need. He'd been picturing Blair lying up there during his entire convalescence, picturing him... longing first for the ability, and then for the courage, to rise and join him there.

His feet carried him forward, unawares, to stand close enough to the couch that he might reach out and touch Sandburg's tangled hair, if only he had the courage. When had he started to want this, when had his control slipped so terribly? He didn't know how long he'd wanted it, didn't know when it started. All he knew was that it had hit him when he'd begun to heal. If the bullet had been a near miss, Blair's patient nursing had been a direct hit: Jim was lost the first time his pain ebbed and the feel of Blair's clever fingers soothing him replaced it. This evening's disaster had made itself inevitable only days after the injury, the first time he'd dared to peek under his arm and seen Sandburg kneeling between his parted legs, bent forward, his face gentle and rapt, his hands moving tenderly so very close to Jim's genitals.

He'd done that again tonight, moved his arm a fraction of a hair and let himself peer out. For a heartbeat that lasted an eternity, he'd watched the passionate rise and fall of Blair's tousled head, the hastily-made, ragged ponytail letting a few strands of hair escape. He'd seen Blair's blissful expression, his closed eyes and wide-stretched mouth. He'd looked at the way Sandburg's soft lips curved so perfectly around his wet, straining cock.

Just that flicker of memory was enough to bring the little soldier firmly to attention, and Jim felt his mouth narrow in a grimace of self-loathing. He padded past the couch with covert-ops stealth, stationing himself in front of the French doors, fixing his gaze stubbornly on the bay. He'd made a bad mistake, a critical tactical error, and now something would have to be done about it, or he was probably going to lose Blair. He sensed it in the quality of the silence that hung like a leaden pall throughout the loft, could read it in the curve of Blair's defensively stiff back.

Losing Sandburg was the one thing he couldn't countenance.

He focused on sight until the dim lights from across the bay threatened to dazzle his eyes, but was unable to block out the soft breathing from the sofa behind him, his attempt to zone eluding him, sound and scent teasing around the edges of his concentration. As always, he was aware of Blair, his heart slowed in sleep, his breath steady but bitter with the lingering hint of Jim's semen. Sandburg hadn't even brushed his teeth, he'd just put away the medical supplies and come out to lie down and curl into himself, shutting out the world with sleep while the long night passed around him.

Jim sighed and leaned his forehead against the window. This was his fuck-up, it was his responsibility to fix it. He had approximately four to six hours before Blair Sandburg woke up, rested and rejected and probably ready to walk the hell out of Jim Ellison's life for good without ever looking back.

"Sandburg, I'm sorry" would be a step in the right direction, but it wouldn't fix the root problem, and it wouldn't be the last word on the subject in any case. Blair was going to want to know whether Jim had meant to invite the sex, why he'd let it happen, why he'd tried to deny it in the aftermath, whether it was going to happen again, and if so, on whose terms. Hard to apologize, knowing that his first word would open Pandora's Box irrevocably. But when the alternative was losing Blair...

Four hours, maybe six, was hardly enough to figure out what was inside that box and decide on his answers to Sandburg's well-justified questions, but it was going to have to suffice.

His thoughts wandered aimlessly for a while, then Jim pushed away from the window and turned, momentarily disoriented in the comparatively dark room. He found his anchor in Blair's breathing. Moving to lean against the wall near the fireplace he made sure not to disturb Sandburg's bike. He adjusted his focus, resolving Blair's shape beneath the afghan, following the slight rise and fall of his shoulders.

The first step, then: overcome denial.

Jim shuddered with the effort of forcing himself forward. Yes. He'd invited the sex. He'd done it deliberately, he'd wanted Blair's mouth on him. Wanted it badly. Wanted to be touched and sucked, licked and stroked and fondled. Specifically by Blair. Regardless of masculine gender.

The thought of Sandburg's agile mouth and warm slick tongue set him on fire. He'd let it happen because his want made him weak, and the opportunity was just so irresistible... Jim drew a shuddering breath, feeling the chill of the air that surrounded him, feeling keenly naked as his cock surged, pointing intently toward the object of its desire. But desire would not have been enough to push him to the sticking point. It never had before. No, there was more behind it than that.

He shied from the feeling, obdurately forcing himself to confront the physical reality of what had happened, examining it dispassionately from all angles. It hadn't been just a blowjob. Getting sucked was great, he liked the thought of women's mouths, of their hollowed cheeks and red lips and swinging hair curtaining his hips. Thinking of just any blowjob was enough to arouse him, enough to make his cock twitch with interest, get him a little bit randy. However, he couldn't think of a single woman who could bring him to instant, aching erection-- from zero to sixty-- with just a single random thought of the curve of her mouth or of the faint sheen of moisture on her lower lip.

Again, it was Sandburg, not the blowjob. Not just the instinctive carnal pleasure of plowing his erection into a hot wet mouth that knew how to suck so well that a man might shoot his brains right down into his balls and out through his cock. Jim shivered, his cock demanding Sandburg's mouth again. All right, so that was settled. It was Blair. He wanted Blair to suck his cock, wanted to twine his fingers into Blair's hair and cup his palm around Blair's shadowed cheek. Wanted Blair to serve his pleasure.

Maybe that was the problem, the fatal flaw that had left them both hanging in mid-air. He wanted Blair to serve his pleasure-- could imagine a thousand variants on the things he wanted Sandburg to do for him. But what was he willing to do for Blair?

Reciprocation. The terms on which it might happen again. And deeper below, the reason why he might be willing to reciprocate.

Jim shifted against the rough, cold brick and set his jaw. He'd been completely passive tonight, lying quietly and permitting Blair to service him. His mind shied from the notion of returning the favor, flitting through a catalog of options of the sort he'd learned about in Vice, seeking the least objectionable. Maybe he could fuck Blair. Jim closed his eyes, conjuring the sensation of firm rounded muscle beneath his hands, of a hot tight body enclosing his cock. He could nearly hear Sandburg's gasps and moans, knew he could fuck Sandburg, could push him to his knees and plunge into his body.

It would be relatively easy; it was comparatively masculine. It would be wickedly tight and seductively empowering. To feel Blair clench around him, to tug on his nipple ring and hear him cry out... to pound into him hard, knowing that Blair was feeling that same electric pleasure Jim felt when Blair slipped a gentle, knowing finger into him and pressed just there...

Jim gasped softly, shaking his head, clearing the vivid images away. His cock trembled, bolt-upright, powerfully interested. He realized he'd skipped over the question of why he'd withdrawn and denied what happened, already proceeding to the next one: would it happen again. He'd already resolved that he wanted something to happen again... wanted more sucking, maybe even wanted to fuck Blair. But he still hadn't gotten where he needed to be.

Which was on his knees in front of Blair. Figuratively and literally, an apology and a gift. And he would go to his knees, he knew. Before the night was over, he would be there.

Jim gritted his teeth and formed the picture stubbornly, making himself consider it in something approaching the same detail with which he'd envisioned fucking Sandburg's tender, welcoming ass. Fucking, being sucked-- those things were about lust, about dominance and power. Turning the tables would be something else entirely.

He felt his knees weaken slightly and firmed them again, locking the joints, pushing himself to take the next step. It shouldn't be such a difficult thing to admit that he loved Blair. He'd loved the kid for a long time; Sandburg was the sort who grew on you with slow persistence, like ivy tearing down the ancient stone walls of a cathedral sanctuary to reveal the altar to the sun. But equating love to physical expression, admitting that he was so far past fraternal feeling that he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't wanted Blair--

Without realizing it, he had actually been stepping forward with each difficult emotional confrontation, slowly moving closer to the couch. Now he wanted to see more of Sandburg's face. All right then. Go ahead. Picture it. His cock pushing at your lips, sliding onto your tongue. Jim swayed dizzily as the circulation pushed into his lower legs when his knees loosened to step forward once more, then locked again. Taking it all the way in, steadying his hips with your hands, tasting him...

Jim shuddered, unsure whether he felt revulsion or longing. To let Blair penetrate him... a direct assault on his masculine self-image, no matter how it happened. Once again he moved forward imperceptibly, as though drawn by a magnet. The shadow between Blair's body and the back of the couch seemed deep, impenetrable, hiding his hands and face and belly and cock in a tangle of afghan.

He'd passed some crucial threshold now, moving forward, one ghosted step after another, till he felt rug beneath the balls of his feet and his toes. It felt scratchy and faintly stiff with dust in spite of all the vacuuming one Sentinel and his rather less motivated Guide could reasonably accomplish.

He could let Blair fuck him. He'd have to just get down on his knees and open his body and shut his eyes and his mind and hope for it to be over soon-- because he knew there was no way he was ready for that. Not in his wildest fantasies had he ever been able to picture himself kneeling and taking it up the ass, not for Blair Sandburg or any other man. But if he did it for anybody, he'd do it for Sandburg. Sandburg would do his best not to hurt Jim, he'd be gentle and careful and... and there had been that single finger earlier, Blair's index finger inside him, and then one finger had become two.

He only remembered it now, in the chilly darkness of the living room, with Blair spread in front of him, sleeping. Perhaps he hadn't been able to acknowledge it before. He'd let himself be so absorbed in the touch of Sandburg's incredible velvety mouth that he could deny the gentle, intimate probing, hardly noticing it until it started shooting starblazes of ecstasy straight up his spine.

Was that what it would be like to be fucked? Or... would it be better than just Blair's fingers?

Jim shivered, taking a sideways step around the sharp corner of the coffee table. In a very real way, Blair had sneaked up on him, slipped past that terrifying barrier unanticipated. Sandburg had already penetrated him, already slipped inside and stroked him there where nobody had ever touched without adding an order to turn his head and cough.

He'd been taught to treat male rape victims as though being penetrated didn't make them gay, that it automatically didn't change who they were. Suddenly he doubted; the foundation of certainty was gone from him. The small intimate touch, the slight penetration, accomplished without warning as Blair made love to Jim, had already affected him, already made him wonder, already changed him. Now part of him was wondering what it would be like to get on his knees and take it, wondering whether it would be good. There was a fatal flicker of curiosity tickling at the back of his mind, the precursor to wanting Blair inside his ass, to wanting Blair's cock to push its way into him.

And he was hard, damn it to hell, he was so hard he hurt; now instead of just nauseating him, thinking about spreading his legs to let Blair inside his ass also made his balls tingle. He paused, reeling in the midst of the sudden identity crisis, everything he'd once been so certain of and comfortable with spinning chaotically around him. He resisted his need for it to settle, struggling against the inevitable redistribution, understanding that when it stopped, everything would be new, configured in unfamiliar patterns.

There was only one thing to cling to, one anchor of certainty in the tumult, and Jim stumbled forward the final step, watching as Blair heard him and woke at last. His head turned and his eyes blinked open sleepily to look up at Jim's naked, shadowed form with confusion and growing trepidation. Memory rushed into his clearing eyes, memory and uncertainty and worry. Blair shrank back slightly against the couch, tipping his head back to search futilely in the dark for Jim's expression.

The small manifestation of fear sank straight into Jim, tearing something loose deep inside him. He felt his knees give way at last, depositing him in a crumpled heap on the floor, his hands already reaching for the afghan, pushing it away. He watched, amazed and relieved as they moved of their own will, fumbling with the waistband of Blair's boxers and slipping inside them to find the quickly-filling cock that lay there. Blair's startled gasp felt sweet in his ear but he was too focused to acknowledge it, his eyes fixing themselves on the dark, hard length of Blair's shaft and the sparkle of moisture just beginning to well at his tip.

He sank forward, ironically eager to pass the point of no return, tongue preceding lips and lapping across the smooth firm crown even as his mouth closed around it, lips curling to encircle it as perfectly as Blair's had his own. Sweet salt and heat, awkward angle, hardness and musk. He sucked frantically, concentrating on the need to act, instinctively shying from thought as Blair's trembling hand moved down to settle at the back of his neck and guide him. Blair wasn't afraid any more; Blair was touching him, Blair was whispering and murmuring reassurance and love and pleasure to him.

His eyes opened and he shuffled as far to the side as he could, moving awkwardly, needing to see Sandburg's expression. Then their eyes met, and Blair's were wet and gentle and forgiving, because Blair loved him and understood him and everything would be all right now because he hadn't closed down, hadn't shut himself up and let the fear conquer him from within.

He realized dazedly that Blair tasted good and salty and solid in his mouth, that Blair was the hard and burning center that held him together. Then Blair's balls tightened in his hand and he closed his eyes, swallowing the sudden flood, drinking deep of Blair, giving himself over wholly. Blair's cock pulsed in his mouth, spilling into him, fast and hot, and he didn't pull away till it stilled, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his wrist, looking uncertainly up to meet Blair's pleasure-soft gaze.

Sandburg reached for him, arms opening, hands moving to tug hopefully at Jim's shoulders. Jim nodded, swallowing around the strange new taste that filled his mouth, and moved up to sit near Blair's head. Blair slid one warm arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Jim leaned in hesitantly at his lover's urging to share a semen-flavored kiss, then laid his head on Blair's chest. As he did, everything fell to earth and settled in the new pattern they had made together, the new pattern that had become Jim Ellison's universe.