Still no money made.

Since I'm inflicting the first story on you, I figured I might as well inflict the sequel as well.

You really should read Communication before you read this story in order for it to make sense. And since I blamed Michka for making me post the first story, I figure I'll blame her for the sequel as well <eg>

This story is a sequel to: Communication

Jim opened the front door and quietly set his keys in the wicker basket. He let out a tiny sigh of relief when he noted there were no packed bags by the door, although he was immediately ashamed of himself for thinking there might be.

He focused on the heartbeat which he knew was close by, since the Volvo was in working order and parked outside in its assigned spot, and found it not where he expected, but out on the balcony.

He took several steps toward the closed window and noted the dejected figure sitting and staring over the cityscape. Jim felt his own shoulders slump. After four years of trying, they were still getting it wrong. He was still getting it wrong.

Jim opened the glass door. "It's kind of cold out here."

Blair didn't turn or even jump, as if he expected him. "It's not too bad."

Not knowing what else to say, Jim said quietly, "I was thinking about fixing hash from the left over pot roast."

"Okay."

With nothing more to say, he nodded, unnecessarily. "Okay then."

Jim went back into the loft, moved straight into the kitchen and pulled several potatoes, onions and peppers out of the vegetable bin. He worked steadily on preparing dinner; however, his eyes kept being drawn back to the still figure on the patio. Forty-five minutes later, he moved back toward the balcony.

"Dinner's ready."

Blair nodded, but made no immediate movement. Jim turned and headed back into kitchen, busying himself with putting the pan to the table and pulling the bread from the stove. His partner moved by him and plucked two beers from the refrigerator before sitting at the table himself.

They ate in silence, not an uncomfortable silence, but a far cry for their normal rousing conversations and debates.

Jim tore a piece of bread from the loaf and meticulously buttered it. "I feel like I broke you," he finally conceded in a whisper.

Blair blinked at him, as if pulling his attention outward from his internal thought processes. "You didn't."

"You were supposed to yell back," Jim said conversationally, although it came off as slightly disapproving.

Blair smiled sadly at him, then took another bite of hash. "Why would I yell when I agree with you?"

Jim felt an icy fist close tightly around his heart. "You said you wouldn't leave."

Blair sighed. "And I won't. But I've been a cop for over a year now. With the recent budget cuts, I think it makes sense for me to start working a few cases on my own." He shrugged. "Plus, it'll give you a chance to spread your wings." In a softer voice, he added, "But I'll always be your safety net, man, you know that."

Jim shook his head, then deliberately put his bread on his plate when he realized he had squeezed it into a wafer. "I don't want that."

Blair cleared his throat and looked toward the balcony window. "Maybe I do," he whispered.

Anger broiled up with him, but he savagely tamped down on it. "I don't want that," he repeated.

Blair looked back at him, staring into his face as if trying to read his soul. "I know."

"But..." Jim prompted.

Blair didn't answer him. He simply stood, took his plate to the sink and washed it.

"I'm not very good with words," Jim said, coming up behind his partner, but not touching him.

"I don't know that that's true. I've known you to be fairly elegant in your communication skills sometimes," Blair said, obviously trying to lighten the tone, but not turning to face him.

"Somehow, I keep making the same mistakes with you."

Jim watched his companion's shoulders sag briefly, before they straightened and Blair concentrated on drying his dishes. "Expressing your feelings are never wrong, Jim. You feel what you feel."

"So why don't I ever say what I feel?"

Blair shrugged, and put his plate in the cupboard.

"Fear based reactions," Jim whispered, then frowned when he saw Blair's shoulders sag even further.

Blair folded the dishtowel, leaving the glass and silverware in the drainer. "Night, Jim."

Jim wanted to catch Blair's eye but his partner refused to look at him as he made his way to his room. Jim closed his eyes and banged his head against the cupboards. Why couldn't he tell Blair how he felt?

//Only pansies talk about their feelings// He could hear his father's voice sear through his mind.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And where had this sage advice gotten William Ellison? Living by himself in a mansion that could easily house a half dozen people, estranged from his children and his ex-wife, only now beginning to realize the extent of everything he'd lost.

But the belief had been planted early on, making it a part of Jim's foundation, whether he liked it or not.

He had tried to demonstrate his feelings to Blair, tried to show him how much he cared; but Blair was an academic. He needed the words for the feelings to be true. He needed what Jim Ellison couldn't give him.

He turned as Blair opened his French doors and moved quietly into the bathroom.

Jim felt like they were on separate coasts, and Blair was boarding a boat and drifting even further away.

He had to do something, had to find a way to make Blair understand.

Without thought, he moved to the wall between the bathroom and Blair's room and waited. As soon as the door opened, he moved into Blair's path.

The younger man stopped when he became aware of Jim's presence. He looked up, but said nothing.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Blair seemed to study his face for a moment. He patted Jim's arm in a reassuring matter, then smiled sadly at him before he moved around him.

Jim turned and gently grabbed Blair's arm, knowing on some deep level that he couldn't let his partner walk away. Blair cocked an eyebrow at him, but remained silent. Jim tried again to speak, and again he couldn't push the words out of his throat.

"It's okay, Jim," Blair breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

Jim shook his head, knowing it wasn't and not wanting to pretend any more that it was. He took a deep breath, released it, and slowly brought Blair's square workmanlike hand up to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to Blair's knuckles.

Blair's mouth opened slowly in shock, but then shook his head.

And Jim knew, knew on an instinctual level, that lovers in the past hadn't given Blair the words he so desperately needed to hear, knew that they had used the lack of those words against him when things went bad, knew that Blair would never believe him until the words were spoken. Yet knowing all this, Jim couldn't force himself to speak the words.

As if understanding, Blair smiled gently at him. "I'm going to bed now."

And finally Jim knew exactly what to say. "Sure, no problem, man," he whispered, letting Blair move away, but not releasing his hand, letting their connection stretch between them.

Blair stopped and turned, his eyes wide.

Jim could feel a smile blossoming over his face. "I do, you know."

Blair swallowed hard. "It's not enough." And Jim knew that his partner wasn't talking about the love they shared, but about the words he had just given.

"I know," he whispered. "But is it enough to start?"

Blair hesitated for a moment, then looked shyly up at him and smiled. "Sure, no problem, man."

--End--

End Sure, No Problem, Man by Dolimir: Dolimir@aol.com

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