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Part 1 of Loving You Less Than Life series by Kadru
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1999-05-03
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Loving You Less Than Life, Part I

Summary:

An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other. But they have other issues to work out first. Can they do it in time?

Chapter Text

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

Loving You Less Than Life

By Kadru

Author's homepage: http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html

Summary: An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other. But they have other issues to work out first. Can they do it in time?

Warnings: explicit m/m sex, extreme violence, language, death scenes (but not for our heroes - I couldn't bear that)

The usual disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Simon, Naomi and the guys belong to Pet Fly and UPN. I'm making no money, and if anything, these guys keep me distracted from my freelance job and are costing me money! :-) I, however, own Jack McClairy, as he is on loan from another project so he can get his sea legs. I have borrowed lyrics from Patsy Cline's "Crazy." So whoever has the rights to her song, the same disclaimer goes to you.

Summary: An angry convict returns to pay vengence on the Cascade PD, just as Blair and Jim come to grips with their attraction to each other. But they have other issues to work out first. Can they do it in time?

Warnings: explicit m/m sex, extreme violence, language, death scenes (but not for our heroes - I couldn't bear that)


Loving You Less Than Life -- part one
By Kadru

/I know everything about him,/ Jim thought. /I can read him like a book./ Blair walked past him in the kitchen, reaching for the kettle that had started to boil. He was trying to catch it before the whistle hurt Jim's ears. As Blair moved past, Jim could smell the shampoo, even the unscented deodorant he wore to help Jim's nose. Jim debated on telling the little genius that unscented deodorant still had a smell, but he preferred it to the heavy perfumed brand he wore before. Jim could smell the mint in his toothpaste, even the soapy smell of his laundered clothes. Above all those smells, Jim detected the familiar pheremones that he liked so well.

When he first detected pheremones on Blair, it rattled his cage, badly. He kept Blair at arm's length for several days, barking at him and leaving to run errands. Until he noticed it on two people who were obviously in love with each other. Theirs was a much stronger, headier musk. But Blair's was light, subtle. As Jim started to settle down, he began detecting a trace amount around Simon underneath all that cigar smoke, and around others who he considered his friends. Blair's body, if not his mouth, was saying that Jim was now one of his closest friends. He felt so touched, when he realized this, sitting at his desk, while Blair was at work at the university.

He must have been so obvious, sitting there with a dazed, dopey expression. Eventually, Simon's voice jarred him, "Hey, Jim! You okay, buddy?"

Jim looked up at him. "Yeah, I'm fine, sir."

"Good. I don't want you zoning when Sandburg's not here to pull you out."

That night, Jim made dinner for the both of them, as best he could. He had taken down one of Blair's Mexican cookbooks and tried to make salsa. He knew he could at least make nachos and cheese quesedillas without destroying the kitchen.

Blair walked in, set his laptop down along with three books. When he saw the kitchen, he couldn't help but laugh. /How can a man so anal trash a kitchen so thoroughly?/ "Jim, what are you doing?"

"Thought I'd make dinner for us tonight, Chief."

Blair walked into the kitchen, saw all the pots and pans laid out. "What are you making?"

"Trying to make a salsa, here." Jim's eyes were red. Blair could tell the smell of the onions and the sharp tang of cilantro must be affecting him. Jim was just as bothered by the slight tingle that he felt on his tongue from the jalapeno peppers. He hadn't even tasted them yet, but the smell was enough. He stopped chopping tomatoes when a new scent came to him, the one he liked so much. Blair. The subtle musk of his best friend. Jim turned his attention to Blair, and saw a light expression in his eyes. He dumped the tomatoes into a bowl with the other ingredients. "Here, test this. See if it'll be okay for me."

That night, they drank Coronas with fresh limes, watched a game on television, and afterwards, Jim let Blair get distracted by some show on the Travel Channel about native tribes somewhere. Jim didn't care. The smell of Blair was so comforting. He was saying, or at least his body was saying, that Jim was his best friend, and it wasn't verbal, which always made Jim feel uncomfortable. A few more beers and Jim would have given him a deep bear hug.

A few months later, though, the dreams began.

The first dream pulled him awake like a kick. He was lying in bed, feeling each thread of his cotton sheets. And there was something else, a scent. The smell of Sandburg. And warmth, a strange warm feeling of Blair's body heat rising from his skin. Then weight. Blair was on top of him, stretched out like a cat, the hair on his chest tickling Jim's bare skin. He could hear Blair's thick, curly hair scraping against his neck. And Jim's hands were all over him, squeezing the muscles of his rear, running his fingertips down his spine. Jim woke in a panic. Looking around, he realized he was alone in his bedroom. Searching, he found Blair, in the bathroom, could smell him, could hear him brushing his hair.

Jim rolled over on his back, not knowing what to think. He had just dreamed about lying in bed with another man, with Sandburg. And he remembered, in the dream, how much he liked it. Instantly he was embarrassed and uncomfortable. Maybe if he waited in his room long enough, Sandburg would leave, go to class or something. He just didn't know if he could face him.

"Hey, Jim!" Sandburg's voice startled him, more from discomfort than volume. "Wake up, man, or we'll be late."

/Late? Shit, Sandburg had the next few days off./ Jim rubbed his face with his hand. They'd be working all day at the station together. Jim rolled out of bed, waited for his erection to go down, then padded down the stairs in his boxers and bare feet, avoiding eye contact with Blair as he headed for the shower.

That day, he couldn't look Blair in the eye. He felt so awkward and self-conscious. He wasn't naive about it. He had had sex with men before, in the barracks. He knew that his memories from years ago were providing the details for his dreams. But that was a very long time ago, when he was a young kid with too many hormones and not enough outlets. Then it was a phase, for him at least. Something he had left behind. Something he outgrew. Something that wasn't supposed to come back. And behind it all, there was one man, one man he had hurt, badly, in a past experience he didn't want to repeat. Then there was Blair, whose adventures with women had become legend in the bullpen. He had to live with Blair, every day, maybe for the rest of his life. /This can't be happening again./ He couldn't be attracted to a straight man, his partner, his roommate. Every cell in his body freaked.

The next night, he was free of dreams, and the night after that. Jim thought it was over and done with and didn't think anything about it. Then, a week later, the second dream came, then another, and another.

After a while, Jim felt he had to talk to someone about it. Being attracted to Blair was one thing. Maybe if he worked through that, he would be free. And he wouldn't have to face something else, an event from his past that was even more personal. He made a call to his friend, Bill Oates, a psychiatrist whom Major Crimes used as a consultant on cases. Someone he felt he could trust with discretion. They met for lunch at a small restaurant far enough away from the station that the chance of other detectives being there would be slim. Even so, it wasn't until after lunch, when Jim still hadn't broached the subject, that Bill did it for him. "Okay, Jim, what's up? You didn't drag me this far away just for a Reuben."

Jim stared at him for a while. Bill was one of his closest friends, the same age as him. He had served in the Army for a few years before going to school for his degree. He had a sharp mind that Jim respected, and a stomach for the really mean cases.

"Come on, Jim, something's bothering you."

"Yeah." He was silent for a moment. "I just don't know how to begin."

"When did it first happen? What upset you first?"

Jim fidgeted with his hands before saying, "I keep having these dreams."

"What kind of dreams?" When Jim didn't answer, Bill offered, "Nightmares?"

"No, not quite."

"Well?"

"I keep having dreams . . . about sex."

"And this bothers you?" Bill said with a laugh.

"It's the person I keep dreaming about that bothers me."

"Let me guess. It's your partner." Watching Jim squirm uncomfortably in his seat told Bill he had the right answer.

"How did you--"

"I'm often amazed by how many times you detectives pull me aside to tell me these things."

"This happens to other guys?"

"Yeah." Bill took a sip of his coffee.

"Why?"

"Your partner's your best friend. The two of you face death together. Of course you'd start to dream about him this way." Bill could tell Jim still wasn't comforted. "Okay, Jim, tell me, do you have other dreams about him?"

"Well, yeah."

"Do these dreams bother you, too?"

"Sometimes."

"Describe them."

"Well, sometimes I dream that we're together, like a couple. Like I'm in the shower, and he's at the sink, shaving. Or we're buying stuff together."

"You like those dreams, don't you?"

Jim blushed, then fidgeted more with his hands.

"Jim, those dreams just say you love your partner."

"I knew it," he said, defeated.

"No, not like that. God, you cops kill me. He's your best friend. What's wrong with loving him?. . . Jim, if it makes you feel any better, it happens a lot to everyone, but I guess it only bothers men, because we think it's foolish to say we love another guy. But that's all it is. I mean, you do love the guy, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess so. But not in that way."

Bill just sighed. "Don't let the dreams bother you. In a way, Freud was right when he interpreted most dreams sexually, only in a different light. If our bodies can only think about sex, then that's all we have to talk with. Your brain is just using sexual images to portray what the heart feels."

Jim seemed to relax a little.

Bill added, "So, to paraphrase the great Gilda Radner, sometimes a penis is just a banana."


Marshal Aigle stared at the parole board in front of him. His face was a complete mask. He had taken so much and stuffed it inside his soul. Like the faces of the Cascade police who had grabbed him that night he had finished teaching his girl a lesson for trading her favors to his friends. He had beaten her pretty raw. He should have killed her, but something said she would keep quiet. He shouldn't have trusted that voice, the last time he ever listened to his conscience. And she had squealed to the cops, and they came for him, found his knuckles still blue. /Damn her. But damn them more, preaching over me about how to treat a woman, like any of those damn cops in their stiff suits know any better./ Then they kicked the shit out of him, and not a damn thing was done about that.

The prisoner stared at them with a mask . . . of peace. One he had cultivated while in prison, his only hope of getting parole early. While the guards smacked him around. While his fellow prisoners pushed him down on his knees to take their cocks in his mouth to suck, while he took it up the ass, he learned to fix that mask on so tight that no one could see how much hate and rage he had processed inside him. He would serve it all back, cold. /Force feed all those goddamn cops who treated me like shit for what was my god-given right./ He would take out as many cops as he could. And this time, he wouldn't get caught. He wouldn't get caught.

Each night, before his cell mate took his body and laid it across the bed to use, Marshall would read the Cascade newspapers to notice names of police officers. The name that came up the most -- Detective James Ellison. Major Crimes. Marshal outlined his attack. What he would need to do to take out the most cops before he would have to move on. He had to take it slow. He had to be careful. And he had to take the strongest, smartest cop out first. With each high-level cop down, the ones below him would be less likely to catch him.

As he heard the parole board grant his parole, Marshal first ran his hands over his short, cropped black hair, then over this black eyes, to the small goatee and mustache that colored his pale white face. Yes, he was free. The hunt would begin. And the entire time, his expression of serenity remained.


Winter came through Cascade. At one point, in the middle of the night, Jim woke up because something had keyed up his hearing. Maybe it was the wind. He crawled out of bed -- the apartment was a little chilly, but he didn't mind. Walking over to the window, he watched for the wind outside, trying to pick up little clues about it. He remembered Blair reading to him a passage from a book, he couldn't remember the title, where some guy had claimed that if you looked hard enough, you could see the wind -- by seeing the particles of dust being blown about. It had excited Blair, because it meant maybe Jim could tell wind direction by sight alone. Jim thought it was a little much. But standing there, in the middle of the night, he stared down at the street below, trying to pick out leaves and trash in the city lights.

Just as he had picked out the wind swirling in an eddy, something distracted him. A smell. A very strong, musky smell. Turning to catch a better whiff, Jim recognized it as Blair, as Blair's pheremones, but it wasn't the same, subtle scent of friendship. It was much stronger. It was lust. But Jim didn't remember hearing Blair bring in a girl. Surely he would have sensed that.

The thought that someone could have entered his loft without him noticing it unnerved him. He had to check this out. He walked toward the stairs, listening. Blair's heartbeat was quick, as was his breathing. But he couldn't hear the bed creak, not as much as he would have expected. And there was only a slight rustle of sheets. Crossing the room, his ears picking up every little sound, he stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Blair's voice whisper, "Jim."

Jim wasn't sure how long he stood there, by the couch. The realization struck him full force. Sandburg was having a dream, a sex dream, about him. His partner. Jim couldn't help but smile, thinking of Bill Oates' advice. Blair loved him, too. Blair loved him. His best friend loved him. Grinning, shaking his head a little as he walked up the stairs, Jim felt more alive than he had in a long time. He felt . . . validated . . . to use one of Blair's words. He felt valued, wanted. Jim slipped easily into a comfortable sleep.

The next morning though, it was very obvious that Sandburg was uncomfortable. He wouldn't make eye contact. He remained silent. In the kitchen, he twisted his body in awkward contortions to avoid brushing up against Jim. Jim couldn't help but smile, wondering if he was that obvious when he first dreamed about Blair. Still, he was so happy, he wanted to run off with his guide, to go hiking, or maybe a ball game, something with his buddy. When he patted him on the shoulder, Jim felt Blair's muscles jerk under his skin, and the sharp smell of adrenalin. Blair was afraid. Blair was not handling this. Suddenly, Jim felt a wave of pity. He had been there, and not that long ago. He gave Blair the space he needed to sort out his thoughts, and eventually, things returned to normal.

From December, into January, the holiday season relaxed them both. Jim wasn't much for Christmas, but he liked seeing Blair light his menorah, liked knowing that Blair was sharing it with him. He went with Blair to a holiday function at the university. They were best friends again. And although he could still sense when Blair had a dream about him, he kept it to himself, as he was having them, too.

The winter was good for them. They spent most nights together, watching games, drinking beers. He endured Sandburg's constant ramblings, and Blair endured Jim's silences and moods. Jim's conscious felt comfortable with his dreams, but his subconscious was only flamed by the knowledge that Blair was dreaming of him, too. Each night, Jim's dreams became more detailed, more passionate. And each morning, he found it harder and harder not to take Blair into his arms and cover him. At his desk in the bullpen while Blair was away teaching, Jim found himself obsessed with Blair's not being there. Then a face would appear in his memory, a face he had destroyed years and years ago, when he was young and naive. Could he make that face appear on Blair one day? Hurt him just as badly? Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he grabbed for the rationalization that he chanted daily -- Bill Oates' advice, that he just loved Blair as a friend, and this was what it was like -- a deep friendship like theirs. No sex. No pain.


Marshal called on his first contact to obtain supplies. He needed some sort of distraction. He had to find which officer was Jim Ellison. Had to see him. Then he would follow him, track him down. He would get him first.

He needed a rifle, with a scope. He had to take him out from a distance. But this cop was good. No other sniper had ever come near him. He would have to play his cards close and mean, and he wouldn't get many opportunities. He at least had surprise in his favor.


Then, in March, Jim noticed a change in mood in Blair. It wasn't a smell, or a sound, it was a personality change, something that Jim wasn't too sure about. He seemed happier, more energetic, if that was possible. Jim assumed that Blair was figuring out their friendship, too, and thought nothing more about it, but he did notice that Blair was out more often. He could smell cologne and cigarettes, guessed that he was hanging out with guys his own age. /Wanting to prove himself, maybe./

One Saturday, Blair was in his room, getting dressed for a date. Jim opened a beer, and settled down on the sofa for a night of tv when he heard a knock at the door. As Jim crossed the floor, he could smell cologne instead of perfume, knew it was a man before he even opened it. On the other side of the door, though, was a tall man, Jim's height, with dark, tanned skin, light green eyes, sunburned, reddish-brown hair that hung in waves, brushed behind his ears, to his shoulders. He was older than Blair, but younger than Jim. His build was muscled but lean, like Blair. "Hi," he said in a noticeable Australian accent. "You must be Jim."

"Yeah."

"Blair's told me a lot about you." He held out his hand, "I'm Jack McClairy." His handshake was firm, and his hands were rough. "Is Blair ready?"

"Almost." Jim was a little flustered, and he didn't know why. "Come in. Hey, Blair!"

"What?"

"Jack's here."

"Jack!" Blair stumbled out of the bathroom. His jeans were tight, and the tails of his flannel shirt were still hanging out from under the rim of his wool sweater. "I wasn't expecting you for a while."

Then Jim sensed it. Pheremones. Heavier than he had ever smelled from Blair. And another scent, coming from Jack. He stood there between them, in a daze, his mouth open as he realized what he was sensing. And Blair realized it. The sharp tang of fear came into Jim's nose, and he turned to Blair, who was obviously rattled, tying his shoes in a rapid pace and grabbing his coat. "Come on, Jack, I don't want to be late."

"Nonsense. I got here early. We've got plenty of time." Then he turned to Jim. "Blair says you were in Peru for a while."

"Uh . . . yeah."

"I just got back from a few months in Guyana. I'd love to sit down and swap stories."

"Sure."

Blair interrupted, pulling Jack by the elbow. "Maybe later. Let's go."

Jim's mind was racing, and he noticed Blair more than anything else. He was just moments away from a panic attack, his heartbeat racing, his breath stopping short. /Don't fuck this up, Jim. He's your best friend. You're here to protect him. Protect him, Jim!/ Just as they were about to leave, Jim called out, "Hey, Chief!" Blair turned around with a look of panic in his eyes. "Have a good time." Then he smiled.

Blair stared at him for a few seconds, and his heart beat slowed down a little. "Sure." He continued to look into Jim's blue eyes, and he noticed, if Jim didn't, the way his mouth would turn down slightly in a closed smile when he was trying to hide an insult that stung. "Uhm, Jim, we'll talk about it when I get back."

Jim just shrugged, good naturedly. "If you want." Jim turned and walked back to the couch, not watching as Blair closed the door behind him.

That night, Jim watched the players move the ball from one net to the next, not even registering each score. The volume was down, as usual -- the high-pitched squeak of rubber soles against the basketball court always made him wince. Tonight, his mind was too far away. /So, Sandburg's gay./ He at first thought Blair was gay when he first met him, but Sandburg's constant parade of women convinced him otherwise. /And he's having sex with Jack./ Jim was bothered, upset. He knew it. /But why?/ He and Sandburg weren't a couple. They were best friends. He always thought Blair was capable of loving another guy, since he first met him. Blair could sleep with anyone he wanted to. Still, Jim was upset. /Maybe I'm jealous. I mean, I know he dreams of sleeping with me./ He wasn't used to searching his feelings -- felt lost. "I need my guide," he said out loud, as a joke.

Then it wasn't funny. Jim realized what was wrong. His feelings were hurt.

Now Jim started pacing. /Why? Why are my feelings hurt? Because Blair didn't tell me? Blair never tells me about his dates -- I just always find out, like now. So what, what was the problem here? Am I jealous?/ Jim took a heavy gulp of beer. He was jealous. /Of what?/ Blair was still his best friend. /Or was he? Why didn't he tell me? It was so obvious he loved this guy. I thought he saw me as his best friend. Didn't he trust me?/ Still, Jim didn't feel sure about his ramblings. He avoided one spot, an area he wasn't brave enough to touch, that he was in love with Blair, really in love with Blair /like last time/ and that it hurt to see him with another man. A woman, yes, that didn't bother him. But if Blair wanted another man, what was wrong with him? He was having dreams about him. He knew that. /What was wrong with me?/

Sandburg didn't come home that night. Jim was glad of it, because he wasn't sure what he wanted to say yet. It wasn't until Sunday, as Jim was making himself a quick dinner, that Blair walked in, cautiously. "Jim?" he whispered, in a voice only the sentinel could hear.

"I'm in the kitchen."

"Oh." Blair stepped closer, unsure.

"I'm making a grilled cheese sandwich. You want one?"

"Sure." Blair sat down at the table, and Jim handed him a plate with the sandwich he had just fixed for himself. As he began making another sandwich, Sandburg watched him, trying to think of what to say. Finally, he tried, "I guess you know what's going on."

Jim didn't answer at first. He listened to the spatter of butter in the frying pan. Smelled the different brand of shampoo that he must have borrowed from Jack. "Chief, I guess I should have told you this earlier. I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable around me."

Blair's mind started to race. "What?"

"I . . . I can't just turn my senses off completely around you. I can hear your heart rate, blood pressure, that sort of thing."

"I know that."

"And I can smell things, too."

"Yeah, you've told me that."

"Chief, I can smell your pheremones."

"Oh. I guess I didn't think about that."

Jim flipped the sandwich over to brown on the other side. "I just didn't want you to feel too uncomfortable around me. I wanted to give you some sense of privacy." Jim handed Blair a beer, transfered his sandwich to a plate, then sat down beside him at the table. To break the silence, Jim said, "So, you like Jack?"

"I, like, guess you would know." Blair's voice was a little sharp.

"Chief, I'm sorry. It's something I can't help." His tone of voice was new to Blair, almost vulnerable. Blair's chest tightened a little, with both guilt and some love. And Jim could sense it, the smell of his friendship, only this time, it was a little bittersweet.

"Yeah," Blair began, "I like him. Does that bother you? Do you want me to move out?"

"Oh, Chief, give me a little credit. I'm not some nazi. You're my best friend, for God's sake." Blair didn't say anything, still looking a little sheepish. "I just wish you had told me."

"I didn't know how to bring it up. I thought you would throw me out. I mean, you don't seem that comfortable around that kind of stuff, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't really like gay people."

"I thought you were gay, when we first met."

"Me? Why?"

"The long hair, the earrings. The nipple ring."

"Jim. Come on."

"What? I was right, wasn't I?"

"For one, that's a stereotype. And for another, I'm . . . bi . . . I guess."

"I don't care if you're bi or not. That's not the point."

"And what is?"

"The point, Chief, is that I thought you were gay at first and I was fine with it then. I'm still fine with it."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." His temper was starting to show, and Jim wasn't sure why.

"Okay, okay, big guy. Just checking."

"And what's with the 'I guess I'm bi' stuff?"

Blair didn't answer at first. "Jim, I . . ."

"What? Spit it out."

"Jack's the first guy I've ever been with."

Jim felt his heart wrench, hard. "Huh?"

"I know. I know. It just . . . happened one day. I started having these dreams and--"

"Dreams?" Jim had to force his tongue to work, to get the word out.

"Yeah. I kept having dreams about . . . a guy . . ."

"What guy?"

"Just some guy. You wouldn't know him."

Jim accepted the lie, if only to keep the conversation going, even if the only thing he could feel was a crushing sensation in his lungs. "So what happened?"

"I don't know. I just couldn't stop thinking about it. So finally I just said, 'Blair, you're an adult. Go do something about it. Give it a try. Just once. Then freak out if it's something you like.'"

"Are you . . . freaking out?"

Blair forced back a sudden laugh, then admitted, "Yeah."

"This Jack guy, is he the one you were dreaming about?" Jim asked.

"No."

"Why didn't you ask the guy you were dreaming about."

Blair looked at him hard, as if he could tell Jim was leading him. "Because he's straight, and it would ruin what friendship we've been able to develop."

Jim swallowed hard After a few bites, he asked, "So this Jack guy, you like him?"

Blair drank from the beer bottle, then answered, "Yeah. I really do."

"What does he do?"

"He's an anthropologist. He's been everywhere. He's done everything."

"What's he doing here?"

"He lectures sometimes at U-Dubb. We met at a lecture."

"And you . . . like this."

Blair dropped his face in his hands. "Oh, God, Jim, I don't know what to do." His confusion was real; Jim could smell it. Even knowing that Blair was attracted to this other guy, Jim could feel this pulling in his chest to wrap his arms around Blair, to comfort him. To claim him. But he couldn't. Couldn't step in when Blair was confused. Couldn't step in to take Blair from Jack. Couldn't risk that, again. Not after what he had done, years and years ago. The realization of it, of this memory that he wanted to forget, kept him still as he watch Blair. "I've never done anything like this before. And I was so afraid you'd freak out about this."

"Jack seems like a good guy."

"I think you'd like him."

"So," Jim said, finishing off his sandwich, not wanting to hear any more of it, "when do I get to swap jungle stories with him?"

"You really want to get together with . . . us?"

Jim stood over the sink for a moment, then answered, "Yeah, I guess." He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, could only feel his fingers gripping the edge of the sink. Blair took him by surprise by touching his shoulder.

"Thanks, Jim, for being cool about this. You don't know how much this means to me."

Jim pulled his head back, wanting to scream into the ceiling, but he stopped short. Even so, Blair recognized Jim's tight lips and strained chin, and he pulled his hand away.


Even after meeting Jack, and having drinks with him, Jim wasn't comforted. In fact, watching Blair and Jack together started hurting even more. He couldn't help it. Jack was unforgivably . . . perfect. He was sincerely interested in Jim's trips to Peru. And when he asked questions in that incredibly charming Australian accent, they were so specific, and practical, that Jim felt very comfortable answering them. Jack made him feel like an expert on the subject of Peru, and Blair, God help him, made him feel like a test subject. Then Jack would start to explain something about a tribe he had come across, and in telling the story, he started to include Jim in it, asking his opinion, before spouting into interpretation the way Blair did. Not to mention that he was so handsome, with his sharp green eyes and angled face, the tanned skin of a well-traveled soul. If Jim wasn't more careful, he was going to fall in love, too.

And just when he would think that, Jack would turn to Blair, and say something so kind, and passionate, that Blair would melt into a quivering heap of puppy eyes and smiles. And each time that happened, Jim felt the most bitter pain in his heart, the same pain he had felt when Carolyn left him. The same bitter pain that forced him to repress that one ugly time, when he had turned love down because he was a coward. Jim began to bow out of more and more nights with them.

Then, one night, Jim came back home when a stake-out had been called off. He didn't think to call the loft to see if Sandburg was there, but as he climbed the steps, he caught a wiff of Jack's cologne. Jim stood there, before the door, listening with his sentinel hearing.

"So, love," he heard Jack's intoxicating voice, "when does Jim get back?"

"He's on a stake-out. I don't expect him back until late."

"Good." Then Jim heard the zing of Blair's hair in Jack's rough hands. "I can't keep my hands off your hair."

"Jim wants me to cut it short."

"He's a fool, love. If he ever puts his face back here, behind your neck," the voice grew muffled, so Jim had to strain, "he would know how good this feels." Jim heard Jack kiss Blair on the neck. "All this hair brushing on your face. Mmmm." The scent of pheremones covered Jack's cologne, and their heartbeats were like thunder, followed by the loud rasp of their clothes against the sofa as they twisted together, kissing hard enough for Jim to hear. There was a rustle of cloth, then the hush of skin against skin. "Oh, love, your chest. I can't get enough of it. The hair. And the smooth skin here." Jim heard his finger brush against Blair's skin, and the gasp of his breath.

"Not there. I'm ticklish there."

"Oh, I know, love, I know."

"Stop it, Jack!" He heard peals of laughter from both of them and the jostling of their bodies. It was only the sharp ache in Jim's chest that kept him from zoning out. "Please!" Then Jim heard the pop of the buttons on someone's jeans, and then the zipper of another's. He heard their clothes fall on a heap. "Jim would be pissed that we didn't pick up our clothes. House rules."

"I think he'd be more pissed that I laid you on his sofa. Come on." Jim heard them stand. "Let's go to your bed." Their naked feet padded on the wooden floor, followed by the heavy creak of Blair's bed. Jim didn't want to listen anymore, to the suction of their kiss and to Blair's cries as Jack sucked on his cock. He tried to distract himself, think about the happiness for his friend, but he couldn't stand it. He wanted Blair, he wanted to hear those sounds coming from his guide because he was the one doing it. Pulling himself up from this envy, he heard Jack's voice again, as soothing as Blair's had ever been.

"Relax, love, relax. It's just my finger." Then a dry kiss on Blair's neck. "Only a finger. Can you feel it? Does it hurt? Just relax, I don't want this to hurt. I'd never hurt you, love. . . . Do you feel that?" Blair let out a sharp moan. "There it is. There's the button. Mmmmm. Relax, baby. There, it's another finger. I'll go slow. In it goes. In. Out. Oh, love, relax, feel how good it feels. Mmmm." Another dry kiss. Jim could hear Blair squirming on the mattress. "And here's another finger. Okay? Are you okay? Good, baby, good. Feels so good. In. Out. In. Out."

"Jack!"

"Tell me when you're ready. When it doesn't hurt any more."

"I'm ready."

"Are you sure?"

"I want to feel you, Jack. . . . inside me."

"Okay, love. Here, use your fingers on yourself while I slip on a rubber. Okay? Keep it relaxed." Jim heard the tear of the foil, then a moment of silence. "Okay, you ready, love?"

"God, yes."

"Roll over on your side, love. That's it. Lift up your leg. Good. Can you feel it? I'm going to push a little. You just push out. That's it."

"Jack!"

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"Feel's good."

"Here it comes, a little more."

"Jack! Jack! Jack!"

"I'm going slow. Here, push back on me."

"Oh yes!"

"Love, you're so tight. So tight. It feels like heaven."

"Jack, I love you, so much."

"I love you, babe. Love you so much."

Jim couldn't take it anymore. He found himself bolting away from the door, into the street, scrambling into his truck. Once inside, he pounded his head against the steering wheel, until he felt the taps on his leg, of his tears. Touching his face, he felt how wet his cheeks were, and that he was crying hard, sobbing. "God damn it," he moaned softly to himself. "Oh, god damn it."


Marshal carefully began assembling the bomb. Just a small one. Enough to get the city's attention. And to avoid the mistakes that the others had made when building a bomb, he kept it simple. To items that anyone could purchase. And when an item was controlled, when the store required receipts, Marshal would get them black-market.


Continued in part two.