Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's disclaimer: This is not for profit, but for love. I don't own 'em, and wouldn't want to. D'you notice how much trouble they get into? I don't wanna be responsible for that! I just borrow them, instead.

who inspire me to keep on bashing away at this. = )

Eros Epistolary
by Brighid

The soft thump of the front door closing woke Jim from his fitful doze. His eyes flickered open to instant wakefulness, and he scanned the loft with his senses, stopping when he realized the sounds and scents of his Guide were resoundingly absent. After what had happened last night, he was unsurprised that Blair had bugged out before morning alarms. He knew with rueful certainty that trying to face each other over eggs and algae would have been beyond awkward. What does one say, after all, the morning after one's roommate tries to excavate one's tonsils? There was just no etiquette for that.

Still, after almost four years, Jim couldn't bring himself to regret the fact that he'd done it. He just wished it hadn't happened in the middle of a knock down, drag-out hollering match. He flipped over and sighed into his pillow. Forty years old, and he still hadn't learned the delicate art of timing.

He rested there a while longer, smacking his alarm scant seconds before it went off, then rolled out of bed in search of coffee. Today was definitely going to be a five-cup kind of day. Between fighting with Sandburg until almost two in the morning, and then listening to the younger man toss and turn the rest of the night, he'd definitely not gotten his beauty sleep.

The note was waiting for him, a square of the off-white recycled paper Blair used, taped to the coffeemaker. Jim fingered it warily, not sure if he wanted to read it. He still remembered the pink notepaper his mother had left in lieu of a proper good-bye, and the measured, exacting white stationary that detailed precisely why Carolyn thought a separation might be in order. He did not have a good track record with notes.

He peeled it off the machine, flicked the switch and walked over to the table. As the coffeemaker began to gurgle and the pungent fragrance of coffee filled the loft, Jim carefully unfolded the dull paper.

<DO NOT PANIC!!!!!>

Jim snorted at the over-sized, bold letters, hearing Blair's voice in each of the three words. He wondered if it was a Guide thing -- soothe first, reason later. Beneath the initial exclamation, the writing reverted to Blair's typical, spidery script.

<I am processing. I am not running away. I am not abandoning you. I'll check in with you, and once I get everything sorted around in my head, we have got to talk. Just, right now, it's too much.

Kick me the next time I call you repressed, okay?

Blair>

Jim carefully refolded the paper, then continued until it was a thinly pleated strip. As far as notes went, it wasn't that bad. It wasn't a brush off, it wasn't a 'Dear Jim' letter, and it didn't have the words 'dickhead' or 'asshole' in it. It was...a hopeful thing, Jim decided. The coffeemaker clicked into standby; Jim sighed and went for what promised to be the first of many cups.

Around about ten, Jim found himself wishing for a nice double-homicide or extortion ring or something. Anything would do, really, so long as it got him out of the precinct and working enough to stop thinking. And stop drinking break room coffee, he added as his stomach rolled a trifle queasily. He grunted in displeasure at the stack of manila folders and wondered if the damned things bred when he wasn't looking.

Another grunt and he pushed the stack aside, instead logging onto his computer. Halfway to the files he was supposed to be working on he paused, and opened his e-mail account instead. Three pieces of mail were waiting for him. The first was from a bookstore he'd made an inquiry with about two weeks ago; the case it concerned had been wrapped four days ago. The second was junk mail, some lame porn page in Asia somewhere. He shook his head at that one. Good to know the spam filters were doing their job.

The third one was from Blair.

He viewed it with quiet consternation. Like this morning, he didn't really want to open it. He hadn't had the same history with e-mails as he'd had with notes, but they were interchangeable, really, the same sort of thing, and Blair processing sometimes led to Blair pissed. He wondered if this was where the 'dickhead' and the 'asshole' or, worse yet, the 'good-bye' came in.

He opened up his senses to monitor the busy room, not wanting to share this with anyone, and clicked the open mail button.

Two words, this time.

<How long?>

No signature, no clever slogan or meaningful quote. Serious shit indeed, when Sandburg suppressed his sig file. Jim bit off a rather strangled laugh, and dared himself to say that three times fast. It was such a dangerous question, he mused, it had all sorts of possible implications. The truth...that risked far more than the kiss had. It called into question years worth of actions and motivations.

He hit the reply button, and stared for a moment before typing in his response. A heartbeat later he was sending it into the weird non-space where e-mails and old socks belonged. He hoped Sandburg's sense of humour was intact as he minimized but did not close the e-mail screen. He pretended to work on the assigned files, but really he was just waiting for the almost inaudible ping that would signal his Guide's response.

When it came, he was ready for it, didn't hesitate at all. This time Blair was a little wordier.

<Visualize the rude hand gesture of your choice, man.

Of course it's a fucking personal question, you dickhead. Just not in the way you meant by that lame burlesque wisecrack. Get new material, old man.

This whole thing is personal. You KISSED me, man, and while you may view me as some sort of liberal flake, I'll have you know I take kissing pretty damn personally. Especially since one minute you were yelling in my face and the next you had me pinned to the wall and were busy swallowing the above-mentioned face.

I thought we had a routine, man. You give me an order, some sort of "protect the G" shit, I disobey because I've got the whole "protect the S" imperative thing going on, we get home, you stomp and yell and act like you've got a burr up your ass for a week and then we move on.

You changed the rules, and didn't warn me, and that's just not fair, man.

Second chance, here, Jim.

Last chance, maybe.

How long?>

Jim minimized the screen again and stared blankly at the file in front of him. Nice to get the 'dickhead' out of the way, and since it was almost affectionate, he was again left with a feeling of hope. It was still an almost impossible question, but at least Blair was discussing, exploring. This had potential. This could, perhaps, be a good thing.

He went back to the e-mail screen. This time his response was one word, and deadly serious.

Forever.

Blair's return message was almost instantaneous, and to Jim's mind, disquietingly brief.

<That's a long time.>

Although he checked periodically the rest of the day, all the while accomplishing nothing more than pushing paper around and systematically destroying his kidneys with police station coffee, there were no further messages from Blair. The faint flicker of hope he'd harboured since morning disappeared almost completely by three. By five o'clock, the rest of the Major Crimes staff were avoiding his desk, and at six Simon came out and ordered him home before someone decided to fire a tranquilizer dart into his surly ass.

This time the note was on the bathroom mirror. Jim wiped sweaty palms on his jeans and wondered why the hell he going along with this, because it made him feel like he was fourteen all over again. Nobody should have to feel that way, ever. It was just too fucking cruel.

<STILL NO PANICKING!!!>

Jim sat down on the toilet-lid in weak-kneed relief. He fought an urge to kiss the notepaper. Bad enough to act like a fourteen-year old, worse still to act like a fourteen-year old girl. All the same, he brought it closer to his face, inhaling the faint traces of Blair's scent that lingered on the paper.

<Man, you don't know how to work up to stuff, do you? A few subtle hints, maybe a moonlit stroll ( and no, stakeouts don't count), a little wine and dinner...but with you just tonsil hockey and...

forever.

If it helps, I love you. Never thought of it in terms of swapping spit before, but realistically, that's about the only thing we haven't shared over the last four years. Hell, if we count the times CPR was involved, we've even shared that.

I never pictured you as being into guys, y'know? The fact that you've never once indicated you swung that way probably is a pretty huge fucking part of that. So what is it, Jim? Got a closet all the way into Narnia, or is this some funky manifestation of the whole S/G thing going on here? Or maybe, just a Jim and Blair thing?

Where did this come from? And where is it leading? What do you want from me?

Blair>

Jim stroked his fingers over the page, feeling all the little bumps and hollows of Blair's writing, and tried to string together the words his Guide needed. Time passed, the last of the daylight drifted into night, and he was still sitting on the toilet, trying to figure out what words he could use, what words would be right. Finally he rose, and wandered out to the phone.

It rang six times, and then Blair's campus voice-mail picked up. Jim swallowed three times, hard, trying to find enough spit to speak with. "Yeah, Chief, it's me. What you asked...man, yeah, there's a closet but not a deep one. Is it part of what we are? Shit, I don't know. Is it just us? Maybe. I don't have any easy answers. I just know that it was there, the first time you managed to push past all the walls I've built, and it's as natural as breathing to me now. Most of the time, I don't even really notice anymore, it's just--there. Where's it leading? Up to you, really. What do I want? I want you to come home. On your terms, with no conditions other than the fact I want you to think before you try to get yourself killed, and that you stop leaving algae crust in the blender. That's it Chief. And, ah, Blair...love you, too." He hung up before he gave in to the urge to use the erase option.

Dinner was considered and discarded; instead, he headed up and crawled into bed, and spent the next eight hours remembering exactly why Sandburg kept slipping him decaf.

He rolled into the office at 7:30, grabbed his second coffee of the day, and logged into his e-mail. There were four this time. He toasted two unopened, not really interested in pictures involving pets and household appliances or whatever the thrill of the week was, and opened the one from Blair immediately.

<Got your message, Jim. I'll be home tonight.

And I always wash out the blender. Asshole. : )

Yours, Blair>

His heart kicked over in his chest, and while he wanted to blame it on two days of low-sleep, high-caffeine, he knew what it really was. Blair was coming home.

Now what?

The apartment was quiet and still when he got home, and if it weren't for the quite thrum of Blair's heart, Jim would have suspected his Guide of backing out. He had hung up his coat and set down his keys before noticing the bright yellow of a post-it sticking to the doorframe.

<Come upstairs.>

He felt something move through him, sort of like the shock that comes from nylon carpeting meeting wool socks, but it was centered just below his navel and it left him dizzy in a way that static electricity never had nor ever would. He closed his eyes, let himself hear and smell Blair, used it to find his centre.

There was a second note, stuck to the wall at the foot of the stairs.

<I love you.>

Jim gripped the rail with slippery fingers, and climbed up to the loft on legs gone rubber. He paused when he hit the top, and just watched for the longest time as the last of the sun from the skylight cast his Guide in shades of rose and red-gold. He felt his breath hitch slightly at the sight, and a familiar, bittersweet ache lance through him.

"So," said Jim, and then all words just left him, deserted him, jumped ship. He opened his mouth a couple of times, ending up just sucking wind and making his mouth drier than it already was. "Aw, hell, Sandburg," he said at last, helplessly, and then did what he always did when he felt helpless. He acted on instinct. He growled low in his throat and crossed over to his supine Guide and did his level best to kiss the other man senseless.

He felt Blair's mouth curve in smile under his, felt him open up and swallow all the things unsaid between them in a rush of hot, wet kisses that threatened to unmake him, to strip any last shred of surety from his bones. He felt Blair's hands scrabbling against him, between them, tugging his shirt from his trousers, pulling it up over his head. In the momentary blindness when Blair tugged the older man's shirt out of their way, the Sentinel heard the echo of their panting breaths, the sharp, staccato rhythm of their pulses, and the low growl of need as Blair bit into his shoulder even before the blue turtleneck was completely off. He realized with sudden, heart-stopping wonder that this was real, this was happening, this was real and happening and he pulled Blair's mouth back up to his and kissed him fervently, worshipfully, even as he ripped open Blair's blue shirt and sent buttons flying all over the bed. A sudden, out-of-place scent made him pull back, made him look down. And then he fell back, off of his Guide, and began to laugh helplessly.

Blair had written, in some funky blue Day-Glo body paint, "Property of Jim Ellison" across his chest. He had even drawn a lopsided little heart and arrow poised roughly between his nipples. The "s" was backwards, but it was pretty impressive, all things considered. "What the fuck is that all about?" Jim managed to gasp at last.

Blair shrugged, rolling over onto his elbow, grinning down at Jim. "Well, I thought the whole 'note' thing was working pretty well, so I thought I'd, like, just go with it. Make sure you understood what my terms and conditions were and all," he explained, his voice rich and warm with laughter and arousal. "Let me tell you, finding fifteen minutes alone in the bathroom to do this was a bitch. I ended up taking my chair in and blocking the door."

Jim wiped his eyes, rolled onto his side so he was face to face with his Guide. "So, then, Picasso, what are your terms and conditions?" he asked, his voice little more than a breathy rasp. Blair's eyes drifted shut at the sound, and Jim watched as a slow shudder ran through him. He leaned forward, licked Jim's left nipple. "You," he breathed against it. He leaned in and licked the other nipple, lingering a little, taking advantage of the fact that Sentinel senses made for a hell of a lot more erogenous zones. "Me." He puffed the word softly, making the already taut nipple tense further. "Together," he said, tracing his tongue up Jim's sternum, along his jaw. "Love," he finished before gently swirling his tongue along the curve of Jim's ear.

"Sounds reasonable," Jim said hoarsely. "I'll accept," he ground out as Blair's mouth found it's way back to his. It appeared negotiations were more or less completed, and both sides had won.

Jim lay drowsily against Blair, curled over and around the younger man, enjoying the feel of Blair's fingers in his hair. He yawned, rubbed his face against Blair's chest, and suddenly realized that they were both wearing smudges and smears of brilliant blue body paint. "You know, I'm gonna be pissed about this when we get these things down to the laundry room, but right now I'm just sort of touched. Like Hallmark, only more personal," he said slowly, a bit sleepily. He felt Blair's laughter, a low rumble like distant thunder.

"You're very welcome. And it's a kid's product, so it washes out," his Guide replied.

"Mmmmm. So they say," Jim said darkly. "Still, I was sorta surprised by the sentiment and all. I never thought of you as a "property of" kind of guy. I mean, Naomi would seriously freak out. You're in bed with the 'pigs' and you called yourself property..." he trailed off as Blair smacked him soundly on the flank.

"You do not mention my mother in bed, unless you wanna go back to whacking off alone in the shower, man!" Blair ordered. "That is so not cool. Besides, I'm in the bed with one particular pig she actually likes, and the property thing goes both ways, man." Jim felt Blair press a soft kiss to the top of his head. "Soon as you're sleeping deep enough, I'm tattooing "Property of Blair Sandburg" on that tight ass of yours."

Jim roused at that, poked the younger man in the ribs, making him twitch and giggle. "Yeah, like you'd get that kind of drop on me, Mr. Stealth. You can't even get in the front door without waking me up. I spent a quarter of my life in the army, learning to sleep with one eye open. Try it and you'll be trussed up to the bed with your own sweat socks," Jim growled, continuing to tickle him until the smaller man was gasping for air and crying 'uncle'.

"How about if I just do it in hickeys, instead?" Blair offered at last, when he had his breath back. Jim cocked his head to the side, considering it.

"Yeah, maybe," he said at last, settling back in beside Blair, this time pulling his Guide over top of him. "It could be a plan," he said, kissing Blair's temple, closing his eyes.

For awhile they just lay together, slowly drifting, their breathing gradually falling into synch. Just on the edge of sleep, Blair jostled him slightly. "Yo, Jim?"

"Wha'?" he sighed, cracking one eye open to peer at his bedmate.

"You know that closet we discussed earlier?" Blair asked hesitantly, but with an edge of suppressed mischief in his tone. Jim nodded warily. "Well, I was just wondering what else was in there, y'know? I mean, you kept this," and he squirmed an arm free, made an all-encompassing hand gesture that took in the bed, the rumpled sheets and their naked bodies, "in there, so I was kinda wondering if you had any other surprises. Like, toys or restraints or leather and lace, y'know?" He sounded almost wistful. "I could really, really get with you in leather and lace, Big Guy," Blair said softly, breathlessly against Jim's shoulder, and Jim could feel the curve of Blair's smile against his skin.

He cracked the other eye open, and shook his head. "You are such a dick, Sandburg," he said lovingly, laughingly.

Blair pulled far enough back so that he could meet Jim's eyes, and there was laughter there, and something altogether deeper, wilder. "Yeah, but I'm your dick," he replied, and pulled Jim's hand under the sheet to prove it. All sleepiness deserted Jim at that, and he reached out and took what was offered him, and thought, fuck, they could always drive up into Seattle, or even further, up into Vancouver. Bound to be able to find leather and lace for someone his size, he could make room in the closet for that, now that he had finally gotten to airing the damned thing out. He sighed and fell headlong into kissing Blair, knowing his partner was marking him "Property of Blair Sandburg" from the inside out, and enjoying every minute of it, thank-you very much.

End Eros Epistolary.