Work Text:
You Live In My Heart
by Aramae
Author's disclaimer: Not my characters. Not my TV series. Just having fun. Thank you to all those who hold the real copyrights!
remaining mistakes, typos, etc, are all my fault. I've never posted by myself on this list, hope it comes out right!
You Live In My Heart
by Aramae
[email protected]
The rainy skies had cleared a little by the time Jim Ellison emerged from the supermarket, enough so that he only got mildly wet on the dash to his truck. He navigated carefully through crowded traffic on the slick streets, patiently weaving past moms in mini-vans and early rush-hour commuters, tapping his fingers to the music on the oldies radio station. He'd left work early for a change, and with the fresh pasta, tomatoes and garlic he'd just bought, he planned to whip up a nice dinner before Blair came home from the university.
Dinner by candlelight. Maybe, if he was really lucky, he could persuade Blair to eat nude. They'd done that twice before, with spectacular results. Nude or clothed, they'd start with a little footsie under the table. A few hours of leisurely foreplay would follow. Jim loved foreplay, loved exciting Blair inch by inch and being similarly aroused until the simmering heat between them exploded like a napalm bomb. He enjoyed the afterglow, too, the sweet drifting of senses and thoughts into a tangle of impressions. Blair sometimes liked to read afterward, propped up in bed with pillows and a small booklight, and Jim would snuggle up against his side with occasional licking and nuzzling of his partner's sweet, sweat-dampened skin.
His head full of erotic images, Jim managed to speed up his journey home without driving dangerously. When he pulled into the lot behind 852 Prospect, he saw Blair's car parked in its regular spot. Maybe his lover was already waiting upstairs, decked out in one of his many seductive outfits. He had an old leather gunbelt, genuine cowboy boots and red bandanna that always triggered some of Jim's more exotic Wild West fantasies. Or maybe the hippie outfit - they'd gone through three tie-dye shirts since Christmas, each one shredded in passion, and Blair's vintage bellbottoms now sported some interesting stains. The Star Trek uniform didn't do much for Jim, personally, but Blair got a kick out of dressing up like Kirk and issuing orders from the armchair . . .
The sky opened up again with torrents of cold sleeting rain. Jim decided he'd have a much better time upstairs than in the truck. He sprinted with his groceries into the back hall. He shivered as the old elevator creaked and groaned its way to the third floor. The loft was silent and dim as he let himself in - no Ecuadorian tribal music blasting from the stereo, no blue glow of a laptop computer, not even a peep from the television.
An easily recognizable lump on the sofa stirred. "Jim?"
"Yeah, it's me." Jim put his wet sack on the counter and went to peer down at his lover. "You okay?"
Blair nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Just beat."
Blair's complexion looked gray in the fading afternoon light, and tiny lines marked the corners of his eyes. His long hair curled loosely against the blue pillowcase. He wore only his jeans, a sweatshirt and socks, probably not enough to keep him warm in the afternoon chill. Jim put his hand on his lover's forehead, testing for fever, and Blair managed a tolerant smile.
"I'm not sick," he said. "It was just one of those days at the office, you know?"
"I know," Jim answered. "You got a headache?"
"Little one," the younger man admitted.
Jim's hand moved down to the flat plane of Blair's stomach. "Bellyache?"
"No," Blair said. He caught Jim's hand and kissed the back of it. "I'm fine. No flu, no food poisoning, no appendicitis, no migraine, no meningitis, nothing to worry about."
"Want some aspirin?"
A slight hesitation. "Nah. You know me. I'll just tough it out."
"Well, tough guy, you just do that. I'm going to make dinner. You want the light on?"
Blair closed his eyes. "No. No lights."
Jim pulled a heavy blanket from the closet and tucked it carefully around Blair. Just the protective act of keeping his Guide warm made him feel better. He kept his sexual disappointment to himself - there would be plenty of other times for lovemaking, or so he hoped. Tonight's job would be to take care of Blair, a responsibility Jim took quite seriously. Sometimes the younger man got run down between all of his responsibilities and pressures, and the last thing Jim wanted was to see Blair come down with a cold or more serious illness.
Sleet belted against the balcony doors, and he double checked the lock to keep them from blasting open. He notched up the thermostat a few degrees, changed from his street clothes into clean sweats, and began the relaxing routine of chopping and simmering and boiling. Although Jim wanted to turn on the TV for the news, he settled for the small radio in the kitchen and turned it to such an absurdly low level that no one but a Sentinel would hear it.
In thick socks he padded quietly from the sink to the stove and back again. He kept the lights in the kitchen off - his eyesight easily exploited the illumination of the gas flames, and he actually liked working in the dimness. As he reached for oregano his hand brushed against a half-dozen small boxes in the cabinet.
"Blair?" he asked.
"Hmmm?"
"You want some tea? I know one of these is good for headaches, but I forget which box."
"Umm . . . the blue one. It's got valerian and skullcap and passionflower. That would be nice."
Jim found the appropriate tea and set the kettle on to boil. He tasted his sauce, adding a pinch more garlic and stirred thoroughly. "Are you going to eat some of this?"
"Not now. Maybe in a little while."
Several minutes later Jim loaded his dinner and Blair's tea on a tray and brought both into the living area. Evening had settled across the city, and glittering skyscrapers pushed up into the storm clouds. The distant glow lit some of the living area, but left most details in shadow. Rain continued to drum steadily against the French doors and high windows. Heat poured out of the radiators, keeping the loft toasty warm. Blair eased himself up into the corner of the sofa, knees to his chest, the blanket wrapped around him, and sipped from the mug Jim handed him.
"That smells good," Blair said, glancing at Jim's plate.
Jim started to rise. "I'll get you some."
"No, I'm not hungry yet. I like watching you eat."
"You do, huh?" Resuming his cross-legged position on the floor, Jim twirled pasta around his fork. He teased, "Why? Don't tell me I have pre-civilized-man eating habits."
"No," Blair smiled. "I like watching you eat because I don't like seeing you hungry. I like my Sentinels strong and satisfied and well-fed."
"So do I."
They talked a little about the guys in the bullpen - Rafe's car being stolen, Henri growing a goatee, Simon's new girlfriend. Blair offered up details of his day, including a disagreement with a student who'd smoked too much dope before class. Mostly they sat companionably in the dark while Jim ate and Blair drank his tea. When Jim finished, he put the plates in the sink and cleared the counters. He resisted the urge to do the dishes and instead turned his attention to his lover.
"Want a fire?"
Blair curled up loosely on the cushions. "Sure."
When the logs had settled into a cheery blaze, Jim sat at the end of the sofa and touched Blair's feet. "I heard there are acupressure points on the feet that can relieve a headache."
"You heard that from me," Blair reminded him.
"You want me to try?"
Blair rolled on to his back and stretched. "I'll give you a dollar," he offered.
"For you, it'll only cost a quarter." Jim located the spots near Blair's big toes easily, and he applied gentle pressure while keeping a close eye on his lover's face. The anthropologist sighed happily and closed his eyes, but the tension remained. Jim started massaging both feet, his strong fingers working through the thick socks Blair wore almost every day in winter.
"You've always been really good at this," Blair murmured. "You ever want to give up being a cop, you could be a massage therapist."
Jim's nose wrinkled at the thought of unfamiliar, unwashed bodies beneath his hands. "The only person I want to massage is you."
"I can live with that, too." Blair shifted on the cushions, obviously making himself more comfortable. He sighed, and his toes wriggled in Jim's lap.
"You're really good to me," Blair murmured some time later. "Sam . . . she hated even touching my feet. She used to wear socks to bed. Christine thought all feet harbored fungus. What is it with women and feet?"
"Not all women, Chief," Jim said. "Carolyn liked for me to give her foot massages, too."
"Did you do it for her a lot?"
"Every couple of weeks, maybe."
"On this sofa?"
Jim wondered if that was jealousy he heard under the casual curiosity. "Sometimes," he admitted.
A brief pause. Finally, "Did you like it?"
"I like this better," Jim said. "I love you more than I ever loved Carolyn. She'll always have a place in my heart . . . but you live there all the time."
Blair smiled and opened his eyes. "Thanks."
"It's the truth," Jim said.
"I wish this headache would go away," Blair said. "I want to take you upstairs and make love to you a dozen different ways."
"There's always tomorrow, Chief. Your head hurt bad?"
"It's better than it was."
"Just close your eyes and relax," Jim instructed. "Guided imagery, how's that? Let the pain flow away. Just like water going downhill. Off it goes . . . "
Jim turned some of his Guide's favorite tricks and images back on him, keeping up the steady foot massage even though his fingers had started to tire. Blair's body loosened and sprawled beneath the blanket, and the little lines around his eyes eased away. Jim loved looking at him, loved following the lines of his jaw and nose and forehead, loved gazing at him until his heart felt ready to overflow with love. He meant what he had told Blair. Carolyn had been his wife and partner. For a brief time, they had shared their lives and bed and future. But that had ended, leaving Jim convinced he was totally incapable of sustaining a long-term relationship.
Blair had proven him wrong. Funny, smart, adorable Blair, who'd worked his way into Jim's job, into the loft, into his bed. With infinite patience, steady seduction and that sexy-as-hell grin, he'd pole-vaulted over every single defense Jim could raise against a homosexual relationship.
"I'm not gay," he would say between deep, wet kisses.
"Shut up," Blair would say back.
Jim's life had changed, fundamentally and irrevocably, from the very first day Blair burst into his life. Looking back, he'd have it no other way.
"Jim," Blair murmured now, his voice soft and dreamy. He was already half-asleep.
"Yeah, Chief?"
"You live in my heart, too."
"I'm glad," Jim said, smiling. He sat in the darkness, enjoying the lights of Cascade and the reassuring drum of rain, so very happy to be indoors and dry and warm, so very content to be with his lover in any way possible.
End You Live In My Heart.