Beyond The Thin Blue Line
Authors' disclaimer: Not ours, all theirs...
Authors' notes: When cliche's collide. Thanks Miriam for the beta.
The third blow connected, and he reeled backwards, smashing his skull into the brick wall. The alley went darkbrightdark. His head lolled back as a hand grabbed him by the collar, jerking him up as his knees buckled. And then the hand released him and he sank to the ground, dimly aware of a rough voice, of muttered obscenities. Fucking queer. Fucking cunt. Filthy whore.
The first thing he was conscious of was the rasp of concrete underneath his face. There were more hands on him, now, but these were gripping him tightly, turning him over. "Shit, it's the new kid," a voice said. "Kid, are you all right?"
"Yeah," he managed, conscious of the fact that it was a stupid thing to say. He wasn't all right — his head throbbed like a motherfucker, there was blood in his eyes.
"Do you know where you are?" a second voice said.
He fumbled to sit up, hands scraping the asphalt. On the ground, he thought. I'm on the ground.
"Yeah," he said, having attained a sitting position. He raised his hands to his throbbing face and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Things came into focus, though they were still on the fuzzy side, like a television screen where the contrast was off.
Two guys were kneeling over him. "Do you know who you are?" one said as he knotted pale hands into his jacket and tried to pull him to his feet. "Man, what happened?"
"Blair." He tried to get his feet under him, failed. "I'm Blair. Someone punched me."
"Goddammit. What'd they get?"
Blair felt vaguely at the pockets of his ripped jeans, then patted his nylon jacket and his shirt. Empty. "Everything, I guess," he guessed.
"Goddammit," the guy repeated. "Well, you won't be making any money tonight. No offense, kid, but nobody's gonna want to fuck you looking like that."
"Curt's right," the other man chimed in. "And if they do, you don't want to fuck them."
Blair was hauled to his feet, but standing up was difficult — he clutched at Curt's shiny satin jacket, wishing the world would stop spinning. "Oh, man — you are in sorry-ass shape," Curt muttered. "You got a place to crash?"
"I've seen him over on 4th Street," the other man said, sparing him the necessity of answering. "I think he's sleeping at Deke's."
"You got the time to bring him over there?" Curt asked.
The other guy groaned. "Time is money, man."
"Well, we can't leave him here, can we? Aside from the hu-man-i-tar-i-an aspect," Curt added wryly, "there's practicalities to consider. We leave him here and the cops are gonna be all over him — and then nobody's working tonight."
"Yeah, right — I get that," the other guy said. "But you could take him to 4th Street."
"I've got an appointment."
"Oh — Mr. Fucking Big Shot."
"Fuck you, Byron. Come on — take him." Curt passed him over to Byron like a sack of potatoes. Byron's tight red spandex shirt was slippery; he couldn't seem to get a grip. Fortunately, Byron shouldered his weight, and Blair leaned gratefully into him.
"All right, kiddo," Byron said, with a grin. "Night-night for you."
"Thanks, man," Blair said. The warmth of Byron's body made him suddenly aware he was chilled through and through.
"Good luck with your fucking appointment, guy," Byron called to Curt.
"Fuck you," Curt's voice drifted back, already dim and far away.
Deke's crib was up two flights of rickety stairs. He'd done pretty well on the walk over, but the stairs — man, they were killer. By the last few steps of the second flight he was clinging to Byron's neck, certain he was going to lose what was left of his footing and topple assbackward.
But Byron hauled him out of the stairwell, and got him firmly balanced on his battered red Keds. And after that it was only a few steps down the hallway to 3B, and then a few more beyond that to one of the bare mattresses on the floor.
Blair lay sprawled on the mattress while Byron rummaged through an old wooden dresser. And then Byron disappeared into the bathroom for a few moments, finally returning to Blair's side with a glass of tap water and three aspirin. "Here, take these."
"Man, thanks." Blair propped himself up on one arm and tossed the capsules back, then followed them with a swig of water. "Thanks a lot."
Byron took the glass from Blair's hand and set it on the floor, beyond reach. "You going to be okay?"
"Yeah. Sure," Blair said vaguely.
"Okay, well..." Byron made an abbreviated movement toward the door. "Shit, I can't just leave you like this."
Byron disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a strip of an old towel. "Here," he said as he gently began to clean Blair's face. "Let's see what other damage they did."
Carefully Byron removed Blair's jacket and t-shirt, fingers carefully tracing a bruise on Blair's ribs. "You can breathe okay, can't you?"
Blair inhaled deeply. "Yeah, sure. Breathing just fine."
"Bet you feel like crap, though."
"Crap would be a step up right now," Blair replied. Byron's hands continued to trace carefully over Blair's body, and Blair relaxed into the sensation. "Nice," he said.
"Yeah." The hands returned to his head, carefully brushing Blair's hair away from his face. Blair sighed, the caress a welcome distraction from the throbbing in his head, in his ribs.
"Hey, baby — I know how I can make you feel much, much better."
Blair raised a shaky hand to cup Byron's strong neck. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, baby. Much, much better."
"Nice line," Blair said with a grin. "Mind if I use it?"
"Not at all," Byron replied with an answering grin. "Bet there's lots I can teach you." Hands in his hair, now — caressing his throbbing scalp.
"I'm a good student," Blair murmured, leaning forward for a kiss. "Always have been." They kissed for long minutes, falling back onto the dirty mattress. Byron's hands caressed him gently, considerately, taking account of the bruises and abrasions that dotted his chest and abdomen. And then Byron kissed his way down Blair's body, stopping to work Blair's nipples expertly with his tongue.
Groaning softly, Blair lifted his hips as Byron unzipped his dirty jeans and tugged them down. He closed his eyes when he felt Byron's hot, wet mouth on his erection — Byron laved and stimulated him with his tongue before taking him into his mouth. He reached down and caressed Byron's head, gripping the short silky hair with his fingers. And then he was bumping up rhythmically with his hips, fucking Byron's mouth.
And distantly, in some back part of his mind that was still rational, he spared an admiring thought for Byron's technique.
"He should have called in eight hours ago," Jim said as he paced.
Simon nodded grimly. "Still, though," he objected, "undercover work is tricky. It's not a play-by-the-numbers sort of assignment."
Jim stopped short and glowered at him. "No, it's not. Which is why it's no damn assignment for a rookie cop — "
Simon raised his hands. "We've been through this before. Sandburg was the only one who fit the goddamned profile."
"He doesn't have the fucking experience!" Jim yelled, slamming his body down into a conference chair. "You could have sent — "
"Henri?" Simon asked dryly.
"Rafe," Jim answered instantly. "Plenty of people would want to fuck Rafe."
"I'll make a note of that," Simon said, rolling his eyes. "Put it in his file."
"It's thirty-two hours, Simon." Jim's voice was deadly cold. "I'm not being alarmist, here — it's thirty-two hours since we talked to him."
"All right, all right," Simon granted, wearily. "I agree with you — he's been off the radar for too long. What do you want to do?"
"Pull him out," Jim said instantly. "Pull him back."
Simon looked pained. "We've put a lot of work into this, Jim. Sandburg's put a lot of work into it — "
"I gotta know he's all right," Jim said.
"So go look for him," Simon said finally. "Just try not to blow his cover. If he's okay, leave him be. If he's not — pull him out. That's fair, isn't it?"
Jim nodded rapidly. "Yeah. Fair. I'll let you know when I find him," he added, already halfway out the door.
It was late afternoon when he first cruised along 7th Avenue — there were a lot of tired, young faces lining the pavement, but no Sandburg. He tried under the highway at the Berkeley Street Exit — no luck.
He slammed on the brakes when he saw someone in a blue nylon jacket exit the diner on Market Street, but it turned out to be not anyone remotely resembling Blair.
He made the circuit of the most likely places twice, his frustration growing as the sun set. He called Simon to make sure that Blair hadn't shown up at Cascade General, or worse, the city morgue.
Finally, the third time he drove through the Berkeley Street underpass, he saw him. Just leaning back against a concrete pylon. As he pulled the truck to a halt at the curb, Jim attempted to calm his rapidly beating heart, to quell the impulse to jump out of the truck and bolt over there.
Just try not to blow his cover, he reminded himself. Blair had to come to him. Brushing a hand over his forehead, he drummed a nervous beat on the steering wheel before stretching over to roll down the passenger side window. A kid — not Blair — leaned in the window and smiled.
"Not you." Jim jerked his head towards Blair. "Him."
The kid's grin faded but he shrugged and motioned to Blair, who approached the truck with a rolling gait quite unlike his usual stride.
"What can I do for you?" Blair drawled, giving Jim an admiring once-over.
Jim stiffened at the site of Blair's bruised face. "Where the hell have you been?"
Blair shrugged noncommittally. "Here. There. Around," he said, with a wave of his hand.
"You didn't call," Jim said through gritted teeth.
Blair frowned. "Was I supposed to call? Did we have an appointment?"
"You bet your ass we had an appointment!" Jim retorted. "Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you?"
Blair leaned against the door, looking genuinely contrite. "I'm really sorry, mister. Must have lost track of time."
"Just get in the truck," Jim muttered.
To his surprise, Blair smiled warmly. "Yeah, sure." Blair licked his lips. "Usual rates, okay?"
"Later," Jim said, in no mood for extended role-playing. "Just get in." He caught sight of a black sedan in the rear-view mirror; it was slowing down to take notice. Just don't blow his cover, he heard Simon say in his head. "Oh, fuck."
"Sure," Blair said with a smile. "Two hundred bucks for the works."
"You kill me, Sandburg," Jim said grimly. "Looks like we've got company," he added, nodding his head toward the sedan. "Meet me at the Red Apple, okay?"
"You'll get the room?" Blair asked.
"I'll get the room. Half an hour."
Blair shrugged. "Sure. Half an hour. I'll be there."
Jim put the car in gear and drove away, watching in the rear-view mirror as Blair made his way across the street and headed in the direction of the hotel.
He was early, so he waited in the truck outside the Red Apple until he saw Blair saunter up the street. He got out of the truck and stood outside the hotel's cracked glass door until Blair reached him.
"Hey," Blair said, giving him another of those odd warm smiles. It contrasted strangely with the purple-red bruise decorating the left side of his face.
"Hey," Jim replied, opening the hotel door for him. Blair looked pleased at the gesture, and they passed into the dingy hotel lobby.
Jim walked up to the splintered wood counter and looked at the hotel clerk through a window of grimy, presumably bullet-proof, glass. "I need a room."
The clerk nodded wearily. "For how long?"
"Just one hour," Jim replied.
And then, to his surprise, he felt Blair's hands slide around his waist, slip under his white wool pullover. "Just one hour?" Blair murmured into his back. "Come on, we can do better than that..."
Jim frowned and looked over his shoulder, but Blair was pressed up behind him and all he got was a glimpse of dark, curly hair. "You want more than an hour?"
"You got the money, I got the time." Blair's hands were up under his t-shirt now — gliding up his chest. Jim froze, rooted and embarrassed — he was sure he was blushing bright red. Blair's fingertips tweaked his nipples, then began a downward slide.
The clerk didn't bat an eyelash. "How long?" he asked again.
One of Blair's hands slid out from under his shirt and ghosted down over the fly of his pants.
"Uh — three hours," Jim blurted, as Blair hand cupped him and then gently squeezed. Jesus Christ — Blair was really good at this undercover shit.
The clerk rolled his eyes and turned to pull a key off a hook behind him. Jim thought he heard the man mutter, "Ambitious."
Jim became conscious of Blair's warm breath heating the area between his shoulder blades. "You won't be sorry," Blair murmured, now overtly rubbing his crotch.
And god almighty, there was cover and there was cover — and right now, he didn't have any. His partner was working hard to get him hard in the fucking lobby of the fucking Red Apple Hotel. What the hell was Blair think he was doing? Just his luck — Sandburg had probably been in the fucking Drama Club or something. Goddamned method acting.
Jim shifted uncomfortably, but Blair's body followed the movement, his hands continuing to stroke. Blair had a very respectable erection in his hands, now — not that it seemed to bother him one bit. Jim felt a drop of sweat roll down his neck, and he wondered if this was some sort of revenge scheme, or if Blair was just doing his usual participant-observer anthropology crap. Maybe he was gonna write a paper or something: The Life Cycle of the Cascade, Washington Rent Boy.
But god, Blair was getting hard, too — he could feel him, pressed up against his ass.
Jim took the key from the desk clerk's hand and forked over the sixty bucks. Blair slid out from behind him, grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the stairwell.
Jim was barely through the door when Blair backed him up against the wall, hands running eagerly over his chest. Jim felt momentarily paralyzed by the unexpected onslaught, having been certain that Blair was going to drop the act and begin to tease him unmercifully once they were alone in the hotel room.
But Blair, it seemed, had other ideas.
Placing his hands firmly on Blair's shoulders, Jim gathered the strength to push him away.
"Whoa. Whoa, Chief. What's going on here?"
"Hey man — sorry." Blair backed off a bit. "Just tell me how you want to play it."
"Play what?" Jim asked, frowning.
Blair shot him a quick look that said, "Are you stupid?" but instantly covered it with yet another of those dazzling, professional smiles. "Whatever you want to play, man. Whatever scene you're into."
Jim shook his head, baffled. "Scene? Blair, we're alone."
"Yeah. We are..." Blair took a step closer. "So, how do you want me?" he asked, shrugging off his jacket and tossed it on the floor.
"Well, at least some things don't change," Jim said, eyeing the jacket. Stepping forward, he raised a hand to Blair's cheek. "Someone got you good. What the hell happened?"
Blair shook his head dismissively, hands going to the hem of his T-shirt. "I got mugged." He tugged the shirt off and tossed it on top of the jacket...
"What the — " Jim stared at the purpling bruises on Blair's chest, mates to the one on his face. "Jesus Christ, Blair — why didn't you report this?"
Blair shrugged. "S'just part of the life, man," he said, reaching for the top button of his jeans. "It's no big deal."
Jim sighed, and sat down on the bed, nodding his head at the truth of this. Blair unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down, kicked them off into a corner. Jim raised an eyebrow — hell, this was sloppy, even for Blair.
Blair stood before him, buck-naked. In Blair's new world, underwear was apparently optional.
"You want to go take a hot shower or something?" Jim asked, swallowing hard.
"Sounds great," Blair said — and then Blair's hands were reaching for him, grabbing for the hem of his sweater and tugging upwards.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jim yelled.
Blair frowned. "I thought you wanted to take a shower."
"I thought you wanted to take a shower," Jim said pointedly.
"I do! I mean I do if you want me to! I mean — " Blair stopped short, looking lost. "You're in charge, okay?"
"So go take your shower already!"
Blair took a nervous step backwards. "Uh... okay." He turned, and headed for the bathroom — then stopped at the door. "Do you..." Blair began, turning, "you know — want to watch or something?"
Jim's eyes narrowed. "No."
"Right, okay," Blair said, with a nod. "I'll... uh... go get clean then."
"You do that," Jim said.
Jim flopped back on the bed, his nose wrinkling in distaste. These places were gross — but then, what kind of cleaning service would they have at a hotel that rented by the hour?
And what, exactly, was Sandburg up to? How hard had that mugger hit him, anyway? His behavior was strange to say the least....
Jim sat up suddenly. Blair. Mugged. Beaten up. And acting... bizarre. God, not method-acting at all. Standing, he began to pace, tensely awaiting Blair's emergence from the bathroom.
And finally Blair did emerge, entirely naked. His hair was wet, sleekly pushed back off his forehead; his skin was damp, glistening with beads of water....
Jim swallowed hard. "Listen, Blair — I think there's been a bit of miscommunication here."
"I'm sure we can get it straightened out." Blair smiled at him again, and then leaned back against the wall next to the bathroom... and began to touch himself.
"Uh..." Jim sputtered. "No, no... I think you've got the wrong idea, here."
"Mmm... then give me a better idea," Blair murmured, letting his head fall back slightly, letting his eyes drift half-closed. His hands moved up his chest, fingered his nipples, then drifted down to skate over his hardening cock. "I like ideas," he added softly. "I'm all for ideas."
Jim coughed, and tried not to look at Blair's hands, which were teasing, rubbing his rapidly lengthening erection. Look at his face, Jim chided himself. Just keep looking at his face. "No, really — the thing is that we know each other, okay? We're friends."
"Good friends," Blair agreed, looking at him hungrily.
"We work together," Jim hastily explained, trying to focus on Blair's face — his face, goddammit! " We're police officers!"
Blair laughed, and looked at him sideways. "I like it," he said appreciatively. "Kinky." He detached himself from the wall, suddenly, and began to walk slowly towards Jim. "Tell me more."
Blair was fully erect now, cock bobbing and swaying as he moved closer. Jim felt his own erection throbbing in his pants — and stumbled backwards. "You're not a whore! You're a cop! You're on a case!"
Blair stopped, apparently thinking hard. "Okay, I can work with that," he concluded after a moment. "I'm a cop. I'm on a case. Who am I after — you?"
"No, no," Jim said, starting to feel desperate. "You're after Morris and Gunderson — they're drug dealers, they're — "
"I think I'm after you," Blair said, and suddenly Jim was hit with 165 pounds of naked amnesiac cop. They toppled backwards, onto the bed, and Blair straddled him, looking down at him with a stern expression on his face.
It was, Jim noted dimly, the actual expression that the actual Detective Sandburg did use on suspects — which was sort of weird, really.
"Freeze!" Blair yelled. "Cascade P.D.!!"
Jim felt panic rising in his throat — what was he supposed to do, here? Fight him? He could easily overpower Blair. Shove him over and grab his arms and then — what? Cuff him?
The image of a naked, handcuffed Blair wasn't helping any.
Blair was trying to pull his sweater off, over his head. Not sure yet what to do, Jim let him.
"I'm taking you into custody," Blair said, pointing his fingers like a gun at Jim's face.
"Uh..." Jim said, staring up at his naked partner. He cleared his throat. "Blair, listen to me. Please listen. This is not what you think."
"That's what they all say," Blair said sadly, shaking his head. "You're under arrest for solicitation. It's a real shame, too. Nice boy like you."
This brought a whole new meaning to the word "entrapment," Jim thought glumly. "Your name is Blair Sandburg," he said slowly, hoping that it would begin to sink in. "You're a detective with the Cascade P.D. You're my partner."
Blair frowned down at him. "My partner's a hooker? Geez, they're gonna throw the book at you, man." He stopped, and shot Jim a predatory smile. "Unless, of course, you want to make a deal..." Blair reached down and groped Jim's erection, biting down on his own full lower lip.
Jim moaned softly. "Your name is Blair Sandburg," he repeated. "You're with the Cascade P.D. You're my partner. My roommate. My best friend."
Blair broke character suddenly, looking exasperated. "I'm confused. What scene are we doing here?"
"You're my partner," Jim repeated, distinctly, trying to concentrate on Blair's face. "My roommate. My best friend."
Blair considered this. "So is this 'love beyond the thin blue line' or something? 'Illicit sex in the breakroom'?"
"You were on a case," Jim continued doggedly. "You were undercover as a hooker. You're a police officer — my partner — my friend."
"Oh, fuck this and just kiss me already," Blair snorted. "You write a lousy story." Before Jim could protest, Blair took his head into his hands and pressed his mouth to Jim's.
Maybe it was time for the shoving and the handcuffs, Jim thought desperately. Blair's hands were in his hair — Blair was holding him down, kissing him, and god, Blair's tongue was in his mouth, hot and heavy in his mouth...
He twisted his head away. "Blair, please..."
"God, you're lovely," Blair whispered; Blair's mouth was on his ear now, kissing his ear. "I'll do anything you want — just do something, all right? Don't tease me anymore, man, please..."
"You're not yourself," Jim managed to choke out — god, Blair was licking his ear, tonguing it wetly. This was some sort of revenge, some sort of retribution — he must have done something awful, at some point, sometime, somewhere, to deserve this kind of torture. But his cock was throbbing demandingly, wanting to know why he just wouldn't fucking get with the program. The fucking program, literally.
Because Blair's non compos mentis, Jim told himself sternly. Because it would be sexual assault in the third degree. Jim half-heartedly attempted to shift out from under the weight of Blair's body. Because I'd have to arrest myself afterwards, he thought grimly.
"I've always wanted you," Blair was moaning — god, Blair was thrusting against his abdomen. Jim's shirt was now rucked up around his chest, and Blair's cock was leaking on to him, sliding slickly over his skin. "I've always wanted you — I've wanted you for the longest time..."
This had to stop. This had to stop — in one more minute. Just one minute more. "You don't even know me," Jim murmured, trembling as he felt Blair's tongue slide into his ear.
"I know you," Blair said, softly — and Jim turned to look at Blair and brought his hands up to hold Blair's head steady, so that he could look into Blair's eyes. Blair murmured, "And I'd like to get to know you better."
Jim stared searchingly into Blair's bruised face — did he know what he was saying? Had he remembered finally? Did he know him as Jim Ellison, or as Jim-the-john? Did Blair just say this to all the guys?
Jim stopped himself short. What other guys? There were no other guys. Blair wasn't a hooker; he was a rookie cop. Blair was his partner, his friend — he had just gotten lost, somehow.
Blair stared down at him, eyes hot. "Please do me. Please. I don't want to play any more games — I don't want to wait..."
Something within him broke. Despite his better judgment, despite ethics and legalities, he found himself pulling Blair down roughly, exploring his mouth. Blair kissed him back greedily, and they were rolling, now, on the cheap polyester bedspread. Blair pulled Jim's t-shirt off and flung it across the room, then bent his head to drop slow, open-mouthed kisses on his chest.
"God," Jim said. "Oh God, Blair..." He closed his eyes and carded his fingers through Blair's hair, directing the seeking mouth to an aching nipple. Blair suckled obligingly, eagerly, and Jim rolled his head back, groaning.
"Good. So good. Blair..." Blair was scrabbling at his zipper, was drawing it down. He felt Blair's hand slide into his fly, stroking his length once before closing around him.
And then sanity reasserted itself, and he stared up at the yellowing paint on the sleazy hotel room ceiling and thought: what am I doing? Blair would remember. Blair would eventually remember this, and then... Jim shuddered, the repercussions too horrible to contemplate.
"No!" he said firmly. "No." He rolled Blair off to one side then quickly leapt away and off the bed, his unzipped pants riding low on his hips.
"I can't do this, Blair. I can't." Jim stared down at Blair desperately, willing himself to ignore how glorious Blair looked spread out before him, despite the circumstances, despite the awful, grimy rent-a-room.
Blair kneeled up and knee-walked towards him, his hands reaching out. "Yes, you can, Jim. You can do this. You can."
Jim shook his head. "No. I can't. It's not right...."
"It's completely right," Blair said. "I want this. And you do too. I know you do, Jim. I know you want this, want me — "
Jim felt himself weakening and attempted to move back a pace, but Blair grabbed him firmly by his forearms. Shaking his head again, Jim said, "If you knew who I was. If you knew who you were. Then..." He felt himself swaying forward, wanting a kiss — pulled himself back with a jerk. "But you don't, so I can't," he concluded with what he hoped was unassailable logic.
"But I do, so you can," Blair insisted. Jim attempted to pull away again, but Blair repeated doggedly, "I know you, Jim. It's me. Your partner. Your roommate. Your friend."
Jim swallowed. "Where do we live?" he asked challengingly.
Blair smiled. "Prospect," he answered, his arms reaching up to wind around Jim's neck.
"Right, we live on Prospect. Right." For a moment it felt as if the universe had taken another strange left turn, but at least this time the world seemed to be spinning in the right direction. And then Jim was leaning into the embrace, his lips searching for Blair's, feeling them open underneath his, feeling Blair suck on his tongue.
Blair pulled steadily, pulled him down to the bed, pulled him down on top of him, his legs spreading to accommodate Jim between them. Jim began to explore the rest of Blair's face, tasting his jawline up to his ear, his ear down to the nape of his neck.
"So good, Blair," Jim murmured. "You taste so good." His hands were free now to do some exploring of their own and so they brushed across the skin of Blair's chest, careful of the bruises. He caressed Blair's shoulders, then slid his hands down Blair's arms and took Blair's hands in his.
"You feel good," Blair whispered. "Wanted this. Can't remember when I didn't."
Jim's mouth drifted lower, across Blair's stomach, briefly tasting Blair's navel and then down, down to the erection that demanded his attention. Blair's arousal, the scent of it, drowned out everything else in the room.
"Please, yes..." he heard Blair breathe. "Please yes... Yes, Jim..."
His hands, hungry for sensation, moved across Blair's body as he sucked. He ran his palms up and down Blair's legs, then caressed his pale, smooth hips gently before tightening his fingers and just hanging on, because he needed to hang on now. Blair was fucking his mouth. Blair was fucking his mouth.
"Jim... jim... jim..." Blair was gasping, and Jim idly wondered when Blair had remembered his name, when he'd become Jim and not "mister" or "man" or "hey, you". There must have been a moment where Blair had remembered — and he had missed it. Couldn't now remember when it was.
"jiiiiim..." Blair's hips abruptly stilled — his cock was jerking, spasming, flooding Jim's mouth with bittersweet come. "...ohhh..." and the sound of Blair in climax made his heart leap.
Blair lay still for a while, panting quietly, and then grasped his shoulders, pushed him over, onto his back, getting him into position for some reciprocal action...
And Jim wanted that, wanted to lie back and let his thighs fall open and feel Blair's talented mouth all over his body. But that would mean he'd be lying here, staring up at this ceiling, and even the taste and scent of Blair's come wouldn't be enough to mask the other odors this room held.
He gripped Blair's arms, held him still. "No. I can't — not now."
Blair's eyes fluttered open. "But you said — but I said — I know who you are, who I am, where we are — "
"Where we are is exactly the problem," Jim said, apologetically, looking around. "This place is just too... skanky."
Blair blinked several times rapidly then looked around the room, as if noticing the surroundings for the first time. "Uh. Yeah. Point taken." He eyed the bedspread suspiciously.
Jim's lips twitched. "So, I mean... we can go home, right? Go back to the loft and..."
"Just be us? Two cops?" Blair nudged him.
"Kinky," Jim said with a smile.
Blair leaned in for a kiss. "We could be partners. Roommates. Friends — "
"Really good friends," Jim added significantly, capturing Blair's mouth with his own.
"Obviously, yeah," Blair admitted.
Jim licked the tip of Blair's nose. "I like it. Tell me more."
"It's undercover work and intrigue," Blair said, warming to his theme. "You — gorgeous older cop. Me — your rakish young partner. You've got the experience, I've got the attitude. Four years of suppressed passion — both of us hungry for illicit sex in the breakroom, but hiding it — should we? dare we? Walls tumble, taboos shattered, left and right. It's... 'love beyond the thin blue line' — that's the scene, man!"
Jim considered for a moment and then grinned helplessly. "You tell a good story," he said.