It was the question Blair had been dreading. Since the press conference that ended his academic career, he'd been lulled into believing the subject had been dropped; it was one of the top two things he wanted most, so he'd persuaded himself pretty easily. Anything to preserve the boundaries of the little world he inhabited with Jim Ellison, the world that had so recently been tossed into chaos.
Jim was casual about it, so much so that Blair had to wonder how long he'd been formulating the question, how many times his friend had intended to ask and decided against it. The words slipped out smoothly, but he was willing to bet that the road leading up to them had been a rough ride.
"So, Chief." Jim took a long swig from the beer bottle, settling back on the couch, eyes fixed on an invisible point somewhere deep in the coffee table. "How about you let me read that thesis of yours?"
His heart reacted before Blair really had a grasp on what Jim had said, stuttering into a rhythm of apprehension. Finally, a chance to show him without being too obvious, without shoving his work in Jim's face. It should have thrilled him; would have, once. Now it only brought the prospect of opening doors he'd closed for good, and made him wonder why Jim had decided it was time to take a peek into his head.
He wanted to be pleased, he really did, and he tried to water the little seed of pride that was looking for attention, but he was drowning in doubt. The thought of Jim poring over every page, digesting every roughly written, technically diluted piece of information, made him break out into a cold sweat.
"You sure you want to, Jim? I mean, don't feel like you have to," Blair said slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ears. As usual, the moment he looked away, he felt Jim's eyes on him. Strange how Jim spent so much time looking, but only when there was no possibility of connection.
"You put years of work into it." Jim's tone was mild, but there was something there, something of the persuasive and irresistible variety. "I'm interested."
Blair raised his eyes suddenly, and locked into Jim's gaze.
"Okay," he said, feeling curiously subdued. He rose from the arm of the chair, heading for the bedroom, pushing the door nearly closed behind him.
It occurred to him that maybe he should get a grip, that there was no reason to be paranoid. He'd been up-front all the way through, no twisting of truth, no surprises.
So why did he suddenly feel like keeping that one hard copy was a crazy mistake?
He'd thrown it into a lockbox the second it was printed, first and only draft, the only tangible proof of his dedication to learning. At the end, it had become a symbol of his dedication to Jim. Only somehow, the framework of the details had taken something vital away from the deep connection he felt with his subject. Every word he'd written had been the utter truth, carefully pieced together with both awe and respect. And yet, the truth of what he'd experienced with Jim had felt obscured, covered, cluttered with labels of research and thesis.
But it had to be that way, to be valid. He was supposed to be an observer, not a participant. No one had to know how complicated it had become. He hadn't printed his notes, and there wasn't any way for Jim to read his mind between the lines. Not even Jim knew him that well. Some things could be kept hidden; he'd proven that.
Two deep breaths, in case Jim was still paying attention, still tuned in. Calm might save him, but it wasn't going to work unless he could make his face match his body's rhythms, smoothing out the rough edges only Jim could detect. He dropped to his knees and fished underneath the bed with one arm, smacking against the lockbox and coaxing it out with his fingertips.
With the lockbox in his lap, palm resting on the top, he pressed his back to the bedside table and closed his eyes. There was no way he could refuse. No graceful way to say no without hurting Jim. After Jim had done so much to save his ass, it wasn't so much to ask.
Was it?
Quietly, Blair rose to his knees, pulling open the drawer of the little table and rummaging among the contents for the key. It had always been there. He'd never gone to any trouble to hide it from Jim, and if his partner were the nosy type, he could have committed the entire thesis to memory months before. Jim had made that mistake once, but never again; somehow Blair knew the fallout from a single episode of sneaking and snooping had cured Jim of the need to intrude in places he wasn't invited. The small silver key had been floating among the refuse of his life in that drawer for longer than he cared to remember. More than once, Blair had wondered if his secret hope was for Jim to rifle through the clutter and come up with the prize.
Clutching the key, he tucked the heavy metal box under one arm and pushed open the door. Jim's head moved just a fraction of an inch as he moved into the living room, almost too quickly to see, but Blair already knew. He'd been watching, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the secrets to show themselves, hoping Blair wouldn't say no.
Sometimes, having that strange understanding of Jim's heart was unnerving to Blair, and right now he just couldn't stop to think too much about it.
He placed the box carefully on the coffee table with the key on top and stepped back, fighting the urge to run. Anywhere, outside, away. Someplace where Jim couldn't ask his questions, couldn't peer into his scarred psyche and peel away all the excuses. He told himself that no amount of questioning would make a difference anymore; the walls had been built too high.
"Here you go." Blair caught himself in the act of raising one hand to fiddle with his hair, and froze in mid-motion as Jim turned those mild eyes on him.
"I appreciate this," he said sincerely, and panic rose in Blair, unreasonable, irrational.
"No problem, man. I'm outta here. Got to go run through one more practice on the range before I qualify tomorrow." Blair already had his backpack slung across his shoulder, strangely heavy with the weight of a gun and extra clips instead of books and notes and assorted academia. "Take your time. If you have any questions, I'll be home by five."
"I'll cook," Jim said, and his eyes dropped to the box, an involuntary motion that made Blair shudder. "Chili sound good to you?"
"Sure," Blair agreed. The sight of Jim so focused and intent on getting to the dissertation made him afraid in ways he couldn't express, so he didn't try. Instead, he swallowed hard, hoping to raise his voice from the depths of his throat. "Meatless, okay? That stuff is going to kill you."
"Yeah, meatless. Get out of here," Jim said, looking up, and a genuine smile settled over his features. "I need a partner who can actually hit what he's aiming for."
"Oh, that's easy for *you* to say," Blair retorted, but the words felt flat and he backed up a step. "Later."
Jim didn't answer; one big hand was already on top of that small silver object.
Blair fled.
Repetition. Qualifying to carry a gun was all about shooting, reloading, marking the target and trying harder. Blair had become quite proficient with his weapon, although he knew he would never enjoy the feeling of firing a gun, of being able to strike a bullseye at fifty feet. Firearms training was all about training to take a life, and the thought caused little shudders of revulsion to trickle through his conscience. Better to just load, fire, repeat, without thinking.
Without thinking of killing, of being a cop, of aiming a weapon at someone in the heat of passion or anger, or fear.
He fired, reloaded, and set the weapon down in that same endless cycle as the rangemaster walked toward him with his target in hand. For the first time that afternoon, he allowed his mind to wander back to the loft and to what Jim was doing.
Gradually, his feeling of anxiety was passing, that sense that perhaps Jim would know him as well as Blair had come to know his subject. The thesis wasn't about him, and there were only small hints of his feelings to be seen. He'd been so careful to extract every bit of emotion, every trace of hero worship, all the small clues that the relationship had progressed past the point of an anthropological project and into the realm of desire.
It was hard to admit that loss of perspective, even after he'd accepted the fact that he would have to set aside his ambitions in the academic arena and find new goals. His point of view had been fatally flawed throughout the entire time he studied Jim. Even before he was consciously aware of it, the subtle attraction had been there, interfering with his objectivity, wearing away the film of professionalism that separated the anthropologist from his study subject. It seemed strange that Jim's request would reawaken that old guilt, but he understood his partner's need to see the research. If nothing else, it served as a signal that Jim had realized Blair's old life was over for good.
Blair accepted the paper target, perforated by bullet holes. The praise of the rangemaster washed over him without impact. How many times had he watched Jim draw a gun and fire in his defense and admired the steel it must take to shoot at a living being with such assured calm? He would have to be that good, and better, to be Jim's partner. The thought drove him to work ten times harder than he would have for himself. He wouldn't allow his partner to get hurt because Jim had made the unfathomable decision to take him on.
The runt of the litter, remade as watchdog. It still rang hollow in his heart.
He slid the empty clip from the 9mm weapon and popped in the replacement, thumbing off the safety and lowering the goggles. Ten shots in rapid succession. Jim couldn't possibly learn anything from that dissertation. He'd sanitized it, wiped it clean of every incriminating word. There was nothing in that box to give Jim any indication of his feelings, except for his journal -
Blair's finger relaxed on the trigger and he lowered the weapon carefully. With one hand, he ripped the goggles from his eyes as the sick feeling plummeted from his heart into his stomach. He'd forgotten, how could he have been so stupid, there wasn't much but if Jim read it through he would find it, he'd been so careful to burn the notes, but he couldn't part with the field journal, oh, god-
Gun into the holster, goggles to the floor, and he was running, hoping, knowing it was already too late but compelled to try and avert disaster anyway.
Hidden thrills...that's what he'd been expecting, really, and Jim was having no luck finding them in the body of Blair's dissertation. On his one foray into the realm of Sandburg's research, he had been disappointed, titillated, and a little freaked. To be known so well, described and laid out like a dissected lab rat, had made him angry all the way to his core. Being understood so completely had scared him then, before he'd learned to give his heart over to the things it most wanted in that quiet way so crucial to his survival.
The quiet war between his need and his privacy was still not over. He might not be a research subject any longer, but the hunger to be seen, to be known by Blair Sandburg, was still there, fidgeting and itching inside him.
Around page 200, Jim started skimming. Looking for important words, like "dominance" and "sentinel" and "powerful," and other such cues.
Somewhere close to page 300, he gave up completely and tucked the pages neatly back into their careful order.
Fascinating, to be sure, but so dry, so scientific. The language, the theory behind Sandburg's words was as far from Jim's experience as could be imagined. He'd seen glimpses of himself from time to time, in descriptions of his actions, of their experiments together, but the theoretical diatribe was killing him - or more precisely, it was boring him to death.
Gone was much of the language that had personalized the early chapter Jim had read many months before. There were still veiled references to his life, his emotions, his needs, but it had been cleaned up to such an extent that his name and his abilities were all that was left.
It was perfect for an academic presentation, but it bored Jim to tears. He couldn't quite fathom what a book publisher had seen in it; his tastes ran to the more concrete and tangible. He could see the fictional potential in the core of the research, but all the drama surrounding that document seemed ridiculous.
With a sigh, he lowered the giant manuscript into the box, thinking of what he would tell his roommate. He owed the kid that much. Because of him, no one else in the world would ever see or believe one word of Blair's research. The guilt had been weighing on him daily, eating holes in his pleasure at seeing Sandburg working his way through the Academy. It was his world, and Blair had come into it one tiny step at a time. His world, where a young man like his partner was completely out of place despite his best efforts.
Of all the cops he worked with, only Simon knew how desperately he'd tried to find a way to make Blair fit, how vehemently he had defended the young man. And Simon liked Blair, but he didn't think Blair belonged, either. Simon's considered opinion, delivered over a half-chewed cigar and a beer, had been that Blair belonged with Jim anywhere but on the force. Jim had tuned him out, shut him off. He couldn't deal with it. Some words struck too close to home, revealed shrewd truths that couldn't stand closer examination.
A flash of red caught Jim's eye as he stuffed the papers back into their little fortress, and he caught the scent of mud and grass, and of Blair's skin, unwashed and pungent. In an instant, he was transported back to Peru. Images crowded in on him: Blair beside the fire, scribbling furiously and asking questions he was too tired to answer.
Jim let go of the sheaf of papers as his hand automatically closed around the thin field journal, and the two documents changed places.
Lazily, he settled back on the couch among the pillows and pried open the sticky cover, scanning through the first few pages, sipping his now-warm beer. Lots of notations about plants, locations, a general map. A humorous account of the parachute jump. Jim chuckled, finding it easier in hindsight to forget his terror that Blair would break both his legs as he landed. His eyes ran freely over that loopy Sandburg scrawl he'd learned to translate out of necessity and he picked out key words, as he always did - quiet, night, asleep, senses, lust.
Lust?
The word pinged against his warning bells and Jim sat up straight, setting his beer bottle aside. He began to read for content, for comprehension. Each word seared his heart.
I've given him dominion over me. Over my life, my work, my belongings, my body, even the space that surrounds me.
The sight of the phrase on the page made Jim shudder, sent a shiver of the oh-what-the-fuck variety down his spine and crashing into his cock. He moved to set the paper down, to obtain a little bit of deniability, but his eyes were charging ahead full steam, greedy for that last little bit of incriminating evidence, ready to put the lid on the case and seal it up tight.
Only, he knew what he was going to see would blow the lid off everything, open their friendship up wide, cause cracks and holes in the foundation of their partnership.
His eyes snatched up the information, passing it gleefully to his brain, their duty complete.
It was his mind that refused to accept the delivery.
There's only one area where I don't know what he's like. It's the thing I'm most curious about, actually, but there'll never be a circumstance where I could tell him how curious I am, or what I imagine. And there's nobody to ask. He's not like this with anybody else. He's not this open, this trusting. He certainly doesn't tell anyone else his secrets. And he'd never reveal his power to a woman, or try and show her his strength in bed. The truth is, I would give him dominion there, if he ever touched me like that, but he's too locked up in his image of himself. He can't see the possibilities and I'm not going there - I'm not sure he could handle it.
I've been watching him sitting over there by the fire, absorbed in his own little world and preoccupied with whatever's bothering him, and I'm having a hard time controlling the lust I feel. It's fortunate for me that's he's oblivious to pretty much everything right now, because he'd smell it on me in a heartbeat, and there's nothing out here in the jungle to blame it on, no external stimulus. Only Jim. It wouldn't take him long to figure it out, and then I'd be in big trouble.
It's hard to see him exerting his dominance and not want to be dominated. Not want to be part of his territory. I've belonged to him since the second he really looked at me, really *saw* me, since he put his hands on me and knocked me against the wall in my office. I've tried not to think about it, but the truth is, if he ever wanted to exert his ownership, I'd let him claim me. What the hell does that make me? I'm over here making notes, trying to pretend I'm objective. All I really want is for him to fuck me into tomorrow.
Jim raised his hand, slid it over the words on the page, and shut his eyes. He didn't have to read it again; the words were emblazoned on his mind, and they made perfect sense. It had never been about tests, experiments, and research. It hadn't been about friendship, either; maybe on a conscious level where everything was controlled and well-ordered, but underneath...well, underneath, hadn't he always known?
His stomach dropped away, carrying his rational thinking with it, and he let the realization wash over him. How many times had he found excuses to touch Sandburg? That need for connection had become so much a part of his life, such a constant in his daily existence, and he had never questioned it. Too much introspection would have been dangerous, and would have brought him to the point of no return much sooner.
And how many times had Blair turned those eyes on him, full of emotions he didn't want to recognize, offering possibilities he couldn't process in any way that was familiar? There were truths unspoken, and Blair had written them down...but never shared them with Jim.
A spark of anger touched off a tiny explosion of resentment in Jim's heart. If Blair had ever given him any concrete indication, he might have acted on that need, that desire to be possessed. It wasn't like the thought had never occurred to him as he watched Blair with his head bent over an old book, glasses slipping down his nose, totally absorbed in some obscure research. More than once he'd turned away, crushing thoughts of what Sandburg's skin might feel like under his questing fingertips as he conducted a little research of his own. In fact, the idea had crossed his mind in some shape or fashion nearly every day -- from the first time he saw his partner in his office, full of enthusiasm and vibrant life, to the moment he watched Blair deny and invalidate everything that was important to him in order to give Jim some semblance of a normal life.
At some point, wanting something more from Blair had become inevitable. Jim recognized the symptoms of desire, of wanting the one thing that could make his life hell and overturn the stability he craved. He had shunted it aside, preferring the close connection he already shared with Sandburg to the chance of having nothing at all. If Blair had turned away or moved out, it wouldn't have been worth the small measure of satisfaction he'd have gained from that one moment of intimacy - so Jim had refused to act, and passed up his chance.
So much could go wrong, and Blair had been so careful not to give away his feelings. If only he'd known...
He heard Blair coming, taking the stairs two at a time, flying on wings of fear. Increased heart rate, rapid breathing. Jim's jaw tightened, and he closed the journal with a snap. Hadn't Blair realized the journal was still in the box? It was careless of him, and the thought fueled Jim's irrational anger. Maybe Blair meant for him to find it, to read the words he was too scared to say, to see the issue he wasn't willing to confront head-on. How could he even be sure Blair still meant those words, written so long ago? Questions blurred together in his mind, but there was no time to sort it all out.
Thrown open with heedless impatience, the door crashed into the wall and Blair burst through, a bundle of nervous, anxious energy. Jim turned speculative eyes to his roommate, eyes that flickered over Blair's pale face, over the shocked, dismayed expression. He held up the field notes with one hand, wiggling them in the air. "Interesting reading, Chief."
Continue to part two
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