L'Amour, Toujours

by Jane Davitt




"Je t'aime," the bland female voice said.

"Je t'aime," Blair echoed obediently, adjusting the headphones, a frown of concentration furrowing his forehead. "Je t'aime beaucoup," he added a moment later, with a lilt of surprise at his discovery.

Jim sighed. Blair was taking his gag gift of a tape declaring itself 'French for Lovers' way too seriously. As Blair began to stumble self-consciously through invitations to dinner that sounded suggestive just because his ultimate goal was so damn obvious, Jim settled back on the couch and listened, not to the tinny voice on the tape, but Blair's husky, amused words.

Je t'aime you as well, you horny so-and-so. J t'aime that electrified frizz you call a hairstyle, and that ass of yours. And mon Dieu, if you ever bend over like that in front of me again, I won't be held responsible because my hand was this fucking close to patting it. You drop something, just leave it; I'll pick it up, bien sure I will. So no more bending over, especially not in those old jeans that look so baggy until they're stretched over skin and muscle. No more. Jamais.

"Je t'aime," Blair said again, insistently and Jim murmured it back without thinking and then, warned by the quality of the sudden silence that followed, glanced up.

Blair was looking right at him. Without the headphones on.

Merde.


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