Don't Say a Word

Jim brushed his teeth, scrubbing at them for longer than he needed to, long after the bite of mint had taken away the taste of coffee, because he was too tired to stop. He spat, watched the stream of water from the tap swirl the sink clean, and screwed the lid back on the toothpaste with an initial fumble and then a careful, finicky precision.

Fatigue was tunneling his vision, dulling his senses. How long had he been awake, anyway? Long enough that he'd stopped counting it in hours.

He walked past Blair's room without looking at the blankly closed doors, storing his energy for the Everest without oxygen climb to his bed.

Part of the tiredness was Blair's fault, for being so fucking tempting now that they'd decided to fuck, hell, yes, why not, that Jim couldn't keep his hands off him. Blair, pliant or aggressive as the mood took him, there for the taking, even as Jim was for him.

Hell of a week. No sleep to speak of for three nights of sex that left Jim smiling at the world, lazy and replete, aching pleasantly, and in need of a long weekend to recover.

And instead he'd got a stakeout followed by a hostage situation at a daycare, the sleepless night merging into a day of tense waiting, his ears assaulted by the hopeless sobbing of frightened children, the hoarse, anguished screams of their mothers when the gunfire began.

Blair, swaying, glassy-eyed beside him, hadn't stopped talking, the words a constant fire of pebbles at the window, jolting Jim awake over and over, forcing him to focus.

He'd known even before they stormed the building that the only casualty was the father who'd gone in there armed and desperate. Didn't make it any easier to deal with the kids, shrinking back from him when they saw his weapon, tear-wet eyes dull with fear.

And by the time they'd cleared the scene, dealt with the press, put in a report, Jim was resenting every hour spent kissing his way across Blair's skin with unhurried patience, every time he'd let Blair coax him into a sweet ache of arousal, everything and anything they'd done that hadn't been sleeping, that had left him not doing his job the way he was supposed to.

Finding Blair naked in his bed was a shock. Anger, resentment even, bubbled up, and Jim opened his mouth, trying to force the clumsy numbness of his lips to cooperate, tell Blair no, not now, God, don't you ever stop --

Part of it was male pride. No way could he have got it up. Not now. He'd spent three days trying to keep up with Blair's idea of what was normal and managed it -- just -- but now? No.

Not going to happen.

Then Blair rolled to his back, flinging his arm out and then drawing it back, tucking his hand under his chin as he completed the roll to his side, curling in on himself, his face slack, his eyes closed, a mutter of sounds Jim could hear but not translate emerging from his mouth.

Fast asleep.

Out for the count.


Jim frowned, readjusting his preconceptions. Blair. In his bed. Not for sex. Just for --


He'd thought -- but they hadn't said -- and there'd been no time to talk, not really, but he'd assumed --

They were going to have to talk about this. Tomorrow. Or when he woke up. Whichever came first.

He let the damp towel he was wearing fall to the floor and walked over to the bed, kicking Blair's jeans out of the way as he went and automatically tracking the spill and roll of a quarter from a pocket without watching it lose itself under the dresser.

Then he got into their bed and fell asleep on the first syllable of 'good night', before he could get to the part where he told Blair to move over and stop snoring for God's sake.

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