Jim's arm is numb, shoulder to wrist. There's an unpleasant clammy patch on his shoulder that he doesn't need to be a detective to trace back to Blair's parted lips.

Blair, who snores as well as drools, and whose morning breath is making Jim's nose twitch and wrinkle, just a little.

Love paints over deficiencies with a brush dipped in rose, but Jim's no artist. Jim's missing a bed he can sprawl out in, own, and he growled a grumbling protest the night before when Blair took the side of the bed that Jim wanted, growled possessively, instinctively.

The sex had been good, but not spectacular; they need to work on a few things, uncross a few wires; Jim's ass is sore and with his arousal muted, it's not a pleasant feeling. He's not inclined to ask for an encore just yet.

Maybe he should suggest that Blair sleeps in his own room until they've gotten this new twist in their relationship ironed out. Maybe Blair would understand that Jim doesn't do well with being rushed. Maybe --

Blair stirs, mumbles Jim's name, and starts to roll away, turn away, leave.

Jim's arm tightens, pins and needles beginning to stab at flesh, and he pulls Blair closer, possessively, instinctively, as he nuzzles into sleep-hot skin and breathes in deeply, capturing Blair's scent.

Maybe Blair should stay right where he is.


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