The Observer

by Jane Davitt

Jim's drunk, courtesy of Bob Shaw's retirement party. His bedroom's spinning in a pleasantly entertaining way and he's at the point where his feet are numb but his fingertips can pick out the weave in the sheet beneath him as if each thread is a coarse rope.

Too drunk to call out to tell Blair that, yes, he's home, too drunk to have turned on a light, or taken off his coat, his shoes. Not too drunk to have removed his gun from the small of his back and stowed it away; never that drunk.

Too drunk to even pretend to himself that he's not listening to Blair kiss the woman he's brought home, the woman who would have gotten just that kiss, under Jim's austerely unwelcoming stare, if Blair hadn't thought that they were alone.

Blair kisses with a liquid slide of his mouth, sucks the woman's lip sting-hot and then licks it cool, makes an appreciative hum deep in his throat, a buzz-burr Jim longs to feel against his palm, against his lips, against his cheek.

Blair kisses her and Jim feels the echo of each kiss on his own mouth, too clearly to be an illusion, a wish. Startled as much as he can be in this dreamy float on a wash of booze, he realizes that his sense of hearing, spun up ridiculously high, is combining with taste and smell -- she's wearing too much Paloma Picasso, he's been eating curry; Jim inhales each scent, mouth open to capture each molecule and feels full -- and spilling over into touch. He can't see them; his eyes are closed, but he can feel those kisses, Blair's kisses, there and there and oh -- oh--

He's hard between one breath and the next, a dizzying, painful rush of blood muscling his cock erect in a space too small for what it's being asked to contain. He fumbles his zipper down and he can see it now, sweet Jesus, it's all he can see. The woman, leaning back on the couch -- hiscouch, where he sits goddammit, and Blair on his knees, his hands filled with fabric as he holds a brief skirt up and hooks his fingers in a scant scrap of satin, pulling it away from damp, musky flesh.

Blair's tongue is lapping; wide, long strokes. Blair's tongue is pointed, drilling deep, swirling, circling, and Jim can both taste the woman's juices salt-sweet on his lips, and feel Blair's tongue on his erection, tormenting him, torturing him, punishing him for listening, because it's good, but it's not enough, he needs, oh, he needs more, needs Blair.

The woman's keening, throat-caught gasps, rubbing herself onto Blair's face (succulent sounds, wet, obscene and they fill Jim's head until he doesn't know if he's making noise, too, and he crams his fist against his mouth and bites down). She's saying Blair's name and 'uh' and 'yes' and 'God' and Jim feels tears form and spill out of his eyes like acid, burning, because it feels as if she's stealing his words, saying them a beat behind him as he screams them silently in his head.

Blair can hear her; he can't hear Jim.

Blair's fingers, clever, careful fingers, drive up into that waiting wet hole, fill it as his thumb rubs at her clit and makes her silent, too, just for a moment, too busy enjoying what's being done to her to have breath to waste on whimpers. Jim feels it as a dry intrusion in his ass, a possessive, claiming shove, and his teeth break through the skin on his knuckles. He tastes blood and spit, and swallows, a slow ripple of his throat.

"In me, in me," she chants and Jim shakes his head 'no' but he can't speak and his body isn't listening; his legs spread, his knees bend, and he's open, wide-fucking-open to Blair now. It doesn't matter that he's still fully dressed. It doesn't matter at all.

He's naked, he's open. And Blair's about to fuck him.

She turns and bends over the couch, giggling, glancing back at a smiling Blair who's kicking out of shoes and jeans, shorts and socks. His cock is full, red, ready, and she doesn't even touch it, hasn't touched it once, but she waits for Blair to sheathe it in latex and then she takes it deep inside her with a wriggle and a push backward.

Jim screams, feels it tear his throat apart, the sound held prisoner, lashing out at its jail. Blair's talking, praising, exulting, fucking; powerful strong strokes that sink to the heart of Jim and leave him split apart; his body seared with pain, his body racked with pleasure.

When they climax, he's left hanging, poised. He could touch himself and end it all, but if he does, they'll hear him; he won't be able to gag himself then. Blair's orgasm, experienced second-hand, is oddly flat and disappointing; the woman's --God, what's her name? Why has Blair not said it once? -- is better; a warm, intensity radiating out, her incoherencies making perfect sense.

He listens, numb now, shutting down, sense by sense, to the wet sucking slide as Blair pulls out, the disposal of the condom, the clean-up, the soft, murmured endearments. Blair makes her coffee and then, as if he's fast-forwarded to the end of the movie, he hears the door close behind her and realizes he's lost time to sleep.

He's half-hard still, drunk still, his body a protest of muscle and bone. His coat's rucked up in the small of his back and he thinks that moving is going to hurt but lying still is unendurable.

He rolls to his side and groans.


Blair's voice is a startled squeak of pure panic and Jim sighs. Busted.

He can move quickly when it's an emergency, no matter what his condition; by the time Blair appears at the top of the stairs, hovering, blushing, his mouth fumbling for words of excuse, explanation, Jim's lost his coat and shirt and is under the sheets, his jeans and shoes hidden.

He yawns and gives Blair a stern look. "You woke me up slamming the door like that, Chief."

Blair grabs the lifeline with both hands. "I did? Sorry, man, I just --" He breaks off to sniff the air. "God, Jim, how much did you have to drink? I can smell the whisky on your breath from here!"

"Too much," Jim admits. "Came home and passed out, I guess. Don't worry; Simon dropped me off."

"Shame he didn't cut you off as well."

Jim raises a wavering, palsied hand. "Spare me the lecture, huh? And bring me some water and an aspirin."

"Is that all you want?"

There's an instant of panic -- does he know? Did he guess? -- and then Blair adds sarcastically, "How about a bucket?"

Jim lets his head sink into the pillow and smiles weakly in a bid for some fucking sympathy and fellow feeling. "Might be an idea."

And next time, use some lube, Chief.

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