Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Hey, Chief, let's go. Up and at 'em."

He's doing his damndest to sound peppy, but he's hoarse, and I can tell he didn't get enough sleep. I sure as hell didn't.

I roll over and pull the pillow over my head.

Day one of week four in the Ellison Fitness Regime.

Crap.

He's been good. He's not pushing me, he let's me set the pace, but he's so damned... earnest about it. So thorough. So consistent.

And so dedicated. Sure, he was all over me that first time, fucking me until we both practically passed out, but he's been strictly no-nonsense ever since.

He woke me up the next morning to go jogging, man. No nookie, no AM gropefest, just huffing and puffing... in a public place, in my Nikes and the gym shorts I'd barely gotten a chance to get sweaty the day before.

And the truth is, I can pretty much keep up with him on the treadmill, but I'm just never going to rival him when it comes to lifting, or chin ups, or mortal combat.

And he just keeps hoping that I will. I can see it in his eyes. He's being so good, it almost breaks my heart. He doesn't want to ride me, doesn't want me to get frustrated and give up, but he wants me to be buff-- and it has nothing to do with how I look.

I was already working out semi-regularly, and I watch what I eat, so I didn't have far to go as far as toning and stuff is concerned. But this is cross training, strength training. And I don't have a problem with being stronger, or having a kick-ass cardiovascular system, all right? But I do have a problem with Jim thinking that if he just builds me up a little bit more, that I'll be nigh-invulnerable.

He might not even know it himself. It may be totally subconscious on his part, but the thing is, it was probably not a good idea to sign up with the Jim Gym...

I mean, there are perks. I have, like, definition now, and he gives me really amazing rub-downs if I pull something... But...

I'm starting to resent him, just a little.

And that is not a good thing.

He's still curled up under the covers when I climb back up the stairs with his coffee.

"Sandburg. You feelin' okay?" He's been pretty bouncy, all told. He doesn't seem to mind getting up a little earlier, says he's feeling better, stronger, that kind of thing.

I'm glad.

But he's made no move to get up this morning, and it's starting to irk me.

It probably has more to do with the fact that I've been having some rough nights lately then anything he's done, but still... if he doesn't get up in a minute I'm going to haul him out of bed and dress him myself.

This isn't a game. Fitness isn't just a fucking hobby. We both need to be in top condition. We're out there every day, risking our lives... His life. And it's definitely worth a few minutes of sleeping in to be able to out run some scumbag, or knock him senseless if he pulls a weapon.

You'd think the guy would understand that.

"Sandburg, I am not your personal alarm clock. Let's get some laps in, huh? I've gotta be at the station at eight."

"Jim, it's not even light out yet," he complains.

"Because I have to be in early today," I explain. Sounds reasonable enough, right?

"Jim..." He sits up and throws the covers back. He's got his T-shirt on, but his boxers are under the bed, or maybe under his pillow. So he's half naked, and half-hard, and all rumpled and sleepy. He shoves his hair out of his eyes and scrubs his face with his hands.

"Uh, sit down. I have to tell you something."

I fight the urge to just stalk downstairs and slam out the door on my own. He wants to tell me something. Why am I sure I don't want to hear it?

"Look, Jim, don't take this the wrong way," and he curls his hand around my forearm. "But I'm just gonna get a membership at the Y, okay?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" And that came out with more snap than I meant it to. But still. What the fuck does he need a gym membership for? He's got the station weightroom, and the treadmill on the first floor, and me.

"Hey, hey, relax, hear me out, okay? I just don't think it's such a good idea for you to keep training me."

"Why? Am I pushing you too hard? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it. Jim, this isn't about you being a sit-up Nazi, because you're not, you've been great, really supportive, really easygoing, really taking it easy on me. I know that, I can tell, and it's great, I mean, I know how hard it must be for you to hold back like that... but it's just not gonna work out."

"Why the fuck not?"

Blair looks a little apprehensive, and maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion, but suddenly, I'm cranked right up, mad enough to yell, hell, maybe even shake some sense into him.

"Maybe we should talk about this later, when you're not so close to it..."

"Later? Hey, you've already shot the morning to shit, why don't we just finish this up right now?"

His eyebrows climb up so far I think they'll touch his hairline.

"I didn't think you'd take this so hard."

"And I thought you'd take it a little more seriously, Sandburg."

I yank my arm out of his hand and head down the stairs and out the door, just like I should have before I went and opened my big mouth.

So.

That went... pretty badly.

I decided not to call him at the station. I figured it might be better if he called me, let me know he was ready to talk it out.

He didn't.

It was his turn for dinner, but I'm not surprised when I get home to an empty loft.

I heat up a little soup and munch some crackers, but I'm not too hungry. In fact, I feel like shit.

The whole day just sucked. Wondering about our fight this morning and trying to plan what to say tonight cast a pall over the whole day, which was gloomy and pissing rain already. By nine, Jim still wasn't home, and I'd already done my prescribed number of sit-ups and push-ups, so I took a shower and climbed into bed early.

Then I just kind of laid there and stared at the ceiling, feeling vaguely crappy.

Then I hear the door creak open, about a quarter to ten.

I climb up the stairs and try not to feel like the guilty son of a bitch I know I am.

I spent the day running surveillance with Megan on some hood who's running a brisk gun trade on Hammond Avenue. We got some leads, and unless I miss my guess Taggert and Bowdoin will be able to bust him tonight, when he tries to sell to one of our guys at a certain downtown PVC warehouse.

I'm glad that Connor was there to keep me occupied, or else I might have just driven right off the road, wondering why I'd been such a louse to Blair this morning.

"Hey, Chief. You awake?" I know he is, and he knows I know, so he just sits up and turns the bedside lamp on.

He looks... careful, and it makes me want to hang my head. I can't believe I blew up at him like that. But I still feel like it's important.

"Look, Blair, I'm... sorry. About this morning. It's just... It's important, okay? I mean, working out with you... Did you think I was doing it for my health?"

And he smiles before he remembers he shouldn't and somehow that makes it easy.

"You were doing it for mine."

"Huh?"

"You had a fit because you're trying to make me stronger," he explains. "So I can protect myself. And I understand that. I'm... touched, okay? I know you care, Jim. But... I still can't work out with you."

He's sticking to his guns, and I press my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose.

"Why not?"

"Because... Well, a bunch of reasons. One of which is that you're you. And I'm not ever going to be you."

I know I must look confused as hell, because he smiles at me.

"You're Mr. Universe, Jim. You're big and studly and beefed up. That's just not going to work for me. I can be stronger, yeah, maybe a little faster, but I'm never gonna have legs like tree trunks, okay? I'm just not going to be as tough as you are."

"But you don't have to--"

He holds up a hand.

"Just listen, okay? Besides being an unreachable goal, it's a little intimidating, okay? I'm pretty self-confident, but it tweaks me a little to know I'm never going to look like you. And you're so... enthusiastic about it. Maybe I like to bitch about how much I hate warm ups, and jogging in the rain, and shit like that, okay? And the way you are, so gung ho and... I mean, Jim, you're practically perky about it. You love to work out. You do, so don't even give me that look like you don't--"

"Hey, just because I have a little self-discipline--"

"Yeah, yeah, there's discipline involved, so sue me." He makes a face at me before reaching out to take my hand, like he did this morning.

"The thing is, Jim, when I look at you, I just want to think about you, whether you've had a good day, or if maybe you'll let me fuck you on the couch later, or if you'd like creamed corn with dinner, or just about how cool your eyes look when the sun hits them just right...

"But the way it is now, I see you and I immediately start thinking about how many reps I have to do this session, and I calculate my heart rate and wonder where I left my towel...

"And I just want to think about you, and how much I love you, and how much fun it is to get into your pants."

"Oh." It makes a certain amount of sense.

"So, you're not gonna take it personally?"

It's too late for that, but he's already fixed things up.

"I'll get you a gym membership with Paulie on Trade street."

"Jim. I can do it myself. Okay?"

Okay. He's a big boy, Jim. Get a grip.

"Okay." I sigh a little and take my baseball cap off.

Blair kneels up to rest his hands on my shoulders.

"We cool?"

"We're good. I still feel like a shit heel for being such a fucking caveman... but it's okay."

"Temporary insanity," Blair offers.

I clap a hand over one of his, work up a smile for him.

"Something like that."

He squeezes my shoulders and then lets me go, draws his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around them.

"So, you hungry?"

"Nah. I had some ribs with Connor."

He nods a little. Things still feel a little...strained.

"Uh...If I say I'm sorry again, will you try to help me feel like less of an asshole?"

He grins at that.

"Make it good, and I'll see what I can do for you."

"I'm really sorry," and I cup his kneecap in my palm.

"Eight for sincerity, and six for effort. The judges give you a seven."

"A seven!?" I lean over and kiss his throat.

"Hey, Jim... you know you're cooking dinner for the rest of the week, right?"

"I know," I mutter, like I'm disgusted, but I'm secretly glad. I know I'm lucky to have gotten off so easily... I snort against Blair's neck, pushing him over to tug on his T-shirt with my teeth. Getting off easily. That's something almost guaranteed with Blair.

Blair's heart is speeding right up, but before I kiss him, I look him in the eye.

"You're gonna keep working out, right?"

"I promise. I'll get a membership at the Y. And... we can still jog," he decides. "But not in the morning, okay? Mornings should be for kisses with bad breath and you feeding me peeled grapes and shit like that."

I can get behind that.

"I'll see what I can do."

He gives me this wicked smile.

"Why don't we see what I can do?" And he squirms out from under me and climbs around behind me, shoving my shirt up and setting his teeth against my shoulder blade so that I groan and arch up against him.

He presses the heel of his hand against my cock, and I feel myself fill up, bulge behind my jeans.

"Jim, Jim," he mutters, licking my ear, his weight across my back. "How do you want me?"

"Gimme what you got, Sandburg," I pant.

He massages me through my jeans again and I feel him plump up against my ass, his breathing get heavy.

"Strip, man. And stretch out."

I do what he tells me, and he shimmies out of his underwear and presses kisses along my spine. He rolls me onto my side and positions one knee up so that I'm open enough for him to get at me.

He's got the lube out, and he's dribbling it on his hand, rubbing it between his fingers until it's warm and slippery. He tickles my hole a little, petting the outside, and then he kind of pops his thumb in there.

"Turn your head, Jim."

My eyes are shut tight, but I turn my head a little, and I get a wet, sucking kiss from Sandburg when he can reach my mouth. His thumb is just... there... not moving, really, and he's kissing me, stroking my teeth with his tongue. It's a weird angle and I wonder how long he can hold out.

He slips out of me and presses on my shoulder, so I'm on my back now. He wraps one hand around my dick, and slides his lube-free hand up to stick his first two fingers in my mouth.

He goes down on me, but just... holds me in his mouth. I lick his forefinger experimentally, and I get an answering lick from Sandburg. I reach up to take his hand and squeeze his wrist gently, and he tightens his hand around my shaft, relaxes a little.

I get it.

I suck on his fingers, and he sucks on me. I swirl my tongue, he swirls his tongue, I lap with slow, heavy strokes... And he... god ... he...

I rock my hips a little, but he's got me, cupping my balls now as he sucks the crown, and I want to chew on his fingers a little but I definitely don't want his teeth...

I tug his hand out of my mouth and he lets go of me.

He's grinning a little, his lips all shiny with spit, eyes kind of hazy.

"Don't stop," I groan.

And he starts it all over again.

You'd think that with all the strenuous physical activity, and I'm not just talking about the sex, that I'd be getting a better night's sleep.

Sleep of the just. Sleep of the weary cop. Sleep of the guy who just got off twice with his roommate.

You'd think wrong, though.

It's been a week or so since I got any quality shut eye, and it's really beginning to play hell with my temper. It's tough to be cranky when you're getting it as regularly as I am, but sleep dep pretty makes me a savage son of a bitch, especially in the morning, and even my knowing that, and trying not to take it out on Blair, isn't helping.

So, I'm laying here, Blair breathing softly on my neck, and trying to match my breathing to his, see if I can hop his little sleep trolley, and maybe sleep the goddamn night through.

Inhale, beat, beat, count three, let it go, in through the nose, out through the mouth, beat, beat, count three... yeah... yawn... uh huh....

Fuck!

I'm sitting up before my eyes are even open, and the sudden movement startles Blair, wakes him up, makes him clutch at my arm.

"Jim, what the hell, man? What's wrong?"

"It's a fucking car alarm," I bitch. Then cock my head, listen again. "No it's... seven car alarms."

"Huh?" It takes him a while to come around.

"Seven car alarms just went off at once... But not anywhere near each other."

"Freaky. Can you tell how far away they are?" He's sitting up now, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes and trying not to yawn, and that softens me right up... but he asked me a direct question, so I focus, see what I can give him.

"A mile, maybe. Mile and a half. Just on the edge." Thanks to Blair's tests, we have a rough idea of how far away I can hear certain sounds. But sounds that I'm listening for... so the sudden unbidden intrusion of car alarms into my life is pretty confusing.

What the fuck do I care about care alarms? Anybody who's got one probably has the insurance to get the car replaced, even if it is stolen.

I realize Blair's saying something.

"... it in?"

"Say again?"

"Should we call it in?"

I shake my head.

"They're all too far away from each other, and I couldn't pinpoint the exact locations even if I wanted to, and besides, it's probably just some sort of prank. And even if it isn't, we can deal with the synchronized car thieves tomorrow. At work."

"Okay, okay," he soothes. He's petting the back of my neck, and it is relaxing, and so I lay back down, curl over on my side so that he can keep stroking me, and close my eyes again.

"Jim," and his voice is low and quiet, but it's got a no-nonsense edge to it, too. "How long has it been since you slept the night through?"

Shit. Busted. Maybe the kid's developing Sentinel senses of his own or something. I thought I'd been being quiet...

"About a week, I guess," I mutter. And damn, if I don't sound guilty. He sighs, that little, "No, Jim, I'm not disappointed" sigh that makes me want to promise I'll never do whatever it is again, and he leans over to kiss the back of my neck.

"You should have said something," he chides gently. And he's not trying to make me feel guilty... but it's working anyway. "Is it something with your senses?"

"Yeah," I admit. "It's like the dials are turning up in my sleep or something."

He mumbles something even I don't catch, and then he reaches over me to fumble with the lamp on the night table. He lays one hand over my eyes before he snaps the light on and then shifts on the bed beside me, tucking his feet under his thighs, sticking his flyaway hair behind his ears.

"Jim, we've gotta talk about it," he says finally, and I can hear another yawn building in his chest, but he ruthlessly suppresses it.

"Right now?" And I sound crabby as hell, even to my ears. And not a little whiny.

"Yeah, now." He doesn't add: 'Since you haven't talked to me about before now, in the civilized light of day', but he probably should.

I sigh noisily and roll over on my back. When the light's like this, and Blair is stubbly, I can see the tiny shadows cast by every bristle of his unshaven cheek. It gives the illusion that he's got three day's growth rather than just a few hours more 'til the morning razor... It makes him look dissolute and kind of seedy, like a little kid who's smeared his face with burnt cork so he can be a Halloween pirate.

Makes me want to lick his chin and see if that beard will come clean.

His eyes are a little bloodshot, and he's sleep-sweaty under his T-shirt and rucked up boxers.

I could lick him all over...

"Jim, work with me, man." He places a careful palm over my half-hard dick. He always manages to wriggle back into some clothing after we've come, but I don't see much point to that, so I'm fancy free, here, and he's trying to not turn me on.

I nod and screw my eyes shut.

"Tell me what woke you up the first night," he coaxes, and he stretches out next to me, rests his hand on my chest.

"Uh... it was... a weird smell."

"What was weird about it?"

"It was weird," I insist crabbily. I open my eyes to frown at him.

"Weird how," he says patiently. He does that little not-yawn thing he does again, kind of swallowing it and flaring his nostrils. It gives me a sudden rush of nostalgia and I reach up to cover his mouth with my palm.

"This is where I came in," I say. He used to do that same thing in the morning, when he was making me coffee and patently not asking me why I wasn't sleeping at night.

He gives me a look that says, "Huh?", but then his eyes widen, and then they crinkle, because he's smiling behind my hand, and he smooches my palm and then links his fingers with mine, and nods.

Six months ago, when I couldn't sleep, it was because I was having nightmares about Blair. And the only thing that had helped had been watching him sleep... Well. Actually, I'd done my best to wake him up, so that he'd know I was watching him... but that's another story.

The point is, my insomnia basically got us together. And he's remembering that, too. I squeeze his hand and tug him over until I can wrap him up and snug him close.

"I'm glad you're here," I whisper.

"Glad to be here," he answers. "But you're not getting off the hook."

Damn kid.

"C'mon, Blair, give a guy a break--"

"What was weird about the smell," he reminds me.

Fine. Fine, he's gonna be all business, I can do that.

I roll away from him and cross my arms over my chest, try to concentrate. His thumb is brushing my left nipple, lightly lightly, and it's... not arousing, or even distracting... it's just enough to help me focus.

"They didn't go together. It was smells that didn't go together."

"Okay, that's good. What smells?"

"Chocolate," I say immediately. "And... and... motor oil."

"That's pretty weird," Blair agrees. "Anything else?"

"Blood," I blurt. And my eyes fly open. "Cow's blood and... coffee."

He grimaces, and his hand stills on my chest, spreads out and moves to slide over my heart.

"That is some fucked up shit, right there."

"Yeah."

"Was it like a garbage truck passing?"

"No... No. It was.. Just... isolated. Coffee with cow's blood instead of cream. Chocolate and motor oil in the same tin can..." I can almost taste the metal and the smudgy syrup taste of the chocolate, the thick, flat, slippery stripe of 1040 weight underneath it.

"Definitely not an accident. Sounds like the menu for sideshow geeks in the Jim Rose Circus."

I shrug.

"It wasn't anything dangerous. It wasn't... criminal. Just..."

"Weird," we say at the same time, and I smile at him a little, and he smiles right back.

"And the second night?"

I lose the smile.

"Can't we finish in the morning?"

"Now. While you're on a roll. C'mon, don't drag your feet about this. It could be important."

If the kid had a riding crop he'd be switching me with it.

"Uh... second night. I don't remember."

"You can do better than that."

"I don't remember, okay? I was just... awake. No good reason."

He gives me sour look and slaps me lightly on the forehead.

"Try again."

I close my eyes and try to think back, but I'm about ready to be genuinely pissed off if he doesn't stop pulling his little Professor Sandburg bit.

"Uh. I can't--" I can feel him frowning at me. Then it hits me. "The bed. The bed was shaking."

"Shaking? Like motion in the ocean, don't come knockin' when this van's a rockin' shaking?"

I can't help it, I grin at him, just like I know he wanted me to.

"No, sexfiend. It was... like when a train goes by."

"An earthquake maybe?"

I shake my head.

"No. It wasn't like that." They'd had a tremor in San Francisco not too long ago, a 2.1, and it woke me up and about gave me a heart attack. It was like having an electric shock... my skin was buzzing... Blair had to draw me a hot bath and rub my shoulders until I stopped shaking.

"Like when you're in an old building and a heavy truck drives past."

He tips an eyebrow, looks a little uneasy.

"Man, this doesn't mean that the structural integrity of the loft is on shaky ground or anything, does it?"

"No, Sandburg, the foundation's fine," I assure him, and he bobs his head, relieved.

"Okay, so day one, weird smells, day two, weird vibrations.. What about day three?"

"Dog whistle," I say, right away. No doubt in my mind. I'd wanted to hunt that little whistle blowing bastard down and shove the whistle down his scrawny throat. "Dogs were yapping for miles around. It was like he was driving around the neighborhood trying to rile them up."

"I didn't hear anything," Blair says, sounding surprised. And I guess I understand that; for a non-sentinel, he's a pretty light sleeper, as he has proven over and over again.

"Well, it was far away. Not on our block."

Blair's starting to look nervous.

"Jim. Someone's fucking with you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Deliberate smells, tweaking your hearing a mile away... Seven car alarms don't go off at once in by accident, man. Someone is fucking with you."

"Jesus, Sandburg, relax. It's just a sensory spike thing. Maybe I'm just linking the smells together in my own head, or there's really only one car alarm and it's echoing, or seven car alarms on the same street and they only sound like they're..."

Blair looks pretty unconvinced, and the more I flap my gums, the flimsier it sounds.

He's right. Someone is fucking with me.

"So... what do I do about it?" I ask.

"No, man," he corrects, taking my hand and holding it tight. "What do we do about it?"