Just a sweet little something. Beta'd by Xasphie.
It's an evening like any other.
I'd like to make myself believe that, anyway. I came home a few minutes ago, ruefully thinking that no one should be this exhausted. I had planned to fight my pitiful state with a beer or two, and a solid eight hours of sleep, but somehow I don't think I'm going to find any. Sleep, that is. And it's his fault.
Sandburg opened the door for me before I could fiddle the key into the lock, and I found myself close up with him gazing at me concernedly through those very big, very blue eyes.
When did I start to notice anyway?
"Jim, you all right?"
And what kind of greeting is that anyway? "Sure am," I say curtly, pushing past him, feeling the need to do something to just come down. Like eat. Or finally have that beer I've been lusting after ever since I left the station. Bad choice of words. I almost groan, don't I know all too well...
It only gets worse from there.
Wearing a pair of jeans that nicely hug his body in all the right places -- which is an objective observation, you hear me? -- and a tee. No socks.
Blair catches me staring, giving me an enigmatic smile now, and I quicky turn away before I do something even more embarrassing, like blush.
Minutes later, I've made myself a quick sandwich, had the first beer, and it has not helped. I'm going for the second, watching Blair as he's sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading a book, hair falling forward.
I find my gaze drawn to his bare feet again, remembering a camping trip a few weeks back that ended with us having to rent a hotel room, because of a sudden, violent thunderstorm. Just our luck they only had one double room left.
The clerk didn't bat an eye, nor did either of us. Those things just keep happening to us, you know?
I remember how it felt when he touched his foot against my calf, not on purpose, but because even in sleep Sandurg moves around a lot. And denies it the morning after. I feel the smile tugging at my lips, recalling how I woke up with him curled up against my side, close, trusting - and slightly mortified.
I never minded, but I suppose it would have freaked him out if I had expressed that so clearly.
"See something funny, Jim?" he asks now. Which of us has the senses anyway? Well, he has, something like a sixth sense, when it comes to me, and that's why I'm treading on dangerous grounds. There's no way he will not find out soon, if I keep this up.
"Why don't you put on some socks?" I query, sounding justifiedly irritated. "You'll catch a cold, not to mention dirty feet."
Blair looks up now, seeming somewhat indecisive, as if he doesn't know if he should be amused or worried. He settles for the former.
"It's actually quite healthy, strengthens your immune system. And don't worry, I'm going to wash my feet before I go to bed. You wanna check later?"
The little devil, he's got to have noticed something.
"Not necessary," I grumble, sitting on the couch beside him. What can I do, you've got the best view on the TV screen from here! I lift the beer bottle and press it against my cheek, the cool glass feeling refreshing.
Well, maybe a cold shower would be more like it.
I take another look, thinking ruefully that I'd never pegged myself for a guy who had a foot fetish. Okay, actually, a Sandburg fetish, more likely. Which is a pity, because while I have less qualms about going down that road than most people who know me would think, it's all a moot point.
Blair might have a nice case of hero worship when it comes to me, something I intermittendly bask in, but that doesn't change the fact it's all very innocent and platonic.
My thoughts of him have become all but innocent and platonic, even though this is crazy, even though I know that sharing these sentiments would be the fast way to send him running. For all his unconventional upbringing and attitude, kid's straight as an arrow.
I sigh, which provokes another worried glance.
"Excuse me, but you're really weird tonight, man." He reaches over and touches my forehead, and I flinch back from the blissful shock of a real touch.
"Hey!" I snap.
Blair shakes his head at me. "Did something happen today?"
Not yet, Chief.
Another fetish: His eyes. Even with my Sentinel sight, I haven't seen this kind of blue before. And did you really think all the times I've been ruffling his hair were just out of brotherly emotion? Think again. The phrasing must be something to be found in a Harlequin novel, but the guys in there aren't Sentinels, and it really does feel like silk under my fingers.
"Simon's coffeemaker blew up," I say, getting up to gain some distance. Turn on the TV, maybe get myself a book so it at least looks like I'm occupied. I'm in that movie now. All his fault, did I mention that already?
In my mind, I've got it all laid out.
"Really?" he says, his eyes going all wide for an instant, then he shakes his head. "Come on, Jim. You're obviously upset about something. Stop making me guess, okay?"
Up -- and all set. Right.
I got it bad, I admit that. I've been dreaming about this over the paperwork...
Not that I'm actually any more experienced on this side of the fence than I consider him to be, but working Vice really gives you an idea of the logistics. Makes you wonder, but it isn't all that impossible or unusual anyway, and given the size of what some folks use for... Um. Right. No need to go there now, where were we?
Romantic seduction, right. Fresh from the shower, his hair would still be slightly damp, smelling of banana-strawberry or whatever flavor he'd chosen for that month. We'd start with a massage, probably, using some oil that would make my fingers tingle, and his skin turn all soft and yielding under my hands--
Only a few days back, Sandburg lectured me on how the brain is the most important sexual organ, almost making me choke on my dinner, but it makes so much sense to me now.
I think I should maybe take this to my bedroom, but somehow, it doesn't feel right when the object of your desire is unsuspecting. And I just know my face has turned beet red.
Blair closes the book with a loud thud that sounds like a gunshot to me, making me jump. "Really, Jim."
"What?" That's usually his line.
"Who is she?"
"She?" I'm just barely able to see through the haze of my favorite fantasy.
"You were kinda gone, and not zoning. Doesn't look like you're all that comfy in those jeans either."
His gaze on me is now searching, expectant.
I feel naked under it. The thought is not helping at all.
"Okay, I'll tell you. You were right all along, Chief. I do have a problem."
He's all attention now, totally focused on me, and it takes a lot of self-restraint not to reach out and pull him to me. Maybe he'd run. But maybe not. Blair is a brave man, after all, and too curious for his own good. Don't get me wrong, I plan on being very good to him. "I've got a fetish," I say. "And we're not talking small carved figures here."
Yeah, 'oh'. It's so sweet how his mouth rounds on this single syllable. You want more fetish material? Try that cute nose. Sure, Sandburg would slug me if he ever heard me call him cute, but hell, he is. And I'm tired of pretending to be blind.
"What is it about?" he asks after a moment, having collected himself, curiosity rising to the surface again.
"It's about you," I say and lean forward to kiss him, and suddenly it's definitely not an evening like any other anymore, because he's not surprised, his lips warm and soft, opening eagerly to me.
I somehow find myself horizontal on the couch, with him sprawled above me, my hands still buried in his hair the way I wanted to for quite some time. I take my taste, until breathing becomes an urgent matter, and we break the kiss for a moment -- he's smiling at me, the way that makes we want to get rid of my clothes even more than a minute ago, and reach up to caress that smile.
"Fine with me," he simply says.
Hell, I should probably make a list. Regarding those fetishes, I mean.