A Short Storm in Phoenix
by Mab
It wasn't as if it was unusual for the internet to be the catalyst for stress in interpersonal relationships. People maxed out their credit cards on E-Bay. They viewed 'Horny Big Hooter Lesbians' on the work PC, and had e-affairs with that (hopefully) sexy person that they met in chat rooms. Depressing, from some angles, but not so strange. But to have a miserable squabble with your lover because he caught you surfing a perfectly respectable site about certain aspects of psychology – that was normal life for Blair.
Jim had passed behind him on his way to the kitchen. “You shouldn't flick between windows like that, Chief. It gives the game away.”
Blair cursed that unwary twitch. He knew that as stress was measured that the first year of a marriage was often difficult as people settled into life together. He'd grinned at the information back in the day, as he'd had no plans for the married state at that time. True that Jim and he had lived together before now, but the sex changed things. And when you added being the de facto psychiatrist of your 'spouse' into the mix, it got a little stressful. And that was on top of that little business of completely changing your life to hide from various shadowy operatives of the less reputable branches of your government.
He turned one of his more innocent faces to Jim. “Just a little multi-tasking. You know me – grasshopper mind.” And it was a mistake, he knew it straight away. Jim never appreciated the 'I'm obfuscating for your own good' approach, and in his desire to avoid an argument, Blair realised he had only set one off that more sharply. Jim leaned down, his body's heat uncomforting against Blair, and clicked his hand on the mouse, Jim's long fingers resting over the top of Blair's. The links page from the Institute for the Discussion of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder came up.
“I don't appreciate being treated like I was broken, or like I was three years old and in need of humouring.” Jim's breath was warmly moist in Blair's ear.
Blair shrugged. He didn't appreciate Jim using his body and greater size for intimidation purposes. “Could I maybe get out of this chair? I get the feeling I should be standing for this discussion.”
Jim moved back, and unappreciated as his closeness had been, Blair keenly felt the gap between them. Jim's voice was flat. “Discussion? I've expressed an opinion, that's all.” Oh yes, Blair had plenty of experience with Jim and his opinions. He took a deep breath and stood up.
The peace-offering first. “I'm sorry, Jim. I'm not trying to make you feel like anything, especially not like a kid.” He skated over the first part of Jim's complaint. “But sometimes the information is useful, that's all.”
“I'm not doing so bad. And if I was, who the hell says it's your job to fix me, anyway?”
Blair raised his eyes in long-suffering, and he really didn't care if *that* was a mistake.
“Continual repetitive nightmares, Jim. Panic attacks. Are any bells ringing here for you? And yes, it does have to be me, because I'm pretty damn sure that there isn't any support group where you stand up and say, 'Hi, I'm Jim, and I'm recovering from being abducted and put through the mill by own government.' And if there was, I'm equally damn sure that you wouldn't attend one anyway!”
“Keep your voice down.”
Calm; that was what was needed. Blair took a few hard breaths through his nose. He was sure that his mouth shouldn't feel so compressed as he did it, but stress had to go somewhere.
Jim continued. “I don't need you playing doctor with me. I would just like us to get on with living our life without feeling as if I'm under the fucking microscope - again.”
And there was the red flag to a bull. “I am trying to *help* you, you stubborn jackass. But no, God forbid that the great Jim…” Blair caught himself, “Carl James McKinley should have problems.”
“You are such a fucking hypocrite.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“Maybe you should forget the mote in my eye and check out the log in your own there, Sigmund. I might have my share of nightmares, but I'm getting there. You have your share of disturbed nights too. Or did you sleep better when you were fucking everything that walked in Maine? You want to tell me how many times you went after big athletic men with a little seniority on you?”
Something inside Blair crumbled away into whistling, hollow darkness. “I couldn't afford to be too choosy,” he said silkily. “It's not as if Portland is that populous, after all.” He walked, on amazingly steady legs, to get his wallet and jacket, while Jim stood by with a look of aghast frustration on his face.
“Blair – I didn't mean it like that.”
Blair jutted his jaw, as the empty space in him was filled with flame. “I don't give a damn how you meant it, Jim. I'm going out for a while. One of us saying what he supposedly doesn't mean is more than enough.” He slammed the door behind him hard enough to judder the frame. He liked that, so when he got into his car he slammed that door good and hard too, before turning the ignition key so vigorously it was a wonder he didn't break it. He headed for a bar he knew downtown. It was hardly that busy on a Wednesday night, and he settled himself morosely. What to drink? He usually drank beer, but there was something sadly anticlimactic about sitting down to get blotto on beer – and it would take too long anyway. He could walk home, or get a cab, or go to a motel and sulk there. Scotch it was then. He found himself playing with the cards in his wallet. Drivers license for Jacob Bergman. Bank cards for Jacob Bergman. Membership in the local library, a loyalty card for a bookshop – all in the name of Jacob Bergman. Blair Sandburg is MIA, but here, meet Jacob Bergman.
He'd half been expecting this – not the fight itself, but that Jim's 'take no prisoners' approach to arguments would one day bring up Blair Sandburg's confession of his promiscuity. Big fat hairy deal, after all. He'd never been ashamed of his butterfly to the flowers approach to women, why should it bother him that he'd been the same way with men? If you played the game fairly, if both sides knew the rules, what was the harm? (And if there was harm, what did that say about his mother?) He ordered another scotch. But it did bother him, for the reasons that he'd told Jim, because it had been joyless and compulsive, because he'd been using people and he hadn't cared. But he'd told Jim, because he'd felt that Jim ought to know, and because Jim might understand. Or so he'd hoped. Time for another scotch, even though he felt a little sick with grief and reaction. He remembered Jeff, who was a football coach at a local school, and very closeted, and pleasantly thunderstruck by the determined way that Blair had gone after him. But then Jeff was tall and fit and losing his hair a little, and Blair had been able to pretend rather a lot in a series of dimly lit rooms. Damn James Ellison anyway. And Blair Sandburg too. What a pair of fools.
There was the scrape of a barstool against the floor. “Wow. What a surprise,” Blair muttered.
“Are you planning on propping this up all night?” It was interesting, Blair thought, how maybe Jim's voice was like the scotch – smooth, with a bite to it.
“Just until they throw me out.” He felt a little childish, a little embarrassed now, but he certainly wasn't going to admit to it. Bad enough he'd given Jim the ammunition for before.
“Let me take you home. We can get your car tomorrow.” There was a silence, during which Blair sipped his drink in a meditative way. Screw processing anyway.
“Chief. I didn't mean it like that. I swear.”
“Fine. Then how did you mean it?”
Jim's fists were clenched on the counter in front of him. “I can't talk about this stuff in some bar. Come home, come on.” Jim's voice was softly persuasive, and Blair could feel himself giving in. Wasn't that how it was sometimes? He slid himself carefully off his stool. “Well, lay on then, MacDuff.” Jim's face lightened a little. The two of them walked in silence about half a block in the direction that Jim indicated. They got into Jim's car. Blair's hands fumbled a little with the safety belt, but he was grateful that Jim didn't deign to do him up like some child.
“So, if you don't think I'm some pathetic slut, then what interpretation am I supposed to put on your remarks?” Ah yes, the academic approach.
Jim made a noise reminiscent of a snorting bull before he said, “I know that you're doing what you think is best, but…” He stopped.
“Neither of us is getting any younger here, Jim.”
“It's not easy.”
Neither was fearing that he had Jim's contempt. Blair tilted his head just enough to look at Jim. He needn't have worried about subtlety. Jim was staring out his side-window, apparently fascinated by the quiet street.
“When all this started, when we met…god, you were annoying, but I still – got off, I guess, on the way you looked at me. You were as impressed as hell by all the crap I could do.”
“You still do it,” Blair said quietly. Jim huffed in bitter amusement.
“Yeah. But the bloom's sort of gone these days.” Blair felt a small twist of pained confusion.
“I know that I have bad patches. But I don't want to be your patient, and I get pissed off that you're trying to *treat* me.”
Blair swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“I'm just trying to look after you, man.”
“So who looks after you?” Jim's voice was accusing.
Blair thought about the utter relief when he sometimes woke in the night and knew that *finally* it really was Jim spooned against him in the bed, that Jim was there to tease him about how slow he was to get going in the mornings.
“We look after each other.”
“It doesn't feel like that. And I end up wondering why the hell you're bothering with some crazy old guy and I get a little scared, and you know me – best defence is a good offence.” He was speaking in a rush now, anxious to get the words out. “And yeah, I know that you're not that happy about those men, and I went for the jugular. Like I do when you get under my skin. I'm sorry.”
Blair's throat was all closed up. “Jim…”
“I just wish that I'd had the sense to make a move on you back when you thought I was something wonderful.”
Blair still had trouble talking but he forced out, “I'll think you're something wonderful when you're ninety and tottering along on a frame.”
Jim turned his head back and Blair saw the quick flash of his teeth.
“I suspect disillusion will have set in by then.” Jim's hand reached out to snag Blair's. “Can we go home now?”
“I didn't drink that much, Jim. I should really get my car.”
“Tomorrow, Chief. How about we just get home to bed?”
Blair found that he could talk more easily again.
“Are we talking make-up sex here?”
Jim had flicked on the indicators, and was taking a quick look over his shoulder.
“You've got a one-track mind there – Jake.” The nickname had become a regular tease between them.
Blair smiled. “Yeah sure, man. And you're coming up fast behind me on the same track.” Blair never had been subtle about innuendo. And Jim, who these days never did anything that might draw attention, allowed the car's speed to creep up a few miles over the limit.
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