Make You Smile
by Mab
I wrote this for Elaine's birthday, doing my best with some of the suggestions that she made. Some of them got in, some of them didn't. :-)
My karma is totally screwed because I hate Rachel Moran.
Rachel, aka Rae. She's five foot seven and slim (but stacked) and she has pale Irish skin and dark Irish hair and she's very pretty in a delicate, pointy-faced sort of way. She's intelligent. She's sensible. She's not shy or coy, or brash, and when she stayed overnight a couple of nights ago and came down to breakfast in Jim's robe, she made pleasant, unembarrassed conversation with me over the toast and coffee.
That was the night I stayed out exceptionally late working at Rainier, and came home quietly, and barricaded myself in my room behind my doors and meditated exceptionally hard. Yeah. I know. That's so not the way meditation is supposed to work. Meditation should flow. It should be a process of discovering relaxation and peace. It's not about working out that you hate a perfectly nice, non-criminal woman because of the way that Jim smiles at her; with his goofy, tender smiles. Those things pack a wallop. I've been on the receiving end of one or two of them and you don't forget them. Ever. This big, tough, action-hero of a guy looks like someone just gave him something that he's been dreaming about forever, and that someone is you. Total power rush.
I love Jim's smiles. Oh, fuck. Shoot me now. No, really. And I hate Rae, although I think I'm doing a bang-up job of hiding the fact. She even seems to genuinely like me, in a "hey, you're the best friend of the guy who is fast becoming my highly significant other, and isn't it a relief for both of us that it looks like we can get along?" sort of way. If only she knew. But she's not going to know. And neither is Jim. And where the hell is the 'for rent' section?
Damn it.
The first time that Jim walked into the bookstore we were all totally professional – while he was there. But come break-time, I'm sure that our mainly female staff scarred Kyle McLennan for life. He's fresh out of school with the acne to prove it, and he got more insight into the way the average woman's mind works than he ever wanted. Still, reading is supposed to broaden the mind. I don't see why working in a bookstore shouldn't do the same for Kyle. God knows he doesn't pick up a book except to note the stock number.
The second time Jim walked into the store he was looking for a particular type of book. He told me he wanted some short stories, because his life was pretty hectic and he wanted something he could pick up and put down again and come back to. Also, he had to collect something for a friend. Some new age book, ordered for Blair Sandburg, and I thought, 'okay, Rae, you're out of luck with this one'. "I hope she enjoys it", I told him, and when Jim absently said, "He," I didn't know whether to live in hope or assume that the saying about all the good ones being married or gay had proved its truth once more. And my God, the catcalling and the fanning hands and the innuendo in the back room (which spread to the girls who work the coffee annexe next door). Was it my fault that I ended up having a conversation with him? We were discussing books. I made a sale.
The third time Jim walked into the store, he bought a newspaper, and asked if I was free for coffee some time. I figured I could be free for coffee, sure, and we set a date. Lorena looked at me sideways once he'd gone, and then she grinned and said "Oh, you made a sale, alright, honey." The smile that I had on my face? I think it lasted all day.
I thought things were pretty good. I was walking around with a smile on my face in the bullpen, which stayed put even when Brown not so subtly leaned over my desk and informed me that the check on Rae that Sandburg asked for came out clean as a whistle. Brown had this big, smug grin on his face, and Sandburg spread his hands in this oh so innocent gesture. I could afford to be relaxed about some hazing. Fair enough after what I did with Iris, and I wasn't about to end up being rolled by some skank.
I came home one night, and there's the 'for rent' section of the paper folded up on the dining table with Sandburg's scrawls all over it. He's sitting there, and now he's scrawling all over some student's essay. I know what they look like by now. I got myself a beer and sat down at the table, and I prodded that bunched up newspaper like it was a dead skunk.
"What's this, Chief?"
He grinned at me, maybe a little sheepish about it. "I may not be a sentinel, but I figured that you'd want me and my ears out of the loft if Rae's going to be staying overnight on a regular basis."
"You don't have to," I told him. I meant it, too.
He shook his head, still smiling. "And here I thought you were the chivalric one. Rae's cool about my presence over the breakfast table, man, but when you add it up I've been here one long week." The smile turned into this lecherous grin. "Besides, you do have the sentinel ears. I may not have a gorgeous lady right now, but it'll be a relief to both of us if I can whack off somewhere you can't hear me."
Yeah, okay, so I know that noise (and that smell) along with all the others that go with having Sandburg living here. Can't say as it ever bothers me, but I took his point.
"Whatever suits you. Just so long as you know that you don't have to."
He shrugged. "Yeah. I know. Thanks."
So, he's looking for another apartment. No big deal. But I thought about all the time that I've spent with Rae the last few weeks, and I decided that it was time for a guys' night out. Jags had a game, I got some tickets. Why not? Worked out fine, as a matter of fact, because one of Rae's friends has a baby shower tonight. It's the kind of occasion where a man is (thank God) totally unnecessary.
Which leaves me here, in the stadium, with the crush of noise pressing around me. The crowd noise is like a big dome over us all, but I can still hear the squeak and scuff of the players' shoes on the court. I can hear Sandburg next to me, whooping and laughing, and breathing. Stoudamire makes the shot, and Sandburg turns to me with this incandescent grin, and I nearly stop breathing for a moment. I don't want him to move out. I don't want him to chivalrously make way for Rae's presence in the loft. What I want is that smile, and Sandburg in my life like he always is; what I want is the body and the soul. I'm sitting here, nailed to my seat by revelation in the middle of a crowd of thousands of basketball fans.
Shit.
I need to talk to Rae.
Jim's gone. As in gone, gone, gone. Gone for good. Fuck.
I always had this feeling that there was something he hadn't told me yet. There were things he'd do, things he'd avoid doing, and sometimes I'd catch this anxious look on Blair's face. Some sort of health problem? I don't know. I would have told him it didn't matter, anyway. But I'm not going to get the chance.
Jim came around with this look on his face. My stomach pretty much dropped into my shoes, because if I've ever seen the 'I'm really sorry but I'm about to dump you' look on a man's face, it was on his. I always do pick the polite ones. I give him full credit for doing it in person.
I don't know if it's a sop to my self-esteem or the final blow that it's pretty clear that he's leaving me for Blair. I'm a girl; Blair's a guy. How can I compete, right? At least I managed to keep some dignity in front of Jim and not cry. That was for my benefit, not his. Bastard.
Cookies and cream ice-cream; that's my fall back position in times like this. I trudge to the fridge with steps like lead, and get out the tub. The bills that are caught up in the magnetic smiley face clip on the door flutter as I swing that door shut good and hard. Weeping into the ice-cream. The story of my life.
I think I used up all the careful words with Rae. What comes out with Sandburg is, "Hey, Sandburg. Did you ever consider the fact that we're practically married?"
I guess not, if the look on his face is anything to go by. He looks like a man who's watching a flying saucer disgorge an armed contingent of little green men in down town Cascade. I'm committed now, so I keep on talking.
"We've been living together for the last three years. We eat together, we socialise together, we work together. If Simon had spent as much time with Joan as I do with you, they'd still be married."
Sandburg stands up. He's moving slowly and carefully, like a man who's just surprised a bobcat on a forest trail.
"Is this about me moving out?" he asks.
"Sort of." I take one hell of a breath. "I broke up with Rae."
"You did what? Jim, are you crazy?"
All my little fantasies crash into a pile of junk. I have just screwed up three people's lives on the basis of an idea that hit me over the head in the middle of a fucking basketball game. Yes, I am crazy, a total moron. "Obviously," I mutter, and head for my jacket on its hook by the door. "Forget I said anything."
He scrambles his way into my path. "No, no, wait up, man." He's crashing towards me like he's on speed, but his face is calm, like he's my therapist and I'm waiting for the bus for Conover. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I look somewhere off to the side, at the bricks in the wall, not his face.
"You broke up with Rae. Because we're practically married."
I nod. It's this tense, hard, jerk of a nod, a 'sir, yes, sir' nod when it's just been made clear to you that you've done something irredeemably stupid.
"Because we work together and eat together and go on vacation together." He's talking in his 'let's figure this all out' voice. I could puke.
"The thing is, Jim, marriage generally incorporates sex."
If I'm going to be this miserable, I want company.
"You've got it, Chief. So, how about it?" I look at him, now, and my tone is aggressive, like I think he should drop his pants right there. I wait for the blush or the flinch, and the physical withdrawal; and wait for my chance to get the hell out of here, as if it's not far too late to stop making the biggest fool of myself that the world has ever seen.
His jaw drops into the dust where all my hope is. I try to move past him but he's got a good grip on my shoulders. Then he smiles. "We are both idiots. Did you know that?" He leans up to me, and the invitation is clear. The irony is that I nearly balk. I'm the one who started this, I'm the one who threw the marriage word around, but when I look at his face, what I see is the guy, just the guy, not the guy who also happens to be Blair Sandburg. I don't know what he sees, but his face changes. There's uncertainty to match my own, and then there's determination. He pulls my head down to his, and he kisses me. Sandburg is not an uncertain kisser. All of a sudden, neither am I.
We have to come up for air eventually. His face is flushed, and there's this silly look on his face. "So," he says. "Married." I nod again. "I really didn't expect that."
Chief, you have no idea.
Caffeine is a wonder drug. No doubt about it, but I think that I may have overdone it on that stakeout. Man, I am buzzing. My crank is turning about one million revs per second, although I guess that could just be the end of the adrenalin rush. The stakeout devolved into gunfire, danger, and leaping to the rescue (and I did my share of the leaping). Caffeine keeps you awake until the danger, and adrenalin keeps you awake after the danger. God, I could fly like Superman.
I'd look stupid in the outfit, though. But Jim; Jim would fill out the red and blue tights very nicely, thank you. What did Quinn say? All you need is a cape, Ellison? Kaminski was another one like Quinn. Scary, scary man, and James Joseph Ellison might look like Superman but he can't bounce bullets off his skin. All that gorgeous skin is intact, and it occurs to me that a little libation might be in order; to give thanks.
This involves me putting one hand on Jim's shoulder and one hand on the edge of his jacket and pivoting him against the wall, with some energy, because did I mention adrenalin? Plus this is hardly the first time that he's scared the pants off me. I'm returning the favour, only without the scaring. Let's shut the door, shall we?
He looks almost pissed off, and then he looks resigned. Yeah, like sex with me is such a chore. Still, he kisses me first, while I get my hands busy with buttons and zippers.
He gives his mouth a rest to say, "You're in a hurry there."
"Understandably so, man. I don't know when you'll get the urge again to jump in front of gun-toting bad guys."
"Pot, kettle, black," he mutters. My hands might be busy, but so are his. I am so getting cuddled here. It's sexual cuddling, but it's still cuddling. I've got a grip on things now, namely his dick, and the arm around my shoulder alters its purpose. Before it was holding me, now it's holding Jim up, while I kiss that beautiful neck of his and handle him just the right way. Even when we were still figuring things out, I got a real speedy clue about how much I liked holding Jim's dick in my hand. I can feel him trembling now, and he lowers his head to kiss my mouth. I keep stroking and twisting. He likes it nearly rough towards the end there, and I have what I want, while his mouth slackens and he moans. Libation achieved, all you gods and goddesses of luck. Keep looking out for us and there'll be more of this heading your way.
I wipe my hand on my jeans. I made the mess after all, but then I lift the wiped hand to Jim, and stick it under his nose. "How does that smell, Jim?" I whisper. "You and me mixed together. Do you like it?" He takes a long, concentrated sniff and then he puts my palm against his cheek. The bristles of his beard are rough under my hand. His eyes shut, just for a moment.
When his eyes open, there's a purposeful glint in them. "Upstairs."
"Couch," I reply. He looks at me. "I am in pain here, Jim," I complain. It's not a total exaggeration.
He jerks his thumb towards the living area. "Couch. Since you're in pain." I kick off my shoes and walk out of my jeans, (I've had practice) but I leave my t-shirt on. It's not that warm in here yet. Jim follows, and him hitching up his pants so that he can walk really shouldn't be that cute. I sit down in this sort of decadent sprawl. Jim's looking down at me. He's amused, and that shouldn't be that cute either. "Yeah, I can see that you're in pain there, buddy." He drops to his knees, and he plants one small, affectionate kiss on the head of my dick. We are getting past amusing here, but Jim knows when enough is enough.
For the man who started this whole thing, Jim took longer getting his head adjusted than I did. But once he was clear in his mind, one of the things he was clear about was sucking dick. He loves it. I don't know if he's good at it because he loves it, or if he loves it because he's good at it. He's good enough to reduce me to a gibbering wreck. I'm clawing my fingers into the couch upholstery, which is an action totally unsuited to my dignity, because I am king of the world with Jim on his knees in front of me; hell, king of the universe.
He stops with his lips pursed around just the head of my dick, and looks up to my face. Oh yeah, he's smug, but he has a right to be. I tilt my hips, and he takes the hint. Oh my god, yes, he has a right to be smug. I come so hard that my eyes probably roll back in my head, but I'm not in a position to make an accurate assessment. I'm lolling on the couch, breathing hard, and there is this big ball of warmth just expanding in me. Nothing to do with sex. I love the stupid, risk-taking lug so damn much.
I sit forward and take Jim's head between my hands, hold him like the precious thing that he is. Bang! Holy grail time. We come closer and our foreheads touch. I shift just enough that I can kiss him exactly between his eyebrows, and then I murmur into his eyelashes, "You know, Jim, this marriage thing is working out pretty well." When I see his face again – yeah. There's that smile.
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