All his apartment really needed, Simon mused, was one of those swing doors straight out of a rugged Wild West saloon.
Everything else was already in place. Five men sat around the table, faces cast in high relief by the molten bronze light of the setting sun, each with a similarly glided badge stashed somewhere on his person. The air blended the scents of bitter alcohol and sweet cigar smoke in complement, and the table itself was strewn with playing cards and dollar bills. The only deviation from the past-life world of their brother lawmen was the general removal of all weapons prior to the dealing of the first hand.
Simon basked in the atmosphere, entirely willing to let a long week of earning his money the hard way fade into memory.
"I'll see that three, and raise it by one," Rafe said.
"That I can do," Brown answered with a grin, tossing wrinkled bills to the growing pile in the center of the table, circled by beer bottles and half-eaten sandwiches. "What do you say, Joel?"
Taggart studied his cards with an intensity completely in contrast with Brown's levity. The underlying principles of a good poker face were a constant, Simon surmised, even when the other players at the table were trained identify and attack evasion. The main goal was still to keep the same expression, whether somber or smug.
And then there was Jim, poker face still in place even after folding. Simon looked across to the man backlit by the setting sun, his seat in front of the open window ostensibly due to his declination from the smoking majority.
"I say I'm going to leave you two to fight it out," Joel conceded, abandoning his cards.
"Then it's just us." Rafe flipped up his hole cards to join those face-up on the Formica. "Three kings."
"Like you're gonna win with that," Brown said, laying down his cards one at a time. "Four spades and a wild deuce make a flush. And ain't it a pretty sight!" He raked in various small bills, singing "You've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em," under his breath. Rafe just sighed at his partner's unabashed glee.
"I still don't see why we have to do this on payday." Joel's grumble might have been a bit more convincing had he not been simultaneously shuffling the deck with great flair and flourish. "I'm going to end up losing my money hours after I got it."
Jim stirred, his shadow skittering over the table. "You could limit your stake to whatever's left from the last paycheck."
"You have money left over?" Rafe gasped, with a wide-eyed look that took a good five years off his age.
Jim looked utterly unimpressed by such amateur protestations of innocence. "The word is 'budget,' Rafe."
"Oh, yeah, one of those." He grinned. "Y'know, I've heard of those things, but I've never actually seen one."
"Well, in the interest of furthering your education," Simon retorted, "I'll have you do the paperwork next time our departmental budget is due. Thanks for volunteering."
Rafe looked crestfallen for the second time in as many minutes.
It was a low-stakes poker game, a Thank God It's Friday celebration, and a general meeting of the Cigar Club all rolled into one. Or, rather, the Cigar Club plus one, because even with a couple giant steps towards mainstream socialization over the past few years, Jim still wasn't the sort of man to write his name on a list and buy his own matching maroon jacket. It just wasn't the sort of thing he did.
The only uniforms Jim Ellison wore were the kind with lethal steel accessories.
So he remained, then, something of a satellite, orbiting but never entering the group. Simon could sympathize; rank hath its privileges, but, by definition, egalitarian status wasn't one of them. On some evenings, one got lucky enough to be surrounded by friends who could pretend that no disparity existed, that it was all for one and one for all.
But then someone would forget, referencing a case from earlier in the day, earlier in the week. It was an excusable error, the sort of thing that was bound to happen when all five people in the room worked together, and was probably inevitable when they also fought together under the same oath. Sooner or later, the conversational possibilities of the food and the game and the latest girlfriend all ran out. Then the illusion would waver, and behind it you could see the separate entities of the Captain, the Guys, and Jim.
That last figure was a bit of an anomaly: a solo Ellison. Rare enough to be worthy of comment as soon as Jim had walked through the front door, unaccompanied by either Sandburg or the observer's culinary delights. Later, in the middle of a hand, Taggart resurrected the issue. "What's this 'other business' Blair had to tend to tonight?"
"Not what," Jim answered. "Who."
"A 'who' that's more important than us?"
"A 'who' that's a hell of a lot prettier than you. All of you put together."
"Prettier than me?" Rafe simpered in mock protest.
"Aw, that's impossible, darlin'." Brown, all too willing to play along, leaned over to console his partner. "Ain't no one prettier than you."
Joel just shook his head. "Betraying his pals for a short skirt. I don't believe it. I'm going to have to pull that boy aside and explain what the 'Fraternal' in front of 'Order of Police' stands for."
"You got that right," Brown said darkly. "We're cops, we've got handcuffs. He won't be running out on us again."
Rafe ceased his dramatics, suddenly thoughtful. "Um, how's he gonna make guacamole for us with his hands behind his back?"
Simon, helpless before such repartee, tried to remember if the city health plan covered nervous breakdowns. "I can't handle this. Someone hand me another beer." Some civilian observer: Sandburg missed one card game, and half of Major Crimes broke down.
Thing was, although Simon'd keep up his bluster until his dying breath, he knew exactly how much the kid contributed to the team. Hell, Sandburg worked as hard and smart as anyone. He'd proved it again just yesterday, reining in Jim from his tangle with Freeman long enough to bring down Leeds and his gang.
Another Ellison adventure, another Ellison close call. It had been a clean setup, right up to the point where Jim walked out of the building with a gun to his back. Trapped. Soon to be dead, if Leeds managed to make it back to his getaway van. There was no trace of doubt in Simon's mind.
So he gave the order to shoot first.
Sandburg had reacted true to form. "What are you talking... you're not just going to let these guys start shooting, are you?" It was an admirable sentiment, and Simon had no desire to see blood spilled gratuitously.
But to save the life of one of his people, to save Jim's life, well, there really wasn't much of a question to ponder, was there?
One shot and Leeds' man had fallen; one order and the rest of the gang was in cuffs. And when Blair made a move to check on his Sentinel, Simon ordered him back and went to do it himself.
Nothing wrong with that. The area hadn't been formally secured.
"Freeman got to the girl," Jim had reported.
"Yeah, and almost got you killed."
It was an unnecessary observation. Seconds later, Freeman got yet another chance at Jim as the detective spotted him and took off on foot. Simon dashed back to the car and followed.
"He's okay?" Blair asked as they sped after Jim.
"He's fine. For now."
And Jim had been fine, except for being a little out of breath and a lot frustrated when they met up again. It was Blair who'd helped Jim trace Freeman to the sewer. Blair who'd insisted, with legitimate concern, that someone follow him to keep him grounded. This time, there was no stopping him.
So Simon stayed behind, calling for backup. Feeling slow, old, and half ashamed for trying to keep Blair back in the first place.
He knew who Jim's partner was. He knew who Jim's best friend was. He didn't begrudge either of the two men their closeness on those points. But knowing the facts still didn't keep him from feeling an irrational twinge at having Jim here, to himself, tonight.
It didn't make much sense, really, considering three other seats in this room were occupied. But there was also that one empty chair -- the one next to Jim, the one Blair would be sitting in -- and somehow that was the only seat that made any difference.
Simon watched Jim deal out the next hand, cards flying with precision from his fingers. He knew exactly what that pang of emotion was. He'd felt it at fifteen, stealing a kiss from Rebecca Coppersmith on her back porch. Felt it a million times with Joan; still did, though mingled with regret, when they stood together in the same room. Why couldn't he have a typical mid-life crisis, complete with a fast car and a faster woman?
Of course, when had Simon Banks ever settled for less than the best, in life or in his fantasies?
But it was just that: a fantasy. And not the "gee, honey, why don't we do it in the shower" type of fantasy, either. No, this ranked right up on the scale with "Simon and the Argonauts get shipwrecked on the isle of the Amazons." The sort of thoughts that will never, can never, should never see the cold, hard light of day. Or even the muted, diffuse light of the bedroom.
Simon was dimly aware that other eyes had met his. With a start, he realized he was being subjected to Jim's unwavering regard. Not that he could really complain, since he'd been the one to start staring first.
"Three to you, Cap," Joel muttered. That's right, he was in the middle of a game. Simon bit his lip, trying to remember if his hole cards had any chance at redeeming the trash showing in front of him. He tossed three bills into the pot, anyway. His staring had just been a futile attempt to read Ellison's hand; that was all it was. And since they were in the middle of a hand, and since Jim had an honorable streak as wide as the Cascade Range, he wouldn't be using his senses to an unfair advantage. Wouldn't be any way he could notice the tripping pulse that sent blood flowing in a generally southern direction.
Or so he hoped.
And what saint gave Sandburg the patience to put up with this potential scrutiny day in and day out? Along with its attendant pitfalls? Given how unnerving then entire concept still was, Simon figured he had once again failed to give the kid the credit he'd earned. They should really have some sort of medal for this. Exceptional unflappableness in the face of the bizarre.
Evidently Simon's attention, focused in Ellison's direction, had gifted the other man with all of the captain's luck. "I can't help it, gentlemen," Jim said as he snagged the pot. For an apology, it was remarkably free of remorse. "I was born with dealer's hands."
"Sure. I just want to know which side of the deck you're dealing from," Simon groused.
*
Shortly before midnight, Joel threw down his final hand. "Well, that's it for me. I'm quitting while I'm behind."
"I'm with you, pal," Rafe said, his tipped-back chair coming to rest on all four legs with a soft thud. "Someone here got stuck with the Saturday shift, and actually has to wake up at a respectable hour."
Naturally, Brown protested, unwilling to bring his run of luck to an untimely end. But eventually even he tucked his winnings into his wallet, and worked his way to the front door. Good wishes for the weekend were offered, with Brown asking Jim to thank Sandburg for letting Lady Luck out to watch over someone else tonight. Jim promised to pass the message along.
Then the door closed with a definitive click, and Simon was alone with Jim.
With Jim and with a dozen empty bottles, three ashtrays dotted with cigar butts, and multiple plates denuded of all sustenance but for a few forlorn scraps of lettuce. The other man was currently ferrying the assorted detritus into the kitchen.
As Jim attempted to incarcerate a leftover sandwich in a Saran wrap prison, Simon drew a sink full of water and started dunking dishes under the soap suds. "You know you don't have to worry about this."
Jim, finally achieving victory over the clinging plastic wrap, shrugged. "Least I can do is clean up, since I didn't bring anything with me."
"I'd say you and Brown already 'cleaned up' plenty for one evening."
Jim's voice drifted back from the refrigerator. "H and Sandburg both have the same strategy. Distract and conquer with amusing chatter. Effective, but not the method I personally go for."
"Hmm. That's patently obvious."
Simon waited to see if the other man would rise to the bait. Evidently not. Though cool blue eyes glittered, any possible retort remained unspoken. Jim walked over to the sink, hand outstretched, and Simon tossed him a dishtowel. "So, what's the secret to your success?"
"No secret, just overtraining. I watch."
He wasn't wrong about Jim keeping the supersenses under wraps, was he? "You mean you watch with your..." Simon waggled his fingers in a vague, cryptic pattern.
"No! I'm not... I wouldn't do that. Not on purpose." The unfortunate glass in his hands was subjected to a rough toweling. "I just... watch," he repeated. "Watch for what people do when they're nervous. You know the drill."
"Yeah, I know. I haven't been behind a desk all that long." He flipped through his own mental notepad, filled with observations taken over several Friday nights. "Rafe fidgets."
"And Taggart starts handling his cards with a real light touch. Like they might blow up in his face."
"I can't figure out what Blair's tells are. The way he's always wriggling around doesn't have much to do with the cards he's got."
Jim smiled. "Blair's easy. He starts every sentence with 'I mean' when he's hyped about something. And he's got this toothy little nervous grin."
"So why don't you call him on it more often?"
"I do have this unfair advantage. Constant exposure to his quirks and all."
It didn't sound like he minded the hardship. Not with his voice dipping to that low, patient tone. A purr that blurred more than it revealed.
There's your clue, his ever-vigilant detective instinct whispered. There's his tell. "You. Your voice drops."
"I know. That's why I don't say anything at the table."
"Uh huh," Simon muttered, teeth plucking at the inside of his lip. It figured. No combat analysis of the enemy would be complete without a self-directed search for defensive flaws.
"And you bite your lip."
Simon immediately stopped.
"I do not."
Jim smirked. "Sure you do. It's just not readily apparent when you're chewing on a cigar instead."
"You got a problem with my cigars?"
Hands lifted in surrender, Jim placated, but refused to retreat. "Sir, I just tell it like I see it."
"Yeah. Tell me this, Detective. Precisely why are you alerting me to my own tells?"
"Because there aren't any cards on the table now." He paused, tossing the dishtowel on the counter, and Simon had the unsettling feeling he was being appraised by those slivers of pale arctic ice. "Because I'm wondering what you're trying to hide instead."
"Save it for your next perp," Simon snapped. "I'm one of the good guys, remember?"
The response was calm, quiet. "I know you're a good guy, Simon."
There wasn't any way to respond to a statement like that. This wasn't the time to start dueling with words, anyway. He was tired; he'd probably end up saying something he'd regret, so it would be better to extricate himself from the entire conversation. And one of the advantages of living alone was having his name and only his name on the apartment lease.
"Shouldn't you be leaving soon?"
Jim cocked his head lightly to one side, lips ever-so-slightly pursed. "No. Not yet," he said, surety ringing through with clarity. "And you're doing it again."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Your lip. You're biting it." He reached out, and laid a finger on the corner of Simon's mouth.
And if he'd pushed with any strength at all, he could have knocked Simon over with that single point of pressure.
"You're crazy." His voice was reduced to murmur. If he moved his lips any more, that finger might catch on teeth, on tongue, and he couldn't be held responsible for what might happen then.
Questions regarding his sanity didn't appear to be high on Jim's list of worries. Neither was removing his finger from its new station, apparently. "Nah. I'm one of the good guys, too." The finger inched sideways, tracing a smooth contour.
Simon stepped back, evading Jim's explorations, only to meet the sink with the small of his back. Retreating. Because of a touch.
Coward.
This was not acceptable. Not for the Captain. He stood up to his full height, taking advantage of every inch, of every ounce of imposing mass. "What are you getting at, Jim?"
Damn. Tactical error. Never address the target of your intimidation by his first name.
"Simon, I may keep it all dialed back when I'm playing poker. Especially in a smoke-filled room. But I do use my..." here he waggled his fingers, "...when I'm at a crime scene. And you usually show up. Or when I'm looking over evidence back at the office. When you're right there. Or when I'm interrogating a suspect. And you have a reason to walk in."
Oh, shit. "You knew." Hell, he probably knew before Simon had admitted it to himself. He'd thought he was committing the perfect crime and getting away with it, never realizing that he was blazing a neon-lit trail.
Jim nodded, silent.
"You never did anything about it." Of course he'd never done anything about it. Why would he have, when those images were all in Simon's head, and his head alone? The man was a Sentinel, not a mind-reader. Simon was just grateful that Jim hadn't said anything and had spared their friendship for a little longer, before he got fed up with dealing with the completely inappropriate daydreams of his commanding officer and wrote a letter of resignation.
Jim's hand lifted again to Simon's face, but this time his lips followed, meeting their kin in a tingling crush.
Simon wasn't terribly sure, since he'd stopped breathing at the contact and his thoughts were having a small problem coping with the air deprivation, but he didn't think disgust was generally shown with a kiss. Especially not the sort of kiss that made your lips fight back and your hands reach around for support. Certainly not the sort of kiss that made your dick swell and rise and go looking for brave new worlds to plunder.
He tried to pull back, just to put a few inches of space between his growing hardness and the body it was seeking to rub against, but the counter wasn't about to shift for his convenience, nor was the answering bulge pressing into his thigh about to relent. And hadn't he just learned how utterly stupid it was to try and hide things from this man?
He gave up and leaned into Jim, who took advantage of the momentum to get them moving out of the kitchen. Simon was pulled along awkwardly, unused to letting someone else take care of the directing. Tripping on the edge of the carpet tore their lips apart, but gave Simon a chance to realize that Jim was leading them towards the sofa.
"Uh, Jim?" It was hard to find the air to talk with Ellison's mouth moving against his throat. Simon persisted, even when teeth started to chase his Adam's apple. "Jim? We're a little old for the couch, don't you think?"
"Hmm? Oh." Jim's looked around, cheeks stained with a pale rose wash. Good to know Simon wasn't the only one not thinking clearly. "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom."
This trip didn't involve as much stumbling, maybe because they abandoned the kissing in favor of unbuttoning and tugging off shirts. As they passed the threshold, Jim toed off his shoes and started on his jeans. Simon stopped in the doorway and stared.
Politeness be damned. As many times as his mother had scolded him for not keeping his eyes to himself, he didn't think she'd ever envisioned her precious son in quite this setting. Simon stood transfixed as the last pieces of clothing were peeled off, revealing a body made of bone and muscle, overlaid with ivory, flowing and shifting as Jim sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back.
How long had it been since a body spread before him hadn't been a murder victim, wounded and broken, possessing the peculiar stillness of death? He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone bared only for pleasure, and for his pleasure at that. And this wasn't just someone, wasn't just anyone.
He really didn't want to fuck this up, but hadn't the slightest idea of what to do with a naked Jim Ellison.
Well, maybe a slight idea. Actually, a fairly significant idea, given the equally significant display in front of him. But he still wasn't sure how to get from here to where he wanted to be.
Jim beckoned with a jerk of his head. "Get over here."
That was simple enough. One foot in front of the other, until he was close enough for Jim to reach forward and tug on his belt, opening the buckle, peeling down the layers of his pants and shorts. Fingers wrapped around his heat, touching confidently, as cool as rain on wildfire and generating just as much steam.
Simon braced himself against Jim's steady shoulders. Evidently, he didn't need to find a map after all. "You, ah, seem to know what you're doing."
"You could say that."
Theoretically, Simon could also say something about how little he evidently knew about the man he'd spent thousands of hours working beside. Jim refused to settle into a pattern or rhythm, continuously seeking out the most sensitive places between Simon's legs. Simon caught a deep breath, steadying himself before he completely lost his self-control, then met Jim's eyes. "What it is that we're going to do?"
The unpredictable torment continued. "What do you want to do?"
"Don't get cute with me, Detective." One hand found a particularly noteworthy grip on his balls, and Simon reevaluated the stability of his position. "Just answer the question," he gasped.
The fingers slowed, stilled, until all of his attention was focused on Jim's calm, serious face. "I want you to fuck me."
As Simon's heart leapt into his throat, so did his length in Jim's hand, earning a smug, brilliant grin from the other man. Simon roughly cleared his throat. "We could do that," he said, leaning over to kiss, to taste that smile for a long moment. Finally breaking apart, he nodded towards the nightstand. "In the drawer."
Jim retrieved lube and condom, and Simon freed his pants from his ankles and yanked down the spread. They sat facing on the bed, legs in a tangle, and Simon distractedly explored the planes and valleys of Jim's torso as the slicked latex was lowered over his cock.
Simon played with the tight, dark nipples before him while Jim poured lube over his own fingers, rose to his knees, and reached behind himself. With the other man's eyes closed, Simon could study his face with impunity, watching as his mouth went slack and concentration turned inward. Then Jim's attention was again on him, and it was his turn to relax under one more kiss and caress.
With a creak of bedsprings, Jim turned his back to Simon's chest, leaning forward at an angle. And there was nothing for Simon to do but settle one hand at his waist, another around his own cock, and move forward until he found the wet furrow that accepted his hardness.
Never deferential to his captain, Jim thrust back.
A shudder traveled from shoulders to feet, then reverberated back up with such intensity that Simon felt like a lanky teenager again, leaping into a too-shallow pool, heels impacting on concrete with enough force to rattle his teeth. Jim might want to yield, to acquiesce, but his body wasn't designed to allow for a long, slick glide any more than it was designed to flare into rounded hips or softly curving buttocks. Penetration was stuttering sort of effort, like fingers tripping an arc across heavy, damp silk. Each inch was territory to fight for, to bleed for, as precious as the dusty red dirt of the Holy Land.
As Simon pressed inward the clutch of flesh rippled. It was a natural contraction, but it chaffed his rigid length with a searing heat. He didn't want this to hurt Jim, couldn't let this hurt Jim, and sent his fingertips scrabbling across a beard-roughened jawbone, begging for assurance and a glimpse of Jim's face.
"Keep going," Jim growled.
"I can't."
"Yes. Yes, you can. You will."
Simon shook his head, and the rest of his body echoed the tremor. "I can't."
Jim lowered his face to the sheets, legs spread wide. "Please."
And of course Simon did what Jim wanted, because, in the end, he always did what Jim wanted. Because if he could be buried balls-deep inside Ellison, if he could have the Ice Prince himself melting in his bed and keening in his arms, then there was actually very little that he couldn't do.
There was, in fact, no reason why he couldn't shift the axis of the galaxy.
So he did.
He rolled his hips in a tight circle, belly grazing Jim's back. There was no pulling back from this, so he rocked against the pale body bowed before him, only barely retreating but still refusing to dilute the power of his inward thrusts. No reason to check the depth of his motion, because there would be no end to this passage. Simon's hands coasted over the ridges of vertebrae and ribs, trading their grip on Jim's waist for his hips.
This was how Eve felt when she bit into that apple, sticky sweet juice trickling down her chin, eyes wide with shock that anything could feel so fresh and so bitter all at once. This was what learning felt like, all stretchy and painful, and Simon was suddenly desperate that Jim should taste this too, should bite deep and know this contradiction.
Jim's growls gradually rose in pitch, segueing into rough, tomcat cries. Motion faltered for a moment as he surged up onto hands and knees, head held high. The muscles in Simon's ass were clenched with exertion, and a low burn spread down his overstressed thighs.
A different sort of burn smoldered between his legs. It flickered and grew and scorched filigreed detail away, until Simon felt raw and clean. He could see the other man's erection, tight and angrily flushed, and sent a tentative hand creeping around to its heat.
Jim, evidently in no condition to give a damn about technique or the lack thereof, bucked and clenched his ass. For a peculiar, shifty moment Simon could have sworn that he was touching his own cock, that he was somehow sinking through and out of Jim's body. But then the crazy ghost sensation faded, and Simon realized that he wasn't touching himself, not now. The ridge under his fingers more pronounced than it should be, the soft skin was supposed to be plum purple, and he really shouldn't be here, doing this, feeling this.
Then Jim came over his hand, wet and real and staining the sheets.
And when the pulses stopped, Simon gratefully let go and buried his face in Jim's back, rocking and shifting until the friction was just right and just there and just a little more. Then it was just too much, and Simon shot hard and quiet into Jim.
After a long moment, while the tremors eased and breaths were caught, he caught the edge of the condom and withdrew, allowing Jim to collapse bonelessly onto his stomach. A brief sojourn across the room to turn off the light, then Simon settled on his back next to the other man.
Mustering enough energy to turn his head, he looked over at Jim's still form. "You going to get offended if I roll over and go to sleep, now?"
Jim snorted, but didn't deign to open his eyes. "I'd be offended if you didn't."
"Yeah." As promised, Simon scrounged a discarded blanket from the foot of the bed, and rolled onto his side. "Goodnight, then."
"G'night. And stop wriggling."
Simon did.
*
The first time Simon woke, it was to the rhythmic brushing of a tongue across his cock.
He lay on his back, legs straddled by a figure illuminated in reflected streetlight. While this was not the first time in his adult life he'd been roused from sleep by that particular action, and while he hadn't any complaints regarding those previous occasions, the particular juxtaposition of seeing Jim's sparse, mussed hair and feeling an intricate laving of his glans was a novelty.
But it felt so damn good that his brain was having trouble pinpointing the dilemma.
Jim's lips surrounded the head in an open-mouthed kiss, then released it with a moist, hollow sound. He lifted his face and responded to the confusion written on Simon's. "Is there a problem?"
A problem? Oh, no. Just a pushy, demanding detective whom had decided to morph into a pushy, demanding lover. Nope, no problem there. Simon really wasn't up to analyzing the possible repercussions it at the present. Another part of his body, however, would certainly be up in a moment if Jim's mouth returned to its wet torture.
"No," Simon grunted. "Just don't make me move from this spot."
"Yes, sir." It came out with a chuckle, but Simon decided to let the insubordination slide the moment Jim's tongue returned to tease the nerves clustered around his slit.
Ah, God. He couldn't keep his hips from rising a couple inches off the sheets, and it was a testament to Jim's proficiency that a collision between teeth and tender flesh was avoided. So much for not moving.
Maybe writhing didn't really count.
As Jim worked his way down Simon's awakening cock, he occasionally let a hand drop and caress his own growing erection. The contact was casual, the intent clearly to tease rather than to propel towards climax. But the unabashed display drove remnants of Simon's inhibitions, which had passed city lines some hours back, clear out of Washington State.
"Swing around."
As per his request, Simon first received a devilish grin, then secondly a splendid view of Ellison's backside. The musculature, firm as the rest of his body, led Simon to draw his hands over the pale, smooth skin, leaving even paler impressions of fingertips. His ministrations periodically exposed the interior of the cleft, allowing glimpses of a dusky, reddened opening.
Where he'd been, a few hours before. Where he'd come.
Jesus.
Unwilling to land a direct touch, Simon tentatively fingered the tender bit of pink skin between anus and balls. Jim's response was immediate, and manifested itself as the firm, strong suction of his mouth pulling at Simon's cock. It was affirmation, clear as crystal, and it inspired enough confidence that Simon sent his index finger snaking up to touch Jim's anus. The pucker quivered, then opened as voluntary and involuntary muscles relaxed in tandem.
His finger disappeared easily into the darkness.
Jim's tongue fluttered lazily around his cock.
Simon removed his finger from its burrow as swiftly as it had entered, and reached to the nightstand for the abandoned bottle of lube. He tugged the top open, coated fingers liberally and cupped more. He returned to his explorations with two fingers and, when Jim's hips greedily thrust back, quickly worked his way up to three.
It was impossible. It was incredible. How could his fingers, which traveled daily over a hundred varieties of mundane terrain, be here, be inside of Jim? To have his cock buried in this man, that was startling enough, and that was what it was designed to do -- to enter the depths of another, to be held tightly in return. But these were the same fingers that had come to rest on the detective's shoulder, brushed casually against his arm.
The invaders curled forward, stroking the inner walls. The motion of the mouth around his cock faltered. Jim growled low, pressed back for an extra bit of pressure. The thrust wrenched back Simon's little finger, and it curled in defensively, joining the others in their blunt wedge. Jim's pulse was high; Simon could feel an artery throbbing against the side of his palm, and wondered what Jim was feeling in return from his fingers. Jim's back curved in an arc above Simon, and he abandoned the other man's cock to gasp for sweet, clean air. "Good," he groaned, hips rocking. "That's so good."
But this left Simon's saliva-slicked erection chilled by the air swirling over it. Not good. Not when he'd given Jim carte blanche over his prone body. He pulled his hand away from Jim's slack hole, and laid a sticky slap on his hip. "Turn back, Jim. The deal was, I don't have to move."
Dazed, Jim shook his head lightly. "Yeah. Right." Simon felt the other man's hand close loosely around his length, and, by some benevolent magic, Jim quickly found a condom to roll over the head and down the shaft. Bound tightly by the latex, he felt a tighter, slicker ring of muscle parting as Jim took in the first inch. A pause, and then Jim's lips curved into the softest, sweetest little boy smile.
He drove his hole down, taking all of Simon's dark length.
Simon didn't know whether it was Jim setting the pace, or just his own recent exponential jump in experience, but this fuck was a smoother, longer affair. And while Jim whispered of how good it was, how he'd wanted this, how nice this felt and tasted and smelled, Simon tried to commit the other man to memory, taking in every nuance of his face and body that he could see in the weak light, or touch with wandering hands. Then he chided himself for being a sentimental fool.
This had nothing to do with abstracts like forever and always and never. This was about a moment, and he wasn't going to mourn it before it had even passed.
Surrendering to Jim's blandishments, Simon let his world spiral down until there was nothing in it but two men moving together towards the same end.
*
Jim was gone the second time Simon woke.
He slapped off the chirping alarm, then fell back into the bed, idly monitoring the rise and fall of his chest, streaked with swaths of light from the Venetian blinds. His mind, gradually returning to full awareness, began the task of reintegrating his flyaway thoughts with his body. Changes wrought in darkness required adjustments, if the two were to mesh as they had once before.
A piece of paper, ragged at the top as if it had been hastily torn from a notepad, caught his gaze from the nightstand. Simon read in the incongruous swirls of Jim's handwriting, "Rafe called me in. Got a lead in the Shipley case. Will call if anything breaks." It was signed with "Ellison."
Like there were so many people who might have left an impromptu report next to Simon's bed.
Reassembled as fully as a Saturday at home could require, Simon headed for the shower, chuckling.