Jim/Blair: The Visible Man (PG)
Title: The Visible Man
Author: arrow00
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,270
Categories: FT, H/C
Warnings: none
A/N: Written for sentinel_thurs's glass challenge
The Visible Man
By Arrow
Hospitals, as a rule, made Jim itch with more than bad memories. He could swear he was feeling molecules of cleaning solvents mixed with dead bacteria and God knew what else drifting to settle on his exposed skin moment by moment. Actually, Sandburg probably would have wanted to run some tests on it if he weren't lying there unconscious with a concussion and a hairline fracture to his ulna.
How many broken bones was that, Jim wondered, and how many concussions could that noggin survive before Sandburg lost some IQ points and risked ending up with Parkinson's in his old age, and why was a guy like that, a smart guy with a brilliant future and degrees on his wall, still knocking around after two years with a sad-sack cop and his cronies when he always, always seemed to end up here?
Almost run over by a damned ice cream truck, of all things. Sure, driven by a raving lunatic who'd already killed two little kids, and if Jim hadn't pulled out of a zone (all by his lonesome, thank you very much) and jumped up onto a fire escape and then hauled Sandburg up with him, hence fracturing Blair's ulna in the process, he would have ended up with more than a cast on his arm and a slight concussion.
But still. Two years of this shit and Jim was starting to think any sane civilian would have moved on by now, pulled together his notes like a smart little professor and slapped together something any thesis committee would have been happy enough with. It was almost like Blair wanted to stick around.
God knew Jim liked having him there, his curly-haired shadow in all things. Jim wasn't inclined to think about things too deeply, or question his good luck, and didn't have a lot of time or opportunity to do so; or at least he told himself he didn't. But there were some times when he had to ask himself if he wasn't purely full of shit.
This was one of those times. Because looking at Blair lying there, Jim finally had to admit he'd been riding on a train too afraid to look at the destination. Afraid there might not be one.
Too damned glad just to have a ticket.
And that was pretty pathetic. He was almost forty years old and he'd handed over his whole life to this...this kid. Except Blair wasn't a kid, he was a man, there was no denying that.
Jim leaned forward on the chair and rested his elbows on his knees to get a closer look.
It was usually hard to take a good look at Sandburg-he was always in motion, a dozen wacky ideas or theories or facts spilling out of his mouth at any given second. At rest, in spite of his injuries, he didn't look young or fragile. He looked bruised, sure, a little busted up, and there was fiberglass dust on his fingers and trapped in the crook of his elbow, and he'd have a nice black eye come morning, but he looked solid. He was tough. Tough enough to back Jim up today against a psycho.
"He's gotta be invisible, Jim. I'm telling you-who gets around these kinds of neighborhoods with nobody noticing him?"
A smart guy, his Darwin. His professor.
Jim cringed and rubbed his hands over his face. He remembered the time Sandburg almost took off on an expedition to Borneo. God, it'd felt like Jim's heart was going to shatter, as if all it would take was a single tap, much as he played it off like he didn't care. But Blair gave up the slot he was offered, saying he'd figured it out, that it was all about friendship.
"Is that what it's all about, Chief?" Jim muttered, then took a quick look. But Blair didn't stir.
What Jim had wondered, in that little spot in the back of his mind where he allowed that kind of thinking, was if maybe it wasn't all about just that. If maybe it was all about them. That heat between them. Because they had something, a kind of flow going that, when it was right, felt like the best kind of mission. The kind where you knew everything the other guy was thinking, and you moved through each maneuver like a silent dance, and you couldn't fail in your objective. It felt smooth, like forty year-old scotch, like raw silk.
Like sucking cock.
Jim groaned and stretched out his leg to give himself some room.
So, how the hell was he supposed to give that up? Sometimes, when Blair looked at him, Jim felt like one of those kits they'd put together in science class-The Visible Man. Transparent as glass. And then Jim figured Blair must know what he wanted so badly, so what was the point of talking about it? What was the point in asking? And how could Sandburg just sit there and not want it too?
What the fuck was so great about Borneo that he could even think about taking off, anyway?
As if he were tuned in to pick up on Jim in pissed-off mode, Blair suddenly stirred in the hospital bed, his left foot kicking up the sheet to bare his socked foot. He grumbled something, smacked his lips once, and then his eyes fluttered open.
"Hey, Chief," Jim said. "Welcome back."
"Rogrmf?"
"Yep," Jim agreed sagely and got up to pour some chlorine-smelling water from the beige pitcher. "Here, have some water." He pushed the button to raise the head of Blair's bed, then held the cup to his lips.
"Thanks," Blair said hoarsely. "'Time is it?"
"Little before midnight."
"Wow. I really conked out."
Jim shrugged. "Painkillers always do that to you, you know that."
"Yeah."
"So, they said you could take off whenever you woke up. All you have to do is put your shoes on and sign out."
Blair started to rub his eyes with his casted hand, winced, then switched to finish the maneuver. "Shit, this is gonna suck."
"Only four weeks this time."
"Only four weeks."
"Hey, you still have that voice software stuff, right?" Jim said, trying to stay upbeat.
Blair rolled his eyes and then groaned.
Leaning over the bed, Jim said, a little more softly, "Take it easy, okay? Don't forget you took a good knock." He rested his hand on Blair's arm just above the cast. Blair raised his head, and Jim froze suddenly.
There it was. That look. God.
The Visible Man.
For too long a moment Jim couldn't move, could only wait, limbs locked, blood rushing under his skin. He'd never frozen in combat, but he was petrified now, not with fear, but with a sense of the inevitable, with a need for resolution.
But Blair just stared at him, eyes wide, so damned blue they were like panes of stained glass.
"Jim?" Said with a question in it. An entire world.
So Jim moved, closing his fingers around Blair's arm, rubbing away the dust from the cast with his thumb, and he said, "It's not only about friendship, is it, Chief?" his voice a rusty hinge.
Blair smiled suddenly, a hopeful, brilliant flash that made Jim wonder just how transparent he'd really been, after all, and he was startled by the sudden surge of want that pulsed in the base of his throat, in his chest, in his cock.
Whoa. His mouth dry, he swallowed and said shakily, "I can smell the commissary from here. I think they're having mashed potatoes, overcooked green beans, and, uh, broiled chicken."
"Sounds awful," Blair said, still smiling. "Let's get the hell home."
ETA: There's now a little comment epilog to this piece.
.......................
2009.08.15
The Visible Man toy, for those who might be curious.
Author: arrow00
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,270
Categories: FT, H/C
Warnings: none
A/N: Written for sentinel_thurs's glass challenge
The Visible Man
By Arrow
Hospitals, as a rule, made Jim itch with more than bad memories. He could swear he was feeling molecules of cleaning solvents mixed with dead bacteria and God knew what else drifting to settle on his exposed skin moment by moment. Actually, Sandburg probably would have wanted to run some tests on it if he weren't lying there unconscious with a concussion and a hairline fracture to his ulna.
How many broken bones was that, Jim wondered, and how many concussions could that noggin survive before Sandburg lost some IQ points and risked ending up with Parkinson's in his old age, and why was a guy like that, a smart guy with a brilliant future and degrees on his wall, still knocking around after two years with a sad-sack cop and his cronies when he always, always seemed to end up here?
Almost run over by a damned ice cream truck, of all things. Sure, driven by a raving lunatic who'd already killed two little kids, and if Jim hadn't pulled out of a zone (all by his lonesome, thank you very much) and jumped up onto a fire escape and then hauled Sandburg up with him, hence fracturing Blair's ulna in the process, he would have ended up with more than a cast on his arm and a slight concussion.
But still. Two years of this shit and Jim was starting to think any sane civilian would have moved on by now, pulled together his notes like a smart little professor and slapped together something any thesis committee would have been happy enough with. It was almost like Blair wanted to stick around.
God knew Jim liked having him there, his curly-haired shadow in all things. Jim wasn't inclined to think about things too deeply, or question his good luck, and didn't have a lot of time or opportunity to do so; or at least he told himself he didn't. But there were some times when he had to ask himself if he wasn't purely full of shit.
This was one of those times. Because looking at Blair lying there, Jim finally had to admit he'd been riding on a train too afraid to look at the destination. Afraid there might not be one.
Too damned glad just to have a ticket.
And that was pretty pathetic. He was almost forty years old and he'd handed over his whole life to this...this kid. Except Blair wasn't a kid, he was a man, there was no denying that.
Jim leaned forward on the chair and rested his elbows on his knees to get a closer look.
It was usually hard to take a good look at Sandburg-he was always in motion, a dozen wacky ideas or theories or facts spilling out of his mouth at any given second. At rest, in spite of his injuries, he didn't look young or fragile. He looked bruised, sure, a little busted up, and there was fiberglass dust on his fingers and trapped in the crook of his elbow, and he'd have a nice black eye come morning, but he looked solid. He was tough. Tough enough to back Jim up today against a psycho.
"He's gotta be invisible, Jim. I'm telling you-who gets around these kinds of neighborhoods with nobody noticing him?"
A smart guy, his Darwin. His professor.
Jim cringed and rubbed his hands over his face. He remembered the time Sandburg almost took off on an expedition to Borneo. God, it'd felt like Jim's heart was going to shatter, as if all it would take was a single tap, much as he played it off like he didn't care. But Blair gave up the slot he was offered, saying he'd figured it out, that it was all about friendship.
"Is that what it's all about, Chief?" Jim muttered, then took a quick look. But Blair didn't stir.
What Jim had wondered, in that little spot in the back of his mind where he allowed that kind of thinking, was if maybe it wasn't all about just that. If maybe it was all about them. That heat between them. Because they had something, a kind of flow going that, when it was right, felt like the best kind of mission. The kind where you knew everything the other guy was thinking, and you moved through each maneuver like a silent dance, and you couldn't fail in your objective. It felt smooth, like forty year-old scotch, like raw silk.
Like sucking cock.
Jim groaned and stretched out his leg to give himself some room.
So, how the hell was he supposed to give that up? Sometimes, when Blair looked at him, Jim felt like one of those kits they'd put together in science class-The Visible Man. Transparent as glass. And then Jim figured Blair must know what he wanted so badly, so what was the point of talking about it? What was the point in asking? And how could Sandburg just sit there and not want it too?
What the fuck was so great about Borneo that he could even think about taking off, anyway?
As if he were tuned in to pick up on Jim in pissed-off mode, Blair suddenly stirred in the hospital bed, his left foot kicking up the sheet to bare his socked foot. He grumbled something, smacked his lips once, and then his eyes fluttered open.
"Hey, Chief," Jim said. "Welcome back."
"Rogrmf?"
"Yep," Jim agreed sagely and got up to pour some chlorine-smelling water from the beige pitcher. "Here, have some water." He pushed the button to raise the head of Blair's bed, then held the cup to his lips.
"Thanks," Blair said hoarsely. "'Time is it?"
"Little before midnight."
"Wow. I really conked out."
Jim shrugged. "Painkillers always do that to you, you know that."
"Yeah."
"So, they said you could take off whenever you woke up. All you have to do is put your shoes on and sign out."
Blair started to rub his eyes with his casted hand, winced, then switched to finish the maneuver. "Shit, this is gonna suck."
"Only four weeks this time."
"Only four weeks."
"Hey, you still have that voice software stuff, right?" Jim said, trying to stay upbeat.
Blair rolled his eyes and then groaned.
Leaning over the bed, Jim said, a little more softly, "Take it easy, okay? Don't forget you took a good knock." He rested his hand on Blair's arm just above the cast. Blair raised his head, and Jim froze suddenly.
There it was. That look. God.
The Visible Man.
For too long a moment Jim couldn't move, could only wait, limbs locked, blood rushing under his skin. He'd never frozen in combat, but he was petrified now, not with fear, but with a sense of the inevitable, with a need for resolution.
But Blair just stared at him, eyes wide, so damned blue they were like panes of stained glass.
"Jim?" Said with a question in it. An entire world.
So Jim moved, closing his fingers around Blair's arm, rubbing away the dust from the cast with his thumb, and he said, "It's not only about friendship, is it, Chief?" his voice a rusty hinge.
Blair smiled suddenly, a hopeful, brilliant flash that made Jim wonder just how transparent he'd really been, after all, and he was startled by the sudden surge of want that pulsed in the base of his throat, in his chest, in his cock.
Whoa. His mouth dry, he swallowed and said shakily, "I can smell the commissary from here. I think they're having mashed potatoes, overcooked green beans, and, uh, broiled chicken."
"Sounds awful," Blair said, still smiling. "Let's get the hell home."
ETA: There's now a little comment epilog to this piece.
.......................
2009.08.15
The Visible Man toy, for those who might be curious.