New Fic: Why We Fight

[snycock]

Title: Why We Fight
Author: PsychGirl
Category: Slash, First Time
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4453
Warnings: none
Spoilers: post-TSbyBS

A/N: Written for the fourth round of ts_ficathons. My prompts were "Money For Nothing" and "Why We Fight". Many thanks to the wonderful women of the SenBetas list: Sheila, Marion, shiredancer, gardendoor, and earth2skye for the quick and very helpful beta. All mistakes herein are mine.

My first plot bunny for these prompts was some horribly dark and depressing piece where Blair was working as a prostitute and he and Jim were always fighting about it. I beat that one off with a stick and then got this one, thankfully. That first one's still sitting back there, though, gnawing at me now and again. Send more sticks.


Blair hauled on the steering wheel and swung the Volvo into the space that was designated for law enforcement personnel, slamming on the brakes just in time to avoid scraping the concrete barrier at the top. He flipped the catch on the glove compartment and fumbled inside for his official parking pass, shoving it onto the top of the dashboard where it could be seen. Grabbing his backpack from the back seat, he slammed the door closed and raced for the entrance to the Emergency Room.

Simon met him before he was a yard inside the door, holding both hands out soothingly. “It’s okay, Sandburg, he’s okay.”

He skidded to a stop, heart pounding and breath rasping in his throat. “You said he was hurt.”

“It’s just a broken arm; you didn’t give me time to explain.” Simon replied, guiding him over towards the garish plastic couches in the waiting area.

His knees felt wobbly as the adrenaline rush subsided and he sat down abruptly on a bright orange seat, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath. “Goddammit, Simon, this was supposed to be a simple arrest! Jim was only supposed to be going along to provide backup. Otherwise I would have been there with him.”

“I know, Sandburg,” Simon said ruefully, taking the seat next to him. “It was Vice’s show, but the perp was strung out on crystal meth and grabbed one of the sales clerks as a hostage.” He looked over at Blair. “You know Jim. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.”

Blair sighed. “I know. What happened?”

“Jim was trying to talk the kid into letting her go, but he was too hopped up to listen; he had a gun and was threatening to kill the girl.”

“Jim had to shoot him?” Blair asked, apprehension twisting his stomach.

“Yeah,” Simon said quietly, looking at his hands. He was silent for a moment. “He was only sixteen,” he said sadly.

“Shit, Simon,” Blair groaned.

“Yeah.”

“Is the hostage okay?”

Simon nodded.

“Well, there’s that, at least.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Blair exhaled and scrubbed his hands over his face. “How’d he break the arm?”

“The perp’s girlfriend. She lost it when he got shot, came out brandishing a tire iron, screaming about Jim being a murderer. It took everyone by surprise, including Jim. She got in a swing at him before anyone could stop her.”

“Jesus.” Blair shook his head slowly. “Just what he needed.”

“The doc said it was a clean fracture, shouldn’t be any complications. He’s getting a cast put on now.”

“Any problems with his senses?”

Simon shrugged. “None that I can tell. Of course, I’m not sure he’d tell me if there were.” He glanced over at Blair, one eyebrow raised. “That’s not the only reason I called you, you know.”

Blair felt a slight blush creep into his cheeks. “Well... I know....”

He was pleased to hear Simon say that, though. He’d felt that Simon had been acting a little cool towards him ever since he’d turned down the badge. Although he’d been excited by the opportunity at first, once he’d thought about it, he’d realized that he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer. But he’d been able to parlay the offer into a proposal to operate within Major Crimes as a community liaison, which meant that he got paid, and could still work with Jim most of the time, but didn’t have to carry a gun.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt some important liaisoning,” Simon was saying, a faint smile on his face.

“No, no, not at all. Nothing that won’t wait,” Blair lied. He’d been facilitating a meeting between the organizers of Cascade’s Cinco De Mayo Festival and the local precinct when he’d gotten Simon’s call and rushed out of the room. They probably thought he was crazy.

Pushing that concern to the back of his mind, he stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Well, I’d better go and see how he’s doing. “

Simon rose to his feet, and patted Blair on the shoulder as he dug a cigar out of the breast pocket of his coat. “Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

He was halfway to the elevators when Simon called his name. “Yeah?” he said, turning.

“Take care of him.”

Blair grinned. “Don’t I always?”

***

The nurse was just finishing Jim’s cast when Blair walked into the room. “Okay, Mr. Ellison,” she was saying, “this should harden in about an hour or two. Keep it dry, and try not to move around too much.” She carefully slid his arm into a sling, then fastened the straps over his right shoulder. “This should help. Keep the sling on while you’re awake for at least two days.”

Blair knocked gently on the door to announce his presence, and Jim glanced up, his gaze cool and blank. “Chief,” he said flatly.

Blair’s heart sank slightly. Jim was already in laconic mode. This didn’t bode well. “Hey, man, how’re you doing?” he said, trying to infuse his voice with some cheerfulness.

Jim lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Maybe you’ll think twice before trying to block a tire iron with your arm again, then,” the nurse commented tartly.

“It wasn’t really his fault-” Blair started to explain, but the nurse shot him a look that clearly expressed her frustration at dealing with a monosyllabic and brooding Jim. And he could totally sympathize with her; he’d been there before, so he decided that silence was the best response, at the moment.

Turning, she reached for Jim’s chart and pulled out some papers. “Here are your post-visit instructions, and a prescription for some painkillers.”

Jim didn’t make a move to take the papers, so Blair grabbed them instead. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll take care of these.”

The nurse smiled at him gratefully, then turned back to Jim with a frosty expression on her face. “Then that’s all, Mr. Ellison, you’re free to go.”

And good riddance, Blair could practically hear her thinking, as Jim hopped off the bed and stalked towards the door.

He trailed after his partner, flipping quickly through the post-care instructions to see if they needed to stop and get anything else at the pharmacy besides the painkillers. So intent was he on reading that he didn’t realize that Jim had stopped right outside the door to the ER, and he nearly bumped right into him.

“Where’s my truck?” Jim asked.

“Oh, Simon had someone drive it to the loft. The Volvo’s over here,” Blair said as he stuffed Jim’s prescription in his pocket and put the rest of the papers in his backpack.

They drove for a few blocks in silence. Blair kept glancing over at Jim, who was looking out the passenger side window, his expression blank. Fidgeting in his seat a little, he twisted his hands back and forth on the steering wheel. “Do you need anything else at the pharmacy?” he asked finally, unable to bear the heavy quiet.

“No.”

“You want to get some take-out? I’m not sure we’ve got much at home in the way of dinner.”

“No.”

“Come on, I’m serious. Your choice. How about Wonderburger?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Jim, it’s not-”

“Sandburg, I don’t want to talk about it,” Jim interrupted sharply.

Blair sighed and rubbed his forehead with one hand. Great. The Fortress of Ellison was locked up tighter than a drum.

When they got back to the loft, after getting the meds at the pharmacy, Jim didn’t even look at the elevator, but marched right up the stairs. Blair stopped to get the mail, then defiantly walked over and stabbed the elevator button. He glared up the stairwell as he waited for the elevator to arrive. Damn masochistic bastard, he grumbled to himself. Won’t cut himself any slack at all.

Once upstairs, he hung up his coat and put Jim’s mail on the kitchen table, along with the pills. “Did they give you something in the hospital?” he asked. “When did they say you should start taking these?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim replied flatly. He was standing over in front of the balcony doors, looking out at the city.

“Jim, come on,” he protested. “What good is it going to do you to be in pain? What, you think this is some kind of karma thing? You have to be in pain to make up for causing someone else pain?”

Jim didn’t reply.

“Look, you’re injured and your body needs to heal. To heal, you need rest. To get rest, you need to be able to sleep-”

“I killed a sixteen-year-old kid today, Sandburg,” Jim interrupted, his tone harsh and biting.

Blair sighed and slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs. “He didn’t give you a choice, Jim,” he insisted. “I mean, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care, but... you did what you had to do. You protected the innocent. You saved someone’s life.”

Jim snorted and shook his head.

“What do you think would have happened to that sales clerk if you hadn’t been there?”

“Vice would have taken care of it.”

“Well, I’m not casting aspersions on anybody in Vice; I’m sure they’re a great bunch of guys and really good cops, but let’s be honest. How many of them would have been able to shoot precisely enough to take out a hostage-taker without getting the hostage killed?”

“Oh, so my Sentinel senses saved the day, is that it?”

Blair blew out a long breath and ran his hand through his hair. “What is with you, man? I mean, I’m not trying to make light of this, but you’ve shot people in the line of duty before. Where the hell is this attitude coming from?”

Jim was silent, staring out over the bay, his body rigid.

“Come on, Jim, we’ve been through this. I’m your friend and I want to help, but you gotta talk to me, tell me what’s going on.” It annoyed him a little that he still had to do this, still had to convince Jim to open up to him, after everything they’d been through together. But he knew that Jim Ellison was a stubborn man. Stubborn and proud.

“Money for nothing,” Jim said, interrupting Blair’s musings.

“Huh?”

“These kids want money for nothing. They want to be cool, to have the latest clothes, the hot sneakers, the flashy jewelry, the fancy cars, but they don’t want to work for it. They make such perfect targets.” Jim’s voice was bitter and sarcastic.

“Targets for who?” Blair prodded quietly.

“The dealers, the middlemen. The ones who manage the supply. They tell these kids, ‘Selling isn’t a big deal. We’re the ones the cops are looking for, the ones making the drug, distributing it. We’re the ones taking on the risk. All you have to do is make money.’ But the kids are the ones who die; shootouts, overdoses, busts gone wrong.”

Blair was silent, his heart aching at the bleakness in Jim’s voice. But he didn’t know what he could say that would make it better. Jim was right.

“And the real heads of it all, the drug lords, they never suffer, they never pay. Maybe lose a few million in profit.” Jim sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. “It was why I got out of Vice.”

“So, the next time they ask you to go along on backup, tell them no. You don’t have to do it.”

Jim shook his head. “It’s not just Vice. It’s everywhere. Even in Major Crimes. We break up a smuggling ring, another one comes in to take its place. We negotiate a treaty between rival gangs; someone does something stupid to break it. Or a new gang comes into town and stirs everything up. We send killers, thieves to jail, but there are still murders and robberies. Sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is.”

Unease lay heavy in Blair’s gut. “Jim, man, it’s just human nature. That’s what you’ve always told me.”

“I just get tired of it sometimes.” Jim’s voice was barely audible. “Sometimes I don’t know why I keep fighting.”

Blair felt as if the ground was turning to quicksand under his feet. Jim was the one with the strong moral compass, the unwavering sense of right and wrong, the dedication and strength to do what had to be done. If Jim was lost... then where was he?

Floundering, he said the first thing that came into his mind. “You... you’re a Sentinel. You have to. It’s in your genes; your territorial imperative, your protective instincts.”

Immediately he knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. Jim’s whole demeanor changed; his head bowed, his shoulders slumped, his body radiated defeat. “Yeah,” he said, exhaling wearily. He was silent for a long moment, then turned and, without looking at Blair, headed for the staircase up to his bedroom. “Think I’ll turn in,” he said, still in that quiet, exhausted tone.

Shit, Blair thought, I fucked that up. That was not what Jim had needed to hear. But why not? Jim was proud of what he did, of serving and protecting the citizens of Cascade. Being a good cop, doing his job well, those were the things he had always worried about, the things he hadn’t wanted the senses to mess with. Why was it suddenly not enough?

For some reason, Blair found himself remembering the first anthropology class he’d taken at Rainer. He’d been a freshman, and Eli Stoddard had been the professor. He remembered Eli telling them that anthropology was the study of human culture, and that all human culture could be seen as a means to four ends: an apartment, a job, a car, and a girlfriend.

They’d all laughed, but Eli had gone on to explain his point. Shelter was one of the most primary needs, of course, but there was also the human need to have a home, a safe retreat, a place where you could regroup and recuperate. Work not only supplied the means for procuring necessities like food, but also gave an individual a place within his or her community, an identity, a sense of where they belonged. Transportation represented freedom, and coming into adulthood, and also responsibility. And love - well, that was what lay underneath it all, the warp and weft that drew everything together into a brilliant, complex pattern.

Any relationship strengthened the tribe, it was true, and of course procreation was important for survival, but what Eli had focused on was the very human need for touch, for intimacy, for closeness. Marriage, Eli had told them, as well as sexual behavior, came in myriad forms and origins across cultures, from the very strict to the very open. But the need for love - that deep sense of physical and mental communion with another human being - that never changed.

Well, Jim had a home, a place to escape to; and he had a truck that pretty much got him where he needed to go. And he had a job that gave him a place in the world, although it seemed like that might be part of the problem at the moment.

That left love. And, Lord knew, Jim had had little enough of that lately. The last two women in his life - Lila and Veronica - had been stunning disasters in the romance department. Jim had been burned before, by both of them, but in spite of that - or maybe because of it - he’d given them each another chance. Then Lila had betrayed him, unintentionally, and Veronica had betrayed him intentionally. And they’d both died in his arms.

Yeah, there had definitely been a dearth of love in Jim’s life lately.

And it was so wrong, because Jim was one of the best men he knew: honorable, chivalrous, principled, and loyal. And kind, and gentle, and affectionate, once you got underneath his aloof exterior.

Blair counted himself privileged to be among the people Jim viewed as worthy to see that side of him. It hadn’t been easy, and there had been more than a few setbacks along the way, but their friendship was all the stronger now for the trials they’d been through. He knew Jim better than almost anyone; knew Jim’s hopes and fears, his regrets and insecurities. And Jim could say the same about him. He’d shared things with Jim that he’d never shared with anyone, not even Naomi.

Which was why the recent state of things was so maddening. He loved Jim, wanted him to be happy, wanted him to have that foundation that Eli had talked about. Love, Eli had said, was the essential piece of the puzzle. People struggled for shelter, for work and transportation, they persevered, they overcame; but they fought for love. They were completed by love. And he wanted Jim to be complete.

"Why," he’d asked Jim once, “do you always go after these unobtainable women, who’re just lying in wait to break your heart?" Jim hadn’t answered. And he still didn’t understand it; why Jim seemed bent on making such bad choices in that department.

What Jim needed was someone he could trust. Someone who cared about him, who had his best interests at heart. Who wasn’t in it just for the sex, or for some nefarious criminal reason, but who was his friend first, and his lover afterwards. Someone who would protect him and defend him, but also support him, encourage him. Why couldn’t Jim find someone like that?

And that’s when the lightbulb went on in his head.

Oh.

Jim already had someone like that in his life. Him.

He’d thought that maybe Jim had made a pass at him once, shortly after they’d gotten back from Peru. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t been interested - hell, no, he certainly was; who wouldn’t be interested in the six feet of blue-eyed, well-muscled godhood that was his Sentinel? Although one thing he’d never shared with Jim, even now, was his appreciation for the male form. But Jim had been so subtle and low-key about it that he hadn’t been sure, and, boy, if he had been wrong about Jim’s intentions, what a mess that would have made, and just when their friendship was really getting strong.... So he’d ignored it, and nothing had happened, and Jim hadn’t ever said anything about it, so clearly he had misunderstood Jim’s behavior. And he’d felt a little down about it, but he’d comforted himself by thinking that you really shouldn’t sleep with your research subjects, anyway.

But maybe he’d been wrong.

And maybe he was getting a chance to fix that.

He grabbed Jim’s pills and, detouring into the kitchen for a glass of water, marched resolutely up the steps to Jim’s bedroom.

Jim was sitting on the side of the bed, in his undershirt and boxers, his shoulders hunched, his good arm braced on his knee, every line of his body screaming exhaustion. His shirt and khakis lay crumpled on the floor in front of him.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have come and helped you get that stuff off,” Blair chided, putting the pills and glass on Jim’s nightstand. He picked the clothes up and dumped them in the hamper.

Jim lifted his good shoulder in a shrug.

Blair sat down on the bed next to him, his heart pounding a little, his mouth dry. Jim raised his head wearily to look at him, his normally sharp blue gaze dull and flat.

“What do you want, Sandburg?” Jim asked.

“To give you a reason to fight,” Blair replied. Taking a deep breath, and screwing up his nerve, he cupped Jim’s face in his hands and kissed him.

Jim’s mouth was cool under his, and firm, but not rigid; pliant, but not soft. Blair’s heart sank and he felt like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Clearly this had been the wrong move. Jim seemed indifferent, uninterested. This didn’t seem to be helping him or making him feel better at all.

Blair’s pride wouldn’t allow him to back out now, though. He held the kiss just long enough to make it clear that this wasn’t a brotherly, comrade-in-arms type of buss, then let go and sat back, swallowing nervously.

Jim regarded him for a long moment, one corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I thought you weren’t interested,” he said, finally.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Blair said, a smile spreading across his face as relief percolated through him, “but I’ve been kinda rearranging my priorities lately.”

“Oh, really?” Jim said, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Blair said. “This observation gig, it’s no good. Being a part of things, now; that’s where it’s at.”

“So you’re a man of action now?” Jim asked, leaning in a little closer. The weariness had lifted from his face, and the look he gave Blair was smoldering.

“Action is my middle name,” Blair murmured, and he kissed Jim again.

And, oh, man, what a difference a little reassurance made. Jim’s mouth, hot and velvety now, caressed his, sending a rush of longing through his whole body. Oh, yeah, was Jim good at this. Aching, half-hard, he nibbled on Jim’s lower lip a little, and ran his tongue across it, and Jim opened his mouth invitingly, and he slid inside.

Jesus. His heart was thudding with surprise and wild desire. He had his tongue in Jim’s mouth, and Jim tasted so good, tasted sharp and fresh, like a forest after rain, and Blair drank him in eagerly. His hands slid up Jim’s sides, under the cotton shirt. Jim’s skin felt warm and smooth and he could feel the muscles moving underneath, powerful and tensile. He was dimly aware of Jim’s hand gripping the back of his neck; Jim’s fingers winding snugly into the hair at his nape.

His hand drifted across Jim’s back, slipping under the waistband of his boxers, coming to rest just above the swell of his ass, his fingers teasing lightly at the crease there. Jim inhaled sharply, a shudder rippling through him from head to toe. He pulled Blair closer with his good hand, but his injured arm was trapped between them, and he winced in pain as they bumped against it.

Blair broke the kiss, pulling away slightly. Jim tried to follow, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open, but Blair put his hands on either side of Jim’s face and held him still. “Easy there, Tiger,” he murmured, “let’s slow things down a little.”

“Don’t want to,” Jim replied. His voice was husky and warm, and it made Blair feel as if there was honey running along all his nerves.

“I know,” Blair sighed, chuckling slightly, his hands sliding down to Jim’s shoulders, “me neither. But you’re hurt and you need rest. And I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Promise?” Jim asked, and his gaze was intense, hard, like aquamarine.

Blair met it with his own, trying to infuse it with all the love and reassurance he could muster. “Promise,” he said firmly.

Jim closed his eyes and swayed slightly, suddenly visibly tired. Blair reached for the pill bottle on the nightstand, shook out two pills, and handed them to Jim, who took them without comment.

Blair raised an eyebrow in surprise. This love thing had some serious benefits, if it meant he could get Jim to do stuff without complaining.

He helped Jim get under the covers, removing the sling and placing a couple of pillows around Jim’s cast to help support it and keep it immobile while he slept. Once Jim was settled, he sat on the edge of the bed, being careful not to jar his injured arm, and stroked Jim’s forehead lightly, watching the lines of pain in his face ease as the meds took effect.

As soon as he thought Jim was asleep, he rose, slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb Jim now that he was finally getting some rest. But Jim woke anyway, his head lifting off the pillow, his eyes half-open, his gaze sleepy and clouded by the meds. “Stay,” he whispered, wrapping his good hand around Blair’s wrist.

“You sure?” Blair asked, his heart speeding up a little at the idea. “I tend to move around a lot in my sleep.”

Jim nodded.

“Okay, let me just go lock up.”

Jim released his wrist and closed his eyes, his head falling back onto the pillow.

Blair headed downstairs and made a circuit of the loft, turning off the lights and checking the doors and windows. He made a brief detour into his room to grab a t-shirt, then made his way silently up the stairs.

First he checked Jim to make sure he hadn’t dislodged the pillows around his cast. Jim had raised his good arm over his head, but nothing else seemed to have moved. Blair tiptoed around to the other side of the bed and stripped down to his boxers, pulling the t-shirt over his head. Sliding carefully under the covers, he lay on his back next to Jim.

But he couldn’t fall asleep. With everything that had happened that night; Simon’s call, being worried about Jim, the kiss, the excitement of finally being in Jim’s bed... he was totally wired, his brain buzzing at a million miles a second.

Sighing, he rolled up on one side, propping his head on his hand and gazing at Jim. The dim ambient light of the city shone in through the skylight, allowing him to pick out details in the dusk: Jim’s strong profile, his dark, sharp brows, the firm line of his jaw; his muscular chest, rising and falling slowly with his breath; his taut abdomen, disappearing underneath the sheet. And with his arm up like that, Jim’s side was so open, so inviting....

Unable to stop himself, he wriggled over and stretched out against Jim’s side. The warmth from Jim’s body was like a balm to his nerves, slowing his heart rate, calming him down.

Jim’s good arm came across his back, pulling him in close, and he raised his head, startled. “Shit,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up; I’m sorry.”

A small smile played over Jim’s mouth, although his eyes stayed closed. “It’s okay.”

“Should I move? I don’t want to jostle your arm....”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re fine.”

Grinning, Blair settled in, resting his head on Jim’s shoulder, laying his hand gently on Jim’s chest. He could feel Jim relaxing, his muscles growing lax and heavy, bit by bit, and he closed his eyes and followed Jim contentedly into sleep.