wordwitch | News, Part 2 (Reply)

*

Jim’s biceps flexed alarmingly as he folded the paper back into precise quarters and laid it neatly on the pale sheets. He folded his hands and peered mildly at his bedmate, still thumping the mattress and whooping for breath between brays of laughter.

“I’m sure that she’d correct the ‘e’ to a ‘u’ if you complained,” he opined. Blair shook his head furiously, letting out an extra howl of mirth. Jim stretched over to the box of tissues on the bedside table and dropped a handful on his beloved’s curly head. A strong square hand groped for the paper and blotted a tear-streaked face.

“I’ll have to find out what Steve meant by ‘every happiness’,” the older detective mused. A series of gasps indicated a desire to speak, but the effort failed as Blair went off into another peal of laughter.

Jim cast his eyes up and began gathering the remains of breakfast, stacking the small plates neatly and swiftly, the few muffin crumbs that had escaped their hunger nestling quietly among the mango peels.

He rose to his knees to reach the coffee mug lying crazily beside Blair, and took the opportunity to pet his husband's stomach at the same time, some half-remembered story of calming alligators flashing through the back of his mind.

It worked; by the time the pitiably dry mug had joined the other dishes on the tray, Blair had gasped his way into calm. Jim stretched, and leaned over him, smiling down into the greco-pagan face. Blair blinked back up at him, still shaking with little quivers of leftover hilarity.

"So." Jim let his voice be dark. Blair blinked again, curling his lips down in an attempt to resist smiling. “Whaddaya want to do today? This, our last day of honeymoon.”

It had been a part of the negotiations with Simon and Ham, this question of the length of their honeymoon. Simon and Jim had been of the firm opinion that a week was necessary, two weeks better. Blair and Ham, however, were reluctant to allow the two to go off duty at all, let alone leave the city entirely. They’d supported their arguments with “evidence” concerning visions Blair had had while on his retreat, and Simon had lost color at the thought.

Given his attitudes toward the not-usual in general and the wildly weird in particular, it really was amazing he held on as well as he did.

But he had put his foot down absolutely at the concept of the two of them going back on call as usual the following day, and had threatened them with a news conference if they so much as poked their heads through the station door before Monday. With a fallback option on Wednesday, to be taken at their whim.

Jim’s private opinion had been that it might take him a bit to get into the swing of things, and he didn’t want to miss out based on lack of time; but this fear had proven groundless. Blair might be as new as himself to this side of the street, but his husband had a raw joy in – Jim considered his words briefly as he nuzzled the side of Blair’s face and sniffed the mossy richness behind his ear – tactile affection, maybe, that overwhelmed Jim’s unwanted defenses. Especially as Jim himself tended to flourish under touch. And who would have thought that he could be driven over the edge by two fingers smoothing back and forth over his shoulder? Or that anyone could? And let us not consider, he thought, stroking the side of his face through the crisp silk of chest hair and basking in the pleased rumble, what those same fingers could do with any more usual hotspot.

“This is good,” Blair said, in what Jim recognized after a moment as a response to his question. “We got all the thank-you notes written yesterday, so I really see no need to get off the bed again, even.”

Jim snickered, his tactical mind immediately presenting him with two definite reasons and one additional possible reason for leaving the bed, and amused himself for a moment with considerations of how to get around them. Blair, following his thoughts as easily as usual, batted him lightly on the side of the head.

“Dad called yesterday,” Jim offered after a moment. He’d gotten the messages on his cell phone as he’d gone down for breakfast and the paper, smugly listening to the faint voices as it lay abandoned on the countertop, glorying in the fact that he could hear them without either holding the damned thing or bothering Blair, who had still been asleep, with the sounds.

“Mmm?” Blair’s heartbeat was at its plotting rhythm, so Jim was fairly prepared when the man grabbed him, collapsing Jim’s not-inconsiderable weight right onto his chest and belly. Jim’s face crinkled in delight: he had been alarmed the first time Blair had done this, but the younger man had forcefully demonstrated his ability to bear him with no problem and a lot of pleasure. It was fun just to lie on top of him without worrying. He worked his hands under Blair’s shoulders and snuggled in. Strength to strength, protecting and protected: this was wonderful.

“Yeah, invited us out to a late lunch today, at the country club, with Steve. Thought we might be ready ‘to escape the confines of our own company’ by now.”

Blair snorted in delight. “Man, he is so good! We gotta go. He’s making such an effort, we gotta do our part.”

Jim wiggled, then rolled the two of them over, looking at his friend’s open face.

“You’re not being sarcastic.”

“No, heck no. He’s showing us off to his world this way. We have to agree to be shown. And I can take him my thank-you for the book.”

Jim bit his ear, hanging on while Blair shook and whined. He licked the lobe gently, then whispered, “What was that about anyway? You don’t golf, he knows that. Is he being rude to you, a golf history and those insane togs he wore to the wedding?”

“Nn. Hhmn. Jiiiimmm …. Uh. No. No, he’s um, he’s making a, a, pledge, a vow, to us. Sss. NNNGGhhhh!” Blair spasmed as Jim sucked on the soft spot behind his ear, jerking deliciously atop Jim.

Some moments later, with Jim placidly licking the sweat from Blair’s hairline, the smaller man regrouped his wits and asked, “Was that a trick question? Distract the dweeb a minute so you can ambush him?”

“Nah, I just suddenly got a better idea, is all.” He wriggled virtuously back, freeing Blair’s arms and sitting up. “So, tell me what he means with the golf-stuff.”

“Um. Golf. Right. So.” Blair scooted up, reaching for the box of wipes. “Um. Well, you remember the title of the book, right? ‘Good Walk Spoiled’? Well, that’s a kind of code for the fact that golf is a game primarily about failure. Well, failure and the will to persist. It’s the only game where an aficionado will spend hundreds of dollars on equipment that he will, almost inevitably, destroy in a fit of rage – and then replace for another try. A golfer will swear at his clubs, his balls, his caddy, the green, the hazards, the other players, and most often at himself – and will still play. It’s addictive.”

Jim matched up facts and presented a hypothesis. "So he's not going to cut off contact no matter what."

"Exactly." Blair looked delighted, and a slow smile snuck onto Jim's face.

"Okay. So: lunch? Dress clothes?"

"You got it."