The Bath It had seemed perfectly innocent when he'd suggested it. Blair was hurt, his shoulder knocked out of commission by yet another crazed criminal gunning for Jim. Now his hair was dirty, and Jim owed him. So he'd offered to wash it. A practical solution. But somehow innocence and practicality couldn't quite explain what he was doing kneeling by the tub, cupping Blair's head in his hands, working the shampoo languidly through the wild curls, while Blair splashed happily, little murmurs of pleasure escaping him. Or how his hands felt like they were made of tenderness as he rinsed away the suds, carefully keeping the shampoo out of his partner's eyes. Or the way Blair opened those eyes and blinked up at him, his face filled with a knowledge that was the very opposite of innocence. Or how terribly glad he was that suddenly innocence and practicality were very far down on his list of important virtues.