The Art of War by Annabelle Leigh To Jim's way of thinking, getting blown was one hell of a good way to wake up in the morning. There was no music quite like those sloppy, happy little slurping noises, so much gentler than the blare of the alarm clock. Then there was the tease of long, soft hair tickling his belly and hips and thighs, so much better than a pair of rough hands shaking him by the shoulders. Not to mention the sweet exhale of breath stirring his tender parts. The impossible heat of a bountiful mouth, taking him in, sucking him down. There was nothing quite like splintering into a million pieces before pulling himself together to start the day. And fortunately, to Blair's way of thinking, giving head was a great way to greet the day. He went at it in such a good-natured, romping, joyful way that it made Jim's eyes water. Not tear up, mind you. Just water. He couldn't help but feel that this synchronicity of sucking and being sucked was a prime example of how they belonged together, happily, symbiotically. Only this morning something had gone wrong. Not with the blow job, thankfully. No, that had been just as wonderful as always. It was after that, somewhere between the shower and the coffee maker. He had said something wrong. Or Blair had. Now, he wasn't even sure what had started it or who or why, although he did feel pretty certain that it was something stupid, some little misstep on somebody's part. Because neither of them *wanted* to hurt the other, after all. And he would apologize, too, right this minute, even if it hadn't been his fault this time, if only he could have recalled what the *hell* they'd been fighting about. He'd wracked his brain most of the morning. He'd had plenty of time to mull it over, since Blair wasn't talking to him. Which was excruciating. Oh sure, he hadn't said a word, either. But he did that. He went without words, like a camel, for long stretches of time. Blair was more the otter type. He frolicked in language, at home in its depths. So even though they were both silent, it was *Blair* who wasn't speaking to *him*. And he damn well fucking hated it. If only he could remember what they were fighting about. Money, maybe. No, that was what other people fought about, what he and Carolyn had practically eviscerated each other over. But not him and Blair. They'd just gotten it down somehow, the equal sharing thing. So maybe it had been something about Naomi's last visit. Mother-in-laws did that, after all. They came in and changed things and made comments and caused strife. And Naomi, well, she-- But no, that couldn't be it, either. He'd finally learned, miracle of miracles, to keep his mouth shut about anything having to do with Blair's mother. So that couldn't have been what they were fighting about. Hell, it could be almost anything. Who did the laundry last or something about work or the situation in the Middle East. He had no fucking clue. He couldn't just ask Blair, either, because that would only start World War III. Blair had this idea that Jim didn't listen to him, which was so not true. It was just that sometimes hearing something and understanding its significance were two entirely different things. He stole a look at his partner out of the corner of his eye. Blair was staring straight out the windshield, keeping watch on the building they were staking out, his face grim and shuttered. Jim hated that expression. He thought of it as Blair's "my boyfriend's a shithead" look. He was fairly certain that this was, in fact, its message. He particularly hated it since it meant he wasn't going to see any of Blair's other, friendlier expressions anytime soon. No "you're not just a Sentinel, you're *my* Sentinel" twinkle in his eye. No "if only they knew how I nailed your ass to the bed last night" smirk. No dark indigo "I'm lying here, so why don't you do something nice for me" suggestive glance. And, damn it, that was his *favorite*. Unlike Jim, Blair tended to be a night person--that's when he liked his action. His favorite way to fall asleep was with his dick in Jim's mouth, sliding gently in and out, like an erotic lullaby. He would come, and Jim would drink him down. Then he'd scoop Blair's sated, drowsy body into his arms, and they'd both fall right off, so perfectly at peace. Come to think of it, going down on Blair was his favorite way to fall asleep, so that symbiotic thing really held true. //Except, of course, it's for damned sure that's not how you're going to fall asleep tonight. He'd rather shoot you right now than let you touch him.// He twisted up his face, feeling sour. Worst of all, he couldn't even fully indulge his regret that there wasn't going to be any sex when they got home that evening, since he was starting to feel just a little bit pissed off at his partner in return. Why *couldn't* he ask Blair what he'd done? Why did he have to figure it out for himself or it didn't count? And why did Blair, who was a real guy's guy in so many ways, have to sound exactly like every woman Jim had ever gone out with on this one particular score? It made him feel like the wronged party. So maybe he shouldn't rush into making amends. Maybe he shouldn't give in so easily to Blair's attempts at reparations, either. //I'm fucked,// he thought. And then he had to shake his head. Bitterly. //No, worse than that. I'm fuck-less.// He screwed up his face at the thought, at the *fact,* and his disposition took a turn for the worse. //I hate this shit. I hate relationships. Hell, I'm not even all that crazy about love just at the moment.// "You have no idea what you did, do you?" a knowing voice interrupted his misery. He turned to find Blair watching him, or observing him actually, in an uncomfortably emotionless way, like he was a lost tribe or a new strain of bacteria that Blair had just discovered. "Um--" "Don't lie. 'Cause you know you're not going to get away with it." "No. I'm afraid I don't have a fucking clue." Blair sighed heavily. "But I swear to God that I'm sorry. Truly." "How can you possibly be sorry if you don't even know what you're apologizing for?" "Because you're upset with me. And you're not talking. And I can smell your unhappiness. And I *hate* that." "God, Jim. You think you can just sweet talk me." He sounded exasperated. But a corner of his mouth threatened to turn up into what looked suspiciously like the "I wish I could stay mad at you, but you're just one big, lovable lug of a Sentinel" smile. "I won't do it again. I promise." "It wasn't what you *did*. It's what you *said*," Blair corrected, impatiently. "Say it," he quickly amended. "I won't *say* it again. That's what I meant. Honestly." Blair shook his head. "Of course, you'll say it again. I know you. You can't help yourself." "I guess I'm just an asshole then." Blair nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are." Only now he was *really* smiling, not just a little half quirk of his lips, but an out-and-out, full-blown "you're pretty adorable for an asshole though" grin. "I really am sorry, you know," he said, earnestly. Blair nodded. "I know. And I accept your apology." "I love you." Blair blinked, because his eyes were watering, not tearing up, mind you, just watering. "I love you, too, man," he said, softly. And then Jim was the one who was smiling. It was his deeply relieved "thank God this stupid war is over, so we can get back to the important things" smile. THE END