Tell Me A Story

By Orion


Summary: Blair tells a story


I know his social security number. I know his blood type. I know the PIN's to his bank and credit cards and the numbers to call to get them canceled if they get lost or stolen. By heart.

I know how many pairs of socks he owns and where he buys them. I know which of his many sweaters is his favorite. I know that he hates doing the laundry, even if he doesn't admit it openly.

I know he loves sun-dried tomato bagels and cream cheese. I know which beer he likes the most. I know the sequence in which he eats M&M's. I know not to ask him about that. Because I did once.

Thinking about it, I know a lot of stuff about Sandburg, some of it valuable and important, a lot more just useless facts and figures. Things you simply know about someone you're close to. They appear even more unimportant now, as I slide my fingers over his thigh, tracing the small scar he has there.

I didn't know about that.

And I wonder about it. We've been exploring each other for quite a while now, getting used to our bodies and how they reacted together. I thought I had been over every square inch of skin that covers his body. But I never noticed this scar.

It's not big, not even a third of an inch in length and slightly curved. Pretty much in the middle between his hip and knee, right on top of the thigh. His body hair covers it, so you can't see it. But I bet even someone without enhanced senses could feel it.

"You zoning on my thigh?"

I grin. Blair still sounds out of it, our earlier lovemaking having depleted all his energy. His back melts against my front as if his own muscles couldn't hold him. I know they could and he knows it as well. It's the close contact we both crave.

"You have a scar here."

"I have?" He raises his head slightly, then lets it fall back against my chest. "Ah, yes, I have."

I continue tracing it. "Is there a story behind it?"

He tenses for a second, only tangible for my acute senses, then sighs and turns around in my arms to face me and rests his head beside mine. His fingers start tracing my chest now and his face looks as if he's deep in thought. Maybe he's contemplating about telling me or not. Maybe he's cooking up a story to feed me. Even my senses can't tell me that. Finally, he begins to speak.

"Summer of 1980. Plentywood, Montana."

"Plentywood?" I nearly sputter.

"Shh, this is my story."


"We'd moved there in the winter and school authorities had decided to let me skip a grade, so I was the youngest kid in junior high. And the smallest."

I wonder if there had ever been a time he wasn't the smallest kid anywhere. He snuggles nearer and his fingers roam further down, teasing me to a point of near arousal.

"There was this girl from the neighborhood, Cheryl Hart. God, she was cute."

Oh. God. Trust Blair Sandburg to start talking about girls while fondling me.

"We rode the bus together every day and we had some classes together. I liked her a lot. But we never really talked with each other. I think I might have had my very first crush on her."

"You think?"

"I was 11. Nothing is certain when you're 11."

"Right." Only Sandburg.

"As I said, I liked her a lot, so one day, I started writing poetry for her. But I was too shy to give it to her personally, so I slipped it into her bag when she wasn't looking."

I fear I know where this is going.

"She seemed to like the poems, but she had no clue at all they were from me. Instead, she started flirting with Gary Wheeler, thinking he wrote them. He was 13, on his second round through 7th grade and dumber than a piece of wood. But then, he was tall and good-looking."

He turns a bit, so he can look past my shoulder.

"I felt hurt by that so one day just before class, I took all my courage and sat down beside her. And I told her that the poems were from me."

"What happened?"

"She started giggling and then laughing and soon, every single kid in the room was laughing along with her. Except me, of course. I was close to tears."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"So, how did you get the scar?"

"Ah, yes. Well, I asked Cheryl to give back the poems. She laughed some more and then, she told me to fuck off and stabbed her pencil into my leg."

"Ouch." I gather him closer and he chuckles softly, partly amused and partly sarcastic. Let me tell you, Blair Sandburg is one strange creature.

"Naomi had to take me to the ER since the tip of the pencil broke and was still stuck in my leg. They had to cut it out and stitch it closed again. That's were the scar is from."

I kiss his hair and hold him. His hands have stopped roaming a long time ago and are just resting against my sides now.

"It's not easy being 11." I offer.

"No. But it's not easy being 31, either." He has a point there.

"We moved away the next spring and last thing I heard, Cheryl and Gary got married right after highschool, because she was pregnant. Cheryl never really understood the real meaning of love."

"And that is?"

With one nudge of his body, he rolls us over and climbs on top of me. "Trust, commitment, sacrifices, forgiveness." Each word is punctuated by a small kiss. "Passion, compromises, fights and makeup sex."

I laugh at that and he captures my lips with his. Blair might be strange, but that's why I love him.


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