Seeing Red
by Grit Kitty

Jim heard Blair rummage through the drawer. "Which one should I wear?"

"Which what?" Jim asked absently as he flipped through the new insurance forms Simon had thrust at him before he could escape the bullpen this afternoon.

"Which sweater."

>From bed, Jim waved his hand while he read. "That one."

"Jim, you're not even looking."

Jim looked up. Blair held up a sweater in each hand: one red and one blue. Irritated, Jim said, "Why are you asking me? You're a grown man. Wear what you want."

"I'm trying to make a good impression," said Blair. "I wanna look good."

"You look fine," said Jim. And Blair did: he stood at the foot of Jim's bed wearing dark dress pants and a gray ribbed undershirt; he'd had his hair trimmed so it fell just past his jaw; and Blair had that half-pissed expression that said he wasn't gonna take any of Jim's shit.

"No, tell me which one you like better on me," said Blair.

Life with Sandburg wasn't easy, and it never had been; hell, their relationship began with fraud and a near-fatal accident. That should have warned him right there, but as time passed, the jokes and the warm hands and the sex and the unwavering existence of the man somehow kept tipping the scales. Jim loved the bastard. Days like these, he resented it.

"You know, Caro used to ask me shit like that."

Blair looked at him expectantly, frowning and amused at once. "And? You casting me as the wife?" He smiled then. "What'd you tell her?"

"I told her I didn't care," he said, but that wasn't true. He just never wanted to argue about fashion. He liked when she wore those suits with the short-short skirts.

He liked when Sandburg wore red. He liked when Sandburg wore nothing.

"But you do," said Blair. "I know you do. You care." He gave the sweaters a little shake. "C'mon. Which one? This guy likes me, I can tell. A little flirting will go a long way, and I really want this gig."

Jim frowned. "You're going to flirt your way into a job?"

"Gig, Jim. Gig. Freelance writing, capice? And my portfolio will get the job. I'll just," his mouth pressed closed a moment, smiling, "ease the process along, you know?"

"Waitaminute," said Jim. "This guy?"

"Mr. Editor-in-Chief to you. And me," he said. "Unless I don't get the gig, and then it's rat bastard."

Jim dropped his papers on the bed as he stood up and stepped close to Blair. He took the red sweater from Blair and held it up to Blair's shoulders, curving his hands over the shape of bone and muscle under the knit.

"I," said Jim, "like you in anything." He straightened his arms and leisurely looked down Blair's body. "Red, though, makes me want to fuck you."

"Oh yeah?" Blair sounded sultry.

Jim moved close so his lips touched the shell of Blair's ear. "Yeah. Wear the blue one."


The End



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