To Us by ainm

To Us - ainm

I smile as Blair pushes back to snuggle in tighter, always seeking warmth, even though it isn't that cold in the loft. I spoon around him a little more comfortably and he settles back down peacefully, quietly.

I idly stroke his chest where my arm lays across him, drowsily thinking about the day while letting the glow from the Christmas tree further soothe and cheer me. The first night after we put it up, he wanted to leave it on when we came up to bed, but I complained that it was a fire hazard. He told me that I would be able to smell any hint of a problem before anything really happened and that I needed to lighten up a bit, no pun intended. He's probably right. He usually is.

Today was a pretty “light” one, light-hearted even though the skies were typically dreary. It had snowed some on Thursday, not a whole lot and some of it had already melted, but he decided that since we weren't at work this Saturday that we ought to go make a snowman in the park. That didn't really work out, not enough snow, but we made a bunch of little snow balls and piled them into a pyramid and called them cannon balls. I was surprised by his enthusiasm for ammunition, but then again he has enthusiasm for pretty much everything, so I shouldn't have been.

Cold, wet, laughing, we stumbled into a coffee shop, Blair ordering for both of us, some sort of strangely-spiced but nicely warm cider for me, something I couldn't even decipher the name of for him, but it smelled like a bunch of plants and I was happy he hadn't ordered it for me too. We sat and warmed up and he kept me laughing by telling me stories about the different people who came through the shop, and I never knew which was real and which was invented, since some of the people greeted him by name.

Yes, a good day, in a long line of good days, days that could be counted as good even when we faced violence and injustice and all the bad that man can do, good because we are together. Finally.

We're a bit past Hanukkah, and he'd put his menorah in the window and we lit the candles each night and he taught me what it all meant, and only a few days until Christmas Eve, when we would have an “open house” sort of party, most of the folks from Major Crime stopping by as well as others we work with at the CPD and elsewhere, and even a few of Blair's former colleagues and associates from Ranier, the decent ones that still talk to him now that he's one of us for real.

Our friends will come by, for a few minutes or a few hours, whatever works with the rest of their holiday plans, and they'll bring food and drink to share, a dozen plates of cookies because it's Christmas and some organic chips made of some grain I've never heard of because they think Blair will like them and some eggnog because they don't actually like it and want to get it out of their house, and maybe a gift or two, and they'll talk and laugh and eat and drink, and probably sing Christmas carols that will force me to turn my hearing down to about nothing, and they will be here, in our place, with us, 'Jim-and-Blair' and not just 'Sandburg and Ellison,' and we can be ourselves and hold hands or kiss under the mistletoe or whatever other sappy, “couple” things we want. If they cared, personally or professionally, we wouldn't have invited them.

It's hard for me to believe that we've come to this point, that I've gotten this lucky in spite of all the stupid things I've done, all the ways I've hurt Blair before... the idea that he has been able to look past that and see the important things, the things I almost never say but almost always try to show, now, that I admire him, respect him... love him. I'm almost afraid to think what the new year will hold, given how well this one is ending... but whatever happens, I truly believe now that we'll be able to face it together. Sounds sappy and trite, but I'm so grateful that it's true.

He grunts a little, startling me, and manages to elbow me in the stomach, but I don't mind. I “shh” at him, and whisper softly, more able to tell him here, in the dark, with him at least mostly asleep, that it's OK, that I love him, that everything is going to be fine. He rolls over, fitting his head into the crook of my shoulder and snuffling a bit, getting hair in my mouth and making me smile.

“Mmm... love you,” I hear him mumble into my armpit. I smile even wider, pleased to hear him say it so naturally even though he's essentially asleep, and laughing at myself for being the sappy romantic that he says he always suspected I was. Merry Christmas to me. To us.

The end.

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Acknowledgments: This was written for the LJ Secret Santa List, 2010. Thanks to K-9 for the artwork.