Archive of Our Own

Petfly owns 'em, but they're kind enough to share with us. We give them love in return.

Thanks so much for all the encouragement to continue this 'saga' (now officially the "Blair's Food" series).

References to the first two installments of the series, "Frozen" and "The Popcorn Incident"

This story is a sequel to: The Popcorn Incident

Fresh

I'm straight. I AM. Really. I have NEVER been attracted to men, ALWAYS a ladies' man. This isn't macho posturing or a homophobic stance, just a fact of life. I have gay friends, but I have NEVER found myself attracted to another man. EVER.

I'm not saying that I can't appreciate another man's physical form. Take Jim Ellison for example. The man is BUFF. I am not ashamed to say it. I've studied his body pretty closely - in the locker room, at the gym. That's the kind of body I want to have, what I'm working towards. Okay, so I know I'll never really have THAT, because I'm slightly taller and thinner boned, but I think can achieve a similar level of musculature if I stay focused.

Given, you would think I'd attain it easier than he maintains it, since I eat a lot healthier than he does - I do soups, salads, chicken and fish instead of red meat, lots of water rather than coffee, only one cookie when Joel's wife sends the weekly care-package, and I keep the sweets to a 'once-in-a-while' level. As opposed to Ellison's deep-fried, blood-rare, 'restock the stash in the bottom drawer cuz we're down to one bag of mini Nestle's Crunch' mentality.

I'll bet good money that his health nut partner doesn't know about his Friday lunch runs to Wonderburger - always a double bacon cheeseburger combo with double crispy fries and an extra large mocha-cafe milk shake. And a side order of onion rings with that mayonnaise dipping sauce. But yet, the man stays in incredible shape.

Well, maybe it's because he works out so much that he can get away with all that junk food - I've never noticed his weight to fluctuate even an ounce except between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and even then its no more than a couple of pounds. It's frustrating, really. But at least I have my goal and the body to emulate. So, of course I study Jim's body. What exercises he does for which muscles, how many reps on which machines and weights, how many laps he swims in the pool or how long he spends on the treadmill. I know every inch of that man's body... well, not EVERY inch...

But see? There you have it. I am completely comfortable with myself as a man, able to appreciate other men's bodies while yet being secure in my masculinity and firm in the knowledge that I am completely and totally heterosexual in my orientation.

Except when it comes to Blair Sandburg.

There's just something about Sandburg that skews my entire world. Not him personally, exactly. I mean, yeah, the kid's good-looking in that hippie-bookworm kind of way. He's lacking in the fashion sense, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm. And he oozes charm without even trying. The ladies love his shoulder-length curly hair and his big blue eyes. And yeah, he's got a great smile, and he's built pretty well for a short dude. But like I said, I can appreciate another man's figure without having issues with my sexuality.

It's not Blair himself that gives me problems. It's my reactions to certain things he does.

The godsend is that at least I'm not alone in my reactions. You see, the entire bullpen - every-frickin'-one of the people I work with - has the same problem.

It's how Blair EATS.

Simon has already had to ban him from eating Popsicles at his desk. My GOD was that something to see. Luckily, health food nut that he is, he didn't do it too often, but we had this one really hot week and three days and three Popsicle sessions later, they were an official no-no on the job. Blair forgot twice after The Decree, and the second time Simon blew a gasket and chewed him a new one in front of the whole office. Luckily the kid took it in stride. So, no more Popsicles, and we thought the world would be safe.

Not.

The next 'problem' occurred with a bag of popcorn. Simon hasn't actually said anything to The Burg, as far as I know. For that matter, I don't believe anyone has said a thing about it at all - pretty unusual for the station gossip chain, considering Rhonda's a founding member. I think everyone realized that the only way Simon could address the situation would be to ban ALL eating from our desks. And considering how often he misses lunch for a conference call or grabs a sandwich in his office while reviewing cases? Well, that just isn't realistic.

So for now, popcorn is just something we're all consciously avoiding. Too many memories. GOOD ones, mind you, but still...

Which leads me to today. You see, at least at the station I knew it was a mass hysteria type reaction. I was convinced it was something leaking into the ventilation system, and that's why we've all been turning into teenagers in heat whenever we've witnessed Blair eating on the job. I mean, I had dinner with him and H the other night at The Pasta Bowl while Ellison was with Megan on the Protoni stakeout (suckers), and NOTHING. No extreme desire to whip it out and whack it off while watching Burg twirl his fettuccine on his fork. No desperate need to get home and change my briefs or call Sarah Ann because "Baby I miss you so bad" (which she knows means I'm horny). Nope, just three normal guys having a normal meal, all perfectly normal and sane and...

sigh

But now... well, once again I have to re-evaluate my life. I really don't need this. Isn't being stuck with the Zukowa murder case hell enough? I mean, right now I could say the dog did it and have no idea whether I'm even close to being right or not... Never mind. Job Stress.

And now, Breakfast Meeting Stress. Caused by Sandburg.

I thought: we'll be in a restaurant; it'll be fine. Plus, no finger foods - I think seeing him eat ANY finger foods for a while will get me hot regardless of what it is, or where. Visual memory stimulus, you know?

Well, actually, toast is a finger food, but no one can make eating toast sexy, right? Not even Blair Sandburg. Right?

Simon had called the meeting to discuss the Diamond District robberies that Ellison and Sandburg have been working on, and how they may or may not be related to the four break-ins at meat packing plants that H and I have been working on. I'm pretty sure Simon opted for a breakfast meeting because if Burg DID end up getting to him again, he could accidentally trip the waitress into pouring hot coffee down his pants, thus killing the evidence. I know he's suffering from a slight libido crisis himself.

I feel bad for him. At least I have Sarah Ann when it gets too much and I need to fuck someone's brains out. Simon just has his Reliable Right. He hasn't even had a DATE in months, much less a relationship that lasted long enough to reach nooky. That much just completely - no pun intended - suck.

So, there we were at the IHOP. Ellison with his Swedish pancake stack with boysenberry syrup and a side of eggs, Simon had his three-egg Western omelet with corn beef hash, H got his steak and eggs combo R&R (rare and runny), and Blair and I made fun of their cholesterol levels as we both ordered the fresh fruit salad with toast and oatmeal. I distinctly remember thinking that not even Sandburg can make oatmeal and fruit salad erotic. It just can't be done.

God was I wrong.

Okay, the oatmeal was not too bad, though I have to admit that Sandburg KNOWS how to enjoy his food. I swear he made love to that spoon. And he likes his oatmeal with honey, and he occasionally dips a finger into the bowl and sucks off the honey - often leaving just a hint of the golden stickiness on his lower lip for a second before he licks it off. It was interesting to watch Ellison watching his partner. I mean, REALLY watching. But he was good on his game, never lost focus on the meeting all through the oatmeal.

Then came the fresh fruit. Various types of melons, grapes, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, bananas, pineapples, blackberries, and a side bowl of grapefruit slices - I love when they keep the grapefruit separate, cuz I always hate the way the sour grapefruit juice screws up the flavors of the other fruits.

So, there you have it: a nice, healthy, vitamin-packed breakfast dish that you have to eat with a fork. Nice and safe.

And Sandburg turned into a frickin' orgy.

Okay, not fare to make fun of him. Hell, he doesn't know he's doing it, right? Although, how a guy so experienced in observation could completely miss that his eating habits can make an entire room of people need to make a condom run is beyond me. But I suppose, as some philosopher once said (Who? I don't know - work with me here): most people are the least observant when it comes to themselves.

Okay, maybe I'm making that up, but it sounds good, doesn't it?

First of all, he sprinkled everything with sugar. EVERYTHING. Not just the grapefruit, but the rest, too. Given, raspberries and blackberries are a tad bitter, as are blueberries, and the melon slices that day needed some help. But just the act of sprinkling was a bit unnerving in itself. Why? I can't possibly explain. Think of it as a strong breeze that blows on a hot summer day. The sky may be completely clear, but if the wind's blowing just right, you know there's a storm coming. That's what the sugar sprinkling was to me: a warning of imminent danger.

Maybe it's just his eating form - I mean, I eat my fruit salad with a fork too, but I use that fork like a spoon, scooping up a collection of fruit all at the same time. Burg, on the other hand, spears each and every individual fruit piece down to the smallest berry, and he savors ever piece. I mean SAVORS. You can see it in his face, how every taste bud is exploring every inch of every piece.

He also has this way of taking the fruit off the fork tines into his mouth? The way he wraps his tongue around the fruit, caresses it, tastes it completely before it ever leaves the fork for the warm dark regions of his mouth. The way his tongue and teeth slowly slip over the fruit and cradle it as he slides the fork back. The way he leaves his mouth open just slightly for a moment and - only if you're watching, of course - you can see the play between his lips on the fork, removing the juices, and his tongue holding the fruit in place waiting for him to decide he's ready to chew... juices making his lips just slightly moist...

And the sugar he sprinkled over everything just added to the effect. With each piece, little specks of sugar hung on his lips, forcing him to lick them clean regularly. And Blair Sandburg doesn't just lick his lips, not like normal people. No, when he licks, it's like... like he's reminding himself that he's alive and vibrant; he trails his tongue languidly over every curve of his lips - big, full, ripe lips, the kind that - on a woman, mind you - make me want to suck one into my mouth and stay there for days. Blair made love to his own lips every time he checked them for sugar granules, and I found myself wishing for a cold shower every time.

Um, do you see why I'm a little worried about myself?

Raspberries are the worst. I mean, have you ever truly considered a fresh, ripe raspberry? First of all, they have very little stability. I never realized until watching The Burg, but when you spear a raspberry with a fork, it kind of... deflates... and releases its fragrant, bloody juices. Sandburg impales each one very delicately and brings the fork dripping with juicy red raspberry to his lips, where it pauses - always pauses - and his tongue slips out and snakes around it like a lover binding up his mate, drawing it in as his lips glisten with that red juice... And you can practically taste it with him. Every ripe, round, red bud on every single berry, each tart, tangy morsel with its sweet-sourness and the soft velvety texture as it dances over his tongue...

And that's about when I realized that my trousers were six sizes too small.

And that Simon's hand was shaking as he tried to drink his coffee and he was WAY too interested in the remains of his omelet and the very inane specifics of certain types of diamonds.

And that Henri was gripping his knee so tight that his knuckles were turning white - like, snowman white - and he was drinking a hell of a lot of ice water.

And then there's Jim Ellison. Roommate and partner to the Food Connoisseur from Hell. Poor Jim looked positively green. He was holding his fork in his hand over the almost empty plate of eggs, and his grip had actually managed to bend the metal. His eyes were locked on his partner, who was too busy discussing the cases with Simon to notice. Simon held himself together magnificently, I might say, considering he was the only person at the table besides Blair who could form a conscious thought.

Sitting next to Jim as I was, it was very easy to see the bulge in his pants that threatened to burst through his zipper and seams. Funny, for all the studying I've done of his body, I never realized just how big he really must be.

Poor Jim just sat like a stone, barely breathing, hardly blinking, completely enamored by the arousing display being put on by his partner. The guy looked ripe for a coronary, or at least an aneurysm. Vesuvius in denim, definitely. His jaw was clenched so tight I swear I heard his molars screaming for mercy.

And the amount of lust in his eyes was... well, picture me at the Miss America swimsuit contest after I've been trapped in a cave with H as my only companion for six months. THAT level of lust.

God, the guy has it bad.

I've often wondered why Jim hasn't made a move on Blair yet. Hell, Ellison's been an out-of-the-closet bi since long before his marriage to Carolyn. I might have been still on patrols back then, but even I heard the gossip: money was the marriage wouldn't last a year (it made it a year and three months). The question was, was it because Carolyn wasn't feminine enough for him, or wasn't butch enough for him?

Besides, no marriage of a Vice cop to another cop has ever made it past the two-year mark that I'm aware of; just too much 'questionable' behavior is required on the job, and people - even other cops - just assume the worst all the time. Jim was one of the best in Vice, so of course the rumor mill ran tons of stories about 'why' he was so good. No matter how much Carolyn may have believed that Jim was on the up and up, a part of her surely bought into the rumors.

Personally, I don't believe for a second that Jim would... well, you know. I mean, he was covert ops; he could think his way out of anything. We once took a call together - this was just before Sandburg started riding with him. There was a jumper on the terrace of the SkyHigh Palace - you know, that ritzy Chinese restaurant at the top of the Wilkenson Towers North? Anyway, nobody could get near enough to the guy to even talk to him, much less pull him back.

Finally, Ellison wanders out there like he owns the place and declares that if the guy wants to jump to go ahead, but he's gotta take a leak. Then he whips it out and whizzes in the rhododendrons, casually chatting away the whole time about the weather. Ten minutes later, the jumper's talking to him about his problems and agreeing to come down and seek counseling. Ellison knows how to think on his feet; no way he had to do stuff he didn't want while working Vice.

But I'd bet money he wants to do Blair. BAD. I know that look well. Ellison wants to bend Sandburg over the table and make him beg. Or, maybe he wants to BE bent - from what I know of Ellison and Sandburg, that's probably more likely. Everybody knows that despite outward appearances, Blair's the one driving THAT truck.

Hm. Ellison is lusting after Blair. Does Blair know? I mean, he's pretty clueless to how he affects other people, but he's usually pretty tuned in to Jim. I wonder... DOES Blair know? I mean, I've always thought Blair was straight, and lord knows there are enough women around who will happily testify to his virility as a heterosexual lover. While you're in bed with them, no less - talk about an ego bruiser. But then again, he was brought up by a pretty broadminded lady who taught him to embrace all things with equal possibility. So... IS he straight? I mean STRAIGHT straight?

Maybe that's why Blair's been so much more... whatever... lately. And why we're safe when Jim's not there, but when Jim IS there we're all suffering major meltdown. Maybe Blair's subconscious is playing a game with Ellison, to get the big man to give in and make the first move.

Or, maybe I'm completely losing my mind and am just trying to find justification for why I'm so totally turned on by a guy's eating habits. Maybe it's me, and the rest of Major Crimes, just succumbing to the natural, un-distilled charms of Blair Sandburg.

God I need a drink. And a shower. And a strategically placed ice pack.

I wonder what Sarah Ann's doing tonight.

End Fresh by Kitipurr: [email protected]

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