Give Until It Hurts"I've inherited my family property," Jim repeated, with unusual impatience. He could hardly not have known the effect his words would have on Artie. "I'm going to move back there. I'll stay on the job through the end of the year, but then I'm going home." "But why haven't you said anything . . . " Artie trailed off in miserable incredulity. Jim had been quiet lately. Distant, even. But he'd given no hint of something like this. "I'm not going to argue with you over it, Artie," Jim said, not unkindly. "I know it's a shock. But I've made up my mind." The finality in his voice was like a slap. So bewildered that he could find no words, Artie just turned away. "All right," he said, in someone else's voice. "It—it'll take that long to break in someone new." That much was all he was capable of at the moment. Any more and he'd be on his knees, begging. Jim's face held an odd expression when Artie looked back. Startled, he would have said. But that vanished immediately, leaving only the same pleasant courtesy that Jim bestowed on strangers. "I'll be going out tonight," Artie said, almost as hurt by this impersonal civility as by Jim's intention to leave. Dammit, they could still have remained friends, couldn't they? "We can talk about this later," he added, as though it was a mere afterthought. He couldn't believe how calm he sounded. He should be yelling. He should be demanding answers, wearing down Jim's resolve. But was it fair to do that? If Jim wanted out of their shared life, should Artie really try to make him stay? Not, he supposed miserably, if he cared about Jim. Which he did. At least, he thought he did. At the moment, he was so torn between despair and anger that it was hard to make any sense of his feelings at all. An hour later, well lubricated with scotch, and with a pretty girl adorning each arm, he decided he didn't give a damn whether he ever spoke to James West again. He had other friends, after all. He didn't need the two-faced bandy-legged arrogant little bastard who had taken his heart and broken it into a thousand pieces. In the morning, of course, he regretted the excess of both drink and companionship, since the considerable purse he'd been carrying had disappeared with the girls, and the whiskey was taking off the top of his head. He also had to retract his opinion of his soon-to-be ex-partner, because it was Jim who had slung him over the saddle of his horse, led it back to the train, and deposited him more tenderly in his bed than Artie had any right to expect. His memories were vague and disjointed, but he could feel Jim's arms around him, and he recalled very clearly the brush of Jim's lips against his own . . . no. He had imagined that. He opened his eyes and tried to move. Waves of nausea instantly swept over him, but there couldn't have been much in his stomach to throw up. In spite of his hazy recollection of details, he did remember that he hadn't eaten since Jim's revelation. He hadn't eaten much before that either, as he had intended to take Jim out to dinner. He closed his eyes again and held himself very still, and the bile retreated. "Don't get up," said Jim's voice, somewhere very close. "I'll get anything you need." Artie's eyes flew open again. Jim sat next to him, leaning over him. His hair was mussed, he was wearing the same clothes as the evening before and he looked tired. He looked, in fact, miserable. "I have to piss," Artie said rustily. He cleared his throat and tried again to sit up, with approximately the same results as before. Before he knew what was happening, Jim's arm dug into the mattress under him and lifted him up, turning him to sit up on the edge. Jim's other arm gently supported his legs as his feet swung off onto the floor. He relaxed into those arms, and the nausea faded again. There was a brief moment of awkward writhing, and Artie heard the chink of the chamberpot. Jim must have maneuvered it out from under the bed with one foot, as both his arms were occupied with various portions of Artie's body. Artie wasn't certain he could get himself out of his pants, but there was no need, he discovered. Jim was doing it for him. There was nothing sexual in the efficient handling, and he relieved himself gratefully, his head lolling against Jim's shoulder. The room receded and he slid into the darkness, marginally aware of the heat of Jim's body. He woke again in the late afternoon, he guessed, judging by the angle of the sunlight through his little window. He was stiff, sore in some odd places and ravenously hungry. A heavy weight lay aginst his side. It stirred and lifted away from him as he moved—Jim. "What are you doing here?" he rasped. Jim shook his head and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Just fell asleep," he said blearily. "Sorry." He was certainly not his usual alert self. Artie sniffed. There was a definite odor of liquor. "Are you . . . drunk?" he demanded in disbelief. "Of course not!" Jim snapped back at him. He rolled out of the bunk and made his way to the door, holding on to anything in reach. A moment later, Artie heard the door of Jim's sleeping compartment slide shut with a distinct and meaningful thud. Artie let him go. He'd been lying, and Artie didn't understand why. Jim seldom drank enough to get even mildly tipsy, but there was no mistaking a hangover. Had he been celebrating his imminent departure? Artie clenched his jaw and staggered out to the parlor. He needed food, coffee and a bath, but in addition, his ear had caught the faint rattle of the telegraph sounder that preceded an actual message. By the time he pulled it out of its box and retrieved pen, ink bottle and paper, it was already clicking. He copied the message, asked for a repeat so he could be certain he'd gotten the first part correct, and sent back the standard acknowledgement. The message was unusually long, and he speculated with grim amusement on its contents while he dug out the codebook. A rant from Colonel Richmond about Jim's departure? Perhaps even from the President. Jim hadn't said in so many words that he had officially resigned, but he would surely have given their superiors at least 30 days notice, and it was only a week now before his stated time of departure. He hadn't told Artie until the very last moment. Perhaps he wouldn't have said anything at all if he hadn't been afraid Artie would hear about it from Washington. He might have just disappeared one day, leaving nothing but a note behind. Maybe he wouldn't have bothered with that much—Artie caught himself before his morbid imagination ran on to even more unlikely scenarios. He was being maudlin and stupid. He let out a gusty breath and started decoding the message, but before he got more than a paragraph into it, he'd already had to stop twice to confirm that he was translating correctly. It made no sense. He and Jim were to disguise themselves in whatever way they thought appropriate and attempt to infiltrate a group that was counterfeiting Canadian banknotes and converting them on the American market to dollars. The Christmas season was thought to be the best opportunity to inveigle themselves into the gang, because two of its members were going east to spend the holidays with their families. "We will ensure that Thompson and Black do not return to Denver," said the message. "They will recommend you as replacements for themselves, thus easing your entry into the gang." Artie read over the remaining text in growing bewilderment. This was a long-term deep-cover assignment, something that could easily take months to complete. It was not, in fact, the sort of thing he and Jim were usually sent to do. Long periods under cover, and the slow painstaking progress that went with them, were not their style, or at least not Jim's. He got his answer near the end of the telegram. Robert Fuqua, one of the agents who worked out of Seattle—the office that normally handled anything related to western Canada—was dead, cause unspecified. His partner, William Byrne, wouldn't accept the assignment alone, and Washington agreed with him. This job needed two people, backup for each other. Thus Jim and Artemus: sorry, we know this isn't your normal kind of case and you might prefer not to take it, but your country needs you. Worded more officially, of course, but boiling down to the obvious fact that Washington didn't know James West was about to leave its employ. So what the hell was he supposed to do now? Reply that he didn't think he could take on the assignment by himself either, since Mr. West was leaving at the end of the year? It would serve Jim right if he did exactly that. But, asshole or not, Jim was still his partner. He put away the codebook, gathered up the sheets of paper and went down the hall to pound on the door of Jim's sleeping cabin. "Christ!" he heard from within, and smiled thinly. Jim didn't swear much, but the raging headache of a hangover probably qualified as sufficient provocation. Artie eased the door open, letting light flood into the room. "God damn it, Artie!" There was convulsive movement on the bunk, a blanket flying over light-seared eyes. Artie sat down on the edge of the bunk, shoving Jim out of the way. "When," he asked pleasantly, "were you going to inform our employer that you were leaving?" That got him a long moment of dead silence, and then Jim's face appeared over the edge of the blanket. His eyes, what Artie could see of them, were bloodshot, and there was a bruise on his cheek. "Drunk and disorderly," Artie observed. "I wasn't fighting," Jim said sourly. "I tripped over something." Artie let that pass. "We have an assignment," he said, waving the sheaf of papers at Jim's reddened nose. "If you're not planning on hanging around, I'll have to turn it down." Jim was curious—that was obvious from his sudden intent expression, but he didn't ask for details. Artie decided to turn up the heat a bit. "It'll take too long to train someone else to work with me," he said, as though explaining why he couldn't accept the mission. When Jim still didn't respond, he added, "I should let Washington know to send a replacement out, since you apparently didn't notify them." Jim muttered something that he didn't catch. "What was that?" Artie asked. "I meant to give notice, of course I did!" Jim pushed him aside and lurched out of the bed. "I just kept forgetting. We were busy and I kept putting it off." He could have said he really didn't want to leave, Artie thought resentfully. Could have admitted to some degree of indecision about a step that would irrevocably change both their lives. "Better take care of it, then," Artie said shortly. "I need to make plans myself, you know." That was as poker-faced a bluff as he had ever pulled. He had no plans for a life without Jim, couldn't imagine making any. He couldn't believe how calm he was. The alcohol seemed to have burned his feelings away, leaving only a deep icy reserve. Jim seemed taken aback as well. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, reeking of stale alcohol and sweat, until Artie pushed past him, and then followed Artie into the parlor. "I'll make some coffee," he said, edging past the table where the telegraph key sat waiting. "Then I'll send our reply back to Washington," Artie told him coldly. He retrieved the codebook, leaning close to Jim to open the cupboard where it was kept. Jim flinched away from him, pressing back against the wall to avoid any contact, a reaction so incongruous that it gave Artie pause. They had never been formal with each other. Touching came naturally to Jim, and though his casual familiarity had startled Artie at first, it had soon become not just expected but desired. He'd certainly had no inhibition about physical contact when he put Artie to bed the previous night. So what the hell was going on now? Artie very deliberately brushed against him as he took the codebook out of the cupboard, flesh against flesh, the back of his hand sweeping along Jim's arm. Hair stood up in his path. Jim's fist clenched and he noticeably shivered. Fear? Not possible. James West feared nothing and no one, a fact that Artie had despaired over more than once. "What is going on?" Artie demanded in a low voice. "What the hell is all this? We've worked together for years, and you're going to just walk away?" Jim swallowed hard and wouldn't look at him. "Not until you tell me why, you're not," Artie went on implacably. Jim still wouldn't meet his eyes. Artie took his chin and forced his face up. "Tell me, damn you!" he said grittily. "You think you can break up a six-year partnership with some fool story about an inheritance?" A most extraordinary expression swept over Jim's face. In anyone else, Artie would have called it yearning. There was uncertainty, fear, desire, and most unbelievable, a flush of pink. "Artie—" Jim said, his voice cracking. "Artie . . . " Anyone else who looked up at him like that would have gotten kissed. Artie shook his head, consigned his future to fate, and bent to Jim's lips—sour alcoholic breath and all. What the hell, he thought. He's leaving anyway. The worst he can do is punch me. It didn't appear that Jim was going to hit him; he slipped his arms around Artie's waist and hung on like a drowning man. Artie had fantasized about kissing Jim West. He had imagined how the soft lips would feel against his—warm and firm, brushing sensually against his own. He hadn't expected this flood of passion. Jim kissed him the same way he did everything else—full gallop and no holds barred, with none of the genteel delicacy he displayed toward women. Artie staggered, caught himself, took a firm hold on the nearest solid object—Jim's ass—and kissed back. That degree of intensity couldn't last long. Jim quivered, and Artie, feeling his aroused phallus through all the layers of their clothing, relaxed his grip and let Jim ease away. Jim was trying to smile and not succeeding. "I guess you aren't going to deck me," he said finally. "Or demand satisfaction." "Last I heard, duelling was illegal," Artie told him, doing his best to keep his face sober. "Kissing another man is, too," Jim said wryly. "Most places, anyway." Artie grunted. "It's a lot easier to get away with, though. Doesn't leave bodies behind." "Just hearts," Jim said, with a twist of his lips. He took a deep breath. "You wanted to know why I was leaving. Have I made it plain enough, or do I have to put it into words?" Action always came more easily to Jim than words, Artie knew. But he had to hear the words this time. Too much was at stake to gloss over what might still be insuperable differences between them. "Yes," he said. "I think you have to tell me." He beckoned to the sofa. "Sit down, and tell me what the hell this is all about." Jim shot him a rueful look. "I guess you've got a right to be be put out with me," he allowed. "I'm not angry," Artie said with resignation, then added. "Not unless you're still planning on leaving." Jim shook his head. "I don't want to. I don't ever want to leave you." "Then what is going on?" Artie demanded. Echoes of his earlier despair, resentment, anger and loss still resonated in him. "One minute everything's fine, the next minute you want to take off and never see me again, and then all of a sudden you're kissing me. You've been acting like a nervous bride, for heaven's sake." Jim flushed and kept his eyes averted. "Yeah, something like that," he mumbled. He took a deep breath, still looking anywhere but at Artie. "When I got the letter about the inheritance . . . " he began, and stopped. Another breath. "I thought maybe I should rent the homestead to someone until we were ready to retire. Then we'd have a place to go home to." His face twisted in a painful grimace. "I had my mouth open to suggest it when I realize how presumptuous that was, that I had any right to decide our longterm plans, or even make suggestions." He glanced back at Artie, the lamplight making long shadows on his face. "But then I thought about you leaving to go back to the theater, or get married and settle down somewhere, and it was like—like the end of the world." Artie knew how that felt, but kept his mouth shut. "I couldn't understand why I felt that way," Jim continued more slowly, his words measured and deliberate now. "It was like the first time I thought I'd fallen in love. Everything seemed ten times as intense as before. A hundred times as significant. When your horse threw you and I thought you'd been hurt, it seemed as though my heart would stop." He looked back at Artie with the most endearing bewilderment on his face. Artie remembered the incident. Jim had come flying out of his saddle to kneel at Artie's side, his face like parchment. Artie had been so embarrassed at falling off when his horse stumbled that he hadn't really taken in the intensity of Jim's concern at the time, and when he did wonder about it later, everything seemed to be back to normal. "That was when I knew I had to leave," Jim went on. "I could hardly tell you how I felt. I didn't understand it myself. We're two grown men—how could I say that I thought I'd die too if something happened to you?" That too was something Artie knew all too well. "So you decided to just . . . go away," he said. "Not tell me how you felt." "It seemed like the only decent thing to do," Jim said. "Let you have your freedom. If I" —he stopped and then said the words. "If I loved you, the best thing I could do for you was to let you go." Artie thought about that for a moment. "We're a couple of idiots, you know," he said finally. "You were going to leave, because you loved me, and I was going to let you . . . " He trailed off, swallowed, and said, "because I love you too." He was watching Jim's face. Jim's mouth twitched, the corners turning up. But his voice, when he spoke, was serious. "What does that mean? If I said that to a woman, she'd expect a proposal of marriage. I don't know what you want." His shoulders shrugged. "Hell, I don't know what I want." What did he want? Artie felt like a boy with a silver dollar in his pocket, staring at the penny candy jar. "I want to kiss you again," he said, his voice cracking. "And then I want to do everything else that lovers do together." There was a long list of other things he wanted, beginning with those plans for living together. He wasn't certain how he felt about the family farm, but hell, it must be somewhere near civilization. But he could hear Jim swallow. "You've done this before, haven't you?" Jim asked. There was no condemnation in his voice, but the words themselves were an accusation. "Not with anyone I love," Artie said simply. When Jim didn't answer, Artie brushed a finger over his cheek. "You wouldn't expect a woman you loved to turn down marriage because she wasn't your first, would you?" he asked gently. "I can't change my past. All I can do is promise you the future." "The future," Jim said musingly. "Pretending we're just friends. Living together under the eyes of nosy people who will be constantly trying to match us up with women." He paused, but then added, "And gossiping about us when we refuse." Artie could hear apprehension in Jim's voice, but no real reluctance. He told himself that Jim wouldn't have allowed matters to proceed to this point if he weren't willing to make that final commitment. Jim wasn't a tease. Artie had to believe that, or his jangled nerves, still quivering from that unexpected kiss—not to mention certain other portions of his quivering anatomy—were going to send him right through the roof of their parlor car. As often before, Jim seemed to be wholly attuned to his mood. He snorted softly, and turned to Artie. "Even if you've done this before," he said with a lopsided smile, "you've got to be almost as terrified as I am right now." "Petrified," Artie assured him, with a shaky laugh. It was queer that he should feel so . . . bashful, almost. As though this were his first time as well as Jim's. His actual first time was not an encounter he wished to remember, and he thought to himself that he might just let go of that one altogether, let it disappear into the mist of unrecalled personal history. "I might have done this before," he said, almost shaking with the intensity of his feeling, "but I'm not what you would consider to be terribly experienced." In light of Jim's great breadth of experience, that was hardly any stretch of the truth. "No?" Jim asked him softly. "Then I guess we'll have to figure this out together, won't we?" He turned to Artie with his face lit up in the brilliant smile Artie loved. "You wanted to kiss again, I believe?" Artie sighed with satisfaction and joy and gathered Jim to him greedily. They kissed on the sofa, twined rather awkwardly around each other, until Artie's hand burrowed under Jim's shirt and Jim stood up to divest himself of it, and managed somehow to trip over the small side table. He was normally so agile and athletic that Artie wondered later whether he had intentionally sprawled on the floor. In any case, there he lay, endearingly amazed at his own bumbling. Artie's breath caught in his chest, and he flung himself down at Jim's side. "Are you all right?" he asked rather breathlessly, just to be sure nothing really was broken. Jim turned a devilish smile on him. "I think," he said, "that I've got a bruise." He turned slightly and patted the spot where the bruise was alleged to be. It was certainly not where Jim had struck the floor, but Artie wasn't in any way inclined to argue. "You'd better let me see that," he said, matching Jim's tone of sultry insouciance as best he could. Jim's fingers went to his buttons, and he loosed them deliberately one by one, watching Artie's face as he slowly undid himself. When his trousers were open, he lifted his hips from the floor in obvious invitation. Artie held his breath and eased the heavy fabric down his legs. He thought about pulling Jim's boots off so the pants could be removed completely, but there was something so erotic and suggestive about them lying in rumpled folds around Jim's ankles that he left them there. He had ignored Jim's prominent erection when he pulled down the trousers, but it was poking out the front of the drawers so dramatically that he could hardly take no notice. "You've got another problem there too, haven't you?" he asked. Jim looked down at himself. "That?" he asked, as though unsure what Artie meant. "Oh, that's no problem at all." His hand slipped inside the open placket, and though Artie couldn't see where his fingers curled around the heavy firm flesh, his mind supplied vivid details. "It's not a problem for me," Jim whispered. "But maybe I should get it out so you can see if anything is wrong with it?" Artie's mind flashed back to that morning, when Jim had handled him with such easy familiarity, and he grinned suddenly. "You got mine out," he reminded Jim. "I think it's your turn now." To his surprise, Jim flushed a bright scarlet. "That was different," he protested, but he'd given himself away. "Mmhmm," Artie said smugly. "You liked it, didn't you?" "Of course I did!" Jim still sounded flustered, and Artie wondered, with momentary discomfiture, whether Jim had any idea how appealing this was, this unpredictable shift from accomplished flirtation to choirboy innocence. The level of deception it required was entirely within Jim West's competence, despite his avowed dislike of diguises. But it didn't seem feigned, and Artie told himself it was consistent with everything else Jim had said tonight. The blush hadn't entirely faded, and he didn't think Jim was capable of faking that. "Why don't you show me how much you liked it, then?" he offered, with silky suggestiveness. If Jim wanted to play, he was perfectly capable of raising the stakes. The flush returned, but only for an instant. Jim West was a fast study, if nothing else. "Oh," he purred in turn, "I thought I was supposed to be getting mine out." He raised on an elbow and glanced down at his groin, where his hand still hid what Artie was now avid to see. For Artie, the game was over. Jim had won, as he invariably did. "Please," he whispered. "Please do." All sultry tease now, Jim eased out his cock. It lay in his hand, the head glistening wetly in its reddened coat of flesh. Artie breathed in convulsively and bent to touch it with his lips and tongue. It leaped and quivered at the first brush of his mouth, and Jim's breath caught in a surprised little gasp. Artie smiled around the mouthful of cock and proceeded to show Jim just how exquisite fellatio could be when performed with love and skill. Jim groaned under him. He rewarded every touch with shivers and moans and soft urgings, and when Artie finally took him full and deep, he gasped and swelled impossibly, and burst into Artie's throat. A strangled, "Artie!" had come from Jim's lips at the moment of climax, but the floor was growing hard by the time he said anything more. He lay with an arm over his eyes, and Artie lay next to him, silent and rigid in growing fear. Jim was going to be one of those men who craved other men's loving, but who couldn't bring himself to return it. He was going to break Artie's heart after all. This was worse than if he had just left, and by the time he finally spoke, Artie was shaking in wretched dismay, ready to get up and walk away forever, throw on his clothes, grab a few essentials, and depart for good. "Artie?" Jim moved his arm, and his blue eyes pinned Artie and held him still. Jim's expression changed to concern, and then to something like anger. "What are you thinking?" he asked, not the sort of question Artie was used to hearing from him. "That you're sorry you let me do that," Artie blurted out, and then, having irretrievably committed himself, added, "And that you'd probably better leave after all." He could hear his voice shaking. To his enormous relief, Jim's jaw dropped, and with the greatest loss of composure Artie had ever seen in him, he sputtered, "Leave? Leave? What do I have to do to prove I don't want to leave?" He hauled himself up from the floor, and with his always astonishing strength, grasped Artie's hand and pulled him up too. All the love Artie could ask for shone in his eyes. "I know what I'd want if I were you right now," he whispered. "I had to think about it for a minute, but it's what I want too." Artie couldn't answer him, torn between such urgent desire that he could almost have bent Jim over and fucked him on the spot, and simple admiration for Jim's courage and generosity. Jim lauged at his confusion. "Not on the floor, though," he said, kicking himself out of his trousers and boots, and throwing off his shirt and vest, and then pulling Artie with him down the hall to Artie's bedroom. With his tongue and lips, he fulfilled every lustful fantasy Artie had ever imagined, and then, turning serious, he shifted around on the bed and lay quiet and ready on his stomach. "We need something to make the way easier," Artie told him, shivering all over again with anticipation. "Lotion, or oil." "Butter?" Jim suggested, and sat up again as though to go after it. "Don't, I have something," Artie told him, and slid around him to stand up and rummage in the overhead compartment. He found the olive oil he used on his hands after he'd had them in something inimical to skin. It would normally have been in his laboratory, but he had brought it into his bedroom late one night as an aid to self-stimulation, and had forgotten to return it. Since the subject of his masturbatory fantasy had been Jim, of course, there was certainly some cosmic righteousness in the oil being at hand now. He tipped the bottle with a trembling hand, and pooled the oil in his palm for a moment to warm it. Jim turned on his stomach, his head resting on his crossed arms, and smiled up at him. "Don't take too long now," he said, and though his voice was teasing, there was enough apprehension under the bantering tone to bring out all of Artie's protective impulses. The recollection of his own first experience in this position rose up in his mind one final time before he quashed it forever, determined that Jim would never have anything like it to remember. "Come up on your knees a little while I put some of the oil on you," he whispered. Jim complied, and knelt there without any more reaction than a brief hiss when Artie eased one slick finger, and then another, into him, and then slid them slowly in and out. "Is that hurting you?" Artie asked him, unsure what the sound meant. "No," Jim said tightly. "Not pain, just . . . different." Artie chuckled softly. "Yes, it is different." He smoothed more oil over himself, enjoying the look on Jim's face as he handled himself. "Turn on your side now," he said. "It will be easier for you that way." Jim complied obediently, and lay there with his legs drawn up a little. "That's right," Artie breathed. "Relax as much as you can. You'll feel some discomfort at first—everyone does, but I'll try to go as easy as possible." Jim said jerkily, "I suppose it's hard for a woman the first time too," but if he'd been planning to add anything else, it broke off into an unsteady gasp as Artie slowly penetrated him. They moved with little indrawn breaths and murmurs toward their goal, with a choked, "Wait!" once from Jim, and with such rising urgency in Artie that he wasn't sure he was going to last until he was fully sheathed. Jim's ass clenched around him fiery hot, while the sweat that broke out on Jim's back chilled his chest and abdomen. Between the two extremes, and the throbbing in his balls, he felt disconnected from the world, drowning in a sea of erotic sensation. Jim trembled all over, bringing Artie back to himself. "Do that again," Jim demanded, writhing back against him, and Artie thrust willingly into him, feeling the slight resistance against the head of his prick. Jim gasped again. "God, touch me, something, anything." The only place Artie could easily reach was Jim's nipples. He had no idea whether Jim was as sensitive there as some men, but Jim had said, "Anything," and he pinched the nearest little peak of flesh in happy compliance. Jim's hand was already tight on his own cock, pulling at himself in out-of-control frantic need. Artie let his own control slip away, and thrust into Jim with all the lust he was feeling. Almost instantly, Jim convulsed, bucking against him so fiercely that they nearly fell off the bed. Jim cried out his name, and Artie spent himself so violently that he thought his heart might stop. They lay there together gasping and heaving, gradually getting their breath back, and on Artie's part, at least, reluctant to break the perfection with mere words. But he softened and slipped away from Jim's body eventually, and Jim turned over to look at him in the now dim, shadowy light. "Is that what everybody gets so upset about?" he asked, an ear-to-ear grin spreading over his face. "I think they just all need to try it once, and we'd hear no more about perversions and abominations!" Artie laughed at the notion, but nodded and saluted Jim with a hearty, "Amen, brother!" Jim was languid and kissable after sex, Artie found, but he made him get up and go into the privy and clean himself, and checked carefully for tears or abrasions. They fell into heavy dreamless sleep almost immediately, and waking the next morning to the scent of coffee and the brilliance of warm sunlight, Artie looked around him in great confusion. Colored glass balls hung all round the room, reflecting the sun in a thousand glittering sparkles of light. They were dangling from map tacks, he discovered, stuck into the thin wood partition walls, and he realized in amazement that they were Christmas ornaments. His Jewish childhood had not been surrounded with the trappings of Christmas, and in any case, no one had decorated with as much extravagance then as they did nowadays. At a sound, he glanced over his shoulder to find Jim in the doorway holding a pot of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other. "Merry Christmas," Jim said, joy crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Do you like them? I was afraid you were going to wake up before I got them all on the walls." "They're magnificent," Artie breathed. "Where on earth did you get them?" "They belonged to my grandmother," Jim said. "I brought them back after my father died. I didn't know what was going to happen with the property, and I wanted to make sure these were saved, even if everything else had to be sold." He glanced around and said a little wistfully, "My mother loved them. The only real memory I have of her is watching her put them up on our Yule tree the year before she died." "Thank you for sharing them with me," Artie said solemnly. "And Merry Christmas to you! A very merry Christmas!" He grinned expansively. "The merriest Christmas I've ever had, by God!" He hesitated, wondering whether Jim was in sufficiently good form to pick up a not very subtle hint. "I'm afraid, my boy, that I don't have a gift for you." That wasn't true, of course, but he said it for effect anyway, and watched to see where Jim might go with it. To his great pleasure and joy, Jim drew himself up and surveyed Artie from head to toe. "I gave you your Christmas present last night," he murmured suggestively. "I think you might return the favor today, don't you?" In fact, they exchanged "presents" several times that day, lying together afterward in lazy post-coital languor and making plans for the future. It wasn't until the next day that Artie remembered the never-answered telegram, and sent back their regrets and their joint notice of resignation. Someone in Washington, he reflected, was going to have the very un-merry job of conveying that message to their superiors, but he was far too happy to care, and when Jim asked why he was chuckling, he said, "I told Washington we wanted to leave the Service because we were getting married." Jim's momentary blank stare, and then the flood of riotously amused comprehension on his face, was a memory he carried with him through all the rest of their years of life together. |