Sentinel Fic
May. 26th, 2008 08:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erdaTitle: Your Fortune in My Hands
Fandom: The Sentinel
Word Count: 5359
Written for: Round four of the TS ficathons
Prompts: Something Wicked/Asylum
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zelempa for beta, general hand holding and encouragement. Mistakes are where I didn't listen to her.
The flashing lights along the base of the Ferris wheel seats swept across Jim’s disgusted face as he shot and missed and shot and missed again. He shoved the plastic rifle, which looked tiny against the corded muscles of his arm, back onto its base and reached into his pocket for more money. Blair laughed. “Give it up, Jim. The game is obviously rigged,” he said, keeping his voice soft so that the proprietor of the sharpshooter game couldn’t hear him.
“I know it is,” Jim said. “And now I’m going to beat it.” He slid his dollar across the counter and picked up the little rifle again, aimed lazily and fired his three shots rapidly, knocking all three targets down. “Pick a prize, Chief,” he said, smiling broadly. When Blair hesitated, he pulled down a small stuffed gorilla hanging from the roof of the stand. “We’ll take this one,” he said, passing it over to Blair, and Blair stuck the silly thing under his arm sheepishly.
“Hey, Jim,” he said eagerly, “Come on.” Jim followed him onto the ramp leading to the Tilt-a-Whirl ride and they settled into one of the rounded cars, Jim’s arm slung casually across the back of the seat. Blair slid down and grasped the bar as the ride operator, a short stocky guy whose bare arms were covered with elaborate tattoos, swung it closed. The guy stepped back, giving them a little nod, not exactly friendly, but as if confirming something to himself. Blair glanced over at Jim’s profile. He looked relaxed and happy.
Blair was glad he had decided not to mention the things that had been going on since Incacha’s death, the little urges he’d had, intuitions he couldn’t explain. He still wasn’t sure what Incacha had meant when he passed the way of the Shaman over to him, but he knew his power as a guide had been growing and changing over the weeks since that night. He’d suggested they come to the carnival tonight as a way to unwind and have a little fun, not mentioning the strange compulsive pull he’d felt toward the place.
The ride started up suddenly and he was jerked onto his side, sliding into Jim, who grabbed his shoulder and laughed, giving him a little hug and helping him upright again. A shiver passed through him. The night had cooled down and he was lightly dressed in a t -shirt and jeans, Jim’s own bare arm hot against his side. It sometimes annoyed him when Jim treated him like a much younger brother, but tonight he savored the familiarity and safety. Still, after a moment, he made himself shift away.
After the ride, Jim wanted to get something to eat and Blair was drawn to a stand offering Chinese food. It wasn’t his first choice at a carnival, but Jim’s nose twitched in a way that said he was willing before he sauntered over to an empty picnic table and sat, leaving Blair to order their food. He wondered if Jim was sensing a change in their relationship on some unconscious level, too. He’d noticed Jim letting more and more of their daily decisions up to him.
The carnie manning the Chinese food stand wasn’t Asian, was in fact pale skinned and thin, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt which seemed too heavy for working with hot food on a warm summer night. He handed their food over and Blair dug out his wallet and tried to hand him a twenty, but the guy held up his hand saying, “Wait, wait.” In congruously he had a slight accent, Mexican, Blair thought, though it was so faint he wasn’t sure. He reached down under the counter and pulled out two fortune cookies, adding them to the Styrofoam tray before taking Blair’s money.
“Where to next?” Jim asked. Blair had tried to avoid the spicier dishes and judging by the enthusiastic way Jim was downing his chicken fried rice it seemed he approved the choices.
“I don’t know,” Blair answered. Jim reached over and grabbed a forkful of Blair’s pork lo mein, humming an appreciative sound as he chewed it that made Blair smile. The uneven lighting on the midway left a plane of darkness down one side of Jim’s face, and under the picnic table Blair ran his index finger along the callus of his thumb to suppress the urge to trace the line between light and dark on that square, uncompromising jaw, down through the light and dark of Jim. Jim was running his thumbnail down a crack in the boards of the picnic table, but resumed eating when Blair did.
Several times now Blair had felt a subtle tug in his mind pulling him to certain places, places that became crime scenes or yielded clues for cases they were working. He had a growing awareness of Jim, too, of what Jim was feeling, what he needed, how to guide him. But Jim always seemed a little conflicted about his abilities and their relationship, and Blair felt confident that it was better to use his increasing knowledge as Jim’s guide without sharing with Jim exactly how much stronger his instincts for guiding were getting. He’d only had to suggest Jim come to the carnival with him, knowing they needed to be here even if he didn’t know why, and Jim had come without any of his usual grumbling.
He ate slowly, spending more energy watching Jim eat than attending to his own food.
He wished he’d ordered some fried rice for himself, but he wouldn’t have been able to eat it all. He could feel Jim approaching satiation, and he broke open the first fortune cookie as Jim leaned back with a little sigh. Jim never wanted to look at any kind of fortune, but Blair always insisted. He took a bite of the cookie, knowing it was silly to think the fortune only applied if he ate some of it, but indulging himself anyway. He pulled out the little strip of paper the fortune was written on, surprised to see it was handwritten. “Something wicked draws you here-” He was disturbed by the meaning of the fortune before he could read it aloud.
Jim gave him a sharp glance. “What does it say?” he asked, his voice concerned. Blair passed the fortune over wordlessly and Jim read it. “It’s a stupid fortune cookie,” he said, but his tone belied his words.
Blair cracked the other cookie and handed a small piece to Jim, who rolled his eyes but swallowed it obediently. He pulled out the fortune and glanced at it before handing it over to Jim. It was also handwritten. “A wise man seeks asylum and guidance as needed,” it said. Jim was staring down at the fortune as if he could see into the grain of the paper, which, perhaps he could. Blair could feel the beginning of a zone out and he plucked the fortune out of Jim’s hand and shook him lightly by the arm.
Jim touched him constantly, but Blair, much more self aware than Jim, rarely touched back, so that the few occasions when he did touch always seemed to get through to Jim quickly. This was no exception; Jim snapped out of the zone and Blair dropped his hand.
Jim shoved the remains of his fried rice across the table and Blair finished it. “Come on,” he said then, heading back to the food stand. “Let’s find out more about these fortunes.”
But he could feel that Jim was not with him. He turned around and watched Jim cleaning off the picnic table, sighing a put upon sigh as he scooped up the crumbs from Blair’s side of the table and then wiped everything down with a second napkin. Blair went back a bit grudgingly and took the trash to a nearby can, muttering, “Sheesh, it’s a picnic table,” under his breath as if he didn’t intend Jim to hear.
When they finally got to the stand they saw that it was closed down, with no sign or anything to indicate when it would reopen. Several other stands were closed also, it was getting late, and Blair looked around for something else to do, trying to shake off the ominous feeling that had been increasing all evening.
‘Hey,” he said, “ let’s check out the fun house.” Jim shrugged and followed him willingly enough, but they were barely through the doorway before Blair knew it was a mistake. The place was covered with mirrors, and even his normal senses were quickly overwhelmed by all the conflicting visual images overlapping each other in every direction. Strategically placed microphones amplified and bounced sounds all around the curved walls. Jim took only a few steps before stopping and turning around in confusion. Blair could see the turning made it worse. Jim stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. “Let’s get out of here,” Blair said. He stepped closer to Jim, quelling the impulse to anchor him by grabbing onto his arm.
“No, it’s okay,” Jim said. He started walking in a more or less straight line, albeit hesitantly, his head tilted to one side. They moved slowly through the room, Blair almost but not quite close enough for their arms to brush together. When they finally reached the exit he felt Jim drop the tight control he’d been holding over himself. He turned to Blair with a triumphant smile as they pushed back out into the carnival night. “That was interesting,” he said.
Blair shook off his own tension. He hadn’t found it anything but oppressive, though it was worth it to see Jim’s conquering hero smile. “Yeah, I guess,” he began, but he stopped when he saw Jim go still, cocking his head in the way he had when he was concentrating on one of his senses.
“Come on,” Jim said, taking him by the arm and directing him back toward the games. Behind the ring toss game Jim led him between two trailers, stepping around numerous large power cables across a dirt path that ran behind the stands and into a weed infested field. A figure was lying face down in the weeds making little sobbing noises and moans. “Stay back, ”Jim ordered, then knelt and examined the man before rolling him over onto his back. Blair watched as Jim grabbed the guy’s pants and underwear, which were bunched around his ankles, in one of his large hands and pulled them up roughly.
The man’s eyes opened blearily. “What?” he muttered weakly.
Jim pulled Blair, who had ignored his order to stay back, a few steps away. “He’s not injured,” he said curtly. “He’s dead drunk, and his stomach’s covered with semen. Looks like he had some kind of sexual encounter out here and passed out.”
“Encounter?” Blair rolled his eyes. “Come on, Jim the guy’s obviously been assaulted. He needs a doctor. Call for back up and an ambulance.”
Jim shuffled his feet and blew his breath out, obviously unnerved by the situation. “Are you going to let this guy lay here while you fool around because you’re too embarrassed to deal?” Blair asked, and then, since it seemed he was going to do just that, “Man, give me the phone.” Jim handed it over without arguing, so at least it seemed he knew he was being ridiculous, and Blair made the calls.
The drive home was tense with Jim’s obvious discomfort. Blair fumed in silence for a few minutes before finally asking, “Man, what gives?”
Jim frowned. “I’m not so sure that guy wouldn’t rather have gone home and forgotten the whole thing.”
“Well, doesn’t every crime victim want to forget about it? That never bothered you before. Man, I didn’t know you were so hung up.”
“I’m not…look, I’m not so sure the guy was victimized. He was drunk, maybe things got a little out of hand,” and at Blair’s incredulous look, “Come on, Sandburg, haven’t you ever heard of a two beer queer?”
“That didn’t look like two beers, Jim, the guy was really out of it. Too far gone to give any kind of reasonable consent. You’ve heard of consent, right?”
Jim gave him a sour look, and the silence settled back over them.
**
Blair spent the next day at the university. He was only home briefly before heading out on a date which he continued long after he knew he was less than entranced by the company. By the time he got back to the loft he was both relieved and disappointed to see Jim had already turned in for the night.
The following day, Thursday, was taken up with errands, but he made it home for supper, and tried not to brood too much over the comparison between the comfort of eating at home with Jim and his previous evening’s supper with his date.
Jim was in the kitchen washing the dishes and the counters and generally making the kitchen far cleaner than was necessary. Blair was sprawled on the couch with the TV on, clicking through the channels aimlessly. “Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“Put toothpaste on the grocery list.”
“It’s already on.”
A few minutes later: “Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“You coming in here?”
But Jim was already in the room, holding out a beer to him. “Oh wow, thanks, man,” he said. “I was just thinking, uh, yeah, just what I wanted.”
“Want a glass?” Jim asked.
“No. I’m good.”
Blair drank his beer. He thought about how some pretzels would be good. Then he got up and went into the kitchen.
Jim was opening the cabinet so Blair only had to reach past his arm to snag the bag of pretzels. “Oh, hey, I could have gotten that for you,” he said as he closed the cabinet door and went back to drying the dishes.
“Yeah, I know.” Blair took the pretzels back into the living room and went back to staring at the TV and thinking about what it meant to be a Guide.
Jim came in and sank onto the couch beside him. “Why didn’t you just ask me to bring the pretzels in?” Jim asked. He shrugged. After a minute Jim slid his arm across the back of the couch, close enough to Blair’s head he imagined he could feel Jim’s body heat against the back of his neck. He turned to watch Jim watching the TV, and he could detect a tiny twitch along Jim’s jaw when he leaned in closer, nearly touching. He drew in a slow breath, catching a tendril of Jim’s scent, wondering what Jim could smell from so close. He parted his lips slightly, staring at the neckline of Jim’s shirt; he’d wanted to taste the skin there for so long. Huffing out his breath, he stood up abruptly, careful not to stumble. “I…” he said. “I’m getting pretty tired. I…I’m going to turn in….”
Jim looked up at him in the dim light from the TV, his face still and serious. Blair stared at him, the TV droning senselessly behind him, unable to think of anything to say, unable to break his eyes away. His stomach clenched. Jim was studying him, trying to work out his expression, and he didn’t know what would be worse, that Jim would not understand or that he would.
Jim looked away, back to the TV. “G’night,” he said dismissively, and Blair bolted for his room, shutting the door with frantic haste and leaning on it heavily, wondering if Jim could perceive his rapid heartbeat as it gradually returned to normal. The little stuffed gorilla sitting on his desk was staring at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “What are you looking at,” he snapped and then wondered if Jim had heard him. “I’m just tired,” he said to himself as well as Jim, but it took him a long time to fall asleep.
He was over tired the next morning. He staggered out of bed wishing he could have his coffee before dealing with the daunting task of putting his clothes on, so he was pleased when Jim opened his door and silently held out a steaming cup to him. He took it and gulped down half of it-it was just the right temperature for drinking- before the happy feeling faded. Jim was anticipating his desires too well; it gave him the willies. He had too many desires he knew Jim wouldn’t want to even know about, much less anticipate.
Distantly he heard the phone ring and the soft murmur of Jim’s voice. He went into the kitchen and watched Jim hurrying to finish cleaning up the breakfast things. “What?” he asked.
“Our first victim can’t remember anything that happened.”
“First victim?”
“Yeah. There was another attack at the carnival, and this one was dead at the scene. Also, flunitrazepam showed up in the urine test on the first victim.”
“Flunitrazepam?”
“That’s rohypnol to you.”
“The date rape drug.”
Jim frowned. “Plenty of guys use it for recreation.”
“You think it was self-administered?”
“I don’t know. Come on, we’re supposed to check it out.”
“I didn’t finish my coffee,” he protested, but since Jim was already halfway out the door, he followed.
The carnival during the day was different than in the evening, colder and seedier, and Jim seemed out of place. There was hardly anyone around, but they spotted the Tilt a Whirl guy and Jim zeroed in on him, flashing his badge. The guy straightened up from where he’d been crouched over the operating mechanism for the ride with a scowl, tattoos rippling across his bare arms as if they were alive. “Need to ask you some questions,” Jim said, and the guy shrugged. “About the death last night.”
“Don’t know anything,” the guy said sullenly. “Didn’t see it, didn’t hear nothing. Not my business.” He turned and walked away without another word, and Blair watched Jim consider pursuing him until he noticed a woman standing nearby watching them.
“Hey,” he said to her, turning on the charm. Except unlike Blair he didn’t have to turn it on, it was always there, the loose, confident stance that made people take him seriously.
“There’s something strange going on here,” the woman said.
“How’s that?” Jim asked her.
“We never had any trouble before,” she said. “And I’ve been with the show for a long time. Something’s changed. It started two bookings ago, someone was found out behind the trailers, just like here. Last place we were at was only a three-day weekend show, same thing happened. Something’s wrong about this.”
Jim nodded and turned to Blair. “Time to check the personnel records,” he said. “See who’s new.”
“It’s not like the old days,” the woman said. “The acts change all the time now. People drift in and out of the life so fast you don’t have time to get to know them.”
Jim had Blair by the arm and was guiding him gently over to the business office, touching him unnecessarily, and, as usual, Blair couldn’t make himself pull back even though he knew he should. He was sure Jim had no idea how the touching made him feel, and how hard it was for him to act like it was nothing. Jim was surprisingly innocent in some very limited areas of life.
Questioning the business officer yielded a list of people who had joined up with the show shortly before the deaths started, but the manager advised them to wait until evening to try to question anyone, since most of them were gone or sleeping during the day.
“Carnies are an interesting group, ethnographically speaking,” Blair said as they headed back to the truck. “Carnivals are a fairly recent phenomenon, dating from the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, but sharing some traditions with the traveling circuses that have existed for centuries. They’ve always attracted an underclass of outsiders and misfits, but currently the level of drug and alcohol abuse has caused a splintering of their prior cohesiveness. Plus the disaffection for the kind of sideshow freaks who found a home with the carnivals has left the shows to be peopled mostly by alcoholics and drug abusers. The carnies formed a support group similar to the one that youth gangs provide for young adults in urban areas whose families have been decimated by drugs and mental illness.” Jim did that thing where he listened while projecting disinterest that never had fooled Blair.
Back at the station, Simon told them they could take the rest of the day off since they would be working during the evening, which was how they ended up back at the loft and at loose ends in the middle of the afternoon. They could have stayed on at the station and gotten some paperwork done, or Blair could have headed down to the university, but instead, by mutual if unspoken agreement, they went home and kicked back in front of the TV together.
Jim handed Blair the remote and Blair started clicking through the channels. “What do you want to watch?”
Jim shrugged. “You pick.” He shifted over so that they were almost touching and slouched his long frame back, looking completely relaxed. His arm stretched across the back of the couch behind them, not quite touching Blair’s head, and Blair wondered why he’d done that, whether he’d chosen to sit like that or whether he was picking up cues from Blair.
There was no question in Blair’s mind that things had changed between them, that Jim was picking up on Blair’s thoughts, intents, desires, maybe through unconscious cues he was giving off that Jim’s heightened senses could detect, or maybe through some special guide/sentinel extrasensory thing.
Jim shifted, moving closer. Blair glanced down at Jim’s jean clad leg, which was now leaning against his own leg. “You want to watch the shopping channel?” Jim asked.
“No,” Blair said. He got up and tossed the remote to Jim. “I have work to do.” He could feel Jim’s puzzled gaze on him as he hurried into his room, slamming the door harder than necessary in his haste to get away from Jim’s scrutiny.
They didn’t speak at all on the drive back to the carnival that evening. They didn’t play any games this time, nor go on any rides; they walked randomly. Blair was waiting for something to happen. He ducked between two of the food trailers onto the narrow dirt trail behind the concession stands. Jim grabbed his arm suddenly and Blair stilled, giving Jim time to focus on whatever he’d sensed. Jim sank tensely back around the side of the trailer and Blair followed until they were crouched side by side. Blair didn’t see or hear anything, but Jim obviously did.
After a minute Jim stood, pulling Blair with him, and started hurrying down the path. Ahead Blair could see a figure straightening up and glancing their way, then taking off at a run. Jim came to a skidding halt beside a body lying on the path, but paused only a second to check for a pulse before saying, “He’s alive, call an ambulance,”- and continuing in pursuit of the fleeing figure, gun now drawn.
The suspect ducked back onto the midway and slipped into the fun house. Jim followed without hesitation. Blair made the calls, but he didn’t stop following Jim. Inside the funhouse they could hear people moving and voices, but there was no way to locate anyone properly. Jim shoved Blair behind a large rolling barrel shaped tunnel. Several people were trying to get through the tunnel, slipping and stumbling along with great hilarity. “Stay down,” he said and headed off in what looked to be a random direction, his careful gait like that of a man trying desperately to conceal that he’d had too much to drink.
Blair watched him go even though letting Jim wander around alone in a place that was confusing for people with normal senses seemed like a lousy idea. He hoped Jim had the brains to dial everything back as far as he could. There weren’t many mirrors in this part of the funhouse, so when he caught a flash of gray out of the corner of his eye he was able to turn his head slowly in the right direction and see the figure they’d been pursuing crouched only about twenty feet away, bent forward on his knees, head covered with a bulky gray hooded sweatshirt he remembered seeing before. It was the guy from the Chinese food stand.
He knew it wouldn’t help to call out to Jim- too many microphones to pick up and direct the sound of his voice all across the building- but perhaps if he spoke too softly for the mics to pick up, soft enough that only a sentinel could possibly hear…
“Jim,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all. “Our guy is only about twenty feet away from me. Follow my voice.” His back was aching and he longed to shift position, sit back further and ease his discomfort, but he didn’t dare move. He had no idea if Jim could hear him but he kept talking, sotto voice, encouraging, directing, insisting.
Suddenly he saw Jim, silent and intent, rise up right behind the suspect and grab him, twisting his arms back and snapping the handcuffs onto him. The guy didn’t try to struggle, went limp as if relieved. Jim was reciting his rights and the guy kept interrupting, spilling everything, how he’d slipped the drug into the drinks of certain people, then approached them and led them off away from the crowds. How he wanted to stop but couldn’t, how he’d hoped they would catch him because he couldn’t stop, a confession he repeated in more detail once they booked him, making it easy for them to wrap up the case.
It was late by the time they finished booking the guy and got back to the house. Blair dropped wearily onto the sofa as Jim went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a beer for himself and an orange juice for Blair. Jim sat down next to him on the couch and settled his hand lightly on Blair’s leg above his knee, loose at first, but then gripping him a little insistently and Blair froze. He’d been putting all his energy into keeping this from happening.
Jim let go of his leg, which might have given him a chance to catch his breath, get a grip on himself, except Jim transferred the offending hand to his arm and pulled him around almost desperately, pressing Blair back into the couch roughly and claiming his mouth with his own insistently. Breaking off the kiss before Blair had time to respond, Jim dropped onto the floor in front of him, hot hands squeezing his thighs, and said, “Blair. Help me out here.”
“How?” he heard himself say from what seemed like a great distance.
“Tell me what to do.”
He drew in a shaking breath. “I’m trying really hard not to take advantage of my power over you right now.”
“What does that mean? You’re my guide, right? So guide me, direct me, give me a fucking clue here.” Jim was stroking his hands up and down Blair’s legs roughly and Blair touched his arms softly, feeling instinctively how to calm and gentle him. Jim let out a long breath, sounding relieved and his touch slowed, became a caress.
“Jim,” Blair said. “I…look, this isn’t you. You’re picking up on my thoughts or something. It’s been happening more and more. I want something, anything, and you pick up on it and you’re rushing to give it to me before I have a chance to help myself. It’s bad enough with the little stuff, but this, this is a lot more serious than fetching me a bag of pretzels.” He tried to push Jim back, away from his body while he still could, but Jim resisted.
“No, it’s not you. I want you, I’ve always wanted you,” Jim said. He was nuzzling Blair’s cock through his pants as he fumbled with his belt and Blair was having trouble thinking clearly. He pushed Jim’s hands away feebly and Jim rocked back to sit on his heels, hands on Blair’s knees. “Guide me, Blair. Help me make you feel good.”
Blair groaned, his resistance weakening. “Jim, I don’t want you to do something under my influence that you’re going to regret.”
Jim looked up, studying Blair for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Blair, god, you’re not making me gay okay? I want you. I’m not going to regret anything. Are you gonna try to tell me this hard on you’re sporting isn’t for me? Stop worrying and start guiding.”
Blair reached down between Jim’s legs, tracing the outline of his erection. He cock was thick and impressively hard. He got up shakily and grabbed Jim’s hand. “Let’s take this up to the loft.” Jim’s desire to be guided seemed to fail him at that point, because he was ahead of Blair, pulling him up the stairs eagerly. He looked suddenly younger and Blair had to glance away for a moment.
He tried to sit on the bed, but Jim held him back, pulling off his shirt and then his pants, taking his own clothes off and tossing everything onto the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness.
Blair tried to hold him off, saying, “Are you sure?” but Jim pushed him back onto the bed and started kissing him too roughly, pressing him down so hard he could barely breathe. He turned his head away. “Easy, easy, slow down,” he said, keeping his voice so soft a normal person couldn’t have understood him, making Jim concentrate to hear. Blair ran his hands over Jim’s body with a feather soft touch, his words turning to tiny soothing noises that had the desired affect of gentling the sentinel, who eased his weight up and onto his own arms so Blair could breathe again.
Jim’s mouth ghosted down his body, found his leaking cock and closed over it, and, thank god, Jim knew how to give head, sucking him in until the head of his cock hit the back of Jim’s throat and then swallowing around him so that Blair was thrusting up into the heat and wet without any self control at all. Now Jim was gentling him, hands on his hips forcing him back a moment and drawing in a ragged breath before pushing down over his cock again, so tight, so good, setting up an exquisite rhythm, controlling everything so that Blair could give in to the pleasure without having to think.
Blair reached down to stroke Jim’s hair, his face, his shoulder, everything he could reach. He glanced down. Jim was touching himself, thrusting into his own hand with the same rhythm he was using on Blair. The sight sent Blair shaking over the edge into a powerful orgasm. Before he could gather his wits, Jim had shifted up against him and was jerking, moaning and spurting over his hip. He tucked his head under Jim’s chin and listened to their hearts pounding and then slowing together as one. “You okay?” he asked.
Jim didn’t speak, just leaned down and kissed him, mouth closed, hard and blunt and then pressed him back against his chest. His breathing slowed and evened out. “You still worrying?”
“No.”
“I know you can obfuscate better than that, Chief. Listen, I like pretzels too, okay? And I want to share my pretzels with you.” Blair pulled back to look at Jim. That was a ridiculous thing to say, but Jim’s face was perfectly serious and seemed to merit a serious reply.
“Yeah, okay. I like your pretzels.”
“You like my pretzels?” It was totally unfair of Jim to laugh at him like that.
“Hey, you started it,” he said, and he felt the weight on his chest lifting as he realized how true that was. “You started it,” he repeated weakly, but that only made Jim laugh harder.
Fandom: The Sentinel
Word Count: 5359
Written for: Round four of the TS ficathons
Prompts: Something Wicked/Asylum
Thanks to
zelempa for beta, general hand holding and encouragement. Mistakes are where I didn't listen to her.The flashing lights along the base of the Ferris wheel seats swept across Jim’s disgusted face as he shot and missed and shot and missed again. He shoved the plastic rifle, which looked tiny against the corded muscles of his arm, back onto its base and reached into his pocket for more money. Blair laughed. “Give it up, Jim. The game is obviously rigged,” he said, keeping his voice soft so that the proprietor of the sharpshooter game couldn’t hear him.
“I know it is,” Jim said. “And now I’m going to beat it.” He slid his dollar across the counter and picked up the little rifle again, aimed lazily and fired his three shots rapidly, knocking all three targets down. “Pick a prize, Chief,” he said, smiling broadly. When Blair hesitated, he pulled down a small stuffed gorilla hanging from the roof of the stand. “We’ll take this one,” he said, passing it over to Blair, and Blair stuck the silly thing under his arm sheepishly.
“Hey, Jim,” he said eagerly, “Come on.” Jim followed him onto the ramp leading to the Tilt-a-Whirl ride and they settled into one of the rounded cars, Jim’s arm slung casually across the back of the seat. Blair slid down and grasped the bar as the ride operator, a short stocky guy whose bare arms were covered with elaborate tattoos, swung it closed. The guy stepped back, giving them a little nod, not exactly friendly, but as if confirming something to himself. Blair glanced over at Jim’s profile. He looked relaxed and happy.
Blair was glad he had decided not to mention the things that had been going on since Incacha’s death, the little urges he’d had, intuitions he couldn’t explain. He still wasn’t sure what Incacha had meant when he passed the way of the Shaman over to him, but he knew his power as a guide had been growing and changing over the weeks since that night. He’d suggested they come to the carnival tonight as a way to unwind and have a little fun, not mentioning the strange compulsive pull he’d felt toward the place.
The ride started up suddenly and he was jerked onto his side, sliding into Jim, who grabbed his shoulder and laughed, giving him a little hug and helping him upright again. A shiver passed through him. The night had cooled down and he was lightly dressed in a t -shirt and jeans, Jim’s own bare arm hot against his side. It sometimes annoyed him when Jim treated him like a much younger brother, but tonight he savored the familiarity and safety. Still, after a moment, he made himself shift away.
After the ride, Jim wanted to get something to eat and Blair was drawn to a stand offering Chinese food. It wasn’t his first choice at a carnival, but Jim’s nose twitched in a way that said he was willing before he sauntered over to an empty picnic table and sat, leaving Blair to order their food. He wondered if Jim was sensing a change in their relationship on some unconscious level, too. He’d noticed Jim letting more and more of their daily decisions up to him.
The carnie manning the Chinese food stand wasn’t Asian, was in fact pale skinned and thin, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt which seemed too heavy for working with hot food on a warm summer night. He handed their food over and Blair dug out his wallet and tried to hand him a twenty, but the guy held up his hand saying, “Wait, wait.” In congruously he had a slight accent, Mexican, Blair thought, though it was so faint he wasn’t sure. He reached down under the counter and pulled out two fortune cookies, adding them to the Styrofoam tray before taking Blair’s money.
“Where to next?” Jim asked. Blair had tried to avoid the spicier dishes and judging by the enthusiastic way Jim was downing his chicken fried rice it seemed he approved the choices.
“I don’t know,” Blair answered. Jim reached over and grabbed a forkful of Blair’s pork lo mein, humming an appreciative sound as he chewed it that made Blair smile. The uneven lighting on the midway left a plane of darkness down one side of Jim’s face, and under the picnic table Blair ran his index finger along the callus of his thumb to suppress the urge to trace the line between light and dark on that square, uncompromising jaw, down through the light and dark of Jim. Jim was running his thumbnail down a crack in the boards of the picnic table, but resumed eating when Blair did.
Several times now Blair had felt a subtle tug in his mind pulling him to certain places, places that became crime scenes or yielded clues for cases they were working. He had a growing awareness of Jim, too, of what Jim was feeling, what he needed, how to guide him. But Jim always seemed a little conflicted about his abilities and their relationship, and Blair felt confident that it was better to use his increasing knowledge as Jim’s guide without sharing with Jim exactly how much stronger his instincts for guiding were getting. He’d only had to suggest Jim come to the carnival with him, knowing they needed to be here even if he didn’t know why, and Jim had come without any of his usual grumbling.
He ate slowly, spending more energy watching Jim eat than attending to his own food.
He wished he’d ordered some fried rice for himself, but he wouldn’t have been able to eat it all. He could feel Jim approaching satiation, and he broke open the first fortune cookie as Jim leaned back with a little sigh. Jim never wanted to look at any kind of fortune, but Blair always insisted. He took a bite of the cookie, knowing it was silly to think the fortune only applied if he ate some of it, but indulging himself anyway. He pulled out the little strip of paper the fortune was written on, surprised to see it was handwritten. “Something wicked draws you here-” He was disturbed by the meaning of the fortune before he could read it aloud.
Jim gave him a sharp glance. “What does it say?” he asked, his voice concerned. Blair passed the fortune over wordlessly and Jim read it. “It’s a stupid fortune cookie,” he said, but his tone belied his words.
Blair cracked the other cookie and handed a small piece to Jim, who rolled his eyes but swallowed it obediently. He pulled out the fortune and glanced at it before handing it over to Jim. It was also handwritten. “A wise man seeks asylum and guidance as needed,” it said. Jim was staring down at the fortune as if he could see into the grain of the paper, which, perhaps he could. Blair could feel the beginning of a zone out and he plucked the fortune out of Jim’s hand and shook him lightly by the arm.
Jim touched him constantly, but Blair, much more self aware than Jim, rarely touched back, so that the few occasions when he did touch always seemed to get through to Jim quickly. This was no exception; Jim snapped out of the zone and Blair dropped his hand.
Jim shoved the remains of his fried rice across the table and Blair finished it. “Come on,” he said then, heading back to the food stand. “Let’s find out more about these fortunes.”
But he could feel that Jim was not with him. He turned around and watched Jim cleaning off the picnic table, sighing a put upon sigh as he scooped up the crumbs from Blair’s side of the table and then wiped everything down with a second napkin. Blair went back a bit grudgingly and took the trash to a nearby can, muttering, “Sheesh, it’s a picnic table,” under his breath as if he didn’t intend Jim to hear.
When they finally got to the stand they saw that it was closed down, with no sign or anything to indicate when it would reopen. Several other stands were closed also, it was getting late, and Blair looked around for something else to do, trying to shake off the ominous feeling that had been increasing all evening.
‘Hey,” he said, “ let’s check out the fun house.” Jim shrugged and followed him willingly enough, but they were barely through the doorway before Blair knew it was a mistake. The place was covered with mirrors, and even his normal senses were quickly overwhelmed by all the conflicting visual images overlapping each other in every direction. Strategically placed microphones amplified and bounced sounds all around the curved walls. Jim took only a few steps before stopping and turning around in confusion. Blair could see the turning made it worse. Jim stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. “Let’s get out of here,” Blair said. He stepped closer to Jim, quelling the impulse to anchor him by grabbing onto his arm.
“No, it’s okay,” Jim said. He started walking in a more or less straight line, albeit hesitantly, his head tilted to one side. They moved slowly through the room, Blair almost but not quite close enough for their arms to brush together. When they finally reached the exit he felt Jim drop the tight control he’d been holding over himself. He turned to Blair with a triumphant smile as they pushed back out into the carnival night. “That was interesting,” he said.
Blair shook off his own tension. He hadn’t found it anything but oppressive, though it was worth it to see Jim’s conquering hero smile. “Yeah, I guess,” he began, but he stopped when he saw Jim go still, cocking his head in the way he had when he was concentrating on one of his senses.
“Come on,” Jim said, taking him by the arm and directing him back toward the games. Behind the ring toss game Jim led him between two trailers, stepping around numerous large power cables across a dirt path that ran behind the stands and into a weed infested field. A figure was lying face down in the weeds making little sobbing noises and moans. “Stay back, ”Jim ordered, then knelt and examined the man before rolling him over onto his back. Blair watched as Jim grabbed the guy’s pants and underwear, which were bunched around his ankles, in one of his large hands and pulled them up roughly.
The man’s eyes opened blearily. “What?” he muttered weakly.
Jim pulled Blair, who had ignored his order to stay back, a few steps away. “He’s not injured,” he said curtly. “He’s dead drunk, and his stomach’s covered with semen. Looks like he had some kind of sexual encounter out here and passed out.”
“Encounter?” Blair rolled his eyes. “Come on, Jim the guy’s obviously been assaulted. He needs a doctor. Call for back up and an ambulance.”
Jim shuffled his feet and blew his breath out, obviously unnerved by the situation. “Are you going to let this guy lay here while you fool around because you’re too embarrassed to deal?” Blair asked, and then, since it seemed he was going to do just that, “Man, give me the phone.” Jim handed it over without arguing, so at least it seemed he knew he was being ridiculous, and Blair made the calls.
The drive home was tense with Jim’s obvious discomfort. Blair fumed in silence for a few minutes before finally asking, “Man, what gives?”
Jim frowned. “I’m not so sure that guy wouldn’t rather have gone home and forgotten the whole thing.”
“Well, doesn’t every crime victim want to forget about it? That never bothered you before. Man, I didn’t know you were so hung up.”
“I’m not…look, I’m not so sure the guy was victimized. He was drunk, maybe things got a little out of hand,” and at Blair’s incredulous look, “Come on, Sandburg, haven’t you ever heard of a two beer queer?”
“That didn’t look like two beers, Jim, the guy was really out of it. Too far gone to give any kind of reasonable consent. You’ve heard of consent, right?”
Jim gave him a sour look, and the silence settled back over them.
**
Blair spent the next day at the university. He was only home briefly before heading out on a date which he continued long after he knew he was less than entranced by the company. By the time he got back to the loft he was both relieved and disappointed to see Jim had already turned in for the night.
The following day, Thursday, was taken up with errands, but he made it home for supper, and tried not to brood too much over the comparison between the comfort of eating at home with Jim and his previous evening’s supper with his date.
Jim was in the kitchen washing the dishes and the counters and generally making the kitchen far cleaner than was necessary. Blair was sprawled on the couch with the TV on, clicking through the channels aimlessly. “Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“Put toothpaste on the grocery list.”
“It’s already on.”
A few minutes later: “Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“You coming in here?”
But Jim was already in the room, holding out a beer to him. “Oh wow, thanks, man,” he said. “I was just thinking, uh, yeah, just what I wanted.”
“Want a glass?” Jim asked.
“No. I’m good.”
Blair drank his beer. He thought about how some pretzels would be good. Then he got up and went into the kitchen.
Jim was opening the cabinet so Blair only had to reach past his arm to snag the bag of pretzels. “Oh, hey, I could have gotten that for you,” he said as he closed the cabinet door and went back to drying the dishes.
“Yeah, I know.” Blair took the pretzels back into the living room and went back to staring at the TV and thinking about what it meant to be a Guide.
Jim came in and sank onto the couch beside him. “Why didn’t you just ask me to bring the pretzels in?” Jim asked. He shrugged. After a minute Jim slid his arm across the back of the couch, close enough to Blair’s head he imagined he could feel Jim’s body heat against the back of his neck. He turned to watch Jim watching the TV, and he could detect a tiny twitch along Jim’s jaw when he leaned in closer, nearly touching. He drew in a slow breath, catching a tendril of Jim’s scent, wondering what Jim could smell from so close. He parted his lips slightly, staring at the neckline of Jim’s shirt; he’d wanted to taste the skin there for so long. Huffing out his breath, he stood up abruptly, careful not to stumble. “I…” he said. “I’m getting pretty tired. I…I’m going to turn in….”
Jim looked up at him in the dim light from the TV, his face still and serious. Blair stared at him, the TV droning senselessly behind him, unable to think of anything to say, unable to break his eyes away. His stomach clenched. Jim was studying him, trying to work out his expression, and he didn’t know what would be worse, that Jim would not understand or that he would.
Jim looked away, back to the TV. “G’night,” he said dismissively, and Blair bolted for his room, shutting the door with frantic haste and leaning on it heavily, wondering if Jim could perceive his rapid heartbeat as it gradually returned to normal. The little stuffed gorilla sitting on his desk was staring at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “What are you looking at,” he snapped and then wondered if Jim had heard him. “I’m just tired,” he said to himself as well as Jim, but it took him a long time to fall asleep.
He was over tired the next morning. He staggered out of bed wishing he could have his coffee before dealing with the daunting task of putting his clothes on, so he was pleased when Jim opened his door and silently held out a steaming cup to him. He took it and gulped down half of it-it was just the right temperature for drinking- before the happy feeling faded. Jim was anticipating his desires too well; it gave him the willies. He had too many desires he knew Jim wouldn’t want to even know about, much less anticipate.
Distantly he heard the phone ring and the soft murmur of Jim’s voice. He went into the kitchen and watched Jim hurrying to finish cleaning up the breakfast things. “What?” he asked.
“Our first victim can’t remember anything that happened.”
“First victim?”
“Yeah. There was another attack at the carnival, and this one was dead at the scene. Also, flunitrazepam showed up in the urine test on the first victim.”
“Flunitrazepam?”
“That’s rohypnol to you.”
“The date rape drug.”
Jim frowned. “Plenty of guys use it for recreation.”
“You think it was self-administered?”
“I don’t know. Come on, we’re supposed to check it out.”
“I didn’t finish my coffee,” he protested, but since Jim was already halfway out the door, he followed.
The carnival during the day was different than in the evening, colder and seedier, and Jim seemed out of place. There was hardly anyone around, but they spotted the Tilt a Whirl guy and Jim zeroed in on him, flashing his badge. The guy straightened up from where he’d been crouched over the operating mechanism for the ride with a scowl, tattoos rippling across his bare arms as if they were alive. “Need to ask you some questions,” Jim said, and the guy shrugged. “About the death last night.”
“Don’t know anything,” the guy said sullenly. “Didn’t see it, didn’t hear nothing. Not my business.” He turned and walked away without another word, and Blair watched Jim consider pursuing him until he noticed a woman standing nearby watching them.
“Hey,” he said to her, turning on the charm. Except unlike Blair he didn’t have to turn it on, it was always there, the loose, confident stance that made people take him seriously.
“There’s something strange going on here,” the woman said.
“How’s that?” Jim asked her.
“We never had any trouble before,” she said. “And I’ve been with the show for a long time. Something’s changed. It started two bookings ago, someone was found out behind the trailers, just like here. Last place we were at was only a three-day weekend show, same thing happened. Something’s wrong about this.”
Jim nodded and turned to Blair. “Time to check the personnel records,” he said. “See who’s new.”
“It’s not like the old days,” the woman said. “The acts change all the time now. People drift in and out of the life so fast you don’t have time to get to know them.”
Jim had Blair by the arm and was guiding him gently over to the business office, touching him unnecessarily, and, as usual, Blair couldn’t make himself pull back even though he knew he should. He was sure Jim had no idea how the touching made him feel, and how hard it was for him to act like it was nothing. Jim was surprisingly innocent in some very limited areas of life.
Questioning the business officer yielded a list of people who had joined up with the show shortly before the deaths started, but the manager advised them to wait until evening to try to question anyone, since most of them were gone or sleeping during the day.
“Carnies are an interesting group, ethnographically speaking,” Blair said as they headed back to the truck. “Carnivals are a fairly recent phenomenon, dating from the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, but sharing some traditions with the traveling circuses that have existed for centuries. They’ve always attracted an underclass of outsiders and misfits, but currently the level of drug and alcohol abuse has caused a splintering of their prior cohesiveness. Plus the disaffection for the kind of sideshow freaks who found a home with the carnivals has left the shows to be peopled mostly by alcoholics and drug abusers. The carnies formed a support group similar to the one that youth gangs provide for young adults in urban areas whose families have been decimated by drugs and mental illness.” Jim did that thing where he listened while projecting disinterest that never had fooled Blair.
Back at the station, Simon told them they could take the rest of the day off since they would be working during the evening, which was how they ended up back at the loft and at loose ends in the middle of the afternoon. They could have stayed on at the station and gotten some paperwork done, or Blair could have headed down to the university, but instead, by mutual if unspoken agreement, they went home and kicked back in front of the TV together.
Jim handed Blair the remote and Blair started clicking through the channels. “What do you want to watch?”
Jim shrugged. “You pick.” He shifted over so that they were almost touching and slouched his long frame back, looking completely relaxed. His arm stretched across the back of the couch behind them, not quite touching Blair’s head, and Blair wondered why he’d done that, whether he’d chosen to sit like that or whether he was picking up cues from Blair.
There was no question in Blair’s mind that things had changed between them, that Jim was picking up on Blair’s thoughts, intents, desires, maybe through unconscious cues he was giving off that Jim’s heightened senses could detect, or maybe through some special guide/sentinel extrasensory thing.
Jim shifted, moving closer. Blair glanced down at Jim’s jean clad leg, which was now leaning against his own leg. “You want to watch the shopping channel?” Jim asked.
“No,” Blair said. He got up and tossed the remote to Jim. “I have work to do.” He could feel Jim’s puzzled gaze on him as he hurried into his room, slamming the door harder than necessary in his haste to get away from Jim’s scrutiny.
They didn’t speak at all on the drive back to the carnival that evening. They didn’t play any games this time, nor go on any rides; they walked randomly. Blair was waiting for something to happen. He ducked between two of the food trailers onto the narrow dirt trail behind the concession stands. Jim grabbed his arm suddenly and Blair stilled, giving Jim time to focus on whatever he’d sensed. Jim sank tensely back around the side of the trailer and Blair followed until they were crouched side by side. Blair didn’t see or hear anything, but Jim obviously did.
After a minute Jim stood, pulling Blair with him, and started hurrying down the path. Ahead Blair could see a figure straightening up and glancing their way, then taking off at a run. Jim came to a skidding halt beside a body lying on the path, but paused only a second to check for a pulse before saying, “He’s alive, call an ambulance,”- and continuing in pursuit of the fleeing figure, gun now drawn.
The suspect ducked back onto the midway and slipped into the fun house. Jim followed without hesitation. Blair made the calls, but he didn’t stop following Jim. Inside the funhouse they could hear people moving and voices, but there was no way to locate anyone properly. Jim shoved Blair behind a large rolling barrel shaped tunnel. Several people were trying to get through the tunnel, slipping and stumbling along with great hilarity. “Stay down,” he said and headed off in what looked to be a random direction, his careful gait like that of a man trying desperately to conceal that he’d had too much to drink.
Blair watched him go even though letting Jim wander around alone in a place that was confusing for people with normal senses seemed like a lousy idea. He hoped Jim had the brains to dial everything back as far as he could. There weren’t many mirrors in this part of the funhouse, so when he caught a flash of gray out of the corner of his eye he was able to turn his head slowly in the right direction and see the figure they’d been pursuing crouched only about twenty feet away, bent forward on his knees, head covered with a bulky gray hooded sweatshirt he remembered seeing before. It was the guy from the Chinese food stand.
He knew it wouldn’t help to call out to Jim- too many microphones to pick up and direct the sound of his voice all across the building- but perhaps if he spoke too softly for the mics to pick up, soft enough that only a sentinel could possibly hear…
“Jim,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all. “Our guy is only about twenty feet away from me. Follow my voice.” His back was aching and he longed to shift position, sit back further and ease his discomfort, but he didn’t dare move. He had no idea if Jim could hear him but he kept talking, sotto voice, encouraging, directing, insisting.
Suddenly he saw Jim, silent and intent, rise up right behind the suspect and grab him, twisting his arms back and snapping the handcuffs onto him. The guy didn’t try to struggle, went limp as if relieved. Jim was reciting his rights and the guy kept interrupting, spilling everything, how he’d slipped the drug into the drinks of certain people, then approached them and led them off away from the crowds. How he wanted to stop but couldn’t, how he’d hoped they would catch him because he couldn’t stop, a confession he repeated in more detail once they booked him, making it easy for them to wrap up the case.
It was late by the time they finished booking the guy and got back to the house. Blair dropped wearily onto the sofa as Jim went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a beer for himself and an orange juice for Blair. Jim sat down next to him on the couch and settled his hand lightly on Blair’s leg above his knee, loose at first, but then gripping him a little insistently and Blair froze. He’d been putting all his energy into keeping this from happening.
Jim let go of his leg, which might have given him a chance to catch his breath, get a grip on himself, except Jim transferred the offending hand to his arm and pulled him around almost desperately, pressing Blair back into the couch roughly and claiming his mouth with his own insistently. Breaking off the kiss before Blair had time to respond, Jim dropped onto the floor in front of him, hot hands squeezing his thighs, and said, “Blair. Help me out here.”
“How?” he heard himself say from what seemed like a great distance.
“Tell me what to do.”
He drew in a shaking breath. “I’m trying really hard not to take advantage of my power over you right now.”
“What does that mean? You’re my guide, right? So guide me, direct me, give me a fucking clue here.” Jim was stroking his hands up and down Blair’s legs roughly and Blair touched his arms softly, feeling instinctively how to calm and gentle him. Jim let out a long breath, sounding relieved and his touch slowed, became a caress.
“Jim,” Blair said. “I…look, this isn’t you. You’re picking up on my thoughts or something. It’s been happening more and more. I want something, anything, and you pick up on it and you’re rushing to give it to me before I have a chance to help myself. It’s bad enough with the little stuff, but this, this is a lot more serious than fetching me a bag of pretzels.” He tried to push Jim back, away from his body while he still could, but Jim resisted.
“No, it’s not you. I want you, I’ve always wanted you,” Jim said. He was nuzzling Blair’s cock through his pants as he fumbled with his belt and Blair was having trouble thinking clearly. He pushed Jim’s hands away feebly and Jim rocked back to sit on his heels, hands on Blair’s knees. “Guide me, Blair. Help me make you feel good.”
Blair groaned, his resistance weakening. “Jim, I don’t want you to do something under my influence that you’re going to regret.”
Jim looked up, studying Blair for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Blair, god, you’re not making me gay okay? I want you. I’m not going to regret anything. Are you gonna try to tell me this hard on you’re sporting isn’t for me? Stop worrying and start guiding.”
Blair reached down between Jim’s legs, tracing the outline of his erection. He cock was thick and impressively hard. He got up shakily and grabbed Jim’s hand. “Let’s take this up to the loft.” Jim’s desire to be guided seemed to fail him at that point, because he was ahead of Blair, pulling him up the stairs eagerly. He looked suddenly younger and Blair had to glance away for a moment.
He tried to sit on the bed, but Jim held him back, pulling off his shirt and then his pants, taking his own clothes off and tossing everything onto the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness.
Blair tried to hold him off, saying, “Are you sure?” but Jim pushed him back onto the bed and started kissing him too roughly, pressing him down so hard he could barely breathe. He turned his head away. “Easy, easy, slow down,” he said, keeping his voice so soft a normal person couldn’t have understood him, making Jim concentrate to hear. Blair ran his hands over Jim’s body with a feather soft touch, his words turning to tiny soothing noises that had the desired affect of gentling the sentinel, who eased his weight up and onto his own arms so Blair could breathe again.
Jim’s mouth ghosted down his body, found his leaking cock and closed over it, and, thank god, Jim knew how to give head, sucking him in until the head of his cock hit the back of Jim’s throat and then swallowing around him so that Blair was thrusting up into the heat and wet without any self control at all. Now Jim was gentling him, hands on his hips forcing him back a moment and drawing in a ragged breath before pushing down over his cock again, so tight, so good, setting up an exquisite rhythm, controlling everything so that Blair could give in to the pleasure without having to think.
Blair reached down to stroke Jim’s hair, his face, his shoulder, everything he could reach. He glanced down. Jim was touching himself, thrusting into his own hand with the same rhythm he was using on Blair. The sight sent Blair shaking over the edge into a powerful orgasm. Before he could gather his wits, Jim had shifted up against him and was jerking, moaning and spurting over his hip. He tucked his head under Jim’s chin and listened to their hearts pounding and then slowing together as one. “You okay?” he asked.
Jim didn’t speak, just leaned down and kissed him, mouth closed, hard and blunt and then pressed him back against his chest. His breathing slowed and evened out. “You still worrying?”
“No.”
“I know you can obfuscate better than that, Chief. Listen, I like pretzels too, okay? And I want to share my pretzels with you.” Blair pulled back to look at Jim. That was a ridiculous thing to say, but Jim’s face was perfectly serious and seemed to merit a serious reply.
“Yeah, okay. I like your pretzels.”
“You like my pretzels?” It was totally unfair of Jim to laugh at him like that.
“Hey, you started it,” he said, and he felt the weight on his chest lifting as he realized how true that was. “You started it,” he repeated weakly, but that only made Jim laugh harder.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-26 01:24 pm (UTC)I *think* Blair was wrong about having a mystical power to make Jim do what he wants and that Jim is just being nice because he likes him, but I kind of like that there's still some doubt in my mind about that. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-26 02:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-26 06:36 pm (UTC)I wonder if Jim hasn't been the one taking it easy on Blair instead of the other way around. I wonder if Blair hasn't been changing and Jim, sensing Blair's need to feel in control, has been letting Blair take it at his own pace, trying not to rush Blair until he was ready to go where the Way has been pushing him?
I wonder what I have to say to get you to write more of this??
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-27 12:09 pm (UTC)I'm just now reading your story, I left it until last because of its length. I'll let you know what I think when I'm finished. So far, I'm enjoying it muchly.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-26 10:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-27 12:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-27 12:38 am (UTC)Very interesting progression to this story. I especially love how it ended. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-27 12:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-27 02:00 am (UTC)Very nice, and I like the shivery feeling Blair feels when they go up on the Ferris Wheel.
Thank you!
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Date: 2008-05-27 12:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-06-03 03:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-03 05:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-06 08:45 am (UTC)Hugs, Patt
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 05:07 pm (UTC)