Blair has been sick. Blair is never sick. Once in four years, he was sick. Once. We don't count shootings, kidnappings, head whackings, drug overdoses or drownings. Dead doesn't count either.
The guy keeps hours you wouldn't believe, he's been to hell and back, he's a cop now, his whole world is topsy-turvy, and to top it off, he gets the mother of all flu's. The Elephant flu. Blair gets the Elephant flu. Who gets the Elephant flu? Blair. I don't know why they call it that.....except maybe, it can take down an Elephant. So what chance did my partner have?
And he worked for two days with it, before finally succumbing. Two days. Fever, chills, headaches, body aches, double vision....and he still managed to take down two baddies....of course, with his double vision, he thought there were four, and he was very impressed with his efforts, when he finally remembered. He was so disappointed to find out it was only two bad guys.....
I gotta tell you, I'm not used to a sick Blair Sandburg. This is the guy with all the natural healing doohickies.....and they work ~ for him. But when you're throwing up, upchucking, vomiting, puking and otherwise worshipping a rather nice blue toilet, well, you - can't - keep anything - down.
And damn, but he hates being sick, and he doesn't like any help, and every time he'd start tossing his cookies and I'd jump up and stick the big red, well, "cookie" bowl under him, he'd wave me out, mutter something about Sentinel sensibilities, and he'd actually try to hold back, to not retch until I left, which I never did. So then he'd try to make it to the bathroom, so he could lock the door, lock me out, but he couldn't even crawl out of bed, so it was me and the red bowl. I have never seen him so embarassed. Like throwing up is something to be ashamed of in this world? And it didn't bother me, except to see him suffer. And suffer he did.
The fever really had me worried, because when someone's delirious, doesn't know who he is, or who his Sentinel is, well, I came mighty close to calling 9-1-1. Really close. I don't think I left his bedroom for the first 48 hours after he finally let it take him down, other than to get medicine, water, cold rags, and empty the red bowl. And my bladder. I held him, kept cold cloths on his forehead, wiped him down, ducked when he flailed, and cried when he relived a few events in his life, events I'd personally give anything to undo. He was really sick. And I can only think of a few times when I felt as helpless, or as scared. And most of those times revolve around him.
The night his fever finally broke, I was stretched out next to him, holding lightly, and he shifted a bit, and turned his head, and those eyes opened and he looked puzzled and said, "Jim? You still here?" I nodded and said, "Yes, I'm still here, not going anywhere. Go back to sleep", and he frowned and said something so strange, he said, "You will, or I will, one day...and then what?" But I couldn't answer him, he was asleep and his body was cool, and he'd stopped shivering and shaking and sweating, so I remained there, next to him, holding him, and pondered the earth shattering remark.
Someday Blair Sandburg will move out. Blair - Sandburg - will - move - out. And to quote a very intelligent man, "Then what?"
Blair is on the mend, still weak, a little pale, but almost back to his old self. And thanks to him, the flu missed me. I was talked into taking one of those famous Blairconcoctions and damn, it worked because I should have been sick, I felt it coming on....but he nipped it in the bud. I should have him patented.
We both need a break, a vacation, and I'm thinking camping. Easy camping, not the usual roughing it. It's warm, and I know just the spot. Blair can goof off, lolligag around, I'll wait on him hand and foot, make him clean the fish, then back to work, refreshed, healthy, maybe a little brown, rested, and happy.
Sandburg loved the idea, Simon didn't. Tough. And no, I didn't invite Simon, not this time. This time is for Blair, for us. And I have ulterior motives.
He's packing right now, excited, bouncing, well, it's not really a bounce, maybe a hop? I've already loaded the truck and even made lunch.
I'm really getting into this.
I thought we'd be close enough to the camping spot, that Blair could make it easily, but I was wrong. He was huffing and puffing and trying to hide it, and he insisted on carrying his own stuff, and I should have known better.
Damn, he's stubborn.
But we're set up now and I've got him down, flat on his back, stretched out on his sleeping bag, and soaking up the sun. Leave it to me to nearly kill the guy while trying to cure him.
The lake is just a few yards down from our site and the lure of the water, of the gentle sound of ripples against a rocky shore are too much for me and I have to go down there, sit and enjoy.
"Chief, think you can make it to the lake?"
He sits up, nodding and says, "Sure, easy. Let's go."
The walk is short, slightly downhill and no problem for him, now that he's rested. The water is calming, the sunlight bouncing off the blue, creating small pieces of diamonds glittering in the sunshine. Blair plops down on a grassy area a few feet from the water lapping at the pebbled sand. I toe off my shoes, pull off socks and wade in.
I can't describe the feeling, the Sentinel feeling right now, as my feet slip in under the sand, as the cool water brushes my ankles, and as I sense every grain, every stone underfoot, but I can say that at this moment, I'm glad I have this gift.
I look over my shoulder and note that Blair has fallen back, knees up, arms outstretched, eyes closed, but his fingers are running lightly over the grass, and I suspect he's feeling almost as much as I am. As I watch his hands play over the grass, and as I note the supremely satisfied grin on his face, I realize that I'm happy. Right now, happy. With him. Because of him. Because he's here. And I must also acknowledge that there is no one I could begin to imagine that I would rather have here, right now. That I could ever imagine.
I need to find a way, sometime this weekend, to tell him, to explain.
Blair's on his back, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the bright stage of shimmering lights in the night sky. I'm on the other side of the fire, Jack Ryan's latest adventure open on my lap. We've had two days, this is our second night and Blair's doing well. His color is good, his energy almost up to 100%. Right now, he's just enjoying the night and this feels good, right.
"Hey, Jim?" He's torn his eyes away from the stars and is looking at me over the flames.
"Why aren't you here with Tracey? You could be here with a gorgeous redhead. And trust me, she would have said yes. In a New York minute."
I put the book aside and turn over, propping my head on my hand. I think this is the time.
"I *am* here with a gorgeous redhead."
I'm watching the frown spread across the "redhead's" face, and Blair sits up, crosses his legs and finally smiles.
"Yeah, right, Ellison. Naomi's in Africa. You're stuck here with me."
"Yep, my favorite redhead. Okay, technically speaking, brunette, but right now? With the fire dancing over your hair? Redhead, definitely."
His frown comes back, lips clamp shut, then open, then shut, then open. "Jim, you get too much sun today? Or not enough fish?"
"Neither. Just being honest. You asked, I answered. I'm with the one person I want to be with, anywhere, anytime. No other person, man or woman. Just you. Blair Sandburg. Scary, huh?"
"Well, from a physical point of view, yeah. I'm sure you've noticed I'm a man."
"That fact hadn't escaped my notice. And you're still exactly what I want. And the *man* part, I find especially nice."
He's rubbing his jaw now, eyes closed, and this is a good sign. Then, "So. You trying to tell me something here, Jim? In your, oh, so subtle way?"
"Yep." Oh, me of little words.
Blair's getting up, coming over to my side of the fire, and I'm watching every wonderful move until he's standing over me.
"Well, you know, *I've* never been very subtle, and I see no reason to start now."
And Blair's undressing. Very slowly. Do people still say, "Holy Cow!"???
I know my jaw just dropped open.
I'd certainly hoped that Blair might feel some of the same emotions, but this? Way more than expected. But I'm not complaining, no way, not The Sentinel of the Great City. Not with Blair Sandburg standing over me, legs parted, eyes glued to mine, fingers s~l~o~w~l~y unbuttoning his flannel shirt.....firelight dancing across his features, intensifying his obvious arousal, those lips, slightly parted, tongue just skimming the bottom lip.....nope, not going to complain one bit.
I might want to hurry up the process a bit. Yeah, hurry it up. Who needs to actually unbutton anything?
I scramble to my feet, reach out for the shirt, but Blair is quicker and jumps back, out of reach. I stop, squint at him, roll my shoulders forward, down into my linebacker stance, ready to dump this quarterback......er, *fuck* this quarterback.....
Blair is squinting right back at me, a devilish grin daring me to make a move.
I move. Fast.
He moves. Faster. Sick my foot.
He feints left, I anticipate, weave to my right, leap, and catch.....air.
And he's now on the other side of the fire, laughing his head off. But not for long. I'm taller, faster, more experienced.....he doesn't stand a chance.
Uh, he's faster. And younger. I don't stand a chance. Except.....we both want the same thing.
I *love* win-win situations.
He graciously allows me to catch him. And flatten him. We end up back down by the water, on the grass, under the full moon, and we're both breathing hard, some of it from the exertion, but most of it.....passion, anticipation.
I've got him, and I know precisely what to do with him. I finish the unbuttoning, and allow him to do the same to me, and I can't help but notice his fingers, and he's shaking a bit, and I know it's partly nerves, partly the heat of the moment, so I drop my hips a bit, let my hardness rub his, and smile as his face is transformed by that simple act. I admire his communication abilities at that moment as he says, "Shit."
I love listening to him talk, so I rub some more, as I grasp his wrists and pull them over his head. I'm rewarded with an, "Oh, God," this time. Can he use those fancy words or what?
I've decided I don't want to hear anymore talk, so I plant my mouth over his, and *I'm* rendered speechless. The taste explodes in my mouth and I have this crazy thought that *this* is why I'm a Sentinel. So I can taste Blair Sandburg.
I have the presence of mind to continue the humping, and damn if he doesn't thrust right back, almost frantically, as if he can't get enough of me, of this, of us, and I have to have more, I have to have him, naked, below me, and suddenly I'm this savage I don't even know, but this savage is met by his equal partner, as both of us are ripping at each other's clothes, as shirts go flying, jeans disappear, my boxers are shredded, his briefs are balled up and thrown as far as I can throw.....and finally I'm looking down at him, and he's beautiful, silvery, pale, his hair spread out for me, and he's drinking me in like I'm the last glass of water in the world, and I've never felt this before, like I'm the right one, the only one, but I can see it in his eyes, and the love takes my breath away, because no one has ever looked at me like this, but the wonder doesn't last, can't last, because the need takes over, the urgency, the all consuming drive to take, to brand, but again, it's an equal need, as he pulls me down, takes my head between his hands, and plunges into my mouth, and I realize that this possession thing is a two way street, and we're two soldiers battling each other ~ *for* each other.
We roll, arms wrapping, moving, hands touching everything, exploring, and there's laughter too, and his hair gets caught in some twigs, and he notices my look, the predatory gleam, as I gaze down at what is now my captive, thanks to some grass and twigs. And I decide that to the victor must go the spoils....
There's silence now, no laughter, no thrashing bodies, just Blair, gazing up at me, eyes wide, lips parted, and I can hear his lungs as they fill with air, so I concentrate even more, and can hear his heart, hear the blood moving through veins and arteries, and I have to be inside him, *really* inside him and he knows and he nods, and whispers, "yes, yes," so I move, roll us over onto our sides, spoon up behind him, arms wrapped around him, and I feel his shiver as my cock comes up against his ass, but it's nothing compared to my shiver, and I have to go slow, use what I can, be careful, so I make love to his back, his neck, letting one hand make love to his cock, all the time thrusting lightly against that beautiful, perfect ass, and his moans intensify, and he's already jerking back, so I start to ready him, one hand pumping his cock, the other making love to his ass, my mouth taking care of his neck, his jaw, and he comes, hard, and I use it to lubricate, but I can't resist tasting, relishing the essence of him, but his needs and mine push me on, and in minutes, I'm inside.
My brain is going to explode. Both brains.
Is it the physical I'm feeling? Or is it the fact that I'm inside Blair? That we are connected, in the final way? Can anyone understand what I'm experiencing here? Two bodies, linked, in passion, in love, in need, and it seems our flesh is melting into each other, but it doesn't take long for this to shatter, to become it's most basic again, it's most physical.
I need to move. Blair needs me to move. To pound, to thrust up and in, and it's sweat, and moans, and I turn us, so I'm on top, and I pull his hips up, and pound deeper, faster, harder, and he matches each jab, as strong, as hard, as fast.
His climax is fierce, long, drawn out, his body shuddering, his voice nothing more than a harsh moan as he tries to say my name. I follow seconds later, equally hard, but saying nothing, I can't.
I collapse on top of him, his body dropping back down into the grass. We can't move, or talk, we can barely breathe.
Minutes pass, I'm drifting off, when he says, "bed, bags, warm," and we just manage to stumble back up to the camp, to pull up my bag, drop it next to and slightly over his, then we're both down, eyes already at half mast, pulling up the soft warmth of the flannel interior, and the pieces of our bodies fit together, in perfect alignment and we sleep.
The morning after. Guilt free, we wake at the same time, smiling, sticky, and we both have the same idea at the same time. The lake.
We race down, I win, but only because he's stopped, doubled over, laughing so hard he's crying. And I see what he's seen.
Our clothes. All over the place. My jeans on a bush, his in the water, my shirt, well, we never do find my shirt, but pieces of my boxers are being worn by a small tree by the water's edge, and Blair's shirt is hanging from another tree, high, and neither of us know how in the hell it got up there, but it's not alone, his navy blue briefs are even higher, waving in the wind.
Shoes and socks are completely gone.
We finally get in the water, swim, play, make love again, and then decide to leave that set of clothing exactly where they are, to give those who come after us, something to talk about.
The rest of our vacation was quiet, we both got lots of exercise, and on the way home, Blair went down on me, while I was driving. There's a new dent in the roof, where my head hit. He doesn't believe in warnings.
Now he tells me.
We're on the couch now, in front of the fireplace, legs stretched out in front of us, our shoulders touching, hands clasped. Blair turns to me and smiles, and the firelight is turning his hair red again, and I almost zone in the colors, but his voice brings me back.
"You're still here."
And I smile. "Yep, still here. You too."
I can feel his hair move against me as he nods, and says, "Yep, still here. Fifty years sound good to you?"
"No. I think we should live to be a hundred."
"That would make you a hundred and ten. So, seventy years. It's a deal."
"Good God, that would make it the year 2069, I'm good for that."
"You don't suppose we'll still be living here, do you?"
"And why the hell not? 852 Prospect is a damn fine address."
"Damn fine. So, here we stay."