It's Not Easy To Be Me

Title: It’s Not Easy To Be Me

Author/pseudonym: alyjude

Email: alyjude@webtv.net

Pairing: J/B

Rating: PG (so sue me <g>)

Category: First time

Date: March 1, 2002

Series/sequel: Nope

Status: New, complete

Archive: Yes, thank you, Tricia <BG>

Other website: www.skeeter63.org/k9kennel

Disclaimer: Don’t we own them by now? Haven’t we been doing this longer than the show aired? Sure. Don’t I have them in my basement? Oh yeah.

Note: Thanks to TSL for the wonderful pressies! Thanks to Gersh for her friendship and Greenie, we’re with you, girl! JC? Love you.

Note - the sequel: Heard this song by Five for Fighting called *Superman (It’s not easy)* and it screamed you-know-who. If you haven’t heard it, buy it. Anyway, it inspired this bit of nonsense. Don’t blame Five for Fighting, they’re terrific!!!

Who the hell is this man? Jesus Christ, I’ve known him for three years—and I don’t know him. How is that possible?

Okay, I know a few things, sure. I know he’s afraid of heights - sometimes. I know the cold bothers him. I know he uses his hands and words and thus manages to weave stories and spells. I know he’s a flim-flam man, smoke and mirrors. I know he’s my equal.

I know he’s pushy and a push-over. A guy can spit in his face and he’ll turn the other cheek. Another guy can call him a hippie wannabe and he’ll try to extract the man’s heart through his throat. I know that he’ll go out of his way to drive around a snail in the road - yet use a Cree spear on a trout. Okay, maybe that one was unfair. He never speared anything but my big toe with that damn spear.

I know that he’s slept beneath me for three years and he mumbles in his sleep. Mostly nonsensical stuff that only the angels could decipher, but he sleeps with open hands.

Ah ha. You’re wondering where the hell that came from, aren’t you? Just something I read in one of his pseudo-pop psychology books. See, it’s like this: Type A personalities sleep with clenched hands. Now I would have pegged him as a definite Type A. Little did I know. He mumbles, sure, but he sleeps peacefully, rarely changes positions and his hands are as open as his face.

I don’t know where he was born. I don’t know what his deepest fears are, yet he knows mine. I don’t even know if he’s ever truly been in love, but I know he was close with Maya, but only close. I don’t know if anyone has ever really, truly broken his heart, but I know he breaks mine every day.

Does he like teaching? Beats me. Where did his interest in old cars come from anyway? Hell if I know.

I know he has heroes. Well, at least one: Orvelle Wallace. But were there others? Who was his favorite author when he was growing up? I know he stole a microscope once, but what other troubles did he get into?

And why didn’t I know about the piano?

Yeah, the piano. He has a guitar and he strummed it once, but I’ve never had the impression that he actually played anything, let alone the fucking piano. When the hell did he have time for lessons? And who taught him? And why?

So how do I know now? Because here we are, in my father’s home, and there Blair sits—at the piano. My mother’s piano.

Blair’s never been here, to my father’s house, 'til now. Dinner at the Ellison home, whoopee. Dad’s not home yet, my fault. My paranoia about time. Had to be early. Sally let us in, took our jackets, I introduced her to Blair and her eyes just shone. Haven’t figured that one out yet. Then we went into the family room. Not the living room—the family room.

Very little adorns it; a Lalique vase filled with lilies, two sterling silver framed photos, one of Steven, one of me, and that’s it. Blair took one look at it and gasped.

“Holy shit, Jim. Do you know what that is?” he said as he pointed at the piano.

“Gee, Chief, I think so,” I said dryly. “It’s been there as long as I can remember.”

His cheeks went pink and he ducked his head and said, “Oops.” Then he lifted his face up to me and grinned. “But do you really know? Do you play? Huh? Do you?”

EB. My code for Energizer Bunny. He hates it. I got the grimace I love and smile in return. “No, I don’t play. Steven does. Forced lessons from age 8 to high school.”

Blair walked over and ran his hand reverently over the smooth, dark, gleaming surface and I know I’d never seen his eyes shine quite so brightly. It hit me then.

“Sandburg? You play?”

His eyes never left the piano as he nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I do. A bit. Kind of. Lessons all over the world at weird times.” He turned to me and I could see the question burning a hole in his brain. I beat him to it.

I think—he held his breath. I watched him walk over and carefully, as if it were made of glass, pull the piano bench away a bit, then—he sat down.

“Oh, man, Jim. This is, this is—like—the pinnacle of pianos. Do you know what this is made of? Huh? Do you?”

He holds his hands out and lets them hover over the keys and I get this ridiculous notion that he’s about to do the Sandburg version of Chopsticks, that he’s been playing with me and doesn’t know an ebony from an ivory—but then—he starts playing.

I don’t know the music. It’s not a classical piece, nor any music I’ve ever heard, but I’m completely captivated. I walk over to the piano and find myself leaning against it, watching him play. I don’t think he knows I’m there.

The melody is almost bittersweet. It’s gentle, soft and simple, his playing: intricate. I feel as though I should know the song, know it intimately, but I don’t. I’ve never heard it in my life. I let it wash over me and through me and my senses seem more alive than they’ve ever been.

As I watch, I’m not in the least surprised to find that he plays with his whole body. But gently. His shoulders move with the melody, his head, with his fingers. Blair’s eyes are closed and there’s a small smile playing across his lips and at that moment, all the love I’ve stuffed down for three years threatens to break me apart.

He’s not bouncing. He’s—quiet and gentle with the keys, his fingers, perfect for the beauty of the instrument and the music. He’s different.

The song ends as softly as it started and I find I’m choked up. I clear my throat as he opens his eyes, then I cough, my fist against my mouth to muffle the sound.

He smiles and gets that embarrassed look again. “Oh, well, you’ve never heard it because—well—I wrote it. I was twenty, brokenhearted, but hopeful.”

“I know,” I say, my hands in the air, “You drove a truck cross country with your uncle.”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles, “that too. But later, well, piano bar. Great tips.”

“You and a piano bar? You kidding me?”

“Chief, don’t burst my bubble here, okay? I’m very impressed so please don’t tell me you sang Feelings. Just don’t tell me that.”

“Thank you God. So what did you sing?”

“Stuff. Romantic mostly. Some hot stuff to get the crowd going, but mostly—soft, mushy stuff.”

Dad still hasn’t arrived and the smell of Sally’s cooking has filled the house, but damn, I gotta hear him sing. I mean, that voice, as it is, has been my salvation more times than I can count, so I know this man has got to be able to sing.

“Do something for me? One of the songs you used to do? To sing?”

He starts to shake his head, then he sees my face, my eyes and he knows I’m serious.

“Okay, you asked for it. I didn’t sing this back then, but stuff—like it.”

I was right about his voice. It’s rich and smooth and flows over me and fills me in places I didn’t know I had.

My father walks in just as Blair is finishing and I turn as Blair lifts his hands from the keys.

Blair’s face is beet red and he quickly stands and carefully pulls down the lid. “Yes, sir, a bit. It’s a beautiful piano, Mr. Ellison.”

My father nods as if he created the thing, then says, “Smells like Sally’s roasted chicken with forty cloves of garlic.” He turns to Blair. “I hope you like garlic, young man.”

The dinner was fine, the chatter ordinary unless Blair was doing the talking, but my father didn’t let that happen much. We ate, we partook of a nice wine, then we retired to the living room where dad served up a nice brandy. When we’d all finished, well, that was the signal to say good-bye. I’m just not sure if it was my signal or dad’s.

Blair and I got up, got our jackets, Sally came out with a covered plate of left-overs, which she shyly handed to Blair. Then I shook my father’s hand and he said, “Good to see again, Jimmy. And Mr. Sandburg, glad you could come. The last time we met, well, not the best circumstances.”

We were walking out the door and dad was saying how he hoped there’d be more nights like this one and maybe next time, Steven would make it and it would be a real family get-together. Huh-uh.

I got the gate open for Sandburg, who had his hands full with the platter of chicken and probably apple pie and a few other goodies. I waved at dad, who was still standing on the porch and as I got the truck door open for Blair, dad finally went inside. The door shut and the porch light went out.

The ride home was quiet. Mostly my fault. I had the feeling that I’d missed something—something important.

When we got home, Blair put the food away, then walked into his room. He left the French doors open as he changed because he was talking the whole time. About dad, about the dinner, about how dad was really trying and that was a good thing. I listened, I changed, I locked up—and still, I knew I was missing something.

The words of the song that Blair sang, the way he sang it, haunt me, but don’t help me find what I’m missing—

The next two days go quickly, crime moves on, we stop a few bad guys. On Thursday, while Sandburg and I are in the cafeteria at the courthouse, where we’re due to testify that afternoon, I find out more about Blair and pianos. Over beef dips.

“So, how many years has it been since you played?”

He’s dipping a chunk of roll in beef juice and says without really thinking, “Well, other than a couple of jam sessions with Henri—three years.”

He nods as he chews. When he swallows, he says, “Explosion. Home goes boom. Ring a bell?”

He nods as he munches a fry. Food pushed to the corner of his mouth, he says, “Not anything like your dad’s, just a nice little Steinway.”

“Blair, I’m not only a detective, but in case you’ve forgotten,” I lean in close, “I’m also a you-know-what. I think if there’d been a piano in that place, I’d have seen it.”

“It was covered. Cold, big, drafty, remember? And there were books on it. Lots of books.”

I wrack my brain, try to picture that huge room and I do see something large, covered and littered with books. “Well, I’ll be damned. And it was destroyed in the explosion?”

For the first time, his face clouds over, his eyes going dark. “Yeah, yeah it was.”

Somehow I know the subject is closed. He immediately launches into the afternoon and Judge Knotts and whether either of us will be called on time.

Damn, did I just miss something again?

On Friday, Joel tells us all about a new club on the west side of Cascade. He talks us all into going and by seven, Sandburg and I are walking into the Blue Note. We’re both pleasantly surprised. It’s small, intimate and the lighting is very easy on the eyes.

Joel spots us and waves us over to a large table in the corner, next to the small stage. Conner and Rafe are there and Bob Williams has Rhonda on his arm. Simon is seated next to Conner, but I notice that Henri Brown is missing. I’m about to ask when the lights dim and five musicians walk on stage. Blair sits up and so do I. One of them is Brown.

Joel is beaming and we all start clapping like crazy and saying, “Joel, you so-and-so, why didn’t you tell us—“ but then the music starts.

Henri is good. He plays guitar and his band, The Stragglers, is pretty darn hot. The crowd gets behind them immediately. They play for forty minutes, then Henri steps up to the mike. He taps it, then grins that huge smile of his as he addresses everyone.

“Normally at this time, we’d launch into some songs with Ray over there singing,” he indicates the tall guy at the piano. “But he had two teeth pulled this afternoon and unless you all want to see a mouth full of cotton and guck, well, he ain’t gonna warble a note.”

There’s a chorus of, “Ahs” as the audience makes their sympathy and displeasure, known. Henri holds up his hand and says, “But, I happen to know a fine piano player in the audience. He sings and he didn’t have any teeth pulled today. Maybe we can get him up here.” Henri steps in front of the mike and motions in our direction.

“Blair, would help us out tonight?”

You could have knocked everyone at our table over with a feather—well, except me. I stood and clapped and in a few seconds, everyone else was encouraging him. He rolled his eyes, muttered something about *getting even*, but he got up.

As we sat down again, everyone was looking at me and I just shrugged happily and said, “Just wait. Just wait.”

Ray, the toothless pianist, got up and looking relieved, turned his piano over to Blair, who sat down. A microphone was set up and bent low so that Blair could sing into it.

“All right,” Henri said with a grin. “We’re ready to make you all feel good. Blair, you name it and we’ll follow along.”

Blair shook his head, rolled his eyes, then said into the microphone, “Well, there’s someone in the audience who has this favorite song, and, well, this is for you, Detective Ellison.”

The audience cracked up as Blair warbled it and Henri and his guys followed along. Then Blair kicked it up and got everyone to sing along. I stuck out my tongue at him.

When he was done, he got a huge hand, then he launched into some real music. For the next twenty minutes, romance, peace, love, humor and a silky, honey rich voice reigned.

At ten, Henri’s band was coming to the end of their set and he turned to Blair. “Last song, Hairboy. What’ll it be?”

Blair pulled out a hunk of hair and said to the audience, “Ain’t he quick with the nicknames?” Everyone laughed and clapped, then Blair said, “Well, I’m thinking—a special song for two people I know.”

He looked out into the audience and being a sentinel, I knew he was looking at me.

“These two people walk the same path, one with shorter strides than the other. They know so much about each other and so little. Sometimes, I think, one would like to walk a different path and doesn’t understand that the other would walk—any path chosen. So for them, this song.”

The lighting on the stage dimmed to nothing and at the first few notes on the piano, the lighting went solo on Blair. He started to sing and it was clear this was different. His voice changed, went softer and higher—and sad and rough.

I listened. I heard the words. I don’t think I blinked. It was dark in my corner, but I could see Simon’s eyes widen at the lyrics and he turned slightly and looked at me, then back to Blair.

“It may sound absurd, but don’t be naive, even heroes have the right to bleed. I may be disturbed, but won’t you concede—even heroes have the right to dream?”

I found what I’d been missing. I got the message. I really heard the words. Knew what they meant. It was a song about both of us - separately and together. Sentinel and his sidekick. Detective and his ride-a-long. Jim, William Ellison’s boy and Blair, Naomi’s son.

“I’m only a man in a silly red sheet, digging for Kryptonite on this one way street—only a man in a silly red sheet, looking for special things inside of me. It’s not easy—to be me.”

The last note of the piano faded away with Blair’s head bowed. For a moment, there was silence, then slowly people began to stand and applaud, including the band. And us. And me. I glanced over at Simon and he was—crying.

The applause grew and finally Blair lifted his head and he blinked, then came back to himself and grinned. He stood and joined Henri, who lightly cuffed his head, then gave him a huge hug. I’m the only one who heard Henri’s whisper.

“Who knew we had two supermen in Major Crime?”

Blair stepped down and rejoined us as the lights came back up and Henri and his group went backstage, their night of glory over. I pulled out Blair’s chair and he sat down, careful to avoid my gaze. He wasn’t sure about me, about whether I got it.

Everyone was talking at once, congratulating him, slapping him on the back and Simon sat, arms crossed, a silly grin on his face. A few minutes later Henri came out and took his spot at our table and as everyone turned their attention to him, I had my chance.

I casually dropped my arm over the back of Blair’s chair and after a moment, I settled my hand on the back of his neck. He was startled and looked at me from the corner of his eye. I gave him a smug, *cat eating the canary* grin and whispered, “Any path, huh?”

I have my hands over his eyes as I nudge him into the center of living room. I’ve planned this very carefully. I turn him so that he’s facing the dining room table and I drop my hands.

Candles. Flowers. The table is set for dinner. Champagne chills. We’ve been a couple for two weeks. I’ve decided to celebrate. With my hands on his arms, I turn him once last time.

“Love you, Blair,” I say as I nod to the southern corner of the room. He follows and his eyes widen.

“Are you kidding? With Naomi? The original flower child? Where do you think?”

The dweeb played Feelings. I swear, he is not going to see our third week anniversary.