Title:
You're Already Gone
Author/pseudonym:
alyjude
Email:
alyjude@webtv.net, or alyjude2001@yahoo.com
Pairing:
J/B
Rating:
PG
Category:
First time, episode related
Status:
Previously appeared in the zine, Senses of Wonder, which has timed out.
Date:
January 2, 2003
Disclaimer:
Torture me and I still won't disclaim Jim and Blair. But neither will I make any
money from them. A-l-t-h-o-u-g-h --- if I win the lottery...
Notes:
As mentioned, this first appeared in the zine, Senses of Wonder. Thank you to
the TSL crew and editors of the zine for their wonderful beta. I think I still
went dash crazy---
Each
segment of this story is set apart by lyrics from Matchbox 20's song, "If
You're Gone".
This
story takes place not long after Murder 101.
Warnings:
It's an alyjude monster, beware.
Summary: Jim thinks Blair is gone and he wants to get him back before he leaves.
You’re Already Gone
by alyjude
I think I’ve already
lost you - I think
you’re already gone -
Matchbox 20
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I should move.
It’s too quiet.
Too quiet? Now there’s
something I thought I’d never say. Can it ever be ‘too quiet’ when
you’re a sentinel? I don’t think there is any such thing as silence, let
alone ‘too quiet’. Even when tuned out, I’m subconsciously aware of every
noise. I catalogue every sound, store them, use them, or discard them. But there
is always sound.
Tonight there’s the very loud
sound of silence. Evidently I still
haven’t learned that a man who can hear a thousand miles away, must listen to
his own heart. Shouldn’t I have learned by now that I need to listen?
I need to hear even when Blair
isn’t talking.
He’s disturbed, unsettled, and
we haven’t touched each other in days. We haven’t really approached each
other or had a conversation that wasn’t forced, even when joking. I tried to
reach out today, to touch him. I tried to touch his arm and thus his heart. Or
his soul. But I only tried once. I knew instantly that it had been the wrong
move so I gave it up and just let my arm drop to my side.
Now, late at night, sounds
surround me. There’s the gentle faraway noises of my city, and the more
immediate noise of my building. I can hear the plumbing, the various creaks and
moans of brick, mortar, wood, glass and metal, and I can hear the more intimate
sounds of my partner.
I can hear his breathing, his
restless limbs, and the occasional mumbled nonsense that often dogs his sleep
when he’s troubled. If I really focus, I can hear his blood flowing and
sustaining life, his skin sliding against flannel sheets and his beard stubble
as it catches on the pillow case. I can hear his hair as it brushes his skin and
as it’s blown gently from his face by his breath. Hell, I can even hear his
fingers tightening on the sheet.
For all of these sounds, I’m
surrounded by silence.
Maybe that’s the real
definition of alone?
I’m alone in my home because of
the silence between us, a silence that stretches back over the weeks since
Sierra Verde and the days before his death. This silence stretches back over the
months since reading the introductory chapter of his dissertation.
Another more dangerous silence
stretches back over the years we’ve been friends and partners. The silence
that comes with words never said or explained, thoughts never expressed
completely, unfounded beliefs allowed to continue, and actions misconstrued. Not
that this partnership hasn’t seen the love of brothers unrelated by blood, or
the union, agreement and connection of said brothers, because it has. Hasn’t
it?
Isn’t it true that all couples,
friends, family and siblings fight? They have misunderstandings, right?
Right. Hell, Carolyn and I lived one great big misunderstanding. Neither
of us ever talked or listened. More importantly, neither of us really saw the
other. I think Blair and I see each other, but we don’t always seem to listen
at the same time.
What went wrong with us? Did my
anger take me out of the game? Are there issues I’m not seeing or hearing? Or
maybe ignoring?
Damn, I can’t sit here any
longer.
Standing, I glance behind me and
think maybe I could wake him—but I choose the balcony instead.
In opening the windows, the
sounds of my city are immediate. I suspect that if I could actually enter the
human body and race through the bloodstream, it would feel as my city sounds
now; the speed, the thrumming sound of life, the twists and turns....
I don’t try to separate out the
noise, instead choosing to let it slide over me as a single note. The air is
cool, but I’m comfortable. Leaning on the rail, I gaze out over my city and
manage to see nothing.
No, not nothing. I’m seeing the
past. Snippets and snapshots zip past my eyes and I see the past as it happened,
not as I imagined it. I can’t help but feel that this is an accomplishment.
I can see Blair’s face, really
see it that fateful day when he walked into his home only to find his belongings
strewn all over the floor, or piled haphazardly into boxes. I can see what I
refused to acknowledge at the time; I can see the hurt, the incredible, serrated
knife wound of deep hurt. An injury, that on that night, I couldn’t begin to
understand.
I realize now that when I packed
up his stuff, when I said the words telling him to have it all gone by the time
I’d returned, that I had betrayed him.
Betrayal. A word I have used
against him in both thought and deed. I accused him of betraying my trust with
his dissertation, and later with Alex.
I looked the word up in
Webster’s Dictionary earlier today.
Betray: 1. To be false or
disloyal to: betrayed their cause; betray one’s better nature. 2. To divulge
in a breach of confidence.
I read the words and was forced
to ask myself; has Blair Sandburg ever been false with me? Disloyal? Has he ever
betrayed our cause deliberately? The answer was simple: No.
Did he act naively? Most
assuredly. But the real crime in my eyes was that he appeared t put someone
ahead of me. Some*thing* ahead of me. But did he really? Has he ever actually
put anything or anyone ahead of me in three years?
Resting my elbows on the railing,
I drop my head into my hands because the answer is the same now as it was
earlier today.
He hasn’t. He talks a good
game, but when it comes down to action or words, Blair Sandburg’s actions
speak much louder. I should have listened.
I came to another truth today, or
rather, accepted a truth that had been hanging around awhile. It seems that I
love Blair Sandburg more than anything in this world or any other.
Unfortunately, another truth
popped up at the same time; I’m so afraid of that love that it’s maybe—
killing me.
Us. Killing us.
Shit, why didn’t anyone ever
tell me you could love like this? Love is supposed to be so fucking normal.
You love, you have sex, you share, you have bad breath together, you
laugh at inane jokes, you play farting games, you sneak up on them in the
shower, you talk politics while they’re going to the bathroom, you steal more
than your fair share of the blanket, and when you go shopping, you remember to
buy that special jar of pickles they love so much. That’s love.
So when did it get so fucking
complicated?
When did it become so much more?
When did it become about fear and protection? When did I start worrying about
protecting me and keeping myself safe?
Is that it? The root of all evil?
I really, really, really, fucking
hate fear-based responses. But I think I know something that wise Mr.
Sandburg doesn’t: Every response is basically fear-based. For everyone.
I guess mine just gets us into more trouble than most. But then, is that so hard
to understand? I hear better than most—okay, better than all. I see farther,
can feel and smell more—so is it any wonder that every response I have is
equally heightened?
A fear-based response of
Sandburg’s is a blip on the radar scope of life, mine measure 8.2 on the
Richter scale.
God, I’m doing it again,
aren’t I?
Here I am alone, in the middle of
the night, and having a wonderfully truthful conversation with myself when I
should be having it with Sandburg. Hell, we’d probably be in each others arms
by now, you know? And wouldn’t everything make more sense then?
Blair always says I think better
with him around. He knows this about me—about us. Why couldn’t I know it?
What did I say to him when he
first told me that I think better with him around? Oh, yeah—“Bit of an ego
there, have we, Sandburg?”
Yeah, I’m a piece of work all
right. I know damn well that he just knows me.
Suddenly I look up and bark out a
laugh because the idea of thinking straight in Blair’s arms is incredibly
funny. Think straight, get it? In Blair’s arms? A man’s arms?
Heh, I’m a card.
I glance over my shoulder and
think it’s time Blair and I talked. I need this silence to, if not end, at
least quiet down to a livable roar. I need Blair— now.
It’s not far, the walk to his
room, yet it seems to take forever.
I can see him through the glass
and I understand that I’m looking at my life all tangled up in yellow sheets,
bare-assed, hair in his mouth, fingers clenching and unclenching—but
still—my life.
My life.
I can feel the heat of tears in
my burning eyes. It’s time to move or l’ll lose him. He’s half way out the
door now.
I step inside and walk to the
bed. Placing one shaking hand on his shoulder, I’m reassured by his warmth,
the warmth of my life.
“Chief?” I whisper softly.
“Wake up, I need you.”
I think you’re already
leaving, it’s like your
hand is on the door -
Matchbox 20
I watch as he mumbles, shakes his
head, and shrugs the shoulder holding up my hand.
“Blair? Come on, buddy.” I
give his shoulder another shake and his eyes open, he blinks and I hand him his
glasses.
“I need you, Chief. Would you
get up and join me in the living room?”
Blair Sandburg can wake up faster
than anyone I’ve ever known, even my fellow soldiers. He’s nodding, moving,
and throwing off the sheet. With a worried glance tossed in my direction, he
takes the robe I hold out. Yawning, he slips into it and follows me out.
How does he know not to
ask?
I go straight to the balcony,
Blair shuffling behind me. As I again lean on the railing, he remains behind me,
waiting.
I gaze at the stars above us
while he waits. The sky is huge and the city lights don’t overshadow the stars
for me, a sentinel. Friends have told me that seeing the sky full of stars makes
them feel small and insignificant, but I’ve never felt that way. When I look
up and see the amazing array of our heavens, I always feel a part of them
instead of a freak.
Suddenly I need to know the night
sky affects Sandburg.
“Chief, when we’re up in the
mountains and you can see every star in the solar system, how does that make you
feel?”
If he’s puzzled by my question,
he doesn’t show it.
“Huge. It makes me feel—huge.
And don’t laugh, but it makes me feel one with the universe.”
I can hear the smile in his voice
when he says that last part and I smile in return.
“Always made me feel like I belonged. Guess we’re saying the view
makes us both feel the same, eh?”
“Yeah, Jim. Sounds like.”
“Most people feel small and
even overwhelmed. But not us.”
“No, Jim. Not us.”
I look down at the street below,
at Prospect, and I’m suddenly struck by the name of the street I’ve lived on
for almost nine years.
Prospect.
How prophetic is that?
When I moved in, my prospects
seemed pretty dim but I was oddly hopeful. It was if I were a prospector panning
for gold and praying for the Mother Lode.
“I picked a nifty street to
live on, you know?”
I can hear Sandburg shift behind
me, then he says, ”I thought so when I first came over, remember?”
Well, hot damn. He’s right.
//Jim opened his front door and
stepped aside, allowing his guest to enter. Sandburg jogged in, his usual energy
going at full tilt, but Jim was used to it now, thanks to the two weeks of
working with the anthropologist. Jim had learned that the man was one great big
generator.
“Man, this place is so cool,
Jim.”
“It’s an apartment,
Sandburg.”
“No, no, man, it’s way
more.”
“Whatever, Chief.”
Blair turned around and took in
the place Jim Ellison called home. He wasn’t altogether surprised to find it
large, airy and roomy—just what a sentinel needed. The whole atmosphere was of
peace and quiet. Even the idea of a loft bedroom seemed appropriate.
A guardian perched high above his
domain.
He turned and smiled up at his
discovery. “You know, even the name of the street seems somewhat appropriate,
if you think about it.”
“Sandburg, you are one strange
man. Just how is Prospect appropriate?”
Smiling cheekily, and not a
little mysteriously, he answered, “Some day you’ll figure it out, man. But
in the meantime, you need to add color. Warm color. This white is nice and it
enlarges the room, but for you, no. Your eyes need rest and a soothing
background. You need visual peace, you know? Where’s the bathroom?”
“Behind you. Sorry.”
“I don’t need it, Jim, but I do
need to see what cleaning products you use. You know, like aftershave, shampoo,
that kind of stuff.”
Jim frowned and started to shake
his head, to stop the stranger he’d entrusted his life to, but Bair
interrupted.
“Jim, Jim, Jim, aren’t you
the one complaining about your skin? The rashes? The itching? Geez. Let me do my
thing and stop worrying.” Then he grinned and added, “Just think of the
prospects, man, think of the prospects.” The next hour gave Jim Ellison his
first real clue into just what Anthropologist and ‘Doctor in all but his
dissertation’ Blair Sandburg could actually do for him. As Blair moved through
his home in a manner that not even his ex-wife had done, he took copious notes,
chattered endlessly as he directed Jim in the products that would be safe and
the foods that would be healthy and easily digestible. He went on with
suggestions for both clothing, sheets and towels.
Jim, mental calculator spinning,
decided that this sentinel thing could be expensive. And no way was he giving up
his Wonderburgers or Mr. Tube Steak.
And maybe, just maybe—his
prospects were looking
up.//
“I was kind of a jerk back
then, wasn’t I, Jim?” Blair suddenly says.
Shaking my head at the fact that
both of us have spent the last couple of minutes reliving some of our past, I
say, “No, no you weren’t. You were a lifesaver.”
I can hear the smile in his voice
again as he says, “What flavor?”
My own smile is a twin to his.
“Butter Rum.”
“Mmm, my favorite.”
“Mine too, Chief.”
I finally turn and face him.
Resting my back against the rail, elbows braced on the cold metal, I say,
“I’m sorry about everything.”
If he’s surprised about such a
confession in the dead of night, he’s hiding it well as he says simply, “So
am I, Jim.”
I couldn’t help but notice that
he still isn’t moving onto the balcony, choosing instead to remain in the
doorway. He gazes past me and says quietly, “I sometimes forget that I need to
talk as much as I think you do. So, let me start, okay?”
This isn’t how I planned this
talk and somehow, I understand that if I let him start—I’ll lose him.
“Blair, this time, let me.
Please?”
His eyes narrow and I can see him
start to protest, but something about me stops him. “All right, Jim. Go
ahead.”
A small bit of tension eases out
of me and I grin.
“Thanks, Chief.”
But where to begin?
The beginning.
“Blair, I think I sometimes
look over your head.”
A small smile plays around his
lips and he can’t hold back the obvious comeback. “Jim, you always
look over my head. You’re almost a head taller.”
I let him have the moment, then
say, “I suspect you know what I’m really saying, Chief.”
“Okay,” he agrees, then
waits, uncertain.
I can see his fear now, hell, I
can smell it, so I say, “I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“You woke me in the middle of
the night to say this?”
“Evidently.”
He shrugs. “Okay. I get it.”
“You don’t get it all. There
was no betrayal of trust, unless you count mine, and you should count it.”
“Jim, if we’re really going
to talk, and apparently we are, maybe—inside?”
“I think I need the night air,
Chief. The openess, you know?”
“All right. So we’re talking
about the whole Alex thing, right?”
“We’re talking about three
years, Chief. We’re talking about love.”
That did it. He steps out onto
the balcony. His body is nearly thrumming with whatever he’s feeling, and the
way he’s looking at me—I think I’m thrumming.
“Love?” he asks
incredulously.
“Love,” I answer simply.
“As in I love you.”
“Love? You love me? You’re
finally saying it?”
“Yeah, I’m finally saying
it.”
“I’ve been suspended.” He
tosses it out like a live grenade.
How did we go from love to
suspension? What should I say?
“Suspended?” I finally
choose, stupidly. “Yeah. The only
thing Chancellor Edwards and I worked out was that if I turn in my completed
dissertation by next Tuesday, I won’t get completely tossed out on my ass.
She’s pretty ticked. Ventriss withdrew hundreds of thousands of dollars from
the university, so no new buildings.”
“I—see.”
I tell the man that I love him
and he throws the dissertation into my face? Jesus.
“That’s one reason I
haven’t been at the station much, and why I’m a bit—tired. Burning the
candle, the midnight oil, the morning oil, you name it. And of course, no money
coming in. But I’ll make the deadline.”
He says it almost - defiantly.
The bastard.
I haven’t a clue what to say.
What to do.
“You know, it’s kind of funny
really.” He goes on, apparently uaware of my confusion and hurt. “I tried to
fight her, you know? Mentioned the drowning, how it happened right under the
nose of campus security, thought I’d frighten her off. But no. She said I died
because of my other work and wasn’t that the whole problem? I thought that was
really funny.”
I could only stare at him. Who
was this man?
“I guess you don’t think it
was funny, eh, Jim?”
“Are you insane, Sandburg?”
“Probably. My shrink says if I
don’t talk about it, I may very well go around the bend. Of ccourse, she
didn’t use those words—exactly. Her terminology was more - medical.”
“Shrink? Shrink?”
“Well, yeah. Hey, man, I died.
A person has to kind of talk about something like that, you know? To someone.”
Numb, I say flatly,”You’re
seeing a shrink.”
“Umm. Two days a week. Not like
that’s new territory for me, you know.”
Suddenly inside is good. I push
past him and after he follows, I shut the windows.
Everything is too loud.
Too—real.
Maybe silence is golden after
all.
I think you’re so mean,
I think we should try...
Matchbox 20
As I moved to the kitchen, Blair
spoke behind me, his voice chilling in its coldness.
“My shrink keeps pushing the
whole honesty thing and I’m paying seventy-five bucks an hour for her to be
right, so maybe I should add an addendum to my remarks about my dissertation.
You see, I’ve already beat the deadline, Jim. I submitted today.”
No grenade this time—just your
basic H-bomb.
I froze—then decided beer
wasn’t going to cut it. I turned left, opened the cupboard over the sink, and
took down an old bottle of Johnnie Walker. This was going to take something a
great deal stronger than beer. As I twisted the cap off, I said dryly, “Did we
forget our little agreement? That I was to read the damn thing before you
submitted?”
“No, we didn’t. But
then, hell, it’s my fucking dissertation, you know?”
It’s possible that I’ve been
living with Bela Lugosi all these years. I have never heard any
voice sound as emotionless, uncaring or as cold as Blair Sandburg’s right now.
Guess who can sound just as cold?
“It’s your fucking
dissertation, but it’s about my fucking life, Sandburg. So unless
you’ve found some way to hide my identity, not that it would matter, because I
know it’s me, and based on your introductory chapter, I’m thinking I’m
screwed.”
I keep pouring and swallowing,
pouring and swallowing. Behind me,
nothing. He’s there, but apparently has no response. I pour a third time and
turn to rest my back against the counter. He’s just standing and staring. I
start to take another swallow, but something stops me.
I realize it’s the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s
standing. The anger in him is gone.
“Why is it you always manage to
jump to the worst possible conclusions where I’m concerned? You can’t seem
to help thinking the worse about me. You refuse year after year to see me, know
me, or hear me.”
He moves to his bedroom then, and
as he shuts the door on me, I can hear his final words.
“You’re still looking over my
head, Jim.”
I think you’re so mean,
I think we should try...
Matchbox
20
As I move to the kitchen, Blair
speaks behind me, his voice chilling in its coldness.
“My shrink keeps pushing the
whole honesty thing and I’m paying seventy-five bucks an hour for her to be
right, so maybe I should add an addendum to my remarks about my dissertation.
You see, I’ve already beat the deadline, Jim. I submitted today.”
No grenade this time—just your
basic H-bomb.
I freeze—then decide beer
isn’t going to cut it. I turn left, open the cupboard over the sink, and take
down an old bottle of Johnnie Walker. This was going to take something a great
deal stronger than beer. As I twist the cap off, I say dryly, “Did we forget
our little agreement? That I was to read the damn thing before you submitted?”
“No, we didn’t. But then,
hell, it’s my fucking dissertation, you know?”
It’s possible that I’ve been
living with Bela Lugosi all these years. I have never heard any voice sound as
emotionless, uncaring or cold as Blair Sandburg’s right now.
“It’s your fucking
dissertation, but it’s about my fucking life, Sandburg. So unless you’ve
found some way to hide my identity, not that it would matter, because I know
it’s me, and based on your introductory chapter, I’m thinking I’m
screwed.”
I keep pouring and swallowing,
pouring and swallowing. Behind me,
nothing. He’s there, but apparently has no response. I pour a third time and
turned to rest my back against the counter. He’s just standing and
staring—at me. I start to take another swallow, but something stops me. I
realize it’s the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s standing. The anger
in him is gone.
“You must really love me, Jim.
More than anything. Because you
always manage to jump to the worst possible conclusions where I’m concerned.
You can’t seem to help thinking the worse about me. You refuse year after year
to see me, to know me, to hear me.”
He moves to his bedroom then, and
as he shuts the door on me, I can hear his final words.
“You’re still looking over my
head, Jim.”
There’s an awful lot
of breathing room, but
I can hardly move -
Matchbox
20
Well, what do you know? I’m
alone again and the silence is threatening to deafen me. Gee.
As I move to the couch and sit
down, legs stretched out and glass in my hand, I tick off the last few minutes
as they happened.
One: I tell Sandburg I’m not
going to look over his head anymore.
Two: I tell Sandburg that I love
him.
Three: He tells me he’s been
suspended and that he’s seeing a shrink.
Four: He’s submitted his
dissertation. Without letting me see it.
Now he’s in his room and wow,
I’m out here, and he says I’m still looking over his head.
Like - how? Like - how did this
get to be my fault? Did we or did
we not have an agreement? I would read it, we would discuss it, he would make
the changes and voila, everyone would be happy.
Right.
He’s not asleep. He’s not
even lying down. I can tell -- I’m a sentinel, you know.
I need another drink.
Suddenly, I can’t move.
God, when did this place become
so small?
I bet you’re hard to
get over, I bet the
moon just won’t shine
Matchbox
20
So this is it. He’s still
here—but gone. Matter of time before he’s walking out the door, never to be
seen or heard of again.
No more Blair Sandburg.
Blair. Five letters. James. Five
letters.
Have you wondered about his name?
Blair? Why on earth did Naomi name him Blair? I mean, think about it.
Sandburg.
Mark Sandburg.
Keith Sandburg.
Jacob Sandburg.
Michael Sandburg.
So many possibilities, but the
woman chooses Blair.
I could have called him Mike.
“Mike, you stay in the
truck.” Or, “Hey, Keith, call for back-up.”
No, that does not work.
Okay, how ‘bout, “Hey, Jake,
call for back-up.”
Better.
“Mark, need any help with
that?”
That works too. But Blair?
On the other hand—he is
indisputably a—Blair. He is Blair. Blair is perfect for him.
Blair Sandburg. Rolls off the
tongue, doesn’t it? And I think I’m drunk.
But even drunk, I can say it -
Blair Sandburg.
I should tell Conner that I
really, really, really hate when she calls him Sandy. He is NOT a Sandy.
Witness if you will: “Hey,
Sandy, call for back-up.”
Jeez.
Mark Keith Jacob Michael Sandy
Blair Sandburg is gone -- whatever the hell his name is - he’s gone.
Here, but gone. Soon to be a
distant memory.
“Blair,” I whisper,
“you’ll never be a distant memory to me.”
I think I’m just scared,
that I know too much, I
can’t relate and that’s
the
problem - Matchbox 20
I can’t believe he submitted
his dissertation. Why would he do that?
Suddenly the glass in my hand
shatters silently. I look down and see the pieces as they fly and fall, as the
remaining liquid spills over my hand, and I’m amazed because there’s no
blood. I look down, then back up to my palm.
Truth swims up toward me, as if
written on my hand....
He didn’t do it. No, he did,
but not that dissertation.
Damn it, he was right. I was
looking over his head again.
Like some kind of robot, I stand,
walk into the kitchen, get the dust pan and broom, also the sponge and paper
towels. Gotta clean up, you know?
As I sweep, pick up pieces, wipe
and sop up—I realize there’s too much to process. He was telling me so much,
but once again I couldn’t hear or wouldn’t hear.
The bastard tricked me.
“YOU BASTARD!” I yell out.
“YOU TURNED IN A DISSERTATION, BUT WHICH ONE?”
Leaving the mess, I stride over
to the French doors but pause inches away and rest my head against the glass.
God.
“I’m a stubborn son of a
bitch, Chief.”
I knock my head against the glass
- once - twice, and suddenly remember that I was stubborn about these fucking
doors once too....
//The Jags were losing and Jim
thought about shutting the damn thing off and maybe reading. He could hear his
roommate in his room, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop, so he tilted
his head, and without an ounce of shame, listened in....
“...fuck, I can’t believe
you’re saying this, you asshole....”
Jim grinned. Email. Sandburg was
undoubtedly emailing some buddy who was half way around the world and he
wasn’t agreeing with a word Sandburg was saying.
“...geez, you have a college
education, where do you come up with this stuff? And when did you become a
Republican and not tell me?”
Jim grinned. Sometimes his only
joy was listening in on Sandburg. His private vice. But God, the man was
hilarious. He could talk a meanstreak even when alone.
And his mumblings? Priceless. As roommates went, well, he was actually
better than Carolyn and Jim had been married to her.
He heard the loud “fuck” and
knew by the accompanying sounds that Sandburg was logging off. A few minutes
later, said roomie bounded into the living room, jumped over the back of the
couch and came to rest next to Jim.
“We’re losing, Chief. The
Jags have decided to play tiddlywinks on the court instead of Bball.”
“Well, fuck. I had ten bucks
riding on this game.”
“Sandburg, is that something
you really want to tell your roommate, the cop?”
“Come on, Jim, don’t tell me
you never make little bets with the guys? Or join the Superbowl pool?”
They were three weeks past the
“one week, man, just one week” and Jim didn’t miss the “my room” part
of the sentence.
He turned his head away from the
television and looked at his partner.
“Door?”
“Yeah, a door. Those are the
things that have shiny gold knobs and open and close? They were invented by
Rocco, an early Neolithic caveman who desired privacy when he was jacking off in
his half of the cave he called home.”
Jim squinted, narrowing his focus
as he regarded the weird man sitting next to him. It was probably true.
Helplessly, he shook his head in bewilderment.
“We could go looking tomorrow,
you’re day off. I have no classes and while I do have umpteen papers to read
or do or submit,” he waved one hand expansively, “I can burn a little
midnight oil to catch up.”
He smiled the brilliant Sandburg
200 watt smile and gave his eyebrows a little waggle. “So, whaddya say,
Jim?”
What he said didn’t match what
he thought at all,
The curtain remained up for
another five weeks. Jim procrastinated. Jim covertly peeked. Jim dawdled, Jim
made excuses, Jim continued to peek right up until the unusual case of a peeping
Tom was dumped into their laps. A peeping Tom who’d gone violent.
The afternoon after he and
Sandburg had caugh the guy, Jim went to their local home improvement store and
bought doors. But not a door. No, he wasn’t willing to go that far. He bought
French doors. Glass panes, you know.
By the time Sandburg got home
from the University, they were up.
The look on Sandburg’s face had
been worth the extra
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you’re gone, hell,
baby, you need to come
home - Matchbox 20
Okay, so maybe stubborn wasn’t
the right word. I had a very good reason for stalling. The curtain moved with
Sandburg. And - and - it was easier to see him, to feel him.
“Chief?” I whisper against
the cool glass. “Wanna know why it took me five weeks to get these doors?”
His quiet “why?” was all I
needed.
“Because the curtain moved with
you. You used to pace all the time and the damn thing moved softly, billowed
lightly, fluffed out and it was - you.”
I wait and finally hear the bed
creak as Blair stands up. But he doesn’t approach the door.
“Please, Blair, let me in. I
get it now.”
I close my eyes and hold my
breath.
“If I open the door right
now—you’ll fall in.”
I open my eyes and smile -
because he’s right there - his face below mine, blue eyes gazing up at me. I
step back, he opens one of the doors, and I move in.
I immediately draw in a sharp
breath, one filled with Blair Sandburg. Of Chief. Of Darwin. Of Sandy. Of
Sandburg. Of - Blair.
“You didn’t turn in the
sentinel dissertation, did you?”
“No, Jim, I didn’t.”
“I guess you could say it’s
kind of the whole *Thin Blue Line* thing. It’s called ‘Societies
Guardians’. It’s about you,
Simon, Joel, Rafe and Henri....”
“I get it. The Closed Society
thing.”
“Sort of. But more about how
society closes itself off from the very people who guard them. I changed my
subject three days after we got back from Sierra Verde.”
“Yes, Jim, I’m really
suspended.”
Amazingly enough, we’re still
standing just inside his room. In spite of our words, and what I’m learning,
I’m acutely aware of him. He has nothing on under the thin molded-to-his-body
robe, and while I’ve seen this before—I let it register this time. Last
time, Conner was sharing kitchen space with us.
He rubs at the back of his neck
and says tiredly, “It didn’t seem to matter to anyone but me, Jim. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Chief.”
He looks up then and grins. The
first true smile I’ve seen in weeks. “Too many sorrys here, Jim. And they
don’t really seem to get us anywhere, do they?”
“I love you, Blair. And I’m
thinking that if we pierce my nose and you run a string through the ring, then
whenever I’m about to look over your head, you could tug on the string....”
He’s frowning at me. He looks
cute. Those little ridges between his nose and the way that pug nose squiggles
up....
“*I* think, Jim, we pierce
something else. Then when I tug, you’re sure to look down.”
I know my eyes just popped open.
Then I grin. “Aw, Chief, you’ve been leading me around by my dick for years
and it hasn’t worked. No, I say we go with the nose.”
“Okay. Tomorrow. I know a great
place on Emerson; The Screwed Tattoo. Very clean. After the piercing, maybe we
get some kind of reminder permanently affixed to your body. Something like:
‘Blair Sandburg is a Saint’. That should fit across that broad chest of
yours.”
“How ‘bout just ‘Saint
Blair’ across my ass? Saint on my left ass cheek and Blair on the right?”
“Hey, that works too.”
There’s a little
something in me in
everything in you
Matchbox 20
I’m not sure why, but instead
of ending up on the couch in the living room, we end up sitting side by side on
his bed. As we sit, shoulders just touching, I gaze about his room and marvel.
It’s - home. Homey. It’s him.
“I guess we’d - better -
talk, uh, Jim?” I tear my eyes from the drawing on the wall across from the
bed and ask, “Where did you get that?”
Blair’s eyes follow mine and he
smiles. “You remember Susan? The artist I was dating last year?”
Blair drops his head down and
starts picking at a hangnail. “Well, uh... she was... making a point, kind
of.”
I look back at the picture, then
back at him, then one more glance at the drawing. Well, hell. Susan knew?
Susan knew? It was so obvious that as a parting gift, she gave that
drawing to my partner?
I stand and walk the two steps
that take me to the wall, to the framed gift. My eyes are drawn to Susan’s
name, which is printed in the bottom right corner, then up to the two figures
she’s sketched.
It would seem that the two people
in the pencil drawing are men. No boobs. I tend to pick up on those types of
things. Of course, no dicks either, but their positioning kind of precludes
showing dicks.
The men appear to be
free-floating, nothing apparently holding the larger figure up, but he does
appear to be seated on something, and it’s clear that he’s holding the
shorter figure on his lap. But if one looks at it differently, the shorter man
could be bracing the taller. Their arms are wound around each other and
they’re kissing. Somehow, Susan has captured all the love, sensuality, and
neediness in the simple way they hold each other, and the way their lips meet.
And yes, in the way each is bracing the other for this most intimate act.
My heart constricts and Blair is
seeing a shrink and I have to keep him here and I want those two men to be us
and I want to be everything to the man behind me.
But I don’t say any of that.
“You’re angry, aren’t you,
Chief?”
“Angry, Jim? How did we go from
Susan to anger?”
“Just answer.”
“No, not really angry. I think
I passed angry a while back. I know what world I live in, what world you live
in, but I kind of forgot. I started to expect, and thus need, too much.”
I tear my eyes from the picture
and face him.
“Explain.”
He’s picking at that hang nail
again as he says, “Look, this is complicated, Jim. And believe me when I say
that it’s more than you need to know about me, not to mention more than you
want to know.”
“There’s nothing about you
that I don’t need or want to know, Chief.”
His eyes bore into mine and I can
see he’s surprised by my words. Stunned actually. I hurry on, capitalizing on
his shock. “Please,” I beg, “Blair, tell me.”
I pray my words are enough.
He waits a heartbeat, but finally
says, “I never - needed, Jim. Do you understand? And in turn, I was never
really needed by anyone, seriously speaking. But in the last three years, damn
it, I’ve needed. I found myself needing validation from you, Simon, from - all
of you. Hell, even from my mother. And
I wanted to belong.
“When I died, I guess I needed
so much and it wasn’t there and I was so fucking angry and everything went to
hell so fast, Jim, and I couldn’t keep up and damn, I know that doesn’t make
sense but I never needed before and I’d talked myself into believing that you
needed me, that Major Crime needed me, hell, that even Simon needed me, and
finding out that as usual, I was wrong and back to square one, well, I kind of
freaked. I needed to talk, but no
one wanted to because, well, not their fault really. After all, they hadn’t,
like, died, you know?”
I am always amazed at how he can
do the whole *ramble on* thing. I know that when I’m listening to his rambles,
every word is important, every word the real thing, and I have to listen,
because if I don’t, well, what I miss could be vital. I didn’t miss a thing
this time, not one word, not one between-the-lines word.
He needs me. Blair Sandburg needs
me.
“Well, I do need you,” I
finally respond.
Blair isn’t swallowing it.
He’s shaking his head. “No, you don’t, Jim. But I’m starting to think
you want me. Which is cool. But you
don’t - won’t - ever need me, or anyone. You’ve made that pretty clear
over the years.”
“And you believed me? You, with
a minor in psych? You believed my
ramblings? My protestations of macho oneness?”
One eyebrow quirks delightfully
as he gives me my favorite lopsided grin. “Macho oneness?”
“Well, sure.” I sit back down
beside him and surprise him even more by taking his hand. “You know me,
Sandburg. Come on, already. Lone Wolf Ellison, full of testosterone? Get real.
I’m a pussy cat.”
I love it when I turn his whole
world upside down by doing something that destroys his perception of me. Of
course, this is the first time I’ve done that, but I love it. I’m especially
fond of the expression on his face right now.
“If I said that I was ready to
take that trip with you now, what would you say?”
God, I’m smart. Go back to your
biggest single mistake and undo it. Well, okay, that would mean going back to
not kissing Alex but it’s too late for that, so I’m choosing the second
biggest mistake.
O-kay. I wasn’t ready for that.
Let’s start over.
“You know, The trip. The one
where the water’s fine.
That trip.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass. We’ve
been on that trip for three years.”
Judging by the expression on his
face right now, I must look like a total idiot. “Wh-at a- about the merge?”
I manage to sputter out incredulously.
“Sandburg, we fucking merged.
Became one, then I as much as told you no fucking way. Well, now, I’m
rescinding. Now it’s way.”
“Jim, didn’t I just say that
you wanted me? I know that.”
Does this man have a fucking
brain? I need to dazzle him with my verbal footwork. This could be a disaster.
“Sandburg, you’re cute and
all, and yeah, I want you in that way, but if that was all I wanted or needed,
well, we’d have already done it.”
That footwork was so fast, I
missed it. But he’s staring at me again and in a good way.
“So you’ve been waiting -
why?” He gives me that little head wiggle of his when he says, “why” and I
nearly succumb right then and there, but this is about more than sex, about more
than wanting him physically. I have to make him see that.
“Damned if I know.”
There, that should convince him.
“Jim, what the fuck are you
trying, so lamely, to say?”
Lame? Me? I’ll show him.
“I’m trying to say that when
I saw you floating face down in that fountain, I nearly died. The world went
black, I couldn’t breathe, and there was no heartbeat to center me. I pulled
you out, but you were so damn cold and your face was pale and your lips were
blue and your hair, ah, God, your hair....”
I shut my eyes at the memory and
my face is hot and so are the tears....
“It was spread out on the grass
and I had this stupid thought that I’d never find another excuse to touch it -
to touch you. We started mouth-to-mouth and it wasn’t working and Simon was
crying and GOD DAMN IT, YOU WOULDN’T MOVE OR BREATHE!”
I’m shaking him now, my voice
loud and I can’t stop it....
“I was dead, Jim.”
That stops me cold. It could have
acted as a dam, stopped the flow of emotion from the great stoic James Ellison,
but it worked to the opposite. My body is shaking as I ask him, “Why did you
let her kill you, Chief? Why did you have to die? You weren’t supposed to die,
don’t you see?”
“I came back, Jim, and I
don’t know why I let her kill me. Hell, I don’t even know why she wanted to.
It makes absolutely no sense. You knew about her, Simon knew about her,
how could killing me stop that? It
makes no sense.”
He was right - it didn’t. There
was no earthly reason for her to kill my partner. Except - would I have been
able to - would I have been strong enough without him?
“I guess those are questions to
which we’ll never have answers, Jim. And it doesn’t really matter - now.”
“Well, I need answers. You did
let her, didn’t you? There were no signs of a struggle, Blair. How did she get
you into that fountain?”
Blair suddenly stands and walks
to the back door, then turns and walks to his nightstand. He’s staring at the
window over his bed. “It doesn’t really matter, Jim.
It’s over, I came back and here we are.”
I’m up in a flash and behind
him, my hands on his shoulders, fingers tightening. “It damn well does matter,
Sandburg. I want an answer to this one. We may not get answers to all our
questions, but fuck, you can give me this one. Why. Did. You. Let. Her?”
He pulls away, forcing my hands
to fall uselessly to my side as he turns and faces me, eyes flashing. “Why
not?” he asks me, his voice painfully quiet. “I
had nothing at that moment, Jim.”
He goes on, his words ripping me
to shreds.
“Why shouldn’t I let her? It
solved a whole lot of shit for me, you know?”
Has the entire last three years
been leading up to this horrific moment? As I stare at those beautiful blue
eyes, as my gaze roams over the face I know as well as my own, I feel a coldness
inside and wonder if this is it. Is there any chance for us? Can I bridge this?
Anger burns in my gut and I can
feel my face harden into Ellison granite as I hiss out, “God damn you to hell,
Sandburg.”
He smiles wryly at me and says,
”I’ve been there for awhile, Jim.”
He’s so close to me, I can feel
his heat, sweat, fear and his hopelessness.
I have to reach out and touch it,
then somehow dispel it.
I place my hand on his neck, let
my fingers curl around it, stroke his skin, my thumb rubbing over his pulse -
his beautiful, full of life pulse.
“Let me carry you for awhile,
Blair. Give me a chance because if you don’t, we both stay in this hell.
Breathe again, just once more, but this time, for me and yourself. For us.”
“You don’t know what you’re
asking, Jim.”
“Yes I do. I’m asking for one
more leap of faith. Just one more. For the guppy.”
I can see the tears in his eyes
and he’s blinking them back, but I also see the beginnings of a smile.
I shrug my shoulders and smile
back. “What can I say?
God damn it, we’re both crying.
We’ll never live this down, but then, who’s gonna tell?
Haltingly, he moves into my space
and the hand I have on his neck moves into his hair. His chest is against mine,
his breath coming fast. I swear this is too painful, too real, too - great. As
my other arm goes around his waist, it’s all I ever wanted.
He’s plastered against me, his
face buried in my shoulder, this crazy man, this beautiful man and he’s mine,
and I’m his, and we’ve both - finally - surrendered.
It’s been a long time coming.
His head comes up and our lips
meet, part, and it’s so sweet, so complete, and damn, he’s - aggressive.
Who’s in charge here, anyhow?
We move and our legs hit the bed
and we’re going down and this is the last place that I thought it would
happen, but this is where it’s going to happen. For a sentinel in love, it
couldn’t be better - I’m surrounded by him.
I lift my lips from his neck and
say, “I love you, Blair.”
“I’m back, Jim and I love you
too.”
“You’ll stay?”
“Never leave.”
As I move down his body, I find
myself whispering over and over again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you....”
I know there is more to talk
about - but for now, this is enough, because he’s here.