Author's disclaimer: The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. If you do, you'll get $12.00 in cash, my sympathies for your being so anal-retentive, and two dogs, Teddy Bear, the spawn of hell, and his sister, BooBoo Bear, the big old donkey girl.
Author's notes: SEEING AND HEARING WITH THE HEART was written for Cenlyn, my very own auction winner. I tried to include as many things on her "Wish List" as possible. (Thanks for requesting a 'first-timer.' Hands down, it's my favorite type of Jim and Blair story.)
// // Indicates Blair Sandburg's words heard by Jim Ellison.
Funny. How one little decision can change your entire life. Take today, for instance.
If I'd opted to head on home to the loft directly after work without picking up Chinese for dinner.
If I'd made a left on Monroe instead of a right on Harbison.
If I hadn't left the last $20 from my wallet on the kitchen counter earlier this morning.
If I'd zigged instead of zagged, I wouldn't have walked into the mess I did.
I also wouldn't have come to some pretty startling conclusions about my best friend and roommate, Blair Sandburg.
It started at the branch of the Washington Fidelity Bank we use. I needed some cash, and the ATM machine was being serviced. (The Mandarin Garden Restaurant doesn't take plastic, and Blair loves their Mongolian lamb.)
Damn, I thought. Now I'm actually going to have to go into the bank -- something I don't do on Fridays or paydays, unless it's absolutely necessary.
You'd be surprised how angry most people can be, if they find themselves in a long, unmoving bank line at the end of a long, unmoving week. It's at times like these that this Sentinel would trade his five heightened senses for being 'normal,' whatever that means. I hear their angry heart beats. I feel their angry breathing. I catch the angry words muttered under their collective angry breath. Angry because: it's hot in here (the air-condition doesn't seem to be working); they're now probably facing a ticket because they double-parked or parked illegally ("Officer, I swear I was just going to 'run in'!"); they hit the same non-cooperative cash machine I did, and are now in for some arm-wrestling with tired-looking tellers probably as angry, if not angrier, than they are.
Or, they just may be angry because, in general, life's a bitch.
So, there I stood, along with the other living dead, moving in those amusement park steps. You know what I'm talking about: two, kid-sized paces up, one adult space back, and you're still in virtually the same spot.
Jesus, Sandburg will be eating the furniture by the time I get there with food.
I wish. Oh, he'll be there, but that renowned appetite of his has pretty much deserted him since the whole Sentinel thing blew up in our faces.
We both knew it was bound to happen. Just a question 'when.'
Being the glass 'half-empty' kind of guy I am, I knew it would be at the worst possible time and in the worst possible way.
My partner, on the other hand, isn't just the 'half-full' sort, he's a "The glass is half-full, and I have a jug we can share later" original. The eternal optimist. And seeker of truth. And all-round good person.
A one-of-a-kind teacher, in the truest sense of the word. He should have been able to do the thing he loved best forever.
Well, shit happens. Yeah, and it usually happens to anybody who's close to me. Three cheers for Jim Ellison and his 'gifts' (Blair's 'Holy Grail'). Sandburg's doctoral dissertation -- of which I was the reluctant star -- got inadvertently leaked to the world at large. What a God-awful nightmare.
And after the dust settled, after Blair had lied through his teeth at a three-ring-circus of a press conference, well, let's just say that the thesis might as well have been printed on toilet paper. Because it, like his life, is down the crapper. He's lost everything. Yep, yours truly, Major Crimes Detective Jim Ellison, has made sure that anthropologist and teaching assistant Blair Jacob Sandburg will never be in a classroom again.
I know, I know. Never say "Never." Sure, when things blow over, and no one remembers what went on, everything could go back to what passes for normal. Some school in West Bumfuck might hire him. 2099 sound about right to you?
With Sandburg, you never really know.
He said he was happy about the detective's gold shield that would be his after firearms training at the Cascade Police Department Academy.
He seemed excited that we'd be permanent partners. Finally, no more lies, coverups, and Sandburgian truth-bending.
I should have guessed. Sandburg's such an accomplished fucking liar, God bless him. I've seen him packing stuff away. Things from his 'previous life.' He's even changed the laptop's screensaver. No more photo taken on some long-ago Amazon River expedition. When I questioned the non-descript wallpaper replacement, he shrugged his shoulders: "Just felt like a change. No biggie."
He'd been so ... mature about everything.
If I say he's acting alot more grown up about this than I am, do I sound like an asshole? Don't answer that.
The truth? Between you, me, and the withdrawal slip, I miss the 'old' Blair. The one who was ... dazzled by my being a Sentinel. My 'abilities' were like catnip to him. No, more like a hit of some kind of strange designer drug. His researcher's heart and mind couldn't get enough of them -- or me. Testing, probing, coming up with theories, and ways to help me gain more control. Some of his suggestions were ridiculous; others, right on the mark. All were freely given to help a perfect stranger to him. Me. The ex-Army operative, turned detective with senses so far off out of the ballpark buses don't go there.
Yeah, I know it sounds like a little kid, bargaining with whichever deity is listening. ("I swear I'll treat Blair better, if you give him back to me.")
Shit, that's pathetic. But, then, you have to consider the source.
Sandburg's taken more than his share of abuse from my 'Dirty Harry' world ... bruises, contusions, gunshot wounds, drug overdoses, condescension and even hostility from cops and others who don't know him and are just plain jealous of his accomplishments. He's done it all in the name of science, friendship, and in trying to be the best Guide a Sentinel could ever hope for.
But, nothing stays the same. I guess it's the old shark theory. A shark's got to keep swimming, moving forward. We couldn't just tread water in the status quo. We'd die in the process.
Die. Bad choice of words where Sandburg's concerned. He died last year, because of me. Did you know that? And afterwards, he came back to the life. Again, because of me. (Resurrection ground zero seems to be Cascade, WA.)
You'd think it would be good between us. Back the way it was. The way it should be between a Sentinel -- that's what I am -- and his Guide -- that's what he is. Or was. I don't know. My own little Lazarus is pretty tight-lipped on the whole subject.
Funny, we don't talk much any more. Maybe everything's been said. Yeah, I guess Blair labeling his thesis an academic fraud to the world at large makes everything else seem pretty pedestrian.
So now we circle around one another while we wait for him to start 'Cop School' as he calls it. And what's the etiquette on trying to make up for what he's lost? Like the extra $20 this morning. I can't turn and say, "Here's some spending money, Chief, because I know you don't have two nickels to rub together." Oh, and if you're not feeling well, tell me. I'll be sure to get you to the free clinic on the other side of town really early in the morning, because you don't have your university health insurance anymore. And I can pick you up, because your car is falling apart and you can't afford to get it repaired. Oh, and yeah, I'll swing by to get you at the public library, because your credentials at Ranier have been pulled, and you're still persona non grata there.
After you say all that, what's left to be said? For some reason, "Thanks, buddy" just doesn't cut it.
Someone stumbles into my back. No apology, no acknowledgment. Only raspy breathing. And ugly, non-directed hostile words spit out to anyone who will listen. They hit my ears, and set off my inner 'cop' alarm.
Something's not right. As I try to figure out what that is, the character brushes past me to head to the front of the line. Then I know. I felt a bulge in his pocket.
A gun. Nothing else feels quite like it.
Under the back of my jacket, with my right hand, I slowly and quietly check the service revolver tucked into the waistband of my slacks. I'm about to pull it out, release the safety and yell, "Freeze, police!" when the joker starts ranting at Barbara, the head teller whom I know. He shoves two crumbled slips of paper in one hand toward the woman's nose, and the gun he just pulled out of his coat in the other. I focus and clearly see the "ISF" both on the bank statement and the check to the Cascade Gas and Electric Company.
I decide that pulling my piece out will only make a bad situation worse. Right now, identifying myself as a police officer wouldn't be a smart move.
The elderly woman in the front of the line screams when she sees the gun being brandished in our direction, as do the two other tellers. The mechanic in front of me from Burdick's Motors across the street is frozen in place. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bank guard deciding whether or not to draw his weapon.
The shooter starts shouting a series of orders, beginning with the security guard. "You, back there. Don't even think about pulling it out of your holster. Drop it on the floor. Carefully. Everybody else, just be quiet."
A shot from his waving revolver explodes in all our ears, surprising him and terrifying the 'civilians' in line. The stray bullet hits the ceiling, shattering the overhead fixture. Pieces of metal rain down on us. One of the larger shards slices into my forehead. I feel as though I've been hit by shrapnel, and I'm bleeding like I've been cut with a Bowie knife. And it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. If it's really bad, I think I'll need to sit down. Or fall down. My choice.
"He's been hurt, Mr. Phillips," Sarah, the youngest of the tellers, almost sobs. 'Mr. Phillips' looks genuinely shocked when he sees what's happened, surprised at how his life's changed irrevocably in little under 15 minutes. He seems frozen on a single spot next to the counter, with the gun looking like something alien attached to his hand.
Sounding distraught, he turns to all of us and yells, "I didn't mean for that to happen! It was an accident! Nobody move. Let me think for a minute." The sweat's now freely rolling down the shooter's face and neck. His heart rate is going through the roof. The man in front of me fishes into the pocket of his overalls and offers some clean-enough tissues to staunch the flow of blood. I thank him quietly.
I dab slowly at my forehead, right above my left eye, to judge how much damage is done. It doesn't feel all that serious. And I can still see. While I have our captor's attention, I speak.
"Hey, pal, someone's probably heard that shot outside. The police will be here soon. Why don't you put the gun down, and let us go?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Then, how about this? Why don't you let everybody else out, and I'll stay."
"Why should I do that?"
"Because I'm a cop. Let the others go. If you need a bargaining chip, I'm the best you'll get."
"Believe him, Mr. Phillips." Mark Chaumers, the assistant branch manager, urges. "I know him. Detective Ellison's one of our regular customers."
"So what do you say, Mr. ... Phillips, is it? Let all of them go. Then, after they leave, you and I can maybe try to figure out the best way to resolve this situation."
Twenty minutes later, the manager, the three tellers, the elderly couple, the auto mechanic, and the security guard move through the front doors of the bank to safety. Their eyes are awash with gratitude and relief as they pass by me. Finally, it's only the two of us left. He gestures with the gun for me to lock the doors, which I do, using Chaumers' confiscated master keys. Phillips moves closer, looking me up and down. A faint hint of recognition colors his ashy face.
"I know you, don't I?"
"They told you my name. It's Ellison."
"Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ!" He stops and rubs the back of his neck so hard I could hear it crack even without heightened senses. "My luck just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it? You're that 'superman' cop, aren't you? The one in the papers last month? Right? Right?"
I don't answer.
"I can't believe this is happening and, to top it off, I get stuck with you!"
Thanks for the compliment, buddy. I feel the same way, sometimes.
A phone in one of the tellers' cages starts to ring. It's got to be a police negotiator. Probably either Ted Farrington or Milt Kafrissen. Both damned good at what they do.
"You know, if I'd looked more like you, and been more like you -- some kind of 'action hero' side of beef, things would never have gotten so bad."
He's jumping from topic to topic, and is losing me. He's also damned well insulting me, in the process.
"Yeah, those motherfu--, uh, bastards would have thought twice about what they did to me. I'm ... uh ... sorry."
"For what?"
"For your getting hurt. For doing this. For my language. Everything's just getting away from me today." He starts to laugh and segues to something that sounds more like the beginnings of hysterics.
Crazy. But P.C. I'd think it was the punchline to a shitty joke, except that the guy standing within four feet of me is holding a seriously unfunny weapon, pointed carelessly in my direction. Smith & Wesson 38. Not new. Taped stock. I see that the serial numbers are filed off. All in all, a perfect 'drop' gun. You can use it to take someone out, then throw it away and run. More often than not, it can't be traced. Certainly the choice of someone buying on the street, no questions asked.
"Listen, Mr. Phillips ... uh, what's your first name?"
A reply comes distractedly, as the man looks toward the windows to see if the inevitable police personnel and equipment have arrived.
"Tom."
"Good, Tom. Hey, Tom, can I ask a favor? Can I sit down, please?" I weigh my words carefully because this man's on an edge -- invisible to me, but deadly, nonetheless. "I'm feeling a little fuzzy from the ... 'accident' earlier. What do you say, Tom?"
"Just stop the 'let's be friends' routine, Ellison. You're not my friend. I can count all of those on one hand and have four fingers left over." His glare reinforces the words. "But sit down, Detective, because someone's going to finally listen to me, and it might as well be one of 'Cascade's finest.'"
The last phrase is spat out at me. His heart rate and breathing are off the charts. Tom Phillips is winding himself up again. The question is ... for what?
The phone's been ringing on and off for the last half-hour. I've tried convincing him to answer it. So much for my fabled powers of persuasion.
I do a lightning-round inventory of what I know about the 'suspect.' He's known by name here. He's definitely got a beef with someone or something. With cops? Maybe with the bank. That "Insufficient Funds" notice stapled to his check seemed to have kick-started this drama.
And Mr. Phillips looks familiar, but I can't seem to place his face.
If I can keep him calm and talk him out of anything really stupid, maybe we can both walk out of here alive before the 'big guns' arrive. A splinter of my brain wonders where Blair is. He probably doesn't even know this is going on.
Or care.
What's it been -- almost two hours now?
6:00 PM. Has Sandburg noticed I'm not home when I said I be? If things go really wrong -- and this is the beginning of the end of my last night on earth -- Sandburg will have given up everything for nothing. For an over-the-hill partner who could be lying face down on a highly-polished marble floor. All before tonight's installment of Dateline. And Blair will never know that I, that we might have been --
A hard shove to my right shoulder brings me out of the beginnings of a zoneout. It probably wasn't the worse time it could have happened. But I'd be hard-pressed to think of when that might be.
"Jesus Christ, am I boring you?" Phillips practically shrieks in my face.
"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm feeling ... not so good." A lie. "My head's aching like a mother." The truth.
He snorts, but hands me a clean, linen handkerchief from the pocket of his suit coat. "Try that on for size every day of what passes for your life."
While I brush lightly over the wound with the cool cloth, I can think of only one thing. Shit, Sandburg would know how to talk to this guy.
Suddenly, Blair's voice is in my head. //"Jim, can you hear me?"//
Am I hallucinating? No. He's nearby. Hell, I'd be able to "feel" him among all the bodies hovering around the building if I were deaf, mute, and blind. I can sense him through the walls. His heart's beating ridiculously fast, but it's his. No doubt about it. Somewhere near the southwest corner of the bank, probably in one of the unmarked vehicles, just to the back of the parking lot. I'd judge about five car-lengths away from the drive-thru window.
That's where I'd place them if I were surrounding the bank in a hostage situation. Close, but hidden from the perpetrator. And whoever is unlucky enough to be in here with him.
Sandburg's 'talking' to me again.
//"Hey, Jim, I hope you're OK and you can hear what I'm saying, buddy. Most of Major Crimes is here. They got a hold of me as soon as they found out you were involved. Listen, you may not have a lot of time to get yourself out of there. The SWAT team's arrived, and they're starting to suit up. Simon thinks you have to try to get this guy to surrender before they get the 'go-head' to take over the operation. But I guess you know that, huh?"//
Yeah, buddy, I know what the Cascade police policy and procedure is. Doesn't matter if there's a cop on the inside acting as the hostage. I can hear Bill Morrell, the SWAT captain, barking clipped orders to position his marksmen around the bank. He's also arguing with my captain, Simon Banks. Simon's trying to convince him to give me more time.
//"I hope you're hearing this, Jim. Here's what we know."// My partner's fumbling through papers. He's as nervous as I've ever 'seen' him. Maybe because he's out there feeling as alone as I do in here. //"Tom Phillips is that teacher from William Marshall High. The one who brought assault charges against some of his students. But, the case never came to trial. Remember, it was in the papers?"//
Yeah. Now I do.
Tom Phillips had been a history teacher for 20 plus years. The kind of teacher you'd want your kids to have. Always taking the assignments noone else wanted, in schools everyone else passed on. Probably thought teaching was a noble profession. (Kind of like Sandburg.) I didn't have all the details at my fingertips, but I do remember that Phillips got worked over pretty badly by three student thugs. He filed charges, but they were dismissed. And the girl he claimed had almost been raped by her classmates -- the one he'd tried to help -- didn't back up his story. The school board pretty much pissed all over him, too. Too much publicity, too much trouble.
Bottom line: Tom Phillips came out of the experience with a broken nose, broken ribs, and a broken spirit.
//"Rafe and Brown tracked down the high school principal, who told them that Phillips recently started acting stranger than usual. The word he used was 'paranoid.' He'd started carrying a concealed weapon to school."//
I was right. Phillips bought that gun for protection. Maybe even from one of his students. Christ, life really is a bitch.
//"It gets worse."//
Great.
//"This morning, he got placed on indefinite leave while the school administration and the teachers' union reps argue about possible charges against him."//
Swell. That invisible edge is getting closer, with every word out of your mouth, Sandburg.
//"Be careful what you say to him, big guy."//
Sound advice, chief.
There has to be some way I can get 'inside' this guy.
//"I think you need to talk to him, Jim, the way you'd ... talk to ... uh ... 'handle' me."//
What?
//"Face it, Jim. Tom Phillips is a lot like me. He was a school teacher, who tried to do the right thing and it blew up in his face. A basically good man who's been fucked over by life. He feels alone, unwanted, unneeded. And the worst part is that he feels like there's no one who cares. Jim, talk to him. Talk to 'me.'"//
I hear the anguish in my Guide's voice. This is the first time he's told me how it really is with him. Chief. Forgive me. Please. Here goes.
"Tom ... Tom Philips. Wait a minute, you're the school teacher who ..."
He eyes me suspiciously, moving away from me.
"Guilty as charged. You remember now? I should be flattered. Nobody else does. Or cares, for that matter. Yes, Detective, I'm the idiot who tried to make a difference to a bunch of ignorant, violent kids in a school nobody gives a fuck about."
I guess bad language is now the least of his worries.
"You were sent to the hospital ... by some of your students, right?"
"Yeah, I tried to stop three seniors from brutalizing a freshman girl in an empty classroom. And got the shit kicked out of me for my trouble. Doctors' bills, lawyers' fees, threats to my family ... and being afraid each and every day ... it was awful. It IS awful."
"Hell. You did the right thing. You're a hero in my book, man."
"Well, tell that to the school board. And the public. And everybody I owe money to. And my family who couldn't take one more minute of being harassed. And of me acting as like a coward and a lunatic."
Blair's talking again, concern overlaying the urgency in his voice.
//"Jesus, Jim. The guy's wife walked out earlier this week and took their kid. Hell, this poor schmuck's life is a bigger mess than mine."//
God, I'm sorry, Chief. That everything's turned to rubble. Sorry that you've wasted close to four years on me. Four, precious years you'll never get back. Sorry that your name's been blackened, your reputation ruined. All for a cut-off, sorry-ass prick. For someone who can't even find the words to tell you how important you are to him.
//"Jim. Captain Morrell's men are gearing up to take the building. He's told Simon that if you're still conscious, you'd better be trying to move the perp near the front or drive-thru window so they can get a clear shot. Jesus, I wish I knew you if you were all right, and that you could hear me."//
There's a catch in Sandburg's throat as he stumbles over the next sentence: //"We're running out of time. Ellison, can you still hear me? God-damn it, you'd better be getting this, because there are people all around me who think I've lost it -- that I'm talking to myself. I have to tell you something, Jim. I love you, man. I have for a long time. And I need you. Alive."//
I have to get out of here. With Tom Phillips intact.
For Blair. For me. For us.
I change tactics. I know what would "do it" for me.
"Tom, who was the 'one'?"
He looks confused. "The one what?"
"Remember you said you could count your friends on one hand and have four fingers left over? Who was the one?"
"My son. Tom, Jr. He's the best kid in the world. He's never stopped loving me."
"You're going to think this is a line of police bullshit, Tom. But I know what it's like. To think there's noone on your side. If you're lucky, you look around and find somebody standing there when everybody else has turned away. You have that 'someone.' Your boy."
"Do you?"
Yeah, but I still can't say his name.
We sit in silence, staring at each another, for a long minute, listening to the escalating noises outside. Knowing we're both damaged goods. That we just might be in the same boat. I can't believe that I feel tears pushing their way out of my eyes.
"Don't do this, Tom. To yourself. To your son. Let me get us out of this. Let me answer the phone. What do you say?"
The paramedics pronounce me OK. I believe EMT John Santoro's exact words are: "Nothing can crack that thick skull of yours, Detective." I don't even need stitches. The butterfly bandage does the trick, nicely. At least, I'm spared yet another trip to the emergency room of Cascade General. Over the past three years, Sandburg and I have overnighted there so often, they should consider giving us a time-share.
A squad car has taken Tom Phillips down to the station. Tomorrow, I'll go see him. It might not help, but, hell, it couldn't hurt to see a friendly face.
An hour later, there are dozens of people still milling around, cops, TV types, reporters, onlookers, the usual. Some give me a "thumbs up" sign, others a pat on the back for doing the job. Sucking on the granddaddy of all cigars, a Partagas, by the look and the smell of it, Simon tells me "Good work, Jim." A few minutes later, after the normal amount of wrangling, pro and con, about a trip to the hospital, he relents, sending Sandburg and me on our way. "Get your butt out of here. The' kid,' too. You're both still looking a little shaky. You can fill out the reports in the morning. I'll expect to see you bright and early. Go on, now. I have to talk to the media."
Paperwork can be done tomorrow. Tonight, life takes precedence.
I hear him and smell him before I see him. Blair's standing by the truck, looking pale and used. The smile is painted where it should be. It looks like the real thing. No one else would know. Only the Sentinel in me can tell it isn't.
"Can we go home now, Jim?"
"Yeah. The Captain said to Quote 'get your butt out of here. The 'kid,' too.' End quote."
"Shouldn't you go to the hospital, just in case?" He searches my face looking for a sign somewhere that says: This man has been certified A-OK. No permanent damage was done by yet another encounter with crime in Cascade.
"It's just a cut, Sandburg."
His fingers ghost over it, as if my Guide has the power to heal me.
He does. Sandburg's made me whole. A new man. A better man. He makes my soul sing.
"Chief ... uh, Blair ... oh, what the hell ..." I lean down and kiss him. I don't know if any one's watching. Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass if they are.
I pull him into the Ford, practically on top of me.
I feel our cocks touch. It's fireworks and consummation and fucking love.
And I'm going to love fucking him.
"Christ, chief, come closer." I'm practically incoherent with relief and wonder and, well, disbelief. Blair. My Blair.
I make out a muffled, "I thought I'd lost you!" in the crook of my neck. I hear the pain and horror and helplessness.
My heart breaks, then is cleaved together by what I hear in the next breath. "I love you, Jim. No matter what else happens, I love you."
I'm about to ask if he means it. Am I an idiot? No. Of course, he means it.
Sandburg can dance around facts until they seem to tango in front of your eyes, but not here, not now. "Say it, Jim. Say that you love me back. Please. You've got to make love to me. Now!" I applaud his sincerity, feel his hunger and need.
But no wham-bam for him. Not for my Guide.
Not on this Sentinel's watch.
And not on the periphery of a crime scene.
Blair deserves songs and clean sheets and gentle hands and all the emotion I've been squirreling away for the past three decades, give or take a lifetime.
I start up the truck and pull out of the Washington Fidelity parking lot. The adrenaline rush is over. The fatigue that follows hits us like sledgehammers. I feel his body not so much relax as fall into torpor next to me.
My partner's eyes are hooded and look bleary in their half-masted state. They stare into the darkness, as if looking for the solution to the question of the ages.
"42."
"What did you say, Jim?"
"Isn't that what the guy says in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? The answer to everything is 42."
"You read it?"
'No, I caught up with the Marvel Comics version, smart-ass. Yeah, I read it."
"When?"
"Right after you moved in." Confessionals rarely look like '69 blue and white Fords. "You said it once, and I had no idea what the hell you were talking about. So, I ... uh ... took your copy."
"That's what happened to it! And, here, I thought I'd lost it when I moved in. Why didn't you ask me for the book, instead of stealing it?"
"I did no such thing. I didn't steal it, exactly. I just sort of borrowed it."
"Forever?"
"Yeah, I borrowed it forever."
"Fine-line distinction, there, Ellison."
"Besides," a killer statement rams into my teeth and spills over into the air between us, "the book 'smelled' like you. I sort of ... wanted it nearby."
He smiles. The warmth is so evident, I see it in the night.
It certainly lights up the cab. And what it does to my insides ...
After a seeming eternity of separateness, Blair on his side of the truck, me on mine, we finally stop in front of 852 Prospect. Neither of us speaks.
For my part, this Sentinel's ass is staying put. Now, it's up to my Guide to make the first move. It's all up to him. Even though he's never, ever told me anything about physical bonding of any kind in his research, I'm betting Sir Richard Burton (the explorer, not the actor) agrees with my gut feeling.
But then, it's always been that way. From day one, Blair's held the reins in our relationship. (I wonder if he fully grasps that little factoid.)
"Jim?" My train of thought is derailed by the sound of my name on those lips. "It's time."
"Time?"
"Yeah, time to go upstairs. Time to let go of the crap. Time to start fresh."
I must look like Batman's 'Riddler,' with question marks popping out all over me.
"Let me rephrase so those of us a little slow on the uptake will understand." He slides that fantastic butt out the door, slamming it hard enough to get my undivided attention.
Leaning through the window, my beautiful Blair succinctly sums it up: "Time to fuck."
I wonder who did work on that particular aspect of quantum physics?
Sandburg's talking to me non-stop all the way up the stairs to the third floor. The neighbors must be delighted. The voice I used to think was sometimes annoying is actually so funny, and winning, and seductive, I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I may shoot my load before I can even get these damned jeans undone. Or even get into the loft. My head is still sore and throbbing from earlier. But it's nothing compared to the state of my dick.
Not to worry. Somehow or other, we're in the living room. Blair's kneeling on the couch, with me wedged between it and the coffee table. He's unbuckling my belt, undoing my pants, pushing the navy blue briefs down. God almighty, he's trying to pull my cock out with his mouth. You've got to give it to Sandburg for unbridled enthusiasm. But his aim's none too good. At the last minute, Blair misses the mark, so to speak, and starts to plummet off the edge of the couch.
I catch him by the shoulders, and turn his face up to me.
"You've done this before?" A question.
"Give me a break, Ellison. Did that look like a smooth, well-rehearsed move to you?"
Blue eyes confront the implications I hadn't even considered. This is Sandburg's first time with a man. He knows I know, and now he's hesitant. His heartbeat's drumming like a tattoo in my head. His breath is ragged; his skin, glistening. It all tells me that, besides being anxious, my lover-to-be's just plain scared.
The smells of his pheromones mixed with adrenaline, perspiration, testosterone, and pre-ejaculate scream at me. The sweat's now making that mop of hair stick to the sides of his face and the nape of his strong neck.
"I haven't done 'this.' I'm clean, though, Jim. I swear. I've been real careful. But I'll understand if you don't ... if you want ... if we can't ... well, you know."
What I want to do is lick him dry.
"If I say 'no,' you'll bitch and whine and moan, won't you?" I smile as I pat his beard-roughened cheeks. After all, how could you not have faith in Blair Jacob Sandburg?
"Well, sure. I'd do plenty of that, the self-serving little goober that I am."
We both chuckle at the reference to a conversation from what seems like a lifetime ago. It 'was' a lifetime ago, before I knew I loved Sandburg.
I grab him in a fierce embrace, made not a little uncomfortable because of the painfully erect shaft jutting out from my body, entrapped between us. Not only am I squeezing the bejeezus of out of the dearest person in the world to me, but also out of my impossibly engorged penis.
Sandburg doesn't need any heightened senses to figure out what's happening. He can feel the hot, golden skin of his stomach being drilled like a scene out of 'Armeddegon.' I hear a directive mixed with laughter: "Uh, Jim, please stop trying to repierce my navel. Let's do this right."
I don't understand what he's saying. I've turned stupid from TMI -- Too Much Information. Blair loves me. Blair wants me. Blair's a virgin. Blair's my joy. Blair's my life. Hands down, Blair's the finest thing that's ever happened to me. Blair's happiness and well-being are my responsibility.
I won't let him down.
I strip off my tee-shirt which smells like the bad dream I've lived through, take one of his hands in mine, and move him off the couch. "Come with me, chief." Blair stumbles, getting tangled in the trousers and briefs on the floor. Why am I not surprised? I catch him again, and this time, squeeze him to my side, as much a gesture of love and commitment as it is a way to give the other, smaller, 'purple' Sentinel a breather. At ease, little guy.
"Upstairs, Sandburg."
Still holding my hand, he backs up the stairs, watching me on every step. Maybe it's the 'stalk' mode I seem to be in. Our eyes are fixed only on one another. As we reach the top, I maneuver the two of us toward my bed. The color in Sandburg's eyes has disappeared, replaced by something black, and primal, and wanton. Mine are still blue (true blue, I hope), blazing with wonder that this is actually happening. We almost lost one another a second time, but, an indulgent, forgiving God smiled on us.
We need to be together, because together, nothing can hurt us. Ever again.
We finally reach the bed. I begin to unfasten Sandburg's pants. His hands jump to cover mine, uncertainty and fear reemerging, despite the fact that I know 'my Blair' loves me.
"Uh ... Jim ... hang on a minute ..."
"Shh. We're going to do this my way, chief."
Blair looks with his eyes, but sees with his heart. His hands drop.
"OK, big guy. I trust you."
"Do me first."
"What?"
"What part of that don't you understand, Einstein? You --" I pick up the index finger of my right hand and wiggle under his nose. (Damn, it's as cute as a button.) "Me --" I complete a circle with the thumb and second finger of my left hand.
"This is how it's done." I run one into the other several times. Sandburg does a double-take, and laughs so hard, he sprays my face with flecks of spit.
"Easy sharing the body fluids, Sandburg."
"Jim, you can really be goofy, you know that?"
"Nah, I don't want to be Goofy. I don't think he ever got laid. Come to think of it, I don't think he knew what he was."
Now that I've taken the name of Disney in vein, Sandburg collapses in a heap of honest-to-God guffaws.
I'm dazzled by him. It's like looking straight into the sun.
And suddenly, I don't feel funny anymore. I feel serious. And horny. And wild. And focused.
And I feel that if Blair and I don't make love soon, I'm going to lose what little control I have.
"So how about it, sport?" He arches an eyebrow, Spock-like to see how I'm going to finish the sentence. "Care to take a flyer with a guy who's got a truck that's just about your age?" Christ, that sounded stupid out loud. (In my head, I thought it was damned witty. Goes to show you that you can't trust your mind. Especially when you're out of it because you're in lust and love, not necessarily in that order.)
"Yes."
Well, OK. It's lucky that I have a minuscule streak of hope somewhere in my makeup. Why else would I buy new condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly periodically? I guess it's something carried in male chromosomes: the genetic predisposition to 'get lucky' sometime before the millennium. Having stripped off his clothes in record time, and thrown them haphazardly over the railing, Sandburg's lying there, wide open, hiding nothing. Inviting me to have a taste. Watching me undo the tube cap and squeeze the jelly onto my palms to warm it. Hypnotizing me with those eyes.
I start to massage his cock, which is a beauty -- like the rest of him. Perfectly proportioned to his body, with a rosy head smiling up from the circumcised organ.
I can't help but rub the tip of my finger over the leaking slit. He literally stops breathing as I continue to stroke my 'prize.'
"Christ, Sandburg, relax. I'm the one who should be 'sizing up' the situation, if you get my drift." I open the condom pack, roll it down over Blair, then rub more lubricant on him. So far, he's been quieter than I've ever heard him be.
"Sandburg? You in there? Want to say something? Anything?" I fondle his dick lovingly. It nestles in my hand as though it were made just for that purpose. As though it had found its way home.
"Uh ... what ... should I ..."
"Here, lover." (God-damn, does that sound good!) I squeeze more of the jelly on my Guide's fingers. "You have to stretch me out. Start by putting one into me. I'll lie on my side for this part of it. It'll probably be easier for both of us, if I do."
I draw my knees almost up to my chin, and feel ... nothing.
"Chief ... you back there?"
I look over my shoulder, and detect eyes shining like twin mirrors. Tears are about to spill over.
My heart freezes. "Sandburg, what's wrong? Hey, buddy, talk to me."
"No one's ever loved me this much, Jim. Brass ring? Fuck, you're pure gold." With that, he pushes the first slippery finger into me. I'm not sure what I'm more surprised by: his words, or the tightness of my ass. It's been a really, REALLY long time.
I turn down my dials just a bit. This is for Blair, and I don't want to spook him, if it's painful for me this first time.
I catch a whiff of his peppermint-scented breath on my shoulder as he kisses it, while pushing the second finger in. "Oh, Sentinel Man, your body's been waiting for me all these years, hasn't it?"
This is one smart guy. He's right. I just didn't realize it.
Sandburg's now wiggling three fingers in the flesh channel, moving side to side, forwards and backwards experimentally. Every cell in my lower body is screaming for him to stop playing and get down to business.
God, he's just moved down my torso, and bitten me on my left ass cheek, then soothed the mark by licking it over and over.
I'm burying my cock into the comforter, humping it in time with the rhythm of his fingers probing me.
I can't see or taste or feel or hear or smell anything but Blair now. Reality's pretty much fallen by the wayside. And I couldn't be happier about it.
Then he hits my prostate. I roar at the pleasure, and try to string a few words together. "Jesus, yes, Chief! Again!"
The next time he does it, only a wordless rattle escapes my lips. Because he's just filled me in one long, hard stroke with his cock.
Well, sitting's going to be tricky for the next few days.
"Jim, am I hurting you? Are you OK?"
Thrust. Christ, I'm losing it.
"Shut up, Sandburg! You're doing ... fine ..."
Thrust.
"Yeah?"
Thrust. This kid's got some kind of natural talent here.
"Oh, yeah."
Thrust. I can't see straight ... or think straight. My body's short-circuiting. I'm in sensory overload. Our shadows on the bedroom wall -- the erotic coupling that's made up of blacks and whites and grays and the millions of combinations -- reach out to swallow us.
"Jim, feel this? It's love and ownership."
Thrust.
"You belong to me now, Enqueri. Body and soul. Forever."
I'm just about to pour out everything that's in my heart, when I taste the mixtures of tears and sweat pouring from both of us. It runs down onto my tongue. I lap it up, like a man dying of thirst who suddenly finds an oasis in front of him. Only one word remains to be said as I explode like a grenade launcher.
"Yours!"
Muscles spasm and grab my young lover around the thick, glistening cock impaling me. It's as though my body has to prevent him from ever leaving this bed. Or me.
Shock, pleasure, astonishment. Whatever he's experiencing, Sandburg involuntarily digs his nails into my biceps while plowing my ass one last time. It's so hard, I swear he's repositioned my back molars, as he yells the answer: "Mine!"
Things are a little hazy as we return control to the ground crew.
Sandburg's finger strokes some of my cum from the bed linen. He dances it over his lips and tongue. I hear Blair make a kitten-like, lapping sound. It goes straight to my exhausted equipment, which on quick inspection, doesn't seem all that exhausted.
As he rubs the same finger over my mouth, my senses are thrown so far off-line that all I can do is accept it, and put off cataloguing the tastes and smells until later.
We fall into lethargy, Blair's still perched comfortably on my back, held in place by commitment, emotions, entropy and good, old-fashioned gravity.
I reach my hand backward to pet that curly head resting between my shoulder blades. I feel his lips kissing my palm, making it tingle. He then intertwines his strong hand with mine.
"Rest." My Guide orders. I obey.
I now know what I didn't this morning. Blair Sandburg and I will survive. We'll go on together. We'll love one another. Partner and partner. Friend and friend. Student and teacher. Sentinel and Guide.
But first, we'll rest, before we open the door to tomorrow, and whatever it brings.
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