Author's webpage: http://www.spiderine.com
Disclaimer: Characters from "The Sentinel" series belong to Pet Fly. My imagination belongs to me. The Book of Ruth belongs to everybody. No copyright infringement is intended; passion is its own reward.
NOTES:
Having said that, we now return to our regularly scheduled Notes:
"Dibs on the bathroom!" called Blair, racing down the hall from the elevator to the loft.
"By all means," muttered Jim with a microscopic smile, strolling at a more sedate pace behind him. Meeting up with his bouncing companion before their front door and pulling out his keys, he added, "As a matter of fact, I insist. Shoes off, Chief."
"Come on, Jim!" Blair pleaded, but he dropped his collection of bags and started pulling at the laces of his boots.
"Shoes off. Leave the bags by the door. I'm taking them right to the basement. And straight into the bathroom with you. Stay there and take a good hot shower. I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere else, and don't touch anything until we get cleaned up." He pushed the door open, and a sock-footed Blair tore past him, mumbling, "Yeah, yeah, do not pass go, do not collect $200" as he disappeared into the bathroom. Jim hefted Blair's stuff along with his own and turned back towards the elevator, listening with barely concealed amusement to Blair's groans of relief and mumbles of "Hello, hello, my own beautiful toilet. Did you miss me?" Although Jim wouldn't have used those words, he had to admit to himself that he felt exactly the same way.
When he returned from depositing their packs in the basement storage room and bringing up an armload of firewood, the bathroom was full of steam and splashy noises and Blair was in the shower, groaning as if he were being pleasured by the thousand doe-eyed houris of Paradise. He didn't seem to notice as Jim entered the small steamy room, stripped off his grimy clothes and deposited them along with Blair's hastily discarded outfit in a plastic laundry bag in the sink.
Steam billowed out into the room as Jim slipped behind the shower curtain to join Blair in the tub. The globe-trotting anthropologist, wearing only barbaric, exotic jewelry that glinted in the shining reflection of the water -- a wolf's-tooth hanging from a silver nipple ring, a single obsidian earstud and a necklace made of jaguar claws and a nine-millimeter bullet -- was standing motionless under the spray of water with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, blissfully mumbling, "Oh yeah, I worship indoor plumbing, gift of the gods!" Hot water coursed down his sleekly muscled torso, running in rivulets over the tribal markings amid the bristly hair on his chest and dripping like a fountain off the soft cock and scrotum resting in their furry nest.
"Shove over, Chief," Jim said. "Don't hog all the hot water."
"Jim!" Blair smiled brilliantly, opening his eyes. "You're in the shower with me!"
"Very observant, Sandburg. Ever consider a career in law enforcement?" Jim smirked, putting his arms around Blair's waist and turning them until they'd traded positions and Jim was hit by stinging needles of hot water. "Oh, god," he groaned, rolling his stiff neck and shoulders. "That feels spectacular."
"Doesn't it?" Blair beamed as though he'd invented it himself. "I could stay here for days." He cuddled into Jim's arms. "Especially now. Wow! You're in the shower with me!"
"Damn right. Think I'm going to let you use up all the hot water, especially if you plan on being in here for days?" Jim grumped into the top of his mate's head. Grabbing both of Blair's hands, which were starting to roam provocatively, he mentioned, "The idea here is to get clean before the hot water runs out, in case you've forgotten."
"I'm washing you," insisted Blair oh-so-innocently, taking Jim's hands with him as he stroked up the taller man's smooth chest.
"Usually that process entails soap, Chief," Jim pointed out with a gentle smile. Releasing Blair's hands, he picked up a washcloth and waved it at him with a flourish.
"To hell with the soap," Blair said hoarsely, grabbing Jim's face. "I love the way you smell. These past few weeks, I've been able to smell you, you can smell me all the time but this is the only time I've really been able to smell you and I've smelled you for weeks, I may never get to do that again and I want you like this now." He claimed Jim's mouth in a searing, swirling kiss, sucking Jim's tongue between his full, moist lips and grinding their bodies together.
The hot water pounding against his back already had Jim's skin tingling, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of Blair's wet skin sliding against him, the dripping coarse hair grinding against his groin, that hot tongue dancing -- "God, Chief, just -- wait, wait," he fumbled, but his body wasn't paying any attention to his words, he could feel the heat spreading through him, centering from a heavy fever in his balls. He took a step back, trying to regain his balance, but Blair just pushed forward, backing him up into the corner of the stall where he was caught between the wall and the hot-water valve. He raised his arms to brace himself, trapped between the heat of the water and the heat of his Guide's demands, and as Blair grabbed both his wrists and pinned Jim to the slick tile Jim whimpered and instinctively thrust his prick forward against the rough hair and warm solid flesh.
"That's it," Blair murmured roughly, nipping up at Jim's earlobe, grinding his own swelling prick against Jim's and crushing him against the wall. "Don't think, just do it, fuck it," he urged. "That's it, that's my wildcat, that's what you want," grunting encouragement into Jim's ear that was making it impossible for Jim to protest, even to think, impossible to do anything but moan and squirm forward into his Guide's embrace. "You want it, need it, need to fuck, need it bad..."
"Need -- need it bad," Jim echoed incoherently, eyes rolled back, hot water rolling down his face like tears. His hips pumped forward again and again, reflexively seeking hot skin and coarse curly hair, needing to fuck, needing to obey. "... fuck..." he whispered.
"Yeah, oh yeah, that's it," Blair groaned rhythmically, "beautiful, so fucking beautiful, like a mountain..." licking and nibbling at the earlobe where the obsidian stud matching his own shone darkly. "Harder, so hard... God, Jim, god that's great," shoving and grinding, flattening himself against Jim's chest, "Give it to me, cat -- oh god Jim, anything! Where do you want me? Do you want my mouth? My ass? Do you want to ride my cock?"
Something in the direct questioning let Jim snap out of his daze and push forward, slamming the smaller man against the wall under the violently steaming spray. He planted his teeth into the tender spot where Blair's chin met his neck, forcing a little "yip" from his Guide's throat. Rubbing his face against Blair's rough stubble, Jim growled, "Want you -- want you clean," shoving his groin into Blair's lower belly for emphasis. "Want you in my bed -- clean smooth sheets, room to move -- all night, every night -- not like this, not like this..." but unable to stop grinding, unable to stop the fever and the need and the wet slapping of skin on skin, and all the words tumbled away from his brain until he was grunting, "this... this... like this..." with each thrust and that wasn't what he'd meant at all, but it was all he could say or do.
"Oh yeah, like this, don't stop," Blair sighed happily, leaning back against the wall of the tub, hair plastered to the tile and hips splayed forward, letting Jim slide their slick cocks together. "God, so hot, so good, good cat, don't stop --"
"Can't stop," Jim moaned desperately, and pushed his tongue between his mate's swollen wet lips, fucking the same rhythm into his mouth that he slammed into his groin. "You... make me... fuck..."
"Yesssssss," gasped Blair, pulling his mouth away, gripping Jim's taut biceps and shoving upward to meet his thrusts. "That's right, that's what I want to hear, you're mine and I make you fuck, make you fuck for me," he babbled, "make you need it, make you hard --"
"Need -- hard," Jim moaned, humping furiously.
"God yes --"
"Need -- please --" he grunted.
"Need what?" Blair hissed.
"Please -- you!" Jim snarled and bit down into Blair's shoulder.
Grinding wildly, face full into the battering hot spray, "You please me, cat," groaned Blair through gritted teeth, sputtering water, digging tightly into Jim's tense arms. "Hard fucking cock pleases me gods yes! Give it to me come for me shoot it all over me -- "
"Ohhhhhhhh please Chief!"
"Gonna come for me? All for me?"
"Pleaseyesplease!"
"Give it to me, now!" Blair released Jim's arms and wrapped his arms around him, dragging his fingernails deeply up the skin of Jim's back.
Jim wailed, "Nnnnggggaaaaaaahhh!" and shot hot come over Blair's flank, pumping like a piston all the way through, and staggered backwards into the digging pain of Blair's nails and the blistering heat of the showering water. Blair grabbed the top of Jim's head by the wet untrimmed hair and drove him to his knees, shoving Jim's face against his cock, and came, yowling, in long stringy spurts that Jim lapped and slurped and rubbed into his face. Blair stumbled forward, collapsing into Jim's arms and knocking them both down to sit in Jim's lap in the tub under the white noise of the steaming torrent that was suddenly the only sound other than their rough heavy panting.
"Holy shit!" Jim gasped hoarsely, eyes bugging. "Holy shit! What the hell was that?"
"That was great!" Blair laughed. Throwing his arms around Jim's neck, he kissed his watery come-splattered face and mouth over and over again. "Man, when you get going -- holy shit is right!"
"What the hell was that?"
"Welcome home, Jim!" laughed Blair, snuggling into the stunned Sentinel's arms.
"Holy shit!"
"Yeah, Jim, I think I heard that part."
"Get up," Jim croaked. "You're crushing my balls."
Blair scrambled to his feet and pulled Jim upright. "You okay, dude?"
"Yeah -- holy shi -- YAAAAH!" Jim jerked as the hot water -- and their luck -- finally ran out and they were hit with an ice-cold downpour that shocked Jim out of his post-orgasmic stupor like a blast from a taser.
"JAYzus, that's freezing!" Blair shrieked in agreement and tried to take a dive out of the tub, but Jim grabbed him and held him, kicking and flailing, under the frigid deluge. "Aaah! Quit it, Jim! Jim! You know I can't stand cold!"
"Too bad, my little guppy! You got us into this!" Jim announced, his face revealing that unique Ellison mixture of grim amusement. "I can dial it down, but I think somebody needs a cold shower!" He got his squirming mate into a headlock under the water and, with his other hand, snatched a bottle of shampoo and squirted it all over Blair's matted curls. "Payback's a bitch, Sandburg!"
"Jim! Jim! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
Several icy, soapy minutes later, water and suds splashed all over the walls evidenced a desperate struggle and a squeaky clean, dripping, thoroughly chilly shaman ran naked from the bathroom, leaving wet footprints over the hardwood floor as he sprinted over to the fireplace, where Jim had laid and lit a roaring fire before joining Blair in the shower. Blair pulled the Navaho-print blanket off the sofa and rolled himself into it, plopping down before the fire and chattering, "Fire, oh fire is good, I worship fire."
Jim followed him, toweling off his head, wearing only a supremely self-satisfied smile. "I thought you worshipped indoor plumbing."
"I'm a polytheist," Blair countered from under a hood of blanket, rubbing his hands. "And I certainly do not worship that water heater, man."
Jim snorted a laugh and dialed the phone. "Alba's? Can I have a delivery, please? Yeah, that'll be one super-size Sicilian pie, uh huh, and that's half with double pepperoni -- yeah, double -- and half with onions and peppers." Blair sprang to his feet with a grin as Jim gave the address.
"Jim, you remembered! You RULE! I worship pizza!"
"I thought it was the pie of death," Jim smirked as Blair threw the blanket around both of them like a cape and wrapped Jim in a tight hug -- then Jim suddenly froze and took a step back. "Shit Chief, I'm so sorry, I forgot --" he whispered, horrified at himself. "I didn't mean --"
"Wha -?" asked Blair confusedly. He loosened his hug until he just had a gentle grip on both of Jim's arms and peered at his face, concerned. Then, like the gears had clicked into place, he shook his head frantically, "No, no, Jim, it's --"
...pizza spiked with a toxic, hallucinogenic drug, enough to take out the entire bullpen... "Pie of death..." Jim whispered. A hungry, naive Sandburg assailed by demons only he could see... "Golden fire people..." besieging bystanders in a parking garage with random shots from Jim's .38 because he wanted to protect them...
"Over it, Jim," Blair insisted softly, shaking Jim's arms and snapping him from something that felt frighteningly close to the starting dive of a zone-out. "So over it. Waaaay over it," Blair continued, and used one hand to make a zooming jet plane over their heads, complete with whistling sound effects. The blanket dropped to the floor, pooling around them, soaking up footprint-puddles.
Blair looked into Jim's eyes searchingly and went for a little smile. "Come on, man, it's just a pizza, sometimes a pizza is just a pizza, you know? You know?" He nodded encouragingly at Jim, stroking softly up and down his arm, and Jim mirrored the nod sheepishly, now starting to feel embarrassed that he'd made such a big deal of the whole thing in the first place.
Blair's smile got bigger. "I'm not pizza-ist, Jim. I'm not going to blame the entire race of pizza for the unfortunate victimization of one individual," he kidded, never ceasing his soothing caress of Jim's arm. "I mean, yeah, sure, all that pepperoni is a cardiac arrest waiting to happen, but hey, it's not like we're playing fugu roulette here, right?"
He nodded again and again Jim mirrored him. "Sorry, Chief," he mumbled. And pulled Blair into his arms, squeezing him tight enough to crack his back. They both smothered a snicker at the series of popping noises and Jim nuzzled into the top of Blair's head, whispering, "I didn't mean to be pizza-ist."
Blair laughed. "Aaah, your secret's safe with me. Even the pepperoni -- hell, if you really wanna play pepperoni roulette all that bad, fine, it's your business -- though I'll deny it to my last breath if you ever tell anybody I said so," he couldn't resist adding. "Wouldn't be the first time you and I chowed down on something dubious. What do you think is in all that cassava we've been stuffing ourselves with? In its natural state it's totally toxic, man. Why do you think Chopec women spend their entire lives soaking it and working it and pounding it? You can't eat that stuff in its natural state, man. Can you imagine what it must have taken to figure out how to prepare cassava?" he speculated, slipping back into professor-mode right before Jim's eyes, still in Jim's arms. "Can you imagine how hungry people had to be, how many awful mistakes had to have been made through trial and error --"
"Enough! Do we need the lecture now?"
"No!" Blair agreed vehemently, shocking Jim more than a blast of cold water.
"No? No lecture?" Maybe the cold shower had scrambled Sandburg's brain...
"No! We need beer!" Blair bounded over to the kitchen as Jim shook his head with a grin and hit another number on the speed dial.
"Hi, Simon? Yeah, we're back. No, not tomorrow! Tomorrow's Sunday, we'll be in on Monday. Well, you can get by without us one more day. No! Nobody's shot, nobody's missing -- Simon, it's going to take me that long to scrub the entire Amazon basin out from under my toenails, and I'm not sure you want Sandburg in the station in his condition, trust me. No, no, he's fine -- sort of." He glanced over to the kitchen, rolled his eyes and groaned. "Simon, he's hugging the refrigerator!"
Blair, who had indeed been caressing and murmuring sweet nothings to the refrigerator, now had opened it and was kowtowing, butt in the air, before the two six-packs of Sierra Nevada India Pale Ale that glowed amberly in the light of the fridge bulb. He looked over his shoulder and called, "Hi Simon! Wanna see my tattoo?"
"Simon..." Jim continued into the phone, "Simon -- yes, we had a great time. No, we'll be in on Monday. Monday." He broke into a warm smile. "Thanks, sir. It's great to be home." He hung up and shouted, "Chief, shut the refrigerator door!"
Blair handed him an open beer and darted off. "To the Sumerians, dude!"
"To the Sum -- hey, where are you going?"
More blissful moans and rustling noises were coming from Blair's room. Mildly trepidatious of what he'd find, Jim peeked inside.
Blair was rolling around on his bed, squirming among the richly patterned pillows. With a slow, wicked grin, he twisted over on his back and arched, stretching his arms above his head and spreading his legs to display his groin. At the first glimpse of Jim, his prick twitched and swelled, already willing to wake back up and restart the party. His eyes gleamed dark and startlingly blue; his scent washed over Jim, spiced with musk and mystery. He smelled like heaven, like everything Jim had ever dreamed of all wrapped up in rosemary shampoo. In his deepest fantasies Jim had seen Blair lying there on his bed just like this, looking at him just like this, but never, ever had Jim let himself believe that the reality would one day be his. His. His to reach out and touch, any time he wanted. His to take and hold and keep and protect with his very life and soul.
Blair's quickening heartbeat pounded in Jim's chest and filled his ears. Jim leaned against the doorframe and took a long swig of beer, trying to maintain a calm exterior and keep himself from flinging the bottle to the floor and lunging on top of his mate. He could feel himself flush and tense. He hoped his hands weren't shaking. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Blair smiled at him and quietly replied, "I'm worshipping my bed."
I worship you, Jim thought. "Your bed is upstairs," he growled. "Come here."
And -- god, it was like a dream -- Blair got up and came over to him, took the beer bottle from him and placed it on the desk, came into his arms and laid his head on Jim's shoulder and sighed in full contentment.
Jim exhaled -- he hadn't even been aware that he'd held his breath. He crushed Blair to him and buried his nose in his damp hair and said roughly, "This is your room. Your den. Whatever you want. Fill it with burning sage, cover the floor with cedar chips and dead leaves -- I don't care. What goes on in here is yours." One hand went under Blair's chin and tilted his head up to catch his sea-deep gaze. "But you sleep with me."
Blair glowed at him in sheer adoration. "I sleep with you," he promised in a whisper, and the Guide kissed his Sentinel, years of fantasy coming true in one single long kiss.
Blair leaned back from the kiss and flashed his boldest grin. "C'mere, wildcat, I want us to do something." He tugged Jim further into the room.
For some reason, Jim suddenly felt shy and resisted the pull. "Uh, Chief, I'm an old man, I don't know if -- and the pizza will be here soon..." he protested.
Blair laughed. "And you say my mind's in the gutter!" He let Jim go, turned back to the bed, and started maneuvering the pegs that converted the futon frame into a sofa. "Get over here and grab the other end of this thing."
Jim rushed to help, and in seconds, Blair's bedroom became Blair's den. Blair folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his small domain with satisfaction. "There's a lot more room in here now. Though I might rearrange the furniture later."
Jim nodded. "You need a file cabinet, and we should put up more bookshelves --" he cut himself off. "I mean," he amended, "if you want me to help, if it's okay for me to be in here." He took a step backward toward the door.
"Dude!" Blair exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "This door is open," he insisted. "Always open. You are in here any fucking time you want." One side of his mouth flicked up in half a grin. "And speaking of which, just because I'm not sleeping here doesn't mean we're never going to do the horizontal macarena on the futon, cat."
"Your mind is in the gutter," Jim pronounced gravely, flicking half a grin of his own.
Blair wriggled back into his arms, smiled up at him angelically, wiggled his eyebrows and murmured, "Thumb-wrestle ya for topsies."
"You'll lose," Jim grumped happily.
"Curses, copper!" Blair laughed. "You've foiled my nefarious plan!"
"Don't you mean your fiendish plot?" Jim purred, nuzzling behind his ear.
"My fiendishly nefarious plot-plan!" Blair crowed, twitching at the tickly touch of Jim's tongue.
Jim grabbed Blair's ass and plunged his tongue into his mouth. They rocked together as they stood, skin to skin, heart to heart, necking like kids for long dizzy minutes, then Jim pulled back with a snort. "I smell pepperoni downstairs."
"I could eat!" Blair raced to his dresser and started yanking clothes from the drawers. "Eat -- that's an understatement! I could inhale pizza at this point! I've been fantasizing about pizza for weeks! Little circles of dough dusting themselves with flour and flinging themselves into the oven just for me, ripe tomatoes committing saucy seppuku for my gustatory pleasure, man, we are talking an orgy of gastronomic suttee here..." He babbled on, happily expounding, flinging discards in every direction before pulling on a pair of sweats, a t-shirt and a flannel shirt.
Jim was just about to complain about the clothes on the floor -- but clamped his mouth shut. Blair's room. Blair's business. He went upstairs and found jeans and a t-shirt of his own (nothing could beat the smell and feel of clean, soft cotton against his freshly washed skin, Jim smiled to himself, except of course for clean, sleek Blair) then came back down just in time to open the front door right before the delivery guy knocked.
Jim hardly had time to put the pizza box on the kitchen counter and open it before Blair snatched a pepper-and-onion corner slice took it over to sit on the floor before the fire.
"Hey!" Jim called. "The horizontal macarena does not mean the house rules are suspended, Chief! No food in the living room!"
"Sez you!" Blair called back from around a cheesy mouthful. "You suspend that rule every time the guys come over to watch a game or play poker." He swallowed. "And you've been eating a side of bugs and dirt with every meal for a month!"
"Exactly," Jim said decisively. "You worship your way, I worship mine. I worship Clean."
Blair looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "You are absolutely right," he acquiesced, and came over to set the table while Jim riffled through the jazz section of the CD collection and came up with the soft, intricate melodies of Django's acoustic guitar. They ate from real plates and drank from the real glass beer mugs that Jim kept frosting in the freezer, and cut the pizza with the Williams-Sonoma pizza cutting wheel that Rafe had given Jim for a Secret Santa gift and that usually only came out of the drawer when Rafe was over or Sandburg was imitating a scene from a lousy slasher-horror flick. The whole set-up pleased Jim so much that he didn't even bitch when Blair insisted on playing footsie with him under the table while relating the entire History of Pizza (which, it seems, had been invented by the ancient Greeks, who came up with the whole idea of fast food in the first place, which was kind of interesting if you thought about it).
After dinner, the gods of Clean were appeased further as the leftovers were carefully packed in appropriately colored storage containers and the dishes were washed, dried and put away. Jim gave the counter a final flick with the dishtowel.
"Tupperware in the fridge and all's right with the world, hey Jim?" Blair kidded him fondly, leaning back against the counter.
Jim grunted. "Piss off, Chief. You run around the place practically humping the refrigerator --"
"No, no, man, way too cold! Though that stereo's looking mighty tasty --"
"I wipe the damn counter down and you have to give me grief?"
"Oh chill, Jim!" Blair laughed, and reached out a bare foot to run his toes up Jim's shin. And damn if the tickling nails up his skin didn't send a chill down Jim's spine -- but in a good way. Jim turned to look at Blair from under hooded eyes and snarled softly, and Blair laughed again and pulled at Jim's arm, insisting, "I didn't mean to be crude, you know what bizarre crap pours out of my mouth when I'm not paying attention..." as he led Jim over to the french doors and out onto the balcony. "I mean it, man, I really was asking!"
Outside, it was chilly enough to give Blair an excuse to tuck himself in with his back against Jim's chest and for Jim to wrap his arms around him, lean his head on Blair's shoulder and spit out the hair that immediately tried to take up residence in his mouth. The lights of Cascade flickered on the dark choppy water, and Jim could see gray clouds overhead, heavy with moisture; they were going to get a downpour. Figures. Welcome home.
"I know I've been flipping around like a doofus," Blair continued, "but it's just because I'm happy. Really doofus happy. I want you to be happy too. I worship what you worship. I go where you go, I sleep where you sleep." He shrugged and smiled a tiny secretive smile out over the water where he thought Jim couldn't see.
Jim didn't need to see it, of course; he felt the muscles in Blair's face move anyway. "That simple, huh?" he smiled back, nuzzling into his favorite spot on Blair's neck. Maybe in a decade or three he'd get tired of nibbling and inhaling that warm smooth spot where Blair's neck sloped into his shoulder and his pulse danced right below the skin, but until then he might just move in and set up a Barcalounger.
"When I was a kid--" Blair started -- Jim gave an inward groan: here comes another story, but maybe the groan wasn't so inward because Blair swatted back at his head lightly -- "you know Naomi was always taking off." Jim nodded; Naomi gave a new meaning to the term "soccer mom" the way she was always passing her son off to one friend or another. "So one day when some friend or other of hers told me my mom's name's in the Bible, I look it up for the hell of it. And you know how sometimes you coincidentally just come across stuff that makes you shake, it's so appropriate?
"Everything ties in to everything else, Jim my brother," mused Blair. "Even into the Sentinel thing -- this whole thread in my life ties up with a big fluffy bow. Check it out. The Naomi in the Bible, she's taking off, of course. And this other woman, Ruth, her daughter-in-law -- the son's dead -- wants to go with her. Doesn't want her to go alone. Can't let her go alone. Doesn't matter that what Ruth is supposed to do is go back to her own parents like a good girl now that her husband's dead. Doesn't matter that Naomi is taking off for the far reaches of who-knows-where, and the idea of women travelling on their own back then -- well, hell, that's about as socially unacceptable as things got. Might as well as carry around a big red neon RAPE ME sign. But Ruth doesn't give a shit. You know what she says to Naomi -- minus the thous and the goests and all that?"
Jim shrugged at the rhetorical question. "I'm know you're going to tell me."
Blair twisted in his arms until he was looking at him, boring into him with eyes just three shades lighter than the night itself. He stroked along Jim's jawline with one featherlight finger, as if he were learning Jim's face by heart. "She says: I go where you go," he said softly, almost Sentinel-soft. "I sleep where you sleep. Your people are my people, and your gods are my gods. I worship what you worship." The eyes went feral and the voice got a little rough as he continued, "And where you die, just kill me and bury me right there... and do worse to me, dear god, if anything short of death comes between you and me." He sighed. "I mean there's a lot of other reasons why I remember that quote, sure, but when it comes to you and me, man, your gods are my gods. I worship what you worship."
"And the porcelain altar," Jim snarked to cover a sudden rush of embarrassment. "And the refrigerator, and electric lights and pizza and beer and --"
"Aw man," Blair laughed softly, shaking his head. "You know that stuff's just smoke and mirrors. I've turned into a flippin' monotheist these past couple years. I worship you, dude." He shrugged and looked away. "I know that sounds really fucking pathetic, but I wasn't bullshitting when I called that bullet a religious symbol. I worship you."
Jim inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. "Then if you worship what I worship you're shit out of luck, Chief," he managed huskily, "because I worship you." He tilted Blair's face up to him and sought out his mouth, running the tip of his tongue over Blair's lips and slipping inside, so easy, so warm, like coming home.
Blair's tongue caressed him, his hands traced over his neck and face. Jim shivered at the touch, and Blair leaned back and laughed. Jim felt his mate's skin flush, and knew it was embarrassment as much as passion, that in his own way Blair was as uneasy with some forms of emotion as Jim was.
"Oh man, just pass me the insulin, would you?" Blair groaned. "This is getting just too sappy for words!" He wriggled around, not leaving Jim's arms, until he faced the harbor again. "But anyway, dude," he continued briskly, "I know you. A place for everything and everything in its place. Or you'll never be able to relax." He shrugged. "Your people are my people, and your city is my city. There it is, man," he said, waving his arm over the vista before them. "Your Great City of Falling Waters."
"The waters will be falling any minute now, Chief," Jim groused, pointing to the threatening rain clouds.
Blair sighed and shook his head. "Come on, Jim, I thought we were beyond all that. I thought you might want to run an ear around town or something, make sure everything's copacetic. A quick perimeter sweep from the comfort of your own home. What more could a Sentinel ask for?"
Jim hesitated; Blair ran one electric fingertip in whorls over the back of his hand. "Don't worry, Jim. I'm not going anywhere, and I won't let you go anywhere either." Grinned slyly at him and urged, "Come on, kitten. You know you want to."
Jim leaned back against the french doors and Blair leaned back against him, wrapped in his arms. He closed his eyes, let his head loll back and cast his senses out like a net, just let go wide in every direction at once, dials spinning up quick as fly-fishing reels. It was like jumping out of a plane and seeing the ground rushing up at 32 feet per second per second and thinking what on earth was I thinking? A moment of intense vertigo and panic when he realized the madness of what he'd just let himself do -- then whumph the parachute opened and caught him, and the chute was Blair, Blair's heart pounding with his, Blair's voice murmuring -- the words didn't matter, it was the voice that mattered, Jim knew that Blair was murmuring all the smooth familiar words: Jim, I'm right here, Jim, I won't let you down. And that was exactly it; the Guide was like a wind or a wave that carried him and anchored him all at the same time, he could go anywhere he wanted, he could surf it, he could fly because of Blair's warm body weight, Blair's heart softly thumping in time with his own, Blair's hands like leaves in a breeze brushing over his skin -- Blair was like a rock beneath him, the only solid thing in a rush of chaotic, exhilarating sensation.
And that was insanity itself, to think of Sandburg as the most stable thing in the universe. Jim just had to laugh like he hadn't laughed in years, real deep gut-level laughter booming, echoing in his own ears. And he could swear that even with his eyes closed he could practically see Blair's answering smile as his Guide stroked one scintillating finger over the hairs on Jim's arm and leaned back against him and prompted him, "Mmmm, sounds great -- what is it, Jim? You still with me? Can you tell me?"
He wanted to share this amazing thing with his Guide -- needed to -- but god, it was like when he was 10 and got into his dad's Galliano and got high on the intense peppermint flavor as much as on the alcohol, that great reeling feeling just before he got sick as a dog. And that made him laugh too, and he tried, really tried, but all he could get out of his mouth was, "I'm flying! And you're a rock!"
He heard Blair's laughter like water breaking over a fall. "And that's good?"
"Great!" he moaned.
"Wild! You go with it! I won't bother you, I won't let you fall," Blair murmured cozily, snuggling himself back against Jim, leaning his head back against Jim's shoulder, and Jim felt a cloud-soft tumble of clean aromatic curls settling in for the long haul.
"No, no! Never a bother, just so much -- it's all everything." Jim chuckled at the sound of his own gibberish.
"Too much?" asked Blair, his voice tinted with concern.
"No," Jim breathed, stroking the rich tapestry that was the lightly haired arm of his Guide. "Just too much to grab..."
"Do you want to try and grab something, or would you rather just fly?"
"Come with me!" he pleaded.
Blair caressed him, humming low in his throat, "You fly for us, Jim. You fly. If you want to talk to me, then talk, but if not you just fly for us both. Maybe you can tell me later or something."
But that's not what Jim wanted at all, so he found himself trying to focus in a strange way, to be able to catch on to one wisp of sensation but still stay aloft on the cresting wave. Like trying to spear fish while surfing. It helped if it was a big, colorful, noisy fish, and Jim's hearing hooked on to the first thing that grabbed his attention -- the first thing that was out of place.
"Sirens," he mumbled, rolling his head in the general direction of the sound. "Ambulance by the arena. Uniforms."
"Should we go?"
Jim chuckled and snorted. "Fender bender. Somebody's new Audi."
Blair laughed too. "Good luck on the insurance."
Jim rolled his head back and forth and inhaled deeply, shifting around, Blair shifting with him easily, naturally.
"You uncomfortable, cat? Want to sit down? Ready to land?"
Jim shook his head. "Just looking for... seeing if I can find something," he rumbled. But now thinking about it made him start to come back to himself, he was slowing down even as he spoke, coming in for a landing, dials slowly tuning down, almost springing back, rewinding the reels. Nice smooth landing, like a white sand beach.
"Find what?" asked his Guide. "What were you looking for?"
A small smile flicked across Jim's face. "Simon's cigars." He shrugged. "Couldn't get them."
Blair shrugged with him. "He's probably not smoking now," he reasoned. "And the wind is coming in off the bay, so the breeze is in the wrong direction."
"Or it's just possible that I may have limits, Chief," Jim grunted, eyes still closed, still almost smiling.
Blair blew a fart noise with his tongue. "No such thing," he said confidently. "Never met a limit I couldn't bust."
"You think so?"
"Lines in the sand, my man, lines in the sand," Blair assured him, patting his wrist with sanguine calm.
"You seem pretty sure of yourself."
"No, just sure of you."
"Hairy little truck," Jim grunted.
"Lunkhead," said Blair, pecking a kiss on Jim's cheek. "I take it then, since we're not racing for the lunkhead-mobile, that everything is cherry in the Great City."
Jim shrugged. "As much as can be expected for Cascade on a Saturday night." He smiled, still feeling a little of the wheeling aftereffects of his unexpected "flight". "All in all I'd say there's only one thing that's not exactly where it belongs."
"Which would be what, exactly?" Blair questioned archly, one eyebrow raised.
Jim turned his head and opened his eyes, catching his mate in a languid gaze, and purred, "You. In my bed."
"You are such a romantic," Blair laughed softly. "I would have said something much cruder." He wriggled out of Jim's embrace as Jim took the bait and asked pseudo-archly, "Which would be what, exactly?"
Blair leaned in and ran the tip of his tongue up the tendon in the side of Jim's neck. When he reached his earlobe, his hand reached down to cup Jim's balls as he whispered, "Your dick up my ass, ya dope."
Before Jim could grab him again he squirmed away inside the loft and slammed the french doors between them. "I'm just gonna grab a couple of things out of my room -- I mean the den. I'll meet you upstairs!" he called, turned tail and ducked into his old bedroom.
Jim smiled and turned back to the bay, resolutely refusing to pay attention to the intriguing scuffles and rustles coming from inside. The air was heavy with mist now, fresh and salty on his skin with the oncoming rain. The tide was on its way out, so not all the smells were pleasant, but that was part of the whole package, the particular bundle of sensory stimulation that was unique to the bay. Jim hadn't realized how he'd missed the salt water and its deep green algae smell, the salt air that felt just a bit tingly on his skin, the sound of seagulls settling in for the night, the little creaks and the tang of motor oil and canvas from the boats in the harbor. Home.
Home. His balcony overlooking his harbor in his city. All the sweaty nectar-scented nights of the jungle could never replace the profound sense of rightness felt by Jim Ellison as he stood in chilly mist becoming rain, surrounded by car alarms and vacuum cleaners and taxis swooshing past with blasts of salsa on the radio, by dog shit and laugh tracks and cell phones and neon brand-names and flushing toilets -- and by five million heartbeats, every single one of which was under his personal protection. And one heartbeat above all -- the one that made everything else conceivable -- one singular heartbeat pulsing in time with his own, waiting for him in his bed.
The Sentinel was in his City, and all was right with the world.
Now if only the great Sentinel was smart enough to come in from the rain. Shaking his head, snickering at himself, Jim went inside, banked the fire and did his usual last go-round to check the locks.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, deliberately not looking up, but feeling Blair's quickening heartbeat, hearing his deep breathing, and scenting the mellow richness of those beeswax candles of Sandburg's that were supposed to be unscented but always reminded Jim of warm suede dipped in honey. Jim let slip another tiny smile at that; he'd better not tell Blair that particular image, or he'd be off and running again on the synesthesia thing, and it would never do for Jim to let Sandburg know he'd actually been paying attention.
He walked up the stairs grinning like an idiot, but feeling like a man entering church.
to be continued... possibly concluded. I'm making no more promises. Don't hurt me! <author ducks>
Ruth 1:16-17 (KJV)
16 And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: 17 Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.