"Sandburg? I need to talk to you."
As I squeeze past a clutch of people gathered around the bar door,
Simon's voice growls beneath the overtones of merry conversation,
laughter and tinny juke-box music, reaching me inexorably despite the
distance. This isn't one of my favourite places - but the guys from
the station just love it here. It's one of those cop joints, where
everybody knows who they are and treats them just like normal people.
Yeah, just like they are. Hey, people in Cascade know how to pretend,
don't they?
But it's not my kind of place. I know that's sacrilege - and I don't
dare say it out loud when I'm with the guys, but there's too much
pseudo-aged wood and deliberately yellowed paint.. Too many fake
antique mirrors, tables with colonial style chairs and painted
plastic ashtrays. Hell, they've even got a spittoon at the end of the
bar, as though anybody around here would know what it was for.
And of course, it's smoky. There's an air-conditioner going but all
it's doing is circulating the smoke from one set of lungs to another.
Global sharing on an intimate scale. The closer you are to the duct,
the more smoke you're likely to breathe in. Personally, I don't know
how Jim puts up with it. I don't know how I do.
But you have to make these sacrifices, eh? Have to put yourself out
there, be prepared to go wherever you need to go to be a part of
these bonding rituals. It took me a long time to become accepted by
these people - and for all that I run the closed-society scenario
whenever I need a smoke-screen for my real diss topic, the truth is,
this really *is* a very closed society that doesn't normally embrace
anyone without a badge - regardless of how
good/clever/brave/decorated they may be. However, I'm still here. I
still get invited. They still buy me drinks and don't expect me to
put up for a round more than once a month.
Nah, these guys are anything but normal.
"Sandburg?"
Simon's standing in a corner, as far from the bar as possible. He's
easy to see because he's so tall, but he's waving at me anyway like
he hopes I'll rescue him from the Friday night crush or something.
Me. Yeah, right.
Jim is right behind me. I can feel his presence, the warmth coming
from his body even though it's so cold outside. I find I can almost
sense him now the way he senses me. Okay, it's not the same, but it's
similar. I think. Not that I have his tactical weapons, mind, but I'm
not without my resources - one of which seems to be an uncanny
ability to know when he's near and when he isn't.
Besides, his hand is pressed against the small of my back - something
of a dead giveaway as to his position. With the number of people in
here, he could almost lean down and kiss me and nobody would notice.
It's almost worth suggesting it, just to see what would happen.
But no, we're still too new, Jim and me. We're going out after this.
Out for a picnic supper by the beach. It's four weeks today since we
got together. Four weeks and we're still in love - so that just
proves miracles still happen.
Simon's waving again and Jim leans down, hearing me chuckle.
"You paying him to do that?"
"It's nice to feel wanted," I say clearly. I know he's got his
hearing dialled down. Hell, I wish I could dial mine down too - but
my genes are apparently normal so I just have to suffer the ringing
ears.
"Yeah, it is."
He's done it again. Dropped the timbre of his voice to a level where
it reaches inside me, grabs me and makes me see all over again just
what I am to him. And I don't even think he knows he's doing it. I
once called him on it - but he honestly had no idea that a mere
whisper had the power to melt all my innards.
Meet Blair Sandburg - personal advertisement for jello.
I glance up at him, he's looking at me, all innocence, like he really
doesn't understand what I see in him. I mean, he's this tall guy, all
muscles and soft-centre, loyalty that would put the marines to shame
and a sense of humour more arid than the Gobi - and he wonders why
I
love him.
"Half an hour, Jim. No more. Okay?" I let a little of my own husky
tones out in those words, just to test the trusted waters.
His grin flashes daylight into the dusky bar. "That long?"
"Anything less and the guys will start talking."
"Then half an hour it is. You better go talk to Simon before he pulls
a muscle trying to get your attention. I think Brown owes me a beer."
His hand does a brief, gentle caress of my ass before it vanishes and
I know he's squeezed his way in the opposite direction, leaving me
to
face Simon alone.
There are some days when there are distinct advantages to being small
- but this isn't one of them. I elbow, push, shove and elbow again
my
way though the press of people, running 'excuse-me's' together to the
point of satire. The noise is worse at this end of the room and
really, I'd rather be getting a beer first.
No. Perhaps not. I have plans for later and I don't want to be
distracted.
"Jesus, Sandburg, I thought you two were going to be here an hour
ago."
Simon's version of a personalised greeting within the boundaries of
a
social environment. There are moments when the concept of a closed
society seems almost an understatement. Then again, Simon, Jim and
I
are a closed society of our own. Three people who share the same
secret - so I guess I shouldn't be too harsh on the man. He does his
best and he knows how good a cop Jim is with being a sentinel and
everything. It's not Simon's fault he'll never get close enough to
really understand how and why it works.
Hey, I only just began to understand it myself - and I was in there,
on the ground floor.
Come to think of it, I was actually on the *ground*.
"We had to make a few more calls and then Jim got that fax he was
waiting for," I begin, wondering if that's why he was waving at me
with such determination.
But Simon is shaking his head, frowning, pursing his lips together -
all of which is his usual language for warning me that he's about to
say something I should pay close attention to.
Good thing I'm an anthropologist, eh? The study of human behaviour
within a cultural and societal structure is rudimentary in dealing
with a man of Simon's complexities.
I straighten up, turn the most attentive look I can on him - and
wait.
"Sandburg," Simon begins, drawing me closer until I'm standing by the
wall, shoulder pressed up against the drinks shelf which is just the
right height for Simon to rest his elbow on.
"That's the name, man," I offer encouragingly. Half an hour - and
then I'm outta here, so be quick. I've got things to do. Someone to
be with. Things to do to him… er, I mean *with* him.
"I need to talk to you."
"Go ahead." What was this? A conspiracy for Jim's birthday party or
something? I mean, that's what Simon makes it look like - even though
Jim's birthday is still two months away. I know - I have something
special planned for it, myself. Something that won't require the
entire gang from Major Crimes. Something that will require no more
than a naked Jim, a naked me, a piece of blue ribbon, a birthday cake
with lots of cream and …
But Simon is here now, shooting stray glances across the room, and I
just know he's keeping track of where my other half is. Silly really
- he should just ask me. I could tell within four feet exactly where
Jim was. "Simon?"
"Sorry." He turns back to me now, giving me his undivided attention.
He shifts a little, picks up his glass, takes a sip of what I'm sure
is whisky then puts his glass back down. The jukebox picks up a
Santana song and I smile, knowing Jim probably chose it. "Listen, I
just wanted to know how Jim's doing."
I can't help it. My eyebrows rise without warning and no effort on my
part can stop them. "That's all? Well, Jim's fine, man. You can see
that for yourself."
"No," Simon drops his voice until I can barely hear him over the
noise. "I mean, how's he going with the, you know, senses stuff. Is
everything working okay?"
So now we're being specific - and I still don't know what the man is
on about. I shrug, "Sure. Everything's about normal."
Simon twists his mouth, like he has to literally chew on the words
first, before they're allowed out without a chaperone. "So he's not
having any day-to-day problems?"
"No. Not that I know of."
"Would you know? If he was having any? Does he always tell you?"
"No. Not always. At least, not directly - but I always find out
eventually. But really, Simon, there's nothing to worry about. He's
doing better than ever before now. I really think he's got a handle
on it."
"That's great, great." Simon says this like it's anything but - then
promptly refuses to continue by distracting himself with another
mouthful of his drink. This time he drains the glass, as though for
courage. He puts it down on the shelf, keeps his gaze on it and says,
"What do you think would happen if I pulled your ride-along status?"
Fine hairs I never knew I had rise along the back of my neck and
despite the heavy heat in the bar, a brief, violent shiver runs from
my head to my toes. I don't want to sound pathetic, but I can't quite
control my voice when I reply, "Did I do something wrong, Simon? I
mean, if I did, I'm sorry and you know, I'll try not to do it again.
I know I'm not a cop but I have learned a lot of stuff and hey, you
said I do help, didn't you? With the cases and stuff…"
He's been holding up his hand for more than a few seconds, but panic
has a way of making me blind to things like that initially. So now
I
see it and now I put an end to the rambling words that tumbled from
me, like some kind of rope thrown out to a Titanic lifeboat. And that
ship sank too, as I recall.
"Sandburg, you haven't done anything wrong. I promise you, you
haven't broken any rules lately that we haven't already talked
about."
"So why are you pulling my ticket?"
"I didn't say I was going to - just that… well, I'm thinking about
it."
"Why?"
He glances at me a moment, having to dip his head quite a bit to look
at me over his glasses, like I've grown a third ear or something in
the last three minutes. "For your own … protection."
"Shit, Simon," I pounce - and boy, can I pounce when I want to.
"We've been over this a hundred times already. I've got all the
insurance, I've been doing this a couple of years now and I've
learned the ropes and hell, Simon, you can't just arbitrarily decide
that it's suddenly too dangerous for me to be out on the streets with
Jim. Besides, he's the best protection I could possibly have. And
what about my dissertation? If I don't ride along with Jim, I don't
gather data and without that … and above all, what happens if he
*does* have trouble with his senses and I'm not there?"
"You just said he's got the hang of it."
"That doesn't mean it will stay like that."
"So, you're going to stick with him forever?"
Forever? Damned straight I will!
But I know that's not the question Simon is asking me. Nor, in
reality, is my safety or otherwise the real issue here. I know; I can
see it in Simon's eyes. He's not being totally honest with me.
"What's this really about, Simon? You know as well as I do that it's
safer for me now than it was in the beginning. Where's the danger?"
He finally meets my gaze, openly, with just a hint of resignation.
"Jim."
I could sputter and cough and demand to know what he means - but
there is such an air of wary protectiveness to the big man, I simply
stand there and wait, offering a single question. "Why is Jim a
danger to me?"
"Oh, I don't think he'd hurt you or anything, don't get me wrong. And
you know I think he's one damned fine cop - the best I've got. Maybe
even the best I've seen. But I've seen the way he … relies on you and
…"
"Relies on me?"
"Yeah. Sure, he functions perfectly when you're not around - but he
functions even better when you *are* around - and that bothers me."
For some odd reason, those fine hairs on the back of my neck do a
little dance again. I wonder if there's a draft in this room.
I take a step closer to Simon, keeping my voice steady and even, not
allowing even a hint of the sudden anger that fills my gut to come
out in tone or look. "Why does it bother you?"
He's silent for a good ten seconds. Then he flinches, glances down at
his feet and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, kid, but I think he's
become too attached to you."
"Too attached?" What can I do but ask? I mean, ask - how attached is
too attached? Was there a definable line? Did we not see it when we
stepped over it? Were there protocols, rules and regulations nobody
warned me about?
He's talking about a sentinel and guide here, and he damned well
knows it! How can Jim possibly be *too* attached to me? God, for so
long there, I worried that he wasn't attached enough!
But the big man doesn't go on - so I have to push him. I'm good at
that, too. Even better than I am at pouncing. After all, I've had
years of practice pushing one Jim Ellison around - Simon is really
a
piece of cake compared to that. "Damn it, Simon, what the hell are
you talking about? You know the real score, here. You know I don't
only help Jim when his senses go haywire - I help him use them on a
day-to-day basis. If he's *not* attached to me, I'm no use at all -
and neither is he."
"I'm not talking about the sentinel thing." His voice is so low I
almost don't hear this. Then he adds, "I mean it … well, in another
way entirely."
Oh, no.
"Um… Simon," I begin with great care, treading so softly, eggshells
wouldn't even shiver under my feet. "What way are you talking about?"
"I think he's… well, shit, Blair, I think he's … I don't think his
intentions are entirely honourable."
I almost laugh.
I mean, it's there, bubbling inside me to just let it go - but I
resist. Sure, it's tough, but I can do it. I'm sure I can.
Honourable?
Did we skip back a century when I wasn't looking?
"I'm sorry, Simon." No, it seems I skipped back about ten years,
right back into adolescence. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"I mean," Simon hisses between clenched teeth, "that I think he's
interested in you *romantically*! Is that clear enough for you?"
I never actually said anything to Jim the first time I noticed the
colour coded containers in the fridge. I did have a good laugh at
them, though - and that was my privilege, my right, as the target of
such a strict food code. And then, right before we went off on that
case on the rig, I finally pounced, listing them along with a dozen
other things as perfect examples of how Jim is such a control freak.
He instantly countered with how disorganized I was, how haphazard my
life is and how, in his opinion, I have absolutely no discipline
whatsoever. The moment I tried citing my study habits, he instantly
formed a rebuttal filled with anecdotes of how I have to rush to meet
my teaching commitments and I'm always grading papers etc at the last
minute. No discipline, see?
But I'm standing here, looking Simon in the eyes, hearing him tell me
he wants to split Jim and me up because he's worried for my virtue
-
and I'm totally capable of not completely dissolving into laughter.
Me and discipline are soulmates.
Besides, this is an anniversary and a little celebratory teasing
would be such a good way to start the night off. So I take a deep
breath. I hitch my jaw a little and do a perfect impression of a man
who is deliberately trying to avoid glancing nervously over his
shoulder to where his partner is standing. Then, as icing on the
cake, I swallow loudly.
"Romantically?" Repetitions always work with Simon. He has this
compulsion to keep elaborating until he's running around in this nice
little decorative circle. I had a dog once who chased his own tail
in
a similar manner. "You think Jim … that Jim wants to …"
I let my voice trail off in a gesture of paled confusion, as though
the idea has never occurred to me until now - a blatant and
bare-faced lie. It occurs to me on a daily basis, and has done for
not only the last month - but the months before I said a word to Jim
about it. And that's not even counting the *number* of times a day
it
singed through my brain. That's in a separate class all it's own.
Simon, suddenly uncomfortable, grabs my arm, pulls me a little closer
so he can keep his volume to a minimum, "You're not going to say
anything to him about this are you?"
"About what? Simon, I just don't see it. Why do you think he thinks
that way about me?"
Okay, discipline *and the devil* are my soulmates.
Yeah, and Jim Ellison, of course.
Simon is almost on the edge now, frantic, desperate and obviously
concerned that at any second, Jim might just dial his hearing up and
listen in on our conversation. "Are you telling me you've never
noticed the way he touches you, looks at you? The way he smiles when
you walk into the station? God, the man said you could stay at his
place for a week - and you're still living there, more a part of the
furniture than his stereo. You crook your little finger and he's
there, like a tamed dog - "
I can feel those hackles rising again.
"- and he lets you get away with shit he'd kill other people for. And
that doesn't even take into consideration how he behaves if he thinks
you're in danger."
"I still don't understand," I do - but he's going to pay for that dog
comment, "Jim and I have always been like that."
"Except that it's worse now. Much worse. The last few weeks he's been
like an open book. I'm constantly surprised that nobody's said
anything to me about it. Are you honestly telling me you know nothing
about this?"
Mmmn, what to do. Outright lie? Gentle obfuscation? General
meandering - or the flat truth?
Decisions, decisions.
"So, you want to split up a perfectly good working team," - okay, so
none of the above - "because you can't trust Jim to keep his hands
off me?"
Oh, beautiful. The sly, left-hand offensive jab. Works every time.
"Of course not!"
Including this one.
"And even if you do - what's to stop him from trying something at
home? I can't afford to move out, Simon. I really don't know what you
think I should do." And just to make it an elegant offensive, add a
touch of worry, a suggestion that I'm taking this seriously and could
possibly find myself in a difficult position.
And I do. Often. Sometimes the positions are quite difficult indeed.
I am sooo close to losing it. So far out on that discipline limb, the
whole tree is shaking in trepidation of the very real possibility
that I might actually die laughing.
But then, I feel it. My salvation. Opening up my guide senses in a
way I can never really explain to the man I love. But I know he's
moving across the room towards me, slipping that delicious body
between others to gain my side. I have no need to look at him, don't
even need to hear his voice. I know he's there. I just do - and he
just is. The way of the world. Our world. Our own closed society.
"Hey, Simon."
And in those two, simple words, I read a whole essay in
self-discipline, reaching far and beyond anything I was
congratulating myself on before.
Jim, mighty Sentinel and my personal Blessed Protector, heard every
single word.
And he wonders why I love him so much.
"Hi, Jim." Simon's a little shaken, not knowing, as I do, whether Jim
heard or not - but also not willing to take a chance.
But Jim's older than me and he's probably a lot more mature - because
he doesn't tease his friend at all. He just looks at me, eyebrows
raised only a little, implacable facade giving nothing away that
anybody but me could read and says, "You wanted me to remind you you
have a hot date tonight, Chief. Remember?"
Half my face smiles at him. The other half remains in careful
neutrality - I'm still in too much danger of giving the game away and
with the master standing there, in perfect innocence beside me, I
have no desire to repeat lessons later.
"Yeah, thanks, Jim. Can you give me a lift home?"
"Sure. Ready to go now?"
I manage a nod - but of course, I have to turn back to Simon.
"Listen, I'll uh … think about it, okay? See what I can come up with.
Just don't… you know… worry about it - or do anything rash. Right?"
Simon has the grace to glance with a touch of guilt at Jim before
nodding at me. "Okay, okay. Just be … careful, Sandburg."
Jim lets out the most perfect chuckle I have ever heard. "Careful?
Sandburg? Yeah, good call, there, Simon. Come on, Chief, or you'll
be
late for your date."
I wave goodbye to Simon, leaving him grim-looking, alone in his
corner and follow Jim as he makes a path towards the door. It creaks
and groans as he pushes it open, an old fashioned bell tinkling to
herald our departure - and then abruptly, we're out in the street,
in
sudden silence, in sudden cold, walking towards the truck.
I pull my coat around me, shove my hands into my pockets, turn the
corner following the windbreak in Jim-clothing. I have my head down
so I don't see it when he comes to a halt. Don't see it so I can't
stop bumping into him. That's when he turns.
The rest of his movements are too quick for me to list. All I know
is, one minute I'm standing there beside the truck, worrying if this
alley is too dark to be safe - the next, I know it isn't because this
big man has me pushed up against the door, his hands running down my
arms, his face close, his breath warming my cheek.
"Happy Anniversary, Chief," he whispers, melting me inside like I'm
a
snowflake and he's my blowtorch. Only, those are just words - and
what really melts me is when he kisses me, right here, out in the
open - okay, in the dark - but it's still in a city street.
He kisses me - and I kiss him and it's like the very first time he
kissed me, like I've never tasted beer on him before, never felt the
warmth, the moist haven of his mouth, never noticed how erotic just
one of his kisses can be. But I guess it's an anniversary kiss and
it
*should* remind me of that first time.
It's a long kiss. Deep. Playful and serious, both at the same time.
He's telling me things, here. Important things he'll never repeat
with the clumsiness of words.
And I'm listening. Boy, am I listening. I live to hear this stuff.
>From him. As often as possible. I'm a veritable sponge for these
drops of wisdom, soaking up each for the desperate jewels they are.
And even if Simon can't see it in me as well. Even if Jim doesn't
understand why - I still love him so much it no longer scares me.
So the kiss ends and we're breathing again. Breathing the same air,
sharing it, sharing the moment. He touches my face, like he's just
discovered it and my insides twist, flashing excitement and
anticipation through every cell in my body simultaneously. Now, I
happen to know *this* is deliberate.
He's laughing. Softly, letting me feel it as much as hear it. He's
including me in it and I just know he's thinking about Simon. I tilt
my head back until I can look into his eyes, putting all the
innocence I can into that first look - putting all my money onto the
one horse.
"What?" I ask.
"Sandburg?" He replies. "I need to talk to you."
~Finis