Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount, and The SciFi Channel.
Much appreciation goes to Shallan for her beta work...thank you!
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Carole
Jim Ellison gazed unhappily at the food that remained on his plate for a long moment before taking another small bite of pressed turkey. Despite lowering his taste dial a notch or two, he still swallowed with a visible effort.
"Yuck," Blair Sandburg muttered under his breath, making a face at the taste of the watery cranberry sauce. Setting his fork down, he reached for his dinner roll.
Deciding to forgo the rest of his unappetizing meal, Jim used his fork to move the mound of lumpy mashed potatoes into the compartment holding the over-cooked peas. Stirring slowly, he watched as the off-white potatoes became green tinged.
Blair frowned as he picked up a roll. The bread, almost black on the top, was as hard as a rock, and he let out a sigh as he experimentally tapped the roll on the table.
Still contemplating his new culinary creation, Jim glanced up at the sound.
Ignoring the crumbs that now covered his side of the table and his lap, Blair valiantly attempted to lather butter on the roll before taking a bite.
"Sorry," Jim said quietly.
Blair looked up curiously. "Sorry for what?" he mumbled though a mouthful of dry bread.
Jim looked around the motel room. "This." He shook his head. "Not exactly a great way to spend Thanksgiving."
"Oh." Blair swallowed the last of his roll, and reached for his water glass. He took a quick sip before adding, "It's not so bad."
Jim's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Right."
"Okay, it is that bad," Blair admitted, wrinkling his nose. "I did find myself wishing a couple of times that I could dial down my sense of taste like a certain person I know."
"Sorry," Jim repeated, his jaw tight.
"Hey, it's cool." Blair reached over to lay his hand on Jim's arm. "It's not your fault the trial date was moved up, and the plane didn't have any available seats, and your truck broke down on the way home, and we got stuck in this dinky little town miles off the beaten track."
The detective didn't look convinced. "Right."
"And it's not your fault all the restaurants were closed, and only thing the convenience store had left that even looked half-way edible was these TV dinners."
"Right."
"And it's not your fault we had to cook these things in a toaster oven."
"A toaster oven with a broken temperature gauge," Jim muttered.
"And it's not your fault some of the food burned."
"Right."
"In fact, this whole thing sounds pretty typical." Blair grinned. "For us, anyway," he teased, patting Jim's arm.
Jim smiled wryly in response.
Taking encouragement from Jim's expression, Blair went on. "Hey, tell you what. When we get back, we'll just take that turkey out of the fridge and have our own Thanksgiving dinner. So what if it's a few days late."
Jim only shrugged, but his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.
"And I'll pick up some green beans, not the frozen kind, and sweet potatoes and applesauce and..." Blair broke off, deep in thought. "And I'll make a pumpkin pie... no, one of those Apple Cranberry Cookie Cobblers. You know, like the one we made for the station's Christmas party a couple years ago. Remember?"
Jim unconsciously licked his lips at the thought.
"How's that sound?"
"Sounds good, Chief," Jim admitted.
"Good. Then it's settled." He made a face, rubbing his stomach. "Unlike this food. You going to eat any more of this stuff?"
Jim cringed at the thought. "No. You?"
Blair shook his head. "No way, man." He pushed the TV dinner away with emphasis. "I don't think there's much to do in this town on Thanksgiving Day. What do you want to do?"
"We could watch some football," Jim suggested, efficiently clearing the table and depositing the garbage into the trash can. "Detroit and New England play first, then Dallas and Washington."
"Hey, I know. Let's walk back down to that convenience store before the game starts, pick up some beer--"
"And some chips," Jim interrupted enthusiastically.
"And something for dessert," Blair offered, remembering the tasteless brownies the TV dinner had provided.
"Twinkies."
Blair shook his head. "Do you know what's in those things?"
"Right down to the last ingredient," Jim answered smugly.
"Hey." Blair looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, that would be a really good test of your--"
"No tests." Jim shook his head firmly.
"But--"
"No tests."
Blair sighed. "No tests."
Jim picked up his jacket. "Ready to head for the store?"
"Yep." Blair shrugged into his coat and opened the door. Gesturing that Jim should lead the way, he followed the older man out. "Got the key?" he checked.
"Got it," Jim answered, patting his pocket, as he started for the sidewalk.
"Hey, Jim?"
Jim turned inquisitively. "Yeah?"
Blair smiled. "Happy Thanksgiving."
"Still doesn't seem much like Thanksgiving," Jim groused. "I--"
"Hey," Blair broke in gently. "Thanksgiving isn't really about turkey dinners. It's about friends and family. And I think we've both got lots to be thankful for. Right?"
At Blair's words, Jim's expression softened. "Yeah, we do." Wrapping his arm around Blair's shoulders, he pulled him close. "Happy Thanksgiving, Chief."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Jim."
Jim gave Blair one last squeeze before releasing him. "To the store?"
"To the store," Blair agreed with a nod, smiling.
Closing the door behind them, the two men headed down the sidewalk.
~end~
November 2002