A little snippet, rated G. This originally appeared on the Sentinelangst list as my dues. Thanks to Melanie for the quick beta read.
The Sentinel world belongs to Pet Fly, Paramount, USA/SCI-FI and UPN. No copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback please, at LSuther569@aol.com.
Laurie Borealis
Sometimes Sandburg is a mystery to me. I'll think we're on the same wavelength, and then he'll just turn weird on me. I mean, what is his problem with my wanting to color code the Tupperware? Seems like a perfectly reasonable request to me. Red cover, his. Blue cover, mine. Nice and clear, and I don't get into his witchetty grubs or whatever the hell kind of outlandish food he's into that week. But he went on and on about my silly rules, like I was asking him to wear pink pantaloons on Tuesdays. I'm not an unreasonable man. I just like things to be organized.
Then there's this "thank you" business. He's gotten on my case a couple of times, just because I didn't shower him with appreciation for something he'd given me. He should know I appreciate it. Do I have to send him a card? Okay, maybe I should have thanked him. My father was never big with the thank yous, and my mother... well, my mother wasn't there most of the time, and when she was, she was usually in her room, crying. I could hear through the door. I tried not to hear, but I couldn't help it. Anyway, teaching me the finer points of etiquette wasn't high on her list of priorities.
Then there was that incident last week with the cherry pie. It didn't start with the cherry pie, of course. It started when Sandburg and I were out on a case and he totally ignored me yet again when I told him to stay in the truck. I had gone into a warehouse and the perp somehow locked me in and started a fire. I was wheezing and coughing and trying to get out when Sandburg opened the door. I probably could have gotten out without his help. Probably. Well, maybe I was pretty close to being overcome by the smoke. After things had calmed down a little and the fire department had arrived, I started to lecture him on not following orders. It was then I noticed that he was holding his hands strangely, all clawed up and pressed protectively against himself, and he was biting his lip hard. I made him show me his hands, and when he slowly uncurled his fingers for me, the palms were red and blistered. I told him he was an idiot, and took him to the emergency room.
We didn't talk much on the way home. In fact, I was probably clenching my jaw like I do sometimes, because when we parked back at the loft he asked me if I was mad at him.
I glanced over at his bandaged hands. "I asked you to stay in the truck and you didn't, and look what happened. You could have been killed."
"What was I supposed to do?" he asked me in an aggrieved tone. "Let you burn?"
"Well," I said, "well..."
"Well what? You could have been killed too, if I hadn't gotten the door open."
"I just don't want to see you hurt. I don't want to see you killed. I couldn't bear it," I muttered, hurriedly getting out of the truck and going around to his side. He was so full of drugs that he practically fell out on me when I opened the door. I caught him and kind of lifted him out onto the ground, and he stood there and just smiled at me. Must have been the drugs.
He was weaving a little and I was afraid he was going to fall on the sidewalk, so I put my arm around him and helped him inside. "Thanks, Jim," he said, leaning into me. It sounded kind of nice, I have to admit.
I got him ensconced on the couch and turned on the TV while I made us some dinner. When the lasagna was in the oven, I wandered over to the sofa. He was sitting there, high on painkillers, staring at Julia Child making a cherry pie. I'd forgotten that he couldn't use the remote with his bandages, but he seemed quite content.
"Look at that pie," he breathed, watching Julia expertly weave a lattice crust and crimp the edges. "Man, I love cherry pie. Naomi used to make me cherry pie sometimes. When I broke my arm, she made me a pie."
Well, what could I do? I said I'd be back in fifteen minutes and I went out and bought a cherry pie.
By the time I got back, the lasagna was done. Blair moved to the table, yawning, sat down, and made some ineffectual attempts to pick up his fork between thickly bandaged mitts. The fork finally clattered to the tabletop, and he looked at me helplessly.
I sat down next to him and tucked a napkin in his collar, and I picked up the fork. "Can't let you starve, I guess," I said, feeding him a bite of lasagna.
"Thanks, Jim," he said. Yeah, it really did sound kind of nice.
When we'd both had two helpings of lasagna and salad, I made him close his eyes, and I cut us a couple of slices of pie. "Open wide," I said, and fed him a bite.
He looked startled at the taste, swallowed and opened his eyes wide. "Jim! Cherry pie!"
I smiled at him. "Yep."
"Aw, Jim! You got me some cherry pie! Just like Naomi used to. Aw, Jim, what a nice thing to do. I'm really touched. Thank you."
My face felt hot. I looked away. I was sort of embarrassed, I guess. He was almost calling me motherly.
"You're welcome. I'm just glad you're okay. And, and," I said, my face burning, "thank you for saving my life today." I looked back at him. He was smiling at me, but a tear was falling slowly down his cheek. He was crying. See what I mean? Sometimes he's just a mystery to me.
THE END