This short little story is classic Jim and Blair, probably around first season. Rated a mild PG. No spoilers, no warnings. A slightly different version appeared earlier on the Sentinelangst list as my dues. Thanks to my indispensable beta readers Melanie and Carolyn.
The Sentinel world belongs to Pet Fly, Paramount, USA/SCI-FI and UPN. No copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback of all kinds is greatly desired, positive, constructive, private or public. Please write me at LSuther569@aol.com
Laurie Borealis
A band of gypsies seemed to be having a party inside the loft. Jim paused at the door, hand on the knob, listened and sighed. He was tired and he wanted his dinner. He wasn't in the mood for gypsies. But he could hear wild violins and mysterious thumps. And there was this unusual smell - a wonderful, dinner-like smell. He opened the door.
Blair was whirling exuberantly around the floor in time to the music, dark curls bouncing, the heels of his hard-soled shoes thudding on the bare wood. He was attired in a dancing ensemble of jeans, t-shirt and Jim's flowered apron. The next spin brought him up short in front of his roommate, and he stopped with a surprised little yelp. "Jim!"
"Yep, it's Jim." He raised his voice to be heard. "Suppose we could ask the gypsies to take a break?"
Blair grinned. "Oh, sure, sorry. I guess maybe I was a little loud, but I'm celebrating with a little csardas." Panting a little from his exertions, he turned off the CD player. "My Uncle Istvan is getting married! Well, he's not really my uncle, but he and Naomi are good friends, well, maybe better than good friends once, but it's just easier to call him my uncle, you know?"
"Yeah. What's that on the stove? Smells good." He walked over to the simmering pot and lifted the lid.
"Chicken paprikash, Istvan's special recipe. You're going to love it. When I was a kid, Naomi and I visited him a few times in Hungary at this fancy hotel he managed on Lake Balaton, and he taught me some great recipes. I don't cook them much, since they're richer than sin, but this is a special occasion. Paprikash with good sweet Hungarian paprika, fresh sour cream, and homemade noodles. It's great. I made it nice and mild, so it won't be too spicy for you. Give it a stir, would you?"
Jim stirred the fragrant stew and inhaled.
"It needs another twenty minutes or so," Blair said, picking up a letter from the table. "Istvan says, 'My Dear Puli! You will have new aunt! My Katalin agreed to marry me! You need vacation in Hungary! Come to our wedding! We will have excellent party!"
"Puli?"
Blair mumbled, "He calls me Puli because he thinks I look like a Hungarian Puli dog. Ever seen one? They have long corded black coats that look like dreadlocks."
"You mean those mop dogs?"
"Well, yeah. Anyway, when we visited I'd spend all my time on the lake, swimming and rowing. Lake Balaton's huge, the biggest lake in Europe, and it's only about ten feet deep. I remember we were there one winter and it froze, and we all went ice-skating."
"I wouldn't have figured you for a winter sports kind of guy, Chief."
"I know I always complain about the cold, but you're moving around enough that you keep warm. Oh man!" Blair whacked himself on the forehead. "I just remembered I was going to get some good Hungarian wine to go with dinner - Egri Bikaver, Bull's Blood. I think I know where I can get it." He hurriedly removed the apron, not bothering with a jacket in the mild evening. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes, tops. Just give the paprikash a stir or two and take it off if it seems done. Maybe you could make a salad?" He was gone.
Jim just stood for a minute, enjoying the silence. Then it seemed too silent. Maybe he was in the mood for some gypsy violins after all.
Blair hurried down the street and into George's Deli Mart, realizing he'd made it with just minutes to spare before the shop closed for the night. He could see that George was busy with last-minute customers, so he headed straight for the aisle with imported wines. "Egri Bikaver, Egri Bikaver," he chanted, scanning the display and bouncing a little on his toes. Nope. He looked at the domestic wines, just in case, but didn't see it there either. He tried the big refrigerator against the back wall. Zip. Nada. He looked back toward the counter, but George seemed to be enmeshed in a complicated dispute with a customer. He remembered that he'd heard that some specialty wines were kept in a walk-in cooler in the back. Knowing the owner wouldn't mind if he helped himself, he stepped into the dimly lit hall, moving carefully around tilting stacks of boxes. Stepping over a large bag of rice, he reflected that George wasn't exactly the neatest storekeeper in the world.
The massive steel door in front of him looked like it might be a cooler, but he could only see darkness through the tiny window at eye level. He opened the latch and was encouraged by a blast of cold air, so he stuck his head into the little room. The light in the passageway faintly illuminated the interior, and he thought he saw a light switch on the wall a couple of feet to his left. He stepped inside. Keeping one hand on the door to hold it open, he stretched the other out toward the switch, but couldn't quite reach. He took another small step and his leather-soled shoes slid on something slick on the floor. He tried to regain his balance, but slipped again and instinctively threw his arms out to keep himself from falling. The heavy door began to close. Blair tried to twist around and took a step back to catch it, but in his odd position he skidded helplessly once more and felt his feet go out from under him. As the door slammed shut, his head met something hard and he fell into a dark and cold oblivion.
Jim tasted the simmering paprikash and decided it was done. He took it off the burner and turned off the stove. The table was set, the salad was made, dinner was ready, but Blair hadn't returned. It had been almost half an hour, and he had said he'd be back in fifteen minutes at the most. Surely he couldn't get into trouble just going to the store. He told himself not to worry, that Blair was delayed for some perfectly logical reason. Dinner could wait a bit. He sat down determinedly with the newspaper and forced himself to read a long article about global warming. Fifteen minutes later, when Blair still hadn't appeared, and he realized he had no idea what he had been reading, he gave in to the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It wouldn't hurt to take a little walk, just in case. Sure, a little walk before dinner was a good idea. He'd probably meet Blair and get some story about how he'd started talking to the most fascinating person and just lost track of the time. He pushed down his unease and headed downstairs.
Blair was aware that he was extremely cold, that he was lying on something hard, and that his head hurt. He opened his eyes, but he still couldn't see anything. Maybe he just thought he had opened his eyes. He tried again, and groggily thought they felt open, but there was nothing but blackness. He moved an arm experimentally, and his cold fingers touched a patch of ice. He began to shiver. He knew he had to get up, to move around and get warm, but when he tried to move his legs, they responded slowly and stiffly. Why did he seem to be lying on a sheet of ice in the dark? Was it night? Or, heaven forbid, was he blind? His mind seemed to be working slowly, too. He was all muddled. Wasn't there something about ice-skating? Confusedly, he tried to make sense out of the situation. Maybe he'd gone ice-skating and fallen. Ice-skating at night? Alone? That didn't sound right, but he was pretty sure there was something about ice-skating.
"Hello?" he called shakily, but there was no answer
The cold was seeping into his bones, numbing his hands and feet more every minute. His head was aching and he couldn't stop shivering. Making a superhuman effort, he struggled to his feet and stood swaying in the darkness, rubbing his icy hands together.
"Keep moving, keep moving," he mumbled to himself, stumbling forward on benumbed feet, slipping a little. Did he have ice-skates on? He didn't think so. But he probably needed some, if he was going to stay upright on this frozen pond, or whatever it was. He slipped again, and this time he fell.
"Hell, I fell, hell, hell, hell," he muttered through chattering teeth. "A fine kettle of fish. A fine how-de-do. Don't lose it now, Sandburg. Up and at 'em. Let's get off this lake."
Lake? Dreamily, he remembered skating on a lake with Naomi and Istvan, laughing as Istvan pulled him along on wobbly ankles, then finally gliding free on the smooth ice. Sometimes they'd have skating parties by the light of the moon, and when they got tired they'd go back to the hotel and drink hot chocolate by the big stone fireplace. Maybe he was waiting for the moonrise, and somebody would show up soon with his ice skates. Maybe Istvan would appear, skating circles and figure eights effortlessly around him, encouraging his novice efforts. "Puli!" he'd boom. "Get up! Try again! Try to do circle, like me! You can do it!" Man, he was really confused, though, and this headache was killing him, and he was so cold. He could really do with some of that hot chocolate right about now. Laboriously, he tried to get up again.
Jim tried to think where Blair might have gone to score some good Hungarian wine. He could see that the Volvo was still parked outside the loft, so he must be on foot. The closest choices were the big Safeway, the little corner grocery that just seemed to be called "Grocery", and George's Deli Mart, but there was that fancy wine shop not too far away as well. He just stood on the sidewalk for a minute, extending his sight and hearing around the neighborhood, but he didn't feel Blair's presence. He walked down to the corner grocery and quickly scanned the aisles, but didn't see him. George's Deli Mart was closed, but he looked in the darkened window anyway. There was no movement inside, but when he piggybacked his hearing on his sight he detected a faint little sound. Consciously, he tuned down the noise of the street, and narrowed his focus. Yes, there it was again, muffled muttering from somewhere inside the store. He'd know that muttering anywhere.
George lived above the Deli Mart, so he called up to the open window. "George! Are you there? It's Jim Ellison!"
After a minute, George appeared above. "Evening, Mr. Ellison. Sorry, we're closed."
"I know, but I have reason to believe Blair is inside your store. I'd really appreciate it if you could please come down and let me in."
"Blair? How could that be? I always look around for stragglers but I never saw him." He looked puzzled.
"Just indulge me. Please."
"Sure, Mr. Ellison." He came racing down the stairs, opened the door and turned on the lights.
Jim followed the sounds to the back of the store. He stepped into the hall and quickly opened the heavy metal door. By the light in the corridor, he could see his roommate standing unsteadily in the middle of the room, blinking owlishly, and holding a hand to his head. "Hey," Blair said faintly. "Did you bring the ice skates?"
Jim looked down at the ice gleaming on the floor and guessed what had happened. "Stay where you are. I'll come to you." Taking care to avoid the slick spots, he gingerly approached his shivering friend.
"It's too dark and cold to skate," Blair said plaintively, "and my head hurts."
"I know, Chief, let's get out of here. We can go skating some other time."
"Okay."
Jim moved to Blair's side and put an arm around his shoulder to support him. He could feel him trembling with cold, and hear his teeth chattering. Blair wrapped an arm around Jim's waist.
"Good, just hold on to me," Jim said. "Let's go." He led them carefully across the patches of ice, out of the cold little room.
"I'll work on my figure eights tomorrow," Blair murmured.
"That'll be fine."
George held the door open, a distressed look on his face. "I'm so sorry," he said agitatedly. "I don't know how this could have happened. I looked inside the window in the door before I left, but it was dark, so I assumed no one was inside, and customers don't usually come back here anyway."
"He's pretty cold. Could you get some blankets, George?"
"Sure, Mr. Ellison. I'll run upstairs. I'm so sorry."
Blair was shivering hard and looking bewilderedly around him. "I guess Naomi and Uncle Istvan haven't come yet."
"Not yet."
Jim helped Blair stumble into the front of the store and he sat him down on the floor, with his back resting against the shelves of groceries. He knelt and wrapped his own jacket around the frozen feet, then enfolded his partner's icy hands in his own warm ones and massaged them gently. He monitored heartbeat and respiration and decided they were a little slow, but not dangerously so.
Blair stared at him with a dazed expression, his face pale. Jim noted with relief that the pupils of his eyes were equal in size.
"I must have forgotten my gloves," Blair said shakily.
George returned with the blankets and Jim wrapped them around Blair's head and shoulders.
"Thanks."
"Feeling warmer?"
"Yeah."
George appeared with a paper cup of hot chocolate from the deli machine.
"Thanks, George. Give him small sips and I'll continue getting his hands warm." George knelt and helped him drink the hot liquid.
"Oh, man, I've been dreaming of hot chocolate," Blair said, still shivering.
"Do you know where you are?" Jim asked him.
"I thought...I thought...Are we at the lake? Is Uncle Istvan here?" Blair looked confusedly down the aisle at the shelves of dog food and detergent, and then slowly looked back at Jim. "No, we're not at the lake, are we?"
"No, we're not."
Blair's eyes seemed to focus a little. "I'm in a grocery store." He looked up out of his cocoon of blankets at the person who was warming his icy fingers. "Jim!"
"Yep. Do you remember what happened?"
"I was looking for wine. Then I ...went skating?"
"Sort of. You went in the freezer and apparently slipped on some ice on the floor and hit your head."
"I went in the freezer? I thought it was a refrigerator."
George looked abashed. "I spilled something in the freezer and it froze on the floor. I should have cleaned it up right away."
"It's a good thing I came looking for him."
Jim felt Blair's head with his sensitive hands. Blair winced. "You were pretty out of it when I found you. That could be the effect of a concussion or the beginning of hypothermia, or both. I think we'd better take a little trip to the emergency room and have them check you out."
"I'm all right," Blair shivered.
"Emergency room," Jim said firmly.
Later that night, after returning from the hospital, Jim stood at the stove, reheating dinner and monitoring his roommate's progress as he took a long hot shower and dressed in what sounded like layers and layers of clothes. Finally, he heard shuffling footsteps come up slowly behind him.
"I think I'm finally getting warm."
"Good, dinner's ready."
Blair sat down at the table, swaddled in a blanket over at least two pairs of sweats, and massaged his hands. "Chicken paprikash reheats really well, you know," he said. "It'll still taste great. Too bad we don't have that good Hungarian wine to go with it, but I think I can live without it."
"Definitely. But remember George promised you a whole case to make up for your experience."
"Yeah, that was nice of him. Hey, you ever been ice-skating?"
"Nope."
"You want to go try it some time? There's a rink in Cascade."
"Sure, Sandburg, I'll give it a try."
Jim dished up dinner. He hit the remote for the CD player, filling the loft with the sound of subdued gypsy violins, and then he sat down at the table.
"It's funny," Blair reflected, drawing the blanket closer around himself. "I don't really recall much about when I was in the freezer, but I vaguely remember I thought I was in Hungary, skating on Lake Balaton. I had some great times there with Uncle Istvan. Maybe I should go to his wedding. You could come too; we could take a vacation. I can teach you the csardas."
"Excuse me?"
"I can teach you to dance the csardas."
"Sandburg, I don't do folk dancing. Ice skating, maybe. Folk dancing, no."
"Hmm. You're right, I can't quite picture it, but you really ought to try it. It'd be good for you to loosen up, dance with the gypsies, get crazy."
Jim just shook his head at his bundled-up friend. He smiled and speared a piece of chicken with his fork. "Life with you is plenty crazy enough for me, Chief. Who else would I have to rescue from a trip to the deli? Who else would I find doing double axels in the freezer? Somehow, I don't really feel the need to dance with the gypsies."
"But, Jim-"
"Shut up and eat your chicken paprikash."
THE END