Disclaimer: Jim, Blair and the rest of the Cascade crew belong to UPN, Paramount and Pet Fly, and are presently on loan to the Sci-Fi Channel. I'm not making any money from them; I just let them come visit sometimes. A couple of original characters have been inserted to flesh out the cast, but the rest belong to Bilson and DeMeo.
Spoilers: None in particular, although this takes place after "Dead Certain" and before "TSbyBS."
Rating: G.
Beta services performed by Andrea, asker of necessary questions and tolerant recipient of minutiae. Every fic writer should have at least one.
Feedback: jassmoris@yahoo.com
Linda Stoops
Detective Lieutenant Jim Ellison sipped from his glass of soda and watched his captain pick the last slivers of chicken from a breastbone. "You want a pair of tweezers for that, Simon?"
Simon Banks didn't dignify the question with so much as a glance up. "I believe in letting nothing go to waste, especially this chicken."
"You get no argument from me there," Jim answered, spearing a homemade dill pickle from his plate and biting it in half before adding, "Who knew Welles could cook?"
"Hrm-hmmm," was Simon's garbled response, his gaze shifting to where the Cascade P.D. Chief of Forensics sat, chatting with some senior members of her staff and a few detectives from Homicide at a table not far away.
For this year's department picnic, the organizers couldn't get its usual shelterhouse locations at Olympic Park, and they didn't want to tempt the weather gods by holding it under open skies. Therefore, the gathering was moved to Puget Sound Hotel's set of ballrooms, with every dining table put to use and more rented. The catering office had pitched a polite fit, wanting to provide the food for so many mouths, but the picnic committee's limited budget couldn't stretch to cover the overpriced fare, so a compromise was reached: the hotel would handle beverages and appetizers, and the attendees would have their customary potluck arrangement. This being the slow time of year for function-space rental, the hotel conceded.
"I still wouldn't hazard the marshmallow-whatever-it-is she brought, but that teriyaki-wasabi chicken is great. Maybe we can get Hairboy to wrangle the recipe out of her," Det. Rafe suggested as he finished off his helping of salmon croquette.
"There's an idea." Jim cast a look around for his wandering partner, who had gone to reload his plate. It hadn't been hard to pinpoint the green-gray-black plaid shirt over the pine green long-sleeved T-shirt and the length of brown curls atop it all, although Blair Sandburg was quite a distance away from the main food table. Not only that, but the Major Crimes division's observer/consultant/unofficial mascot was deep in conversation with Henri Brown's wife, Sgt. Ben Pritchard of Traffic and a woman he didn't recognize, taking notes to boot. While trained in lip-reading by the Army Rangers, he found it impossible to follow a conversation when most of the speakers either stood in profile or had their backs turned, so Jim used the targeting trick Blair had taught him to listen in.
He picked up his fork and, running his thumb lightly over the tines as a distraction against zoning, he turned up his hearing and filtered out all but the voices around his Guide. Simon spoke to him, but apparently figured out what he was doing, and said nothing more.
The unknown woman was talking at the moment.
"...introducing variety can't be done all at once, you understand. He needs time to accept and incorporate each new food as an everyday thing. And the dishes need to balance out, so the whole meal pulls from the entire pyramid."
"'Cause we all know how cops love their starches and proteins," Monica Brown put in with a smile.
"Hey, I resemble that remark," came Pritchard's half-joking protest.
"And we all know how hard a battle it was, too, hon," the woman said in a teasing but mollifying tone, identifying her as either the officer's wife or fiancee. "Anyway, the more vegetables, fruits and whole grains he can work in, the better. You say he likes convenience, and the changes he's gone through lately haven't done anything to alter bad eating habits. See if preparing meals ahead of time and freezing for later, as well as non-perishable snacks, will make it easier. I'll e-mail you a list of cookbooks you can probably get from the library. He can test-drive a few, and any that pass muster can be purchased..."
Jim pulled his awareness in, deciding he'd heard enough. A burning sensation on his thumb called him back even faster, and he looked down to see that he was pressing down hard on the tinepoints now. He dropped the fork immediately.
"About time," muttered Simon, his chicken fully stripped of its marinated treasure. "Five seconds more, and I'd've booted you under the table."
Jim rubbed the sore digit and grumbled, "Didn't zone. Sandburg's gonna wish I had, though."
"Oh?"
The Sentinel opened his mouth to explain, then realized there were too many ears within range, and only said, "Later."
Simon turned to see where Blair was standing and noticed the group he was talking with. "So he's over with Monica and the Pritchards. So what?"
"Nothing."
"Maybe he's looking to put on some muscle," Rafe suggested. "Sharon's a registered dietician. H says she's got Monica on a food plan so she'll qualify for the marathon next year."
"Uh-huh." Jim wasn't convinced, but couldn't say anything to someone not in the Sentinel loop. He continued to look daggers at his roommate, though, tracking Blair's movements as he left the others and made his way to the buffet table.
It was all he could do to keep from leaping to his feet before Blair returned to where Jim, Simon, Rafe and a few from MC's night shift sat. When the observer did, he gave himself a mental pat on the back for self-control in rising and addressing the younger man quietly.
"Can I talk to you a minute, Chief? Privately?"
"Sure." Blair set his plate down and with a grinning "Mitts off my food, guys," he followed Jim out of the banquet room. "What's up, Jim?"
Jim could feel the civil expression drop off his face as he rounded on Blair. "Look, nobody appreciates better than me the lengths you go to for this Sentinel thing. Checking all the medicines, making sure the cleaning products we use don't give me trouble, washing the new towels and sheets a couple of times before I use them..."
"Well, that's just to keep the..."
Jim raised a warning index finger, cutting Blair off. "...However, I don't appreciate you going behind my back and trying to change my eating habits. I'm a grown man, and I'm fully aware of what I put in my body. I do try to maintain variety in my diet, even on my -- on our -- schedule. Frankly, I'm surprised you never noticed it, as much as we eat together."
"But I do notice, Jim. Where is this coming from? I haven't said anything about..." The muddy look of befuddlement cleared from Sandburg's eyes as a connection popped into place. "Oh, you heard what we were talking about over by the dessert table?"
Jim nodded curtly, glowering down at the younger man.
Blair's response to the wave of Ellison anger was to grin and shake his head. "What makes you think I was talking about you?"
Jim drew a breath to snap off a retort, then the meaning of the question sank in. "Ah, well..."
"See, Joel's been having a problem with his weight-loss program, and he asked me to do some research for him, since I turned him on to finding alternatives to his usual diet. After being in a high-stress job with the Bomb Squad, which also doesn't require much running around -- except from a bomb they couldn't defuse in time, which is rare -- he'd been used to quick or no-fix comfort foods, and that tends to pack on the pounds. Living alone doesn't help, either. Nobody to make sure he eats right." A megawatt smile with a teasing edge followed that comment.
"Oh, well... did you find something that'll help?" Jim tried not to wince at the lameness of the question.
"Yeah, Sharon was great, a big help. I coulda looked this stuff up myself, but it helps to have an expert confirm some things. I'll write up something over the weekend, and give it to him on Monday." Five seconds of silence hung between them, which Sandburg broke with, "So, is that all? Are we done here?"
"Ah, yeah. Yeah, we're done. Sorry." Jim ducked his head, sincerely abashed.
"Good. Gotta get back before Gutierrez scarfs my panini." Blair took a step toward the closed door, then paused, the good-natured expression replaced by the one that announced 'Warning: Guide and Shaman on Duty.' "When we get home, we're gonna have a discussion about private conversations, okay?"
"Got it."
"And, by the way -- news-flash here, buddy -- it's not always about you." Blair shook his own index finger and cocked an eyebrow at his Sentinel.
"Got it."
Warning delivered and received, and discussion tabled for the afternoon, both men rejoined the party.
The End