Catch by lamardeuse

Written for the Sentinel Secrets challenge on LiveJournal, March 2005

The fast-flowing West Coast rivers were thrilling in their own way, but the sedate late-summer waters of Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore were a balm upon Jim Ellison’s overworked senses. Not having to concentrate on the savage, inexorable pull toward the sea meant that he could focus his attention on other things: the subtle movements of the fly as it dipped and weaved in the current, the unexpected snap of the August air, the musky smell of the forest that wrapped itself around them—

“Whoo-hoo! Jiiim!”

—the haunting cry of the Lesser Long-Haired Sandburg, Jim thought, a sardonic curl twisting his upper lip.

“This mother is huge, man, you gotta get over here and see this!”

Jim reeled in his own line with a put-upon movement of his wrist. “This better be good,” he said, as gruffly as he could manage.

“Oh, man, it is, you’re not gonna be disappointed! Bring the net, quick, quick!”

Over the past couple of years, Sandburg had turned into quite the angler, his own results often surpassing that of Jim and Simon. He never hesitated to rub it in, and Jim let him, mainly because he knew Blair needed to feel that he could best Jim in some field of masculine endeavor. They both knew Jim was a better shot, was stronger, had more endurance. Blair had to beat him in something.

Maybe he’s better in bed, too, Jim thought absently as he waded over to Sandburg. In the same instant, he shoved the thought away from him, harshly, without mercy. It didn’t pay to let his mind go wandering along those shadowy, dangerous paths.

“Come on, come on, I can’t hold it much longer!”

Jim unsnapped the net from his belt. Bending, he dipped it into the stream beneath the struggling salmon. Sandburg hadn’t been lying; it was a beautiful creature.

Gripping the handle of the net firmly, he lifted the fish into the air and watched it gasp for oxygen.

Irony abounds, Jim thought, without rancor.

The cabin they’d rented was a spacious two-bedroom A-frame on the bank of the river equipped with all the modern facilities, and Jim found himself grateful for the comfort of a hot shower, a soft bed and an electric stove. For some reason, the unvarnished wilderness no longer held the same appeal it once had. Or maybe it was the prospect of spending night after night in a small tent with Sandburg’s scent heavy in his nostrils that killed the appeal. He didn’t want to expose himself to that kind of temptation, not when his body was screaming that it would turn traitor at the first provocation.

“Hey, Jim, I uh, you wanna go on a hike tomorrow?”

The casually forced question should have set off all of Jim’s perimeter alarms, but considering he’d dialed down to the minimum in order to survive this vacation, the sound of Sandburg floundering for words didn’t even cause a single blip to light up his radar screen. “Sure,” Jim answered, willing to be magnanimous in the safety of space and central heating.

Upon reflection, that had been one of the dumber decisions he’d made in recent years.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, it’s really here.”

Jim emerged into the clearing in the woods to find Sandburg standing calmly, almost serenely, as though he’d just walked into a cathedral.

That couldn’t be good.

“What is it?” Jim said, even though some part of him knew already, because there was a crawling sensation climbing his spine that he’d had only once before, and goddamn Sandburg to hell for seeking this out again. He thought he was done with this, how could he when he knew what it—

“Jim. Jim. Hey.” A gentle hand wrapped around his wrist, bringing him back to reality.

Jim blinked at the object in the middle of the clearing. “It’s a pile of rocks,” he said, answering his own question. Not only that, he noted, it was a mossy pile of rocks, the stones overgrown with the pale green and grey of lichen.

“It’s not just a pile of rocks. I think it’s a cairn erected by Henry Sinclair, and if I’m right, it’s been here for over six hundred years.”

“The only people who were here six hundred years ago were Indians,” Jim protested, knowing even as he said it that it was useless. Sandburg was revving himself up for Full Lecture Mode; Jim could smell the burning rubber. Blair sucked in air through his nose and opened his mouth, but was forestalled by Jim’s raised hand. “Please. The short version.”

Blair nodded. “Henry Sinclair, of the Poor Knights of Christ of the Temple of Solomon—”

Jim hung his head.

“—otherwise known as the Knights Templar, is believed to have visited Nova Scotia in the fourteenth century. He—”

“—was a member of one of the most powerful military, financial and political forces in mediaeval Europe.” Sandburg gave him that look of wide-eyed surprise that pissed him off even more. “Yeah, I can read too, Einstein. So what was he doing here? Fishing?”

“Nobody knows, exactly. The theories range from trading with the locals for furs—and yeah, fish—to finding a place to hide the Holy Grail.” Blair reached out and ran his hand over the rocks, and a strange tremor went through Jim, as though the ground beneath them had suddenly experienced a minor earthquake.

Oh, shit.

“This isn’t just intellectual curiosity, is it?” he growled.

At least Sandburg had the good grace to look guilty. “Well, uh, I’ve always wondered what happened to Sentinels in civilized societies—ones where the needs of the tribe were no longer paramount. And until I found you, I figured they’d pretty much died out in Europe fairly early on. But since I’ve been reading up on the Templars, I’ve been thinking about the possibility that they might have decided to—uh—pool their resources.”

Jim frowned as the gears turned. “You mean—you think they were all Sentinels?”

Blair spread his hands. “They were chosen very carefully—there were only about four thousand across Europe in their heyday—and they were, as you said, kind of the best and the brightest of the time. They were secretive, and highly trained, and they styled themselves as protectors, and nobody could figure out how they were so successful at whatever they did. And if sentinel senses are genetically inherited, the fact that they were eventually hunted down and wiped out could explain why Sentinels are so hard to find in modern European and North American society.”

Jim closed his eyes for a moment against the sight of Sandburg in all his enthusiastic, pedantic glory. He should have been happy for the kid, happy that he was still interested in anthropology even after losing the chance at his doctorate and becoming a cop reduced it to the status of hobby. But inside, some part of him that was rapidly growing in strength and size was screaming like a petulant, whiny child, and he couldn’t make it stop.

I thought this was a fishing trip, he heard it wail.

I thought we were done with the experiments.

I thought you stayed because of me, not the Sentinel.

Jim shook his head like a waterlogged retriever. Okay, exactly where the hell had that come from? After all, he was the Sentinel. The Sentinel was him. He’d finally come to terms with that.

Hadn’t he?

“Jim? What’s going on, man? Are you feeling something here?”

Yes, thought Jim, a wave of nausea nearly overwhelming him. “No,” he snarled. “It’s just a fucking pile of rocks, Sandburg.”

“Jim, if you’d just try—”

“Yeah, okay, fine, you want me to try?” Jim yelled, suddenly, frighteningly furious and not knowing what to do with it, god, it was almost blinding him, here, “I’ll try. The freak will perform as instructed.” And ignoring Blair’s openmouthed expression, he strode forward and laid both hands on the damp green stones.

And…nothing.

No hallucinations, no visions, no sensory spikes, no zones.

No nothing.

He attempted to come up with a smart-assed comment, but as swiftly as it had come, his anger dissipated like morning mist over the bay. Turning on his heel, he left the clearing, leaving Sandburg to his moss-encrusted discovery.

Jim knew it wouldn’t be long before Sandburg caught up to him, but the fact that he took as long as he did surprised him a little. It showed how well Blair had gotten to know him.

Hell, who was he kidding? Blair Sandburg had had his number from day one.

Blair ambled up to the huge, flat rock where Jim was sitting and stood beside him for a couple of minutes. Jim contemplated the slow-moving water and listened to Blair’s loping heartbeat and the soft click-clack of small stones tumbling over one another on the riverbed.

“I’m sorry,” Blair said finally, and Jim knew from the tone of voice that he had some inkling of what he was sorry for.

Jim shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

Blair blew out a frustrated breath. “It does matter. Why are you always cheapening what you feel? You always do that.”

The vehemence of the other man’s response startled Jim. Looking up at Sandburg, he took in his flushed cheeks and clenched fists. “I’m sure you’ve got a theory,” he husked, suddenly aware that he wanted this, that he needed Blair to tell him the story of himself. The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg. Reading that had been such a blow to the gut because it was true, it was all true, and it scared the shit out of him that another human being finally saw so far inside him that there was no longer a single place to hide.

Blair cocked his head. “I’m much more interested in hearing your theory. Why do you think I’m still here after all this time, Jim? Do you honestly think it’s because I can’t give up the opportunity to experiment on my own real, live boy? In your head, am I some fucked-up cross between Gepetto and Mengele?”

Jim opened his mouth, could think of absolutely nothing to say, and closed it again. Blair stared at him for a few moments, then broke into an exasperated, affectionate, determined grin that did alarming things to Jim’s internal organs.

“God, Jim,” Sandburg breathed, stepping so close to Jim that he had to tilt his head back to look at him, “I think you’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met. And that includes my mother.”

And then Blair kissed Jim right on Jim’s startled, upturned mouth, in the dappled sunlight of a late summer afternoon. Jim closed his eyes so that he could concentrate on the press of Blair’s lips and the tickling brush of his tongue and the soft, strong glide of his hands as they roamed over the planes of his face and neck and shoulders.

“I cannot believe,” Jim breathed, when he could find the wherewithal to breathe again, “that you mentioned your mother before you fucking kissed me.”

“Tell you what,” Blair murmured, his lips moving over Jim’s cheekbone, eyelids, the corner of his jaw. “I’ll figure out a way to make it up to you.”

“Promises, promises,” Jim said, burying his hands in Blair’s hair and dragging him down.

Jim collapsed onto the mattress under Sandburg’s leaden weight. His breath whooshed out of his lungs as Blair sprawled over him like a warm, living blanket.

“So,” Blair panted into the back of Jim’s neck, “did I make it up to you?”

“It’s a pretty good start,” Jim conceded, earning the sharp sting of teeth on his right shoulder. Blair shoved himself off and away, and Jim tried not to let the sudden fear overtake him. After a few seconds, he felt the reassurance of Sandburg’s hand stroking over his still-quivering body, and relaxed slightly.

“We can go back there tomorrow if you want,” Jim heard himself say.

The hand froze. “Where?”

Jim sighed. “You know where.”

“No,” Blair said, after a few moments of silence. “No, I don’t need that.”

“But you—”

“Jim, you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“But I—”

“Jim.”

“Dammit,” Jim growled, rolling over to face Blair, “will you let me get a word in edgewise?” And then his breath caught in his throat, because Blair was rumpled and flushed and sweaty and he was looking at Jim like he was the Holy Grail and the prize catch all in one, and he wasn’t even doing anything mildly freakish at the time.

“Yeah,” Blair said, grinning so hard it must have hurt him, “you can talk all you want.” He leaned down and kissed Jim on the corner of his mouth. “Talk to me. Don’t talk to me. It doesn’t matter. I’m still listening. And I’ll still be here.”

Jim absorbed Blair’s words, soaking them up, taking them inside himself. “You will, huh?”

“Yeah,” Blair said, voice rough. “I’m hooked.”

Jim smiled up into Sandburg’s certainty. “So what do I do with you, my little guppy?”

“Reel me in,” Blair instructed, his hair falling in a curtain around them both.

Promises, Jim thought happily, kissing Sandburg with a thorough, devastating determination, savoring the rasp of every blade of Blair’s stubble. Promises.

End

April 2005