Catch
by lamardeuse
Rating: PG-13
Pairing:
Jim/Blair
Warnings: mature
themes, language
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 ubermenschen 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
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