This work of fiction is owned by the author, and may not be reproduced without the author’s express written permission. The Sentinel is owned by UPN, Paramount Pictures, Pet Fly Productions, and its executive producers, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. No copyright infringement is intended by this work of fiction. Copyright June 2000.
The Sentinel, Jim/Blair, non-explicit. It's based on a scene from the blooper reels, set around a campfire in which "Blair" leaps and attacks "Jim" with a liplock. Heh.
Many thanks to Beth and Rae C. for beta reading. You guys are the best.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Sure, we'd had a tough few days especially with the Feds peering over our shoulders every step of the way, so we really needed the break. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in our favorite spot in the woods. Get in some fishing, get in some hiking, recharge our mental batteries.
And, sure, I was worried about Sandburg. He's an anthropologist, not a cop, and, yes, he's my Guide and I trust him with my life. That doesn't mean that I want him to have to see that stuff. That's my job. Still, we needed to break for a few days, so I practically kidnapped Sandburg from the station after lunch with Simon's blessing.
It wasn't like we couldn't afford the time. I think Payroll threw a party when they heard we were taking some of the accrued vacation time. Medical days eat up most of it, seems like. But we left and here we are.
And now that we're here, I have my doubts.
Sandburg keeps looking at me from across the campfire.
I don't know what he's thinking. I'm not sure I want to know what he's thinking. He just keeps staring at me like ... like, I dunno, something. Like he's a big starving dog on a short leash and I'm a T-bone steak with all the trimmings.
It's a hungry sort of a look.
And how do I feel about that?
About knowing that?
Well. Relieved, mostly. A bit confused, since I wonder what brought this on. Damn thankful. So glad my heart might burst. All this, though, is assuming what I want to think that he thinks. Granted, his mental processes are murky at best and filled with detours into the Sandburg Zone. The Magic Eight-Ball of Major Crime. Like I said, I'm not so sure I want to go there.
On the other hand, the idea of Sandburg -- my Blair -- in my bed ... is tempting, even if it does mean waking up with hair in my mouth.
Damn. Blair's growling ... I looked up at him, and he leaped practically through the fire, like always, pouncing like a predator for the kill and taking me to the ground on my back. If that blow hadn't knocked the wind out of me, before I could totally register it, Blair was kneeling on my chest, his lips and tongue pressed on my teeth, trying to suck the rest of my air out of my lungs.
Not that I needed that air.
Blair was better than an even trade. My arms came up around him, and pulled him down, so he straddled me instead of balancing on my sternum. His dark curls were filthy from all the hiking we'd done earlier and the fishing we'd done earlier, but nothing ever felt as soft as that.
Fierce gave way to something gentler but no less protesting, no less demanding. He lay close, atop me, kissing and teasing, and it was where I wanted him to want to be. I did, then, what only seemed to come natural.
I purred.
Blair looked at me, and smiled.
Don't forget to feed the Muses.
© 1997 evermore4@verizon.net
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