cloud's forest

dumb lj question

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 19:16:44 GMT

Is there a way to search lj-wide for a specific tag?

One Down, One to Go

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 03:27:53 GMT

Getting two new grandchildren this week!

:)

snow in the desert

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 20:19:41 GMT

I got snowflakes! I'm flabbergasted and touched since I'm a lj loon.

Am thinking about continuing the Figures series (Smallville). Thinking, I say! So maybe it will happen afterall. Don't know where I would post it, tho, since the SSA seems to be defunct.

To those people on stretched_snark who were talking about me, all I can say is hmmph, it's rude to talk about people behind their backs, but whateva.

Consequences of stretching too fast

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:10:02 GMT

From The Piercing Bible, page 224:

You must allow a sufficient interval of time between each enlargement for your tissue to fully regain its suppleness and integrity; only then is it safe to go further. . . . if you become impatient and try to force your piercing, the consequences can be severe. Overstretching tends gto result in a buildup of scar tissue and reducgtion of flexibility, which can limit your capacity to stretch in the future--or shrink back to normal, if desired. Failure to adhere to appropriate procedures can cause the total destruction and loss of your piercing from tissue necrosis (death).

Steampunk Sentinel?

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 17:20:20 GMT

Woke up this morning with an idea for a "steampunk" Sentinel, guest starring Richard Burton! (the explorer, not the actor, <g>).

Soooo unlikely it will ever see print, but ya never know.

Why aren't there more (any) fics with Richard Burton in them? He's such a fantastic character! Ruffian Dick, indeed.

The Sentinel Fic: The Walkers - Part 3: Circle of Fate (Cont)

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 00:36:29 GMT

This is fanfiction, meant only to be a parody. Warning! This is slash, Jim/Blair; it contains male/male sex, so don’t read if you are not an open-minded ADULT!

This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one. It’s also an eventual SG1 crossover, ditto.

Sweet and sappy, with many silly devices. Canon, what canon? Shaman!Blair; bonding activity, mystical orgasms, messing with the Stargate, frivolous use of the Ninth Chevron. Even though it’s a SG-1 crossover, it remains Jim/Blair-centric (sorry, Jack/Daniel fans!) Mostly likely one-shot.

Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before. This is the final part.

THE WALKERS

Part 3: Circle of Fate (Continued)

It was, in fact, slightly more than four minutes when he lifted Sandburg into the bed again, under the gimlet eyes of the doctor and her crew. He let them re-position Blair to their satisfaction.

Once Blair was tucked back in bed, the injured man turned his wide blue gaze to Dr. Fraser, O’Neill, and Jackson. Jim had been on the other end of that gaze often enough to know exactly how it felt. It was like the lambent light of the moon suddenly flooding your brain. Sandburg could see a lot of things ordinary people never realized were visible.

“So, what do you want to know?”

Three voices sounded at once. The doctor wanted to know about the healing, Jackson wanted to know how he opened the gate, and O’Neill just wanted to know what the hell they were doing here . . .

“. . . . Damnit!” O’Neil’s voice trailed off.

Sandburg held a hand up, amused. Jim watched Blair organize the mob and have them under his spell. It wasn’t possible for a man rousing from near-death to have that much vitality. Jim squeezed the hand he held, harder, sure that some of the shine came from him this time. No one else had to know, that, though.

“To answer your questions, I don’t know why I’m healing at this rate. I mean, yes, I’ve studied yogic medicine and healing practices, and am a pretty good biofeedback artist,” he winked at Jim, “but for sure why? No.

“And I’m not exactly sure what I did at the gate.” Sandburg watched his audience carefully. “I have some ideas, of course. But it seems to me you people know an awful lot about these ring things which you could share. And who was chasing us? We didn’t like the look of those guys.”

Jim let Blair draw them out for a little while longer, all the while standing tall by Blair’s side. He projected all the confidence and watchfulness he could summon, which was considerable. The message was missed by none. Finally, Jim said, “Look, can you give Sandburg a chance to rest and eat something before you interrogate him?”

“I’ve not released him from my care, either, gentlemen. Maybe, maybe he’ll be ready to meet after a nap and some –jello.” She shot a swift apologetic glance to Sandburg. “If so, I will let you know immediately. So, out!” She shooed Jackson and O’Neill away familiarly.

But in fact, Blair went into another healing coma for the rest of the day, and it wasn’t until the following morning that he appeared ready to face more questioning. This time, they met in a large room with shuttered windows on one side. Having already seen what was on the other side, the odd echoes didn’t surprise Jim.

They were introduced to the crisp woman, Major Samantha Carter, and the man who smelled funny, a huge black guy wearing a non-regulation hat. He was introduced as “Murray.” Jim stiffened, his senses alert. There was something inside that guy! “Um, are you quite well?”

“I am fine, thank you, Jim Ellison.”

Oh, boy. Jim cast doubtful looks around the room, but no one was saying anything. They didn’t seem to be reacting to threat, though, so he looked to his Guide. Blair gave him the signal for “relax, chill out, I’ve got it under control.”

Blair greeted everyone volubly and happily. Jim had to smile at the delight and enthusiasm Blair brought to life. Although some of it was calculated behavior, like now, when he was trying to be charming, most of it was simply Blair’s personality.

The general started. “Dr. Sandburg, I’ve spoken to your partner, and now I’d like to hear from you. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I’d like some straight answers.”

Blair was properly respectful. “Yes, sir. And may I just say thank you, for saving my life. Your people were wonderful.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better. In fact, let’s start with that. My doctor tells me that your wound has healed to a remarkable degree, and that you’re nearly ready to be discharged.”

“Oh, man, that’s great.” He tried a big Sandburg beam and bounce, but it was less than ordinarily effective on this bunch. General Hammond just looked at him expectantly.

“Okay, first, I really don’t know about the healing. I mean, sure, I’m healthy and I heal pretty fast. I’ve studied a lot of healing methods around the world, and I have good visualization skills, so I just sorta . . . shut down and let my body do the work. Kind of a concentrated healing trance.”

Jim frowned. They were never going to believe this stuff, true or not.

“Perhaps. But it is unusual. We tend to be suspicious of the unexplained around here, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Dr. Sandburg, this is a top-secret military base. I would like to know what you’re doing here.”

Damn, but the old man had a pretty good stare. Not many men intimidated Sandburg any longer.

O’Neill spoke for the first time. “You can also start with whether it was a coincidence that you were in that exact place in Arizona. Did you know about the gate?”

“As far as the ring thing goes—you call it a Gate? – it wasn’t a complete coincidence we were there. I mean, yeah, we were really just hiking, and camping—we didn’t know anything was there, but, you see . . .” He blew out a breath, eyeing his audience measuringly.

“Jim and I have been traveling, as you probably know, writing and studying the sacred places of the earth. Sedona is one of those places. We’d never been there before and decided to stop there before heading back to Cascade for a bit."

Jim had a sudden strong urge to be back home in Cascade, listening to the rain on the roof above their bed.

“So, it’s true, you’re a practicing shaman,” said Jackson. A bit too challengingly, in Jim’s opinion. He bristled.

Blair turned his gaze to Jackson, thoughtfully. “I’d have to say yes to that, Dr. Jackson.”

Jackson looked taken aback. “Have we met, Dr. Sandburg?”

“No,” Blair said. He gave Jackson a very direct look. “I think I would have remembered you.” Jackson flushed red to the roots of his hair. Way to go, Chief!

Blair turned his most earnest look on the rest of the group. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly what brought us to that cave, General. Jim and I have been dreaming about ring structures for years. I do know that when I saw it, I knew exactly what it was. A portal to someplace else. Maybe I’ve read too much science fiction in my life, but we certainly went--Someplace Else. Maybe you could tell us where.”

“I’m going to have to stress the secret nature of this project, Dr. Sandburg, Mr. Ellison. While you both have Top Secret clearances--”

Blair shot Jim a look at this. Oh shit, Jim thought. Did I forget to tell him about that?

“--if we tell you more, it will be necessary to have you sign non-disclosure paperwork before you leave here.”

Now they were getting somewhere! This was the first time that leaving at all had been mentioned as a possibility. Jim and Blair both gave their assurances they would sign whatever paperwork was required.

Carter leaned forward. “You see, Dr. Sandburg, we’re puzzled as to how you operated the gate at all. It’s not supposed to work that way. We’ve never been able to get it to work without an external power supply or a special dialing device, which you don’t seem to have.” She turned her large, intelligent eyes on Sandburg.

“I’m not exactly sure myself. Maybe it responded to the emergency? After all, I’d just been shot. An escape function, maybe? If I could learn more about the gate . . . .” He swung the wheelchair the doc had insisted on toward the windows. “Can you show me?”

Hammond signaled, and the shades covering the windows retracted. Jim stood immediately, putting the other man behind him as he assessed the danger. But Blair scooted around him and gazed out at the Stargate. As the younger man's eyes widened and widened, trying to take it all in, and Jim’s eyes quickly scanned every inch for threat, they finally got a look at the mystery that had haunted their lives.

“Wow, that is . . . really, really amazing,” Sandburg said in awe.

Neither man realized how much scrutiny they were under, when they both tilted their head in unison, and said, “Huh.”

“Huh? What, huh?” demanded O’Neill.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just--that symbol there.” Blair pointed. “It reminds us of something.” After a few more moments, Blair spun around suddenly. “You want to know who we are? How we got through your gates? I can’t tell you, really, but I can show you. You see, that symbol there” he pointed again, “is one we know as referring to Sentinel and Guide.” Here he goes, Jim thought, and braced his jaw. “That is what we are, Jim and I. And I would like to get closer, if you please.”

After a slightly raucous uproar, into which Sandburg shouted an abbreviated version of Sentinel 101, and the brass did their usual posturing, and the three geeks (for Major Carter apparently was an astrophysicist) conferred, the two travelers found themselves downstairs at the launch pad. They got a short briefing on the installation, and then everyone just stared at Blair.

Sandburg looked up at the gate, and up at the control room and said, “Wow, this must take a hell of a lot of power to run.” Jim could tell the conservationist in Blair was thinking about the power requirements, and calculating the environmental costs. Blair asked Jim to help him up, out of the chair, and kept hold of Jim’s arm as he approached the Gate. As soon as the young Shaman touched the massive device, it lit up. A loud humming sound emanated from the artifact.

“Whoa! What did you do?” exclaimed O’Neill. The guards stationed around the perimeter of the chamber grew noticeably more tense. Daniel Jackson and Major Carter crept up behind the Sentinel and Guide, fascinated.

Blair looked up at the control room. “So, you’re saying, you dial this remotely with the computer?”

“That’s right," Jackson said. "You mentioned a symbol. What symbol?” He sounded curious.

Blair pointed. “There. That one. Jim and I have seen it before. In Mexico, and in Egypt.”

The others exchanged confused looks. “What? Where?”

Jim looked up at the symbol, which clearly echoed the others he and Blair had encountered at the Temple of the Sentinels, and other places. “I don’t think they can see it, Chief.”

“Really? A symbol just for the use of the Sentinels and Guides. Cool!” Blair focused again on the rings, causing them to begin to rotate. Claxons began to sound, making Jim thankful for his control over the dials. Exclamations sounded and weapons were brought to bear behind them. The circles stopped moving, and three chevrons lit up as they locked on. The watery horizon appeared with a whoosh.

“That’s the way to the Arizona gate,” Blair said casually. Everyone else stared up at the gate in consternation.

“Look, he’s got the Ninth Chevron lit. How is that possible?" said O’Neill.

"Control room confirms we neither dialed the gate nor are powering it. Dr. Sandburg, again, how are you doing this?” Hammond wanted to know.

“I'm not really sure, General.” Blair and Jim stepped back away from the ring, breaking physical contact. The gate stayed lit. “I just know that’s the way to Arizona.”

Major Carter was looking at a hand-held display. “I believe Dr. Sandburg and Mr. Ellison are powering the gate themselves, sir. I have a major energy reading coming off them.”

Blair darted a look at his Sentinel, silently communicating that they could make a run for it now, through the Gate, if needed. Jim thought of that transition through the Gate from Here to There; thought of their walking sticks and other belongings upstairs, and replied with a negative look.

“Send a MALP through to confirm the destination. Radio our people in Arizona. Can you keep the gate open, Dr. Sandburg?"

“Oh, sure--it’s like keeping my foot in a door.”

While they made contact with their other team and prepared to send a mechanical device through the gate, Doctors Carter and Jackson questioned Blair on the address. “We’ve never been able to get the Ninth Chevron to do anything. How are you doing that?”

“Yeah, and we need the other eight to lock on before it’s a viable address.”

Blair looked thoughtfully at the gate. “Maybe it’s just meant for Sentinels and their Guides to use, then; a kind of short-hand.” He just shrugged. “I guess I need only three.”

Everyone in the chamber gazed at him in consternation and astonishment.

You got their number, Chief, Jim thought smugly.

***

After being escorted back to the infirmary, where Blair dutifully allowed himself to be bedded down, Sentinel and Guide were left alone, though under guard. Sure they were being monitored, they managed a whispered subvocal conversation under the guise of bathroom activities.

“Jim, I want to get out of here. This is all so big—it’s huge, man! I need some time to process.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that feeling, like I just want to barricade the door and bundle you up. Want home, Chief. Want the Loft. But I don’t see us walking out of here anytime soon.”

“I do,” Blair replied firmly. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. Tonight, in the middle of the night.”

“But how’re we going to get out of here? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a Top Secret military installation. Guards. Guns. You can’t just go wandering around at will. I don’t want to have to kill anybody escaping. They’ve actually been pretty decent to us.”

“Don’t worry. No killing. I’ll take care of getting us out unseen. You figure out the best route and time.”

“They’re not going to let us go completely, Blair. Not forever; not when it looks like we’re valuable to them.”

“I know. And we never got the whole story of just what they’re fighting, either. But we love to be needed, don’t we?” The two shared a grin. “I want it to be on our terms, though, not theirs.”

So, later that night—at o-three-thirty in fact, the Sentinel and his Shaman began to creep through the halls of NORAD. Despite being fully accoutered with packs and their walking sticks, no one noticed them. The few people they passed in the hallways were either looking the other way or just looked right past them. The alarms went off as they passed through restricted areas and exit points—but no one seemed to hear them. Their progress was tracked by cameras and glowing monitors, but again those were simply ignored.

The crept along in a zone of silence and darkness, until they emerged into the cold pre-dawn a nerve wracking time later. Hiking to the highway, they managed to convince a trucker to take them as passengers for a stint, then caught a bus to Cascade.

Inside the loft for the first time in two years, the Sentinel took charge, and barricaded the door. Hustling his Guide to the bed, he kept him there for four days before he would let him up. Both Sentinel and Guide luxuriated in their haven and each other, knowing that the world would get along without them. For a while.

They left behind them a hornets’ nest of confused and angry servicemen. The first to raise the alarm was the night nurse who, checking on his charges at the 5 am bed check, was shocked to find only a piece of folded paper on the bed. After the alarm sounded (everyone could hear it now), O’Neill read the following:

Thanks for the hospitality, but we need time to process. Going home. You can find us there if you want to talk.

Jim and Blair.

O'Neill lifted his eyes from the paper in his hand and asked, plaintively, “Who were those guys?”

Fin

***

“Long ago there were two men, a warrior and a shaman, who were special protectors of the people. People called them the Walkers, because they carried special staffs carved with the images of predators. The warrior’s sight was as keen as the shaman’s staff was quick. They traveled among the Worlds and Time, lending their talents to the sick and the oppressed. They were bonded to each other for all eternity as watchman and companion. Some say they walk the Worlds still, looking for people in need.” Jaffa children’s tale.

The Sentinel Fic: The Walkers - Part 3: Circle of Fate

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 00:23:42 GMT

This is fanfiction, meant only to be a parody. Warning! This is slash, Jim/Blair; it contains male/male sex, so don’t read if you are not an open-minded ADULT!

This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one. It’s also an eventual SG1 crossover, ditto.

Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before.

THE WALKERS

Part 3: Circle of Fate

Jim and Blair had gotten themselves into a bit of a pickle. They had tried to be good, Blair thought, as he clutched his stick and slunk after Jim in the darkness, trying to make no sound amid the looming rocky outcrops. And yet, somehow, they’d fallen afoul of another gang of armed perps. Blair didn’t really like to rail against the Universe, but he did cast out a dark thought or two. “Why, Jim?” he muttered sub-vocally. “Why is it always us? Are we mere pawns of the Powers That Be?”

As soon as he and Jim had set foot in Phoenix, Blair knew something was up. Sometimes the Sentinel and Shaman part of them reacted to certain places. Europe, for instance, had a lot of ancient places that resonated with them. He and Jim had once stayed in a little inn north of Stonehenge for nearly two months, feeling the pull of the deeply buried ley lines of energy in the earth. Finally, they had located a gentle mound, unnoticed by archeologists or tourists, covered with typical scrub. They camped there for one night. One night was enough--the visions they both had sleeping on that hill were enough to frighten them right out of the country. They fled to Sweden and holed up in a cozy bed and breakfast for a week.

In Arizona, Blair immediately felt the pull of one of his special “directional” energies. They headed to a retreat in Sedona, where they planned to do some hiking and biking. The first night they both dreamed of the circles again. They decided to make an overnight camp in the mountains surrounding Sedona, planning on viewing the celestial light show which was to occur later in the evening, with an asteroid shower and unprecedented astronomical views of Mars. They set out the next day with their walking sticks and as much water as they could carry.

Unfortunately, Fate had other plans for the Sentinel and Guide. They were climbing a steep hill, clinging to the shadows of vegetation, but heading toward--something. Blair knew it. Jim knew it. Blair just didn’t know exactly what “it” was, and now they were being stalked by unknown enemies. Blair concentraed on deepening the shadows around them and muffling sounds. Jim, in hunter mode, pulled him up a crest of the hill and paused to take stock. When they pulled apart, each man headed in a different direction; they looked at each other in surprise. Blair tugged Jim’s hand toward an opening in the rock. “Here, Jim. We have to do this way.”

Jim looked away down the hill. He shook his head. “No, Chief, I think we should go around.” Blair couldn’t see Jim’s face clearly in the gloom, but his tone of voice was worried. They were armed of course, but there was something odd about this particular band of thugs. Blair didn’t know if they were drug runners or merely a drunken band of guys out for a good time, but he was getting a real bad feeling from them. They were still a ways away, but they were clearly pursuing the pair, making inexorable progress down the canyon in their direction. Jim seemed oddly frantic. “I can hear them coming. They smell—wrong, and I don’t recognize their weapons. We could be trapped in there.”

But Blair knew in his bones they had to go down. “It will be all right, Jim, you’ll see.” He just pulled Jim along.

He would always remember that furtive, twisting journey through the rock. The tiny auras of small reptiles and animals glowed in the desert night to his Shamanic perception. Their boots barely scuffed the soil. First they went up, then down, all the while expecting the sound of their pursuers. Jim could see just fine, and Blair was able to amplify the imagined light in his Sentinel’s eyes and concentrate it on the tip of his walking stick so he could see. His Sentinel was fighting him a bit, reluctance and haste in his every reaction. Those guys were definitely getting closer! From the tightest of spaces, squeezing by fingers of rock, they abruptly emerged into a vast space. The light and pressure Blair and his Sentinel were able to sense changed dramatically.

And suddenly, there it was. The damned ring they’d been dreaming about for years, in all its glory. The dim starlight illuminated an open chamber, casting red shadows onto the object built into the side of the cliff, its ring creating a shining portal for the stars. Blair fleetingly noted the appearance of the carvings around the ring, captivated for now by the sight of the asteroid shower perfectly limned by the circular artifact. Mars glowed in the dead center of the aperture. Blair was forcibly reminded of a similar situation in the pulp stories of John Carter of Mars he read when he was a kid. There had been a cave there, too, right? And hostile Indians? Blair wondered hysterically whether he just thought hard enough, he and his Sentinel could be transported to the red planet of Barsoom.

It all happened so fast. He heard a noise by the door. He turned, expecting Jim to be in a defensive posture, but instead finding him staring into the portal, completely zoned. “Aw, geez.” He grabbed for his partner, shaking him out of his zone, and dragged him up against the round thing, selecting a spot partially hidden by a carved outcrop on the side. As soon as he made contact with the ring, however, it lit up.

He vaguely noted humming and mechanical sounds, but his attention was at first fixed on the several large men in strange gear who entered the chamber. Blair blinked. Surely that wasn’t Egyptian regalia. Here in Arizona? He glanced up at the ring. The rings began to rotate, and suddenly, a plane of water appeared in the opening. Blair noticed for the first time that the ring clearly marked with symbols and figures. It seems he could almost figure them out . . .

Blair was kicked by the largest mule in the world, and knew he'd run out of time. Blair looked down at his burning chest and gasped out without thinking, “Through the portal, Jim. Get us through! Now!”

The next thing he knew he was awake in the dark with a frantic Jim hovering over him. Blair tried to gulp air and turn down the pain. He seemed to be lying in a forest glade with a beautiful purple light illuminating a circular structure like the one they just left. Wait--that wasn’t the moon taking up the night sky. It was a . . . planet?

“Come on, babe, wake up for me, that’s it.”

“Look up, Jim.”

“What?” Jim was far too intent on his life-saving efforts to pay attention to the scenery.

Blair tried to suck in enough air. “Look up!”

Jim did, and it was almost funny. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened and focused. He looked around, quickly.

Blair gasped out, “We have to get back!”

“What, into that trap?”

“Now, while I can still move. Rather get back while we can or we might get stuck here. Get me closer to the ring.”

Blair could feel himself getting weaker. He would shut down very soon to repair the damage inflicted on him by the thugs’ weapons. But he needed to get them back, so he touched the Ring with his stick. Immediately, as before, his touch activated the object, bringing an unnatural sound to the quiet night. Gritting his teeth, Blair let his mind reach out, reading the deep meaning of the symbols below the plane of thought. His eyesight, though dimming, latched on one of the symbols that he was sure represented Sentinel and Guide; another he was sure meant Earth.

The watery plane manifested again, and Blair said, his lips barely moving, “Bring us home, Jim.” He concentrated all his remaining energy as Jim’s strong arms enveloped him, and thought, “Earth” as hard as he could while pouring his entire being into the ring. From a tunnel of light and space, he tumbled out on a cold floor. He could clearly hear his Sentinel say, “Oh, shit.” And then, “Medic! Please, I need a medic!”

Uh oh. Jim was going to be pissed.

***

Jim felt every molecule of his being scream as they burst out of the tunnel of light. His senses assaulted him, especially his hearing. If it weren’t for the precious cargo in his arms, he would have gratefully succumbed to the darkness, but he was determined to hang on while his partner was in danger. He controlled their fall, and looked up--right into the muzzles of guns wielded by grim looking soldiers. No, he corrected himself; not soldiers: Airmen. What the hell was the Air Force doing in a cave? This was definitely not the same place they had left in Arizona. He glanced back at the ring. Yep, one here, too. He looked down at his partner.

“Oh, shit.” He looked down at Blair. “Medic! Please, I need a medic!”

A crowd of people rushed toward them. Fortunately, Jim spotted medical personnel among them, and relinquished hold of Sandburg. His bloody hands were forced up at gunpoint, and Jim cooperated, up until the point they tried to separate him from Blair. He struggled, saying, “No, let me stay with him!” Only when they approached him with a needle did he back down. “No, no. Drugs and me don’t do well. I’ll cooperate, I’ll cooperate!”

Jim let himself be led away. He was cuffed, fingerprinted, allowed to wash his hands, and taken to a small room with a table and two glowering airmen armed to the teeth. He could trace Blair’s rapid progress through the warren around him with his hearing. The air had the same canned and pressurized feeling to Jim as an airplane, but it felt bigger, somehow. Were they even on Earth?

The image of the pale purple planet hanging in the sky of that anonymous place was burned in his brain. Jim shivered. They were definitely in big trouble. He thought of their pursuers in the cave in Arizona. There was something not quite human about them. For one thing, the weapon that shot Sandburg was no ordinary weapon, and Jim had seen them all.

He was beginning to be very worried.

At least he could hear people working diligently on Blair down the hall. He refused to acknowledge the memory of the smoking, gaping hole in his Guide’s torso. Oh, god—they were saying he was critical! He sent all his energy down through the link they shared. Although this drained him, Jim didn’t care. He simply put his head down on the table, and allowed his senses to stay with Blair, relieved when he heard the medical personnel say his partner was stabilizing.

After an interminable time, three men, senior officers by the look of them, came in to the room. The oldest, a general, gestured for the airman to uncuff Jim. The next oldest set down a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and a paper-wrapped bundle that revealed itself to Jim’s nose as a turkey sandwich.

“My name is General George Hammond. This is Colonel O’Neill and Dr. Jackson.”

Eyeing the food, Jim nevertheless directed his attention to the general. “I respectfully request, sir, to be taken to my friend.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ellison, you’ll get your chance. Just give us a brief rundown, if you would, and we’ll release you to be with Dr. Sandburg. He’s in good hands.”

Well, it was no surprise they knew their names. He and Blair were certainly in the system, and these people had their packs and passports.

The colonel, who apparently had no patience, added, “Mind telling us what you’re doing here?”

“What am I doing here? How the hell do I know? One minute we were in Arizona, the next--“ Jim rubbed a hand over his face. “This isn’t Arizona, is it?”

“No, son. You’re in Colorado. Cheyenne Mountain, to be exact.”

Oh, great; not only in the hands of the military, but deep inside one of their strongest redoubts. Sandburg was going to be pissed. The urge to be with his Guide, lending his touch to his healing, was nearly overwhelming. Jim tried to focus on the men opposite him. To Jim’s senses, they felt wary, but not hostile. Jim pulled himself together and delivered an unemotional briefing, figuring that the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get to Sandburg. He told them the simplest version: They were writers and photographers who were hiking in Arizona and they were ambushed by unknown hostiles. He described the men that followed them through the caves, and their escape through the ring.

He was questioned closely about the guys chasing them, their attire, their weapons, and about the exact location of the cave. Jim gave them as much information as he could. When Jim described how the ring lit up, the three men all traded glances. Curious.

“And then you came through our g--ring?” prompted O’Neill.

Jim already hated this part, but responded firmly, “No sir, then we were on another planet.” More meaningful looks. Jim decided to eat his sandwich.

“Aren’t you just imagining that, son?” the general said in his deep voice.

Jim gave the general his best no-bullshit face. “No, sir. I’m not imagining it. I’m very well acquainted with the skies of this planet, General. And *then* we came back through the ring, and onto your floor.” Jim was reaching his breaking point. He felt drained, and the need to be near Blair was making him frantic. “Nice cave you got, by the way. Unusual interior decorating.”

The geek—Dr. Jackson—spoke up. “But how did you activate the gate?”

“Gate? I don’t know, and I don’t care. You’ll have to ask Sandburg when he wakes up. Can I see him now, please?” Jim was polite, but insistent.

Acquiescing for now, Hammond ordered him escorted to the infirmary. The general also ordered a cot be brought up, as well as the two men’s belongings. As Jim walked away, he focused most of his senses forward, toward his Guide, but let his hearing trail back toward the three in the interview room.

“We have a gate in Arizona?” O’Neill seemed stunned.

“How’s his friend?” Dr. Jackson wanted to know.

General Hammond responded, “Stabilized but unconscious. Dr. Fraser says he’s incredibly lucky. Now, I want you to collect the rest of your team and see if you can eliminate that threat and secure the gate. Quickly, before it blows up in our faces.”

“Can we trust the intel coming from this guy, Ellison?”

“We’ll have to, for now. It might be a wild goose chase, but they did come through the gate.”

“But how did they activate it?” reiterated Jackson, plaintively.

“I don’t know. Worry about it after securing the gate in Arizona! Get moving, gentlemen!”

Jim reoriented his hearing as he finally reached the place his Guide lay. Barely acknowledging the infirmary staff, he lunged forward toward Blair, snatching up his hand. He slumped in relief when he felt the pulse, although it was far too weak. However, a careful sensory examination showed that Blair was deep inside himself. Jim had seen this before. Other than the nasty hole in his chest, Blair looked fine.

Jim took several deep breaths, using his Guide’s presence to center himself, before adjusting all the dials. He felt some of the tension leave his body. The oldest lessons were still the most useful.

He looked up at the petite woman who seemed to be in charge, trying for a smile. “Thank you for taking care of him.” She gave him a quick, professional smile in return. “I’m Dr. Fraser. Your friend is lucky. His condition isn't as serious as I thought at first. These wounds can be very nasty. But I am worried about his non-responsiveness.”

“I’ve seen him do this before. Blair has studied with yogis and holy men all over, and he's pretty adept at focusing the power of his mind inward, to concentrate on the healing process. I know it probably sounds like mumbo-jumbo to you, but it really does speed up the healing.”

Dr. Fraser looked skeptical, but merely gestured toward the bathroom, where their belongings were kept. “I’m told you wouldn’t give us any trouble. You better not cause any trouble in my infirmary.”

“No, ma’am. No trouble. It’s been a pretty intense couple of days, if you understand me. I’m just going to take a quick shower and then sit next to my friend.” He nodded toward the cot.

Unfortunately, Dr. Fraser had other ideas, and insisted on first giving him a thorough medical examination. Jim knew all his vitals were textbook perfect but he submitted to the examination with as much good grace as he could muster. Who knew what those “trips” through space did to the human body, after all?

They were left mostly alone after that. Jim was content to hold Blair’s un-IV’d hand, letting the connection between them flare, lending his energy to Blair for the repair and reknitting of tissue. It tired him to do this, but they weren’t going anywhere for a while. The two armed airmen stationed close by guaranteed that.

He heard O’Neill and Jackson leave, presumably to the location he described in Arizona. The people around here seemed pretty used to this sort of thing. They certainly had a protocol for dealing with unexpected visitors coming through this “gate” of theirs. Did these guys have a protocol for that alien sky, he wondered? Most of all, he wondered about the enemy these people were fighting, because it was very apparent they were fighting *something.*

At about 0400, Jim was dozing, carefully spooned up behind Blair in the infirmary bed, but came awake instantly when Blair stirred. “Hush, babe. It’s all right—we’re safe for now. We’re in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, detained by the Air Force. They got one of those ring things in the basement, and we tumbled out right in their laps. They may keep us here for a while until they’re satisfied, but I don’t think they will actually hurt us. Their C.O. seems like a straight shooter, and they’ve even got a geek like you. So I think you can relax and go under again. I’m just going to rest, too.”

***

Over the next day and evening, Jim either sat in a lotus position holding Sandburg’s hand, allowing his consciousness to expand and disperse while he listened throughout the entire complex, mapped exits, and devised strategies; or he slept curled up in the bed beside his mate.

He was aware of everything in this state, but he didn’t stir, even when the medics and the doctor attended to Sandburg’s injuries. In the dead of night, he carefully and surreptitiously slipped his penis into Blair, connecting them utterly in the gentlest of lovemaking. By giving his partner the gift of his essence Jim imbued his healing body with all the strength and magic of their bond. He didn’t know what the medical staff would think if they found them like that. He only knew that he was sharing his strength so Blair would heal faster.

He was also aware of the normal routine of the Mountain; the changing of the shifts, the preparation of meals, routine staff meetings, and the other everyday occurrences. He heard and felt the activation of the gate thing in the afternoon of the second day, and the activity surrounding that event suggested it was part of the ordinary course of business in this place, no matter how extraordinary it seemed to him. He learned a lot about what they were doing here, some of it very troubling. For example, he heard a few snatches of talk about “snakes,” but he didn’t think they were talking about rattlers.

On the early morning of their third day under the auspices of the Air Force, Jim became aware of Dr. Fraser examining his partner. Snapping to awareness at the doctor’s gasp, he nevertheless remained still as Sandburg’s chest dressing was changed. He catalogued the doctor’s respiration and heartbeat—way too fast. What was wrong? She smelled scared. Ah, she was upset at Sandburg’s rapid healing rate. He heard her walk away, muttering to herself as she made notations in the chart. Human? Why would she think they weren’t human?

He felt Sandburg starting to stir, his consciousness spreading outward into the real world. Soon, he would be awake, aware, and far too healed for the doctor’s comfort, and they would have to deal with the consequences. Jim ran over the options in his head as he tracked the doctor’s movements, listening to the hum of the awakening complex. He needed to talk to Sandburg, and soon. Should they try to escape or find out more about what was going on here?

He heard the doctor’s voice as she requested an aide to allow her into the General’s briefing, and centered his hearing on the conference room down the hall and one level down. He let his hearing catalog the space as more people filed in and standard greetings exchanged. He recognized General Hammond, O’Neill, that guy Jackson, but there were two other people he hadn’t met, a man and a woman. He smelled coffee and heard the subtle sounds of pouring and stirring, wishing he could get a cup.

Hammond began by saying, “I’ve reviewed the report on the Arizona Stargate. Good job, people. You managed to secure the gate quickly, and to your usual standards.” Although the praise was sincere, Jim could hear the dry note in the General’s voice at the last.

A cocky voice responded: “Hey, it’s just a broken arm, General. Small potatoes. And we did manage to eliminate that Goa’uld lordling before he could send for reinforcements through that gate.”

Jim identified O’Neill by his voice, but he frowned at the last. The what?

An unknown, very deep voice was next. “I do not believe that potatoes, large or small, were involved. However, the mission was relatively trouble-free.” There was something about that voice . . . Jim shifted closer to his Guide, running his hand gently up and down Blair’s arm.

“I would like to hear more about these two men who found the gate, sir. I don’t understand how two--tourists--managed to locate and activate a Stargate!” This was a crisp female’s voice.

“So would I, Major Carter. Doctor? How are our patients this morning? You said you had something to report?”

“Yes, General, thank you,” Dr. Fraser said. “Mr. Sandburg is making a remarkable recovery. Too remarkable, in fact.” Her voice betrayed nervousness, and a little fear. Apparently, the others picked up on it, too.

“Have they given you any problems, Dr. Fraser?” The older man’s voice sounded very concerned, and the respirations around the table increased minutely, noticeable to the Sentinel. There was a strange smell coming from the conference room, too, which Jim couldn’t identify.

“Trouble? No, sir. In fact, they’ve done nothing at all. Mr. Ellison has either been meditating next to Mr. Sandburg’s side—"

“Dr. Sandburg.” Daniel Jackson interjected. Heh, Jim thought. Geeks stick together everywhere.

“What? Oh, yes. As I said, he has either been meditating for hours, barely moving, but holding Dr. Sandburg’s hand, or sleeping beside him. Model patients, in fact. One odd thing: Ellison appears obsessively protective of his partner. It’s my belief that they are in a romantic relationship, which could account for part of Mr. Ellison’s behavior, but I’m not sure that’s the whole of it. He’s always touching Sandburg, either his hand, or foot, or some other place. I asked him about it. He said that his touch let his friend know he wasn’t alone. He also said that Sandburg was in a healing trance. For most of the past 48 hours, Sandburg has been non-responsive, his vitals steady but slow. I don’t know if it’s a healing trance or not, but I can tell you that Sandburg’s healing is remarkable.”

“How so?” The female again.

“I have had far too many close encounters with zat wounds, thanks to your antics.” Jim heard small rustling and fidgeting sounds. Were they all afraid of this woman?

“When Mr.—excuse me—Doctor—Sandburg was brought in, my first assessment was that he was almost dead. The tissue damage was extreme. I don’t know how he was alive at all, frankly. The next time I examined him after the initial workup—about an hour later—he was resting comfortably and his vital signs were good. If I hadn’t seen the gross tissue damage myself, I would not have believed his charts.

“His progress has continued at a much faster rate than normal. I estimate that the rate is about five times faster than normal, in fact. You would expect a patient with a wound this severe to be in acute care for at least several weeks. Dr. Sandburg’s wound, however, is healed enough that I expect him to wake up and ask for a steak-and-eggs breakfast any minute.”

Jim snorted to himself from the infirmary. Steak and eggs sounded divine to him, but his partner was more likely to demand bran muffins and vegetable juice.

“What do we know about these men? Do we have any inkling they’re not who they say they are?”

O’Neill responded. “As far as we know, General, they are exactly who they claim, and who their passports show them to be. A former Army Ranger and cop, and his geek sidekick from Washington State, travelers and writers.”

“Hey!” Dr. Jackson was evidently sensitive about his geek status.

O’Neill ignored the other man, and continued. “The only thing is, sir, that as soon as we started accessing their records, security flags started popping up all over. You’d expect that, with Ellison’s record, but they came up for Sandburg, too. State Department, Interpol, Scotland Yard, even the CIA.”

The General’s voice became alarmed. “Operatives, perhaps? Are they to be considered dangerous? Is there suspicion of criminal or terrorist activity?”

“Dangerous? Well, Ellison’s a hard-ass, ex-covert ops guy, with training in explosives, counter-terrorism, interrogation techniques--yeah, I’d say he could be dangerous. But all our contacts say they are good guys. The CIA unofficially regards them as valuable assets; troubleshooters, in fact. Or troublemakers. The State Department and Interpol keep track of their whereabouts as a precaution. They seem to be involved in a remarkable number of . . . incidents.

Jim could hear pages being flipped by more than one participant in the room. Shit, what kind of dossier did they have on them?

“Let’s see. They’ve organized grass roots artisan cooperatives, done volunteer work for every worldwide charitable organization you can name and written and published all sorts of articles on conservation. My CIA guy says they also broke up a human trafficking ring in Uganda, freeing upwards of 300 women and children, and smuggling them across the border at night. There are reports of them identifying terrorist cells, apprehending bands of poachers, bringing in and organizing relief efforts for children dying of malnutrition in Indonesia, tipping the police to child porn rings . . .”

“So, the traveling writer and photographer gig is just a cover,” remarked the woman.

Damn it, Jim thought. It’s not a cover—it’s their life! That other stuff just happens to them.

"Sounds like a couple of vigilante yahoos to me," remarked O'Neill.

"That may be, but it still doesn’t explain why or how they’re presently our uninvited guests. Is there anything else we know of them that would indicate how they managed to locate or activate a gate?” General Hammond wanted to know.

Jackson spoke up. “General, I think we should speak to Dr. Sandburg as soon as possible. He’s a brilliant anthropologist, according to what I’ve read. There was a scandal about his dissertation, and he’s since dropped out of academia, although not from publishing. And there’s something else—"

Jim listened intently to the younger man’s tone of voice. As a civilian, he could be a help or a hindrance. Jim didn’t know what kind of doctor Jackson was, and scientists could be unpredictable.

“ . . . not getting the point, Danny.”

Oops. Jim refocused on the conversation.

“Hmm . . .” There was a short silence, during which the crisp sounding woman got up for coffee and the team waited for the geek to pronounce. Jim was very familiar with the phenomenon, but hoped his Guide never heard him thinking that way. Unfortunately for the Sentinel’s concentration, he could feel Blair beginning to wake. He firmed part of his hearing toward the conference room, even as he grounded himself and his guide in touch. He needed intel!

Blair gasped and flailed a bit, his usual reaction to waking with IVs and oxygen strapped to him. “Hey, it’s all right, it’s all right, buddy. I’m here, we’re safe for now.” Jim’s sure hands helped his friend come awake and oriented, giving him liquid and checking the wound. The doc was right, Blair was healing well. The wound smelled much better, Blair’s fluids and lymph, lungs, and his organs all "sensed" good. Jim thought of the sureness and surrealism of their secret coupling the night before, wondering why he wasn’t freaking out about healing Blair with his dick. Guess he really was getting better with the Weird Shit after all this time.

“How long?” Blair rasped out, as soon as he was able.

“About 48 hours.” Blair really did look pretty good for a man who was nearly dead just a few hours ago. In fact . . . Jim checked the wound, and said, “How ‘bout we get you cleaned up? Think you can sit up long enough for me to get you in the bathroom?” He leaned in closer. “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Blair just put his arms up, and Jim lifted him, carrying along the IV, into the bathroom, where there was a chair.

“Are you up for this?” Jim turned on the shower.

Blair nodded rapidly. “I’m okay.” He wasn’t. Jim could tell he was weak and in a lot of pain, despite the drugs administered. “Do we need to get out of here? Jim, we can’t let the military get at you.”

Jim shook his head wryly. Get at him? Didn’t Blair have any idea what they could do to *Blair?* Jim had seen Blair do some things he still didn’t believe, and he’d been there for all of them.

“Not yet, Chief. Let’s keep our options open right now. I don’t want to have to hurt anyone escaping. Their backs are up enough with how fast you’re healing."

Jim tried to hear the conference, but he could hear a commotion much closer—at the door to the bathroom. A male medic opened the bathroom door, which naturally enough in such a facility, had no lock. Angered, Jim slammed the door, yelling, “We’re fine, thanks.”

Unfortunately, he could hear the medic getting reinforcements. Hurriedly, he jammed the door with a stool and turned back to Blair, grabbing the sponge and starting to wash the other man. “Listen to me, Chief. We’re in some place called Stargate Command. Stargate—the ring thing, remember? And they’re clearly well organized, top secret, and fighting—something.”

Of course, Blair got it right away. “There’s a threat? To Earth? Coming through that thing? Oh, man . . . you’re right, we can’t leave.” Blair sputtered under a splash of water. “Besides, I have to admit I’m curious.”

Ignoring the pounding on the door for the moment, Jim said, “I think we need to figure out what’s going on, before we leave. See if they’ll let us go voluntarily. Now, shush!”

The agitation of the medical staff outside their door, and the sound of the water interfered momentarily with his hearing. The General and the others were talking about Blair. He could hear Jackson’s voice: “Shaman . . . studied the relationship . . . theft of intellectual property. . . yogic healing . . . blog on spiritualism.” Shit, he missed that part!

Blair continued, “But what about the ring, man! Did they tell you what they were! We were on another planet. You saw it, didn’t you? I didn’t dream that . . . "

“Ssh, babe, I’m trying to listen!”

“. . . but I’ve never heard of an individual activating a Stargate without a DHD or an energy source. Is the gate in Arizona different?”

“It was not only the gate in Arizona that activated, Major Carter . . .”

“. . . another gate and back again, according to his story, but you’re right, I’ve never head of such a thing.”

“Me neither . . . "

“I have.” This was a deep male voice, and the strange smell Jim noticed seemed to be concentrated in his vicinity.

“You have? Why didn’t you say something?”

“It is of no consequence. A children’s story told for amusement, only.”

“Well, let’s hear it. I could use some amusement, Teal’c.” O’Neill was apparently the smart-ass of the bunch.

“I will tell it to you, O’Neill, and you may decide for yourself how useful it is.

“It was told that long ago there were two men who were special protectors of the people. They were called the Walkers, for they traveled through the gates at will, moving from place to place, carrying staves carved with the images of predators. Many fantastical tales were told of their powers and their deeds. It is said they were immortal, able to become invisible, and had the ability to manipulate time and space when the need was great and their cause just. I remember the tales now only because the fact situation is evocative.”

There was a short silence. Jim remembered that their packs and belongings had undoubtedly been searched. His glance uneasily went to the sticks lashed to their packs against the wall, carved with Wolf and Panther. The story obviously wasn’t about them, but the similarities were striking.

“Jim?”

Jim started. “Nevermind, Chief. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Blair, who knew his partner’s every mannerism and mood, didn’t appear to be fooled, but merely said, “Okay. But do me a favor. Next time, stick to the sex dreams, okay, Jim?”

Jim could hear the doctor being paged, and the General ordering O’Neill and Jackson down to the infirmary with her. Uh oh.

“What?”

“The shit is about to hit the fan, Chief. Come on.”

Dr. Fraser’s voice sounded loud and clear on the other side of the door. “Open this door immediately, Mr. Ellison, or you’ll regret the consequences.”

Jim moved to the door.

“Wait, what’s the plan?”

“It’s time for you to dazzle them with bullshit. That’s the plan. Why should I have all the fun?”

“What’s the best we can hope for?”

“They make us sign an oath not to reveal and let us go.”

“Do you think it likely?”

Jim hesitated. “Yeah, eventually.”

“Huh. It’s that eventually that worries, me, Jim.”

The Sentinel opened the door, scowling at the doctor, the officers, and the bully boys behind them. Dr. Fraser immediately started in. “I haven’t released Dr. Sandburg to get out of bed or a shower, yet.”

Jim fixed the doctor with his firmest look, and stated calmly, “He’s fine. I’m a fully qualified medic, and I know how to treat wounds. I’m used to taking care of him. We will be out in three minutes.” And he shut the door gently. They could just fuck off and die, Jim thought. He had an injured Guide to attend to!

***

(Next)

The Sentinel Fic: The Walkers - Part 2: Walkabout

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 23:00:19 GMT

This is fanfiction, meant only to be a parody. Warning! This is slash, Jim/Blair; it contains male/male sex, so don’t read if you are not an open-minded ADULT!

This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one. It’s also an eventual SG1 crossover, ditto.

Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before.

THE WALKERS

Part 2: Walkabout

Jim indulged his inner Sentinel that night by cocooning them in a nest of blankets, pillows, and love for several days. When they came up for air, they went out and bought boots, back packs, and travel gear. And laptops—the latest, lightest, most powerful they could find. “Have laptop will travel,” joked Sandburg.

They packed up and secured the loft, making arrangements to have it looked over for their infrequent visits home. Both men wanted the safety and comfort of knowing they had a home to return to. They gave their neighbor info on their plan and their emergency contacts (Simon, Stephen, and Naomi’s email address). They said goodbye to all their friends. (“Yes, we really are leaving. We’re going to start by hiking the Alps. A very traditional pastime, you know, with a certain segment of society. In fact, we’re bringing our sketchbooks, our binoculars for bird watching . . . .”) Most of their friends by now recognized Blair’s obfuscations, but they let it go.

Although they did in fact start in Europe, where the sight of backpacked travelers was common, they quickly widened their route. Turns out Sandburg really did know every spiritual retreat center and resource in the known world. Thanks in part to Naomi’s contacts, they easily found places to stay and work. A few months in this Tibetan monastery; a few weeks in that yoga or Wiccan center. Jim exercised his grumbling rights at some of the weirder stops.

The traveled rough and made do with very little money. Sometimes they rented bikes or motorcycles. Blair presented himself as a writer. He even obtained press credentials. He wrote grant requests like crazy, getting them money from all sorts of places to live on. Jim was the photographer. When pressed, he would nod toward Sandburg and say, “I’m his bodyguard.” It was the literal truth, after all.

Blair, of course, was a determined seeker when he set his mind to something. He sought out and consulted with every wise man or guru in his path. He spent long hours meditating, cultivating trance states through drumming, dancing, or even traditional hallucinogens (over Jim’s protests). And he continued to learn, write, and teach, although most of the articles were in the popular press, not the academic. He established a well-read blog about their travels and his spiritual seekings. He set up a forum dedicated to problems with the senses; he published travel articles, together with the photos which Jim enjoyed taking; he worked on a series of young adult novels featuring a young man with a heightened sense of smell. “Gotta keep it justified, Jim.”

Jim found that sharing travel with Blair opened up a new world of sensual delight to him. His Guide was always quick to point out unique sensory experiences: Sunrise at the Taj Mahal, the scent of cardamom and cinnamon in the bazaars, the sounds of drums and primitive percussion instruments, all the richness of the planet enhanced their lives. Blair also engaged them in a variety of sensual experiments, or “recalibrations” as he called them, as well as educational opportunities designed to add to their Sentinel and Guide toolkit. They studied martial arts wherever it was offered, and frequently worked out and sparred together. They became very adept with the defensive capabilities of the walking sticks. They kept their diet spare for the most part, and paid attention to their bodies, an inevitability given the intensely intimate awareness between Sentinel and Guide.

Jim vacillated from feeling like a retiree out with a young boyfriend to a serious protector, but he found plenty to keep himself busy, with Blair’s encouragement. To his vast surprise, he found himself filling the boring in-transit hours by getting a masters degree in history, entirely online. “What, you have something better to do with your time?” Blair had teased. Jim also contributed photos and paintings to their projects. What he saw, he could capture through a lens or draw with amazing accuracy. Blair theorized it was another connection between the Sentinel sense of sight and kinesthetics. A set of drawings by Jim depicting historical weapons from museums around the world in astounding detail quickly became a collectors' item.

Jim also helped organized their volunteer work. Thanks again to Naomi Sandburg’s connections, and to Blair’s grant-writing ability, they worked for various charitable and conservationist organizations, like Amnesty International, and the World Wildlife fund. Some of it was straightforward, some of it was heart-wrenching, but they managed to do some good, Jim felt. They stopped those snow leopard poachers in Pakistan, helped build new hospital wards for victims of mass rapes in Central Africa, and organized community watch groups in India.

Blair became scarily good at the Shaman stuff over the next few years, and was getting quite a reputation as a healer and teacher. Every guru glommed on to Sandburg the minute he showed up, perhaps pre-prepped by the lovely Naomi, or perhaps just intrigued by the recognizable aura of authority and light that Blair projected. His Guide seemed to be able to manipulate the senses of those around them. Jim tried not to think or talk about it too much, because the only term he could use was magic, but he could perceive it just fine. Blair could make shadows seem darker and more impenetrable, make noises seem louder or softer, could amplify available light. On more than one occasion, they were able to pass by unnoticed in situations where Jim felt they were in plain sight.

Africa was particularly hard for them. They rented motorcycles and concentrated on viewing the natural wonders, and staying away from those suspicious of witchcraft. Even in the cities you got a lot of that, and the two of them, traveling together, with Blair and his staff—there were lots of suspicious looks thrown their way, at the very least. Twice, they had real witchdoctors actually chase them out of villages. Local toffs didn’t like them either, and the two had to downplay, obfuscate, or simply hide from more than one gang of thugs who didn’t like the look of strangers.

They made a pact they would only get involved if necessary for the succor of innocents. They wouldn’t inject themselves into local politics or criminal investigations. Mostly they tried to stay out of trouble. They really did try; but it just wasn’t in their nature.

Once, they had an alarming encounter with an old army buddy of Jim’s while crossing into Pakistan. They were pulled off the train by customs inspectors and into a cramped room of the train station. This old army buddy was now the assistant to the US Embassy to Pakistan. Officially. Jim knew he was CIA. Although both Jim and Blair protested their innocence, their detaining, and their refusal to get involved, Jim knew this guy as a decent man for a spook. Reluctantly, after he had practically begged for their help, they agreed to accept the guy’s contact info “just in case you hear anything we should know.”

And in fact, they paid back that “old friend” by stumbling onto a terrorist plot. Jim and Blair surveilled the terrorists while sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the apartment in which the men were plotting. It was remarkably easy to hide in plain sight in a crowd, although table service sucked when they did it. Jim made a phone call, giving names, dates, and the gist of the plans he could overhear, and told the guy, “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.” Nevertheless, Jim and Blair were still uneasy about official recognition of their talents. The next stop was a commune in France, where Jim sequestered them and didn’t let Blair out of bed for a week.

Blair’s personality and quick tongue got them through most situations, but not all his skills were so mundane. One time crossing a border in Indonesia, Blair created a distraction by throwing his voice in a shout some distance away along with a concussion of air, a flash of light, and seeming stench of gunpowder. Blair had grabbed the passport stamp as the guard rushed away, then grabbed Jim and pushed their bike across the border. They clung to the shadows and the guards ran right past them in their panic. A little beyond the border post, they started the bike; the sound of the engine seemed muffled. They traveled a long ways that night. Later, when Jim asked Blair how he did tit, Blair laughed. “Come on! At least half of that No See Um stuff is you, Jim. You know—hunter magic.” Whatever, Jim thought. It came in handy.

As they traveled, Blair made a point of connecting with the Earth’s treasures--not only man-made treasure (which meant lots of museums) but also nature’s bounty. They went to the high and windy places, the humid water places, the cold and the scorching; they went to sacred places, both celebrated and obscure. Jim wasn’t blind to what they were doing, and often he felt the power of these places and their connection with the earth strongly. As they made their pilgrimages, he could tell their Sentinel and Guide abilities were developing; they had extra vigor, were strong, and fast; they healed quickly when injured. Occasionally, they felt a pull towards or repulsion away from particular places. Once in a while, Jim saw ghosts. Sandburg saw them, too, especially if he was touching Jim. “Relax, Jim, communicating with the spirits is what a shaman is all about.” They helped those unfortunates when they could.

Some of Blair’s seeking was definitely sexual in nature. When they made love in some of the power places around the world, sometimes there was an added dimension. They used their male energy to pin themselves to the Earth, spilling their seed into Mother Earth herself. Jim remembered one time in a Buddhist monastery high in the Himalayas. After an intense climb, they were greeted warmly and ushered into a bedchamber.

Blair had hauled him into that big, if hard, bed, and proceeded to teach him everything he knew about Tantric sex, and some things no one else knew about it. To the backdrop of endless chanting, Blair guided them through amazing, powerful, incredible sex, allowing their bodies to establish a joined trance by breath, by rhythm, by the beat of their hearts. Blair would pull up the energy created by their joining, up through his spine, setting the chakras spinning. They drank water and fruit juice only, which appeared by their bedside. They ate nothing. When one man orgasmed, they would simply change positions. Jim figured they spent seven entire days connected by phallus.

Once, when Jim couldn’t control his orgasm, and came too soon to suit Blair, Blair punished him, by not letting him come for 24 hours. The emission that came after that protracted session, from Blair stroking up through him strongly, hitting his prostrate, blew the top of his head off. His consciousness came flying up with his semen, spreading itself out in a 100 mile radius. His mind was consumed by the sights, the sound, the smells, the emotions, of all living beings in a circle around him. In the earth itself.

It took a long time for Jim to pull his awareness back in toward himself, led back patiently by his guide, through his body. Energy passed back and forth between his groin and Blair’s, connected this time through their mouths, through an endless circle. He could almost see the golden glow race faster and faster through them as they sucked each other to completion.

When it was finally over, Jim found himself sitting on a ledge in the weak early morning sunshine. He felt tender and spacey, and like he could really use a good spa. Blair was off saying his goodbyes to his main mentor at this place.

An elderly monk came up to Jim and, in a perfectly understandable American accent, said, casually, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? How far can you see?” Startled, Jim replied truthfully, “About 50 miles, all the way down to the lowlands.”

Nodding, the monk didn’t seem surprised. “That must be quite a burden.” He gestured toward the main building, where Blair was. “The young master. He is merely relearning what he has always known. He’s been around for a while.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to that. The monk added, slyly, “And you’re a lucky man.”

To that, Jim knew just what to say. “Yes, I am.” Nodding. “Yes, I am.”

Jim never knew where they were headed. His guide would lead, and he would follow. Maybe it was time to head back to the States. Jim would have to ask Blair not to play his Tibetan chants anymore, though. He just knew the sound could give him a hard on forever after.

***

Look for Part 3

The Sentinel Fic: The Walkers - Part 1: Recalibration (con't)

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 22:48:43 GMT

This is fanfiction, meant only to be a parody. Warning! This is slash, Jim/Blair; it contains male/male sex, so don’t read if you are not an open-minded ADULT!

This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one. It’s also an eventual SG1 crossover, ditto.

Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before.

THE WALKERS

Part 1: Recalibration (continued)

They drove straight home, getting into Cascade at dawn. Their drive was comfortable, with little said. They held hands most of the way, self-consciously but happily.

Jim was standing in the kitchen when Blair walked out of his room that evening. Stretching gently, he eyed his Sentinel with some satisfaction. More relieved than he thought he would be with the completion and letting go of his academic career, he was beginning to look forward to the next stage of his life. Tonight was a time to celebrate, to mold new patterns. And he had more than a few ideas, starting with . . .

Blair moved up close behind Jim, placing a hand gently on his back, the sensitivity between them blazing to life with that one touch. Blair was fully aware that Jim was getting touch deprived, because he was, too. He knew exactly what he had been doing by denying the touch they so needed. The Shaman in him was also aware that since the fountain, there was a deeper connection between them--like a tug on his aura. Blair felt it as a sensation in the pit of his stomach; he wondered what his Sentinel felt. He didn’t wonder if Jim had noticed their heartbeats were in synch. That was a given.

Pitching his voice low, Blair murmured, “Why don’t we skip a big dinner for now and just eat something light? I’ve got something I’d like to try.”

Jim turned around slowly until he was leaning against the sink, not making any attempt to move out from under Blair’s hand. He smiled at Blair, and Blair’s heart went ka-thump. Jim smiled wider. Unable to stop himself, Blair felt a smile growing on his own face. “Just thought it was time to celebrate properly. You know, like a rite of passage.”

Jim rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Don’t start quoting van Gennep to me. I’ve heard it all before, you know.”

“Ha!” Blair bounced a little, keeping his hand on Jim’s abdomen for balance. “I thought we’d try a little . . .” Blair let his voice drop just a touch further . . . “experiment. With touch.”

Jim said, letting a hint of steel into his voice, “Experiments, Chief? I thought we were done with those.”

Blair pulled away and started getting the ingredients for a snack together. He would have preferred to do this fasting, but knew better than to spring that on his partner.

“You and I will never be done... ” He stood up, dumping a bunch of groceries on the counter. “. . . with experiments.” Shooting a look at Jim, Blair conveyed plainly that this pause had been intentional. “I never said they were academic experiments. Think of it as . . . recalibrations.”

After eating a dish of dried fruits and couscous (“for energy”) and washing it down with plenty of filtered water, Blair sent Jim off to a long, hot shower. “And take off those jeans.” Blair heard a chuckle from upstairs. “I mean, put on some sweats or workout wear.”

Jim poked his head over the railing. “First you want me to take off my jeans and now you want me to slip into something more comfortable.” Jim shot a shit-eating grin at him, and made a clucking, sort of tsk noise.

Bastard was flirting with him, Blair grumbled to himself. Nevertheless, he went about his preparations while Jim was in the shower. Jim came out of the shower looking edible. Relaxed, flushed, wearing black knit pants and t-shirt, Jim looked eager. Predatory, even. Blair concealed a smile.

Handing Jim a glass of champagne, Blair fiddled with the music controls of their stereo. His iPod began to play a synthesis of drums and didgeridoo; not too loud, not too soft. Blair had pushed back the furniture, candles lit, vanilla and cinnamon bark simmering on the stove. “Champagne? Won’t that skew the results of your test, Professor?” Jim looked suddenly like he had sour grapes instead of fine champagne on his tongue. “I guess I don’t get to call you that anymore.”

“Oh, Jim, it’s okay. And I told you—it’s not that kind of test. This time is just for us.” Blair sipped his champagne, but looked at Jim very seriously. “This is for the Shaman and his Sentinel. I think we need to recalibrate for the next phase of our lives.”

Jim said, plaintively, “Are you going to explain the weird stuff yet?”

Ignoring the question, Blair started to sway with the music. “We never really did that much with touch. Did you ever wonder why?”

“Sure we did. We tested all those fabrics, and you did the work of choosing skin sensitive products. That stuff. Uh . . . did I ever bother to say thank you for all that, Chief?”

“You’re welcome, Jim. But—there’s so much more, frankly, that I could have done.”

Jim frowned and reluctantly let himself be pulled by the hands into dancing. “Well, why didn’t you?”

Not replying right away, Blair simply began dancing to the beat of the drums. Swinging his arms and Jims, he began to circle and sway, his whole body responding to the music. Blair thought Jim was so cute, as he awkwardly sought to copy his partner’s movements. Blair knew that Jim wasn’t awkward in the least, but he could be so puritan about some things. “Well, why don’t we ever dance?”

“Because we’re two guys?”

“Oh, come on, Jim. I know you don’t believe that.” Blair could feel his eyebrows go up and down, entirely involuntarily. “I think we need a few tests that go beyond skin sensitivity, but relate to your sense of touch.” Continuing to dance, Blair spun away. “Like balance. Like your kinesthetic sense. Rhythm, air pressure—you ever wonder why I didn’t test those?”

Jim just shook his head, gazing at Blair with shining eyes, mesmerized. Blair noticed Jim was starting to relax into the music. He danced closer, intimately sliding his body from side to side against Jim’s front.

“Because dancing is life. I want to dance with you.”

Jim’s arms snapped around him like industrial strength vises, pulling them close together. He bent down and Blair’s world turned upside down as they kissed. Finally, he broke away, laughing, and jumping. “Yes! Come, love, dance with me!” Blair stomped his feet. “Get in the rhythm. Let the beat get inside you. Move the front, move to the side. Come, Sentinel! Your Guide calls you! Feel your body as it balances in the cosmos; let your spirit out.”

Blair watched with affection as he put Jim through his paces, the music always in the background, teasing him as much as he dared. Dancing closer, and speaking softly, knowing Jim could hear him, he said, “I want you to feel me. Close your eyes and find me in your mind. Feel the heat and energy from my body. You feel it?”

Jim nodded, his fine-boned face assuming an ethereal concentration. His head moved unerringly, following Blair’s movements. “Feel and anticipate my movements. You don’t need to see me. Concentrate on your sense of touch. Feel the vibrations through your feet, the air currents, the echoes as I stomp.”

Blair continued softly. “I want to touch you all over. Every inch. Your ears, your toes, your navel. And everything in between. Jim, I feel it so strongly, like I’ll die if I don’t get to touch you.”

Jim’s eyes popped open at that, pinning Blair with his stare. The predator looked out of the blue orbs. Blair felt his heart beat speeding up. “Down boy,” Blair said, breathless but amused. Damn, but it felt good between them like this! He motioned Jim to sit down on the cushions he set out. Jim made to kiss Blair again, but Blair held up his hand. “Meditation now, Jim.”

“Meditation? Now?” Jim gave Blair his best, “are you crazy” look.

“Jim, you said you wanted to know about the weird stuff. What weird stuff?” Blair was honestly curious.

With a put-upon sigh, Jim sat opposite Blair, blatantly adjusting himself and giving vent to a, “I thought we were going to get to the touching.”

Blair laughed. “Oh, we’ll get to that.”

“You’re entirely too fucking cheerful, you know that, Sandburg?” Jim said, with a scowl that only subsided when Blair fit the soles of their bare feet together, letting the connection fill them up. Blair had to admit that the feeling—just touching the skin of Jim—was rapidly being upgraded to not only erotic but weird.

“Are you having dreams? You noticed our hearts beat in synch? That we hate being apart and are more comfortable touching each other? That we are in textbook-perfect health, after being injured so recently? That other people’s emotions are clearer? That our senses and emotions are also clearer? *Those * weird things?”

Jim sent him a medium-grateful look. Blair sighed. “What, like I haven’t noticed? I’ve been paying attention. I’ve just been processing.”

“So, spill. But fast, ‘cause we have some touching to get to, too.” To emphasize his meaning, Jim began rubbing his hands slowly over his own body, watching Blair’s eyes watch his hands. Jim’s nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply.

Oh, God, Blair thought, trying to ignore the straight-to-the-balls sight of Jim scenting him. “Jim what are your dreams about?”

Predictably, Jim looked away, trying to deny any such things, before responding. “I dunno, lots of very vivid ones.”

“Any recurring themes?”

“Mountains, deserts, landscapes. Lots of different places.” Jim sighed. “Circles. Stars.”

“Circles?” Blair scratched his freshly shaven shin. “Like, crop circles?”

“Crop circles? You mean the made-by-aliens kind? Maybe. Not specifically. I dunno, just—.” He made a motion with his lands. Large, round. “Rings, Chief. That’s not what, uh. . . not what you’re getting?”

“Well, mostly, like I said, I’ve been getting a strong urge to wander; to get out of here and see the world. To make contact with some of the spiritual and precious places on the earth. I think this would benefit both the Guide and the Sentinel.

“Jim, I hope you’re prepared for more weird shit. I know you don’t like it, but you signed on for it. Right? Am I right? Full cooperation. No more reservations. You can grumble, but not balk. For I gotta tell you, Jim, I feel a whole lot of Shaman freakiness coming on.” Blair searched Jim’s face for acceptance.

Jim wiggled his toes against Blair’s while he thought it over. “I can still grumble, right?”

“Sure. I’ll allow you grumbling rights.”

“You’ll allow, will you?” Jim asked, smiling.

“Duh, Jim. Get with the program.”

It was Jim’s turn to laugh. The sight made Blair ridiculously pleased. He was really beginning to look forward to what Jim would be like as a lover. Blair allowed himself to be pulled against Jim’s side with their backs against the couch. They both sighed deeply as they clicked together like two halves of a magnet.

“Those circles, now. That’s interesting. I’m dreaming a lot about shadows, and light, and smells, and sounds. It is all very vague, but meaningful. Suggestive, you know?”

“Sounds like regular old dreams, Blair. It’s natural you’d have dreams about the senses.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting another feeling from these dreams. I’m going to have to do a lot of meditating on this, Jim. It will take some time. Can you be patient?”

Jim pulled Blair’s hands up into his. “I can be as patient as you need, Blair.”

“I just mean with the weird stuff, okay, Jim? Gotta go with the flow, let insight come to me. There’s a reason why wizards always couch their instructions in riddles, you know.”

Jim shrugged. “We got time.”

“Yeah?” Blair searched Jim’s face again for a time. Finally, he got up, and retrieved a bowl of strawberries from the refrigerator. Extra sweet, small, locally grown and organic, they were among Jim’s favorite foods.

“Strawberries and champagne? What’s the occasion, Chief?”

“I don’t want you to zone, so I’m feeding you strawberries.” Dipping one delicately in his glass, Blair leaned forward and placed it on Jim’s tongue.

“And besides, there’s a time for romance, you know. Gotta have a date to mark as an anniversary.” He stuffed another Blair-and-champagne flavored strawberry in Jim’s mouth. “I’m going to be blunt, here, Jim, so there are no misunderstandings. I’m in love with you. This is us now, together.”

Jim swallowed and dodged another strawberry-bomb aimed at his mouth. “Chief, I love you, and we’re taking that trip together. Forever.”

“Good. Now take off your clothes.”

“What, no foreplay?”

Blair gestured. “I’m going to give you a massage. Touch, remember?"

Jim sighed. “Sometimes you have an odd sense of timing, you know that, babe?” He crawled over to Blair on his hands and knees. Straddling him, he leaned over and started to kiss. Softly, wetly, Blair felt his mouth invaded. Jim moaned. “I want to make out. You want to meditate. Is this how our relationship is going to be?” Jim’s tone was teasing, but his body was saying serious things.

“I love you,” Jim said again softly. “Now, you said something about taking off clothes?” He leaned back and peeled his t-shirt off, tossing it away. “You, too, Chief.”

Blair tried to demur. “I’ll be cold.”

“You’ll just have to massage me—harder. And besides,” Jim looked him over greedily. “I’ll let you keep your shirt on.”

“Oh, you’ll let me.”

“Damn right, Blair. Get with the program.”

Laughing, they removed the negotiated items, and in short order Jim was naked, prone upon the cushion, covered by towels. Blair poured massage oil minutely spiked with cinnamon over Jim’s broad back. Jim squirmed.

Blair proceeded to touch Jim, delighting in the physical connection between them. As the music changed again, both men were startled into chuckles when a series of howling wolves came on before continuing on to a thunderstorm on the plains. Blair’s hands moved everywhere on Jim’s posterior side, from his close-shaven head to the tops of his ears to the back of the neck, and downward. His hands felt hot, almost burning, either with the cinnamon oil or some other energy.

As he massaged Jim’s heavy muscles, he let himself sink further into the trance primed by the music, and closed his eyes, letting himself feel. He imagined the breath of the winds cooling the flesh heated by his hands. He imagined the light dancing and flickering over the magnificent body he was caressing. He breathed in the cinnamon from the oil and let it pool warmth all around them. He felt his own body respond to the sensual banquet. He felt his erection swell and throb where it lay against one firm buttock. He felt their hearts, still beating together.

“Chief? Chief! Blair? What are you doing?” Blair felt his canvas move as Jim twisted his body around. “What were you doing?” Jim was looking at him in consternation.

Blair was confused. “Just massaging.”

“Just—“ Jim let out a breath, which expanded his chest interestingly. “Okay then, how ‘bout you do my front.” Jim’s eyebrows went up and down, in unconscious imitation of Blair. Entirely involuntarily, Blair was sure.

Blair looked at the feast before him. “Nah. How ‘bout we just make out?”

Finally able to touch every part of Jim, Blair reached eagerly toward him. Jim showed his eagerness by immediately stripping Blair of his last remaining article of clothing, and rubbing his entire torso luxuriously against Blair’s furry chest. They kissed deeply, and began to squirm strongly against each other. Jim murmured, “Touch me, touch me, baby, please,” over and over, beginning to growl and moan. Blair thought he was going to combust from Jim’s sensuality.

They ended up fished against the couch again, Jim sitting in between Blair’s thighs, facing away from him. Blair’s hands—his magic hands—smoothed liquid heat all along Jim’s front, from his inner thighs to his nipples. Jim was tense, his neck and back arched, his cock red and inflamed, bobbing in the air. Blair now used his voice to soothe and arouse. He nestled his head in the curve of Jim’s shoulder as he maneuvered them into the position he wanted. He started to take little nips and soft nibbles of the strong neck and jaw. Jim moaned louder, writhed more.

“Shussh, Jim, I’ve got you. That’s right, god, you are so beautiful.” And on, and on, as he continued to torment Jim’s body, directing little puffs of air as he spoke toward Jim’s weeping erection. Perhaps no one else could have felt them, but Jim certainly did. Jim was starting to beg.

“Please, Blair, please . . . "

Blair chuckled. “Can you say ‘extra touch-feely’”?

Taking advantage of Jim’s distraction, he questioned, “What happened before, Jim, when I was massaging you?” He leaned over surreptitiously to grab the lube.

Jim panted. “Shit,” he cursed, recognizing Blair’s tactic. “I got – it seemed—″ He groped for words. “The smell was strong, really strong, and the light—“ Blair tweaked a nipple, hard, and Jim shouted out, “It was weird, okay? Something was happening. You were doing something, Chief. I don’t know what! I don’t know!” Jim was almost sobbing, now.

“Okay, Jim, it’s all right, we’ll talk about it later. It’s all right.”

Blair dribbled a little of the lube down his own belly, where his hard-on was rubbing against Jim’s ass. He began to pump his hips, sensuously rubbing his dick up and down Jim’s crease, causing Jim to gasp and stiffen. But Blair just reached over and grabbed Jim’s cock with his slippery hands. Jim stilled for just a minute, as energy flared between them through the intimate connection, and then they both relaxed against each other, focused on their twin centers of pleasure. Jim’s hand came to join his mate’s around his cock as they began to stroke slowly but firmly. Blair’s other hand held Jim’s hip against him as he ground his slippery erection faster against Jim. Both men’s faces contorted into a rictus of joy as they headed toward completion. He felt himself open to Jim in a way he never had before. It felt like they were speeding through the universe, getting closer and closer . . .

And then they were there. Slamming into each other in the physical and astral planes, their souls combining with each other like a collision of atoms. Blair lost contact with even the physical sensation of touch, his focus all along, and felt his essence simply float.

“Aw, damn. I missed seeing Jim come,” was Blair’s first coherent thought, much later. Then: “We’ll just have to be face-to-face next time.”

He realized Jim was cleaning him.

“You okay in there, Chief? Did you go to La-La Land?”

“Or somewhere.”

“More weirdness?”

“Nah. Just Jim and Blair and great sex.”

“Okay. That I can handle.”

“Good, ‘cause I gotta tell you, man. I’m getting a rather severe calling to explore this extra-special Sentinel and Shaman connection.”

“Me, too. And it involves you, me, and the bed upstairs. Preferably for several days. No phone, no worries, just a feast for the senses. We can make plans or whatever later. Much later.”

“Sounds perfect.”

This, then, was it. The end of limbo, and the start of something new. They were both looking forward to it.

The Sentinel Fic: The Walkers - Part 1: Recalibration

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 22:25:05 GMT

This is fanfiction, meant only to be a parody. Warning! This is slash, Jim/Blair; it contains male/male sex, so don’t read if you are not an open-minded ADULT!

This is a TSBBS fix, because every TS writer needs at least one. It’s also an eventual SG1 crossover, ditto.

Sweet and sappy, with many silly devices. Canon, what canon? Shaman!Blair; bonding activity, mystical orgasms, messing with the Stargate, frivolous use of the Ninth Chevron. Even though it’s a SG-1 crossover, but remains Jim/Blair-centric (sorry, Jack/Daniel fans!) Mostly likely one-shot.

Dedicated to the many fine TS writers who have gone before.

***

THE WALKERS

Dancing is one of the great pleasures of life. Using dance as a way to go into trance dates back 40,000 years, before recorded civilization, to our shamanic and aboriginal ancestors . . . Since before time, we have listened to the beat of our heart. Then we began to move like the animals we worshipped. Now, eyes closed and covered with a bandana, your feet firmly planted, begin to deeply breathe. Feel the power of your breath moving in and out, and you will find yourself entranced.

It is time for us all to dance again.

"Spirit Catcher" – Professor Trance.

Part 1: Recalibration

Elegant hands stroked sandpaper over finely grained wood. Sensitive fingers tested and smoothed, until the silken finish made the wood seem to glow. Head bent in concentration, eyes half-lidded, the Sentinel poured all of his energy, strength, and love into the long column of sturdy wood in his hands; sanding, shaping, and carving, speaking through the wood. He hoped his Guide understood. He needed Blair to understand, after all they had gone through, and all he suspected was coming.

It’s not that things were that bad anymore—it’s just that things were getting *weird.* Again. Jim hated the Weird Shit (as he labeled it in his mind) and Blair wasn’t around to help him with it. So, he was dealing with the weirdness in his own way, up on the roof in his workshop. He turned wood, and thought about his partner and their lives.

Without Jim’s knowledge, Blair had conspired with the commissioner of police for a second press conference after the Zeller fiasco. The commissioner informed the press that Sandburg had the full confidence of the PD and would be accepted into the fast-track office program. On the podium, Blair this time explained that the fraud story had been for the benefit of the notorious serial killer in their midst and for the protection of the public, and that Blair himself had been a victim of theft of intellectual property. He further stated the paper released was not his real dissertation, but merely a fictionalized workout for a series of books; that although his real dissertation was related to the subject matter of the leaked material, they were not the same. He deftly avoided any question designed to get him to admit or deny that James Ellison was a Sentinel, and instead focused on the legal action he intended to file against the publisher for release of his intellectual property without his permission, and against Rainier for wrongful termination. It was a virtuoso obfuscation.

As a result of the compromises reached, Blair had been furiously working on his dissertation for the past few weeks. Blair had traveled twice to Coastal University in Santa Barbara, California, Rainier’s sister institution, to consult with professors there regarding "Protecting the Tribe: Cross-Cultural Comparisons of Law Enforcement Officers and Pre-Industrial Tribal Guardians.” Even when he was in the loft, he was “gone”-- holed up in his little room working and typing furiously, his notes and references spread all over the walls and the futon.

That was all well and good, and Jim couldn't be happier for him; but it meant that Blair wasn't around to pick up on the things that were bothering his Sentinel, and Jim was left to contemplate the Weird Shit all by himself. He current woodworking project started out as a walking stick for himself, as an aid to the gunshot wound in his leg, but his healing had outpaced his plan by far. That was one of the weird things.

Jim switched to a finer grit and began to sand the carving on the head of the stick. He considered more of the weird things as he worked. Better to consider them in the light of day, rather than in the dead of night, since his imagination tended to run amok during the wee hours, especially without his Guide’s steadying presence.

Okay, the healing was one thing. Both he and Blair had recovered from their disastrous trek to Mexico and the attendant upheaval in their lives remarkably quickly. Blair’s lungs and sinuses were apparently back to normal. Further, ever since their moment of connection beyond the veil (he prodded the memory of the fountain gingerly, like a sore tooth) Jim found himself increasingly aware of Blair in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It was if he had a "Guide" dial now, fine-tuning a humming awareness of the other man, including approximate location and state of mind. Worse, even with that unprecedented sensitivity to his partner, Jim admitted to himself that he only wanted to get closer. He loved the little shit, and there was just no denying it.

Jim sighed and shifted his weight on the non-injured leg. Only a slight soreness remained, but he was tired because neither of them was sleeping much. Sandburg worked long into the night, and Jim couldn't sleep well when Sandburg was awake. When he did, his dreams were—weird. Jim was dreaming lots of circles. It was funny, all those jokes about trains in tunnels—he was inclined at first to think they were not-so-subtle sexual clues. But now Jim thought there was a deeper meaning, something he wasn’t catching. He needed his Shaman.

Jim knew he was overdue for a talk with his roommate, and soon, but right now, he redoubled his attention on his craftsmanship, pinning his hopes on the message to be conveyed with his gift.

***

A week later Jim was again on the roof; this time with Blair. They had a heater, but it was still chilly, so they were sitting close together, sharing their warmth. With his Sentinel taste buds, Jim found that he had become a pretty decent wine connoisseur, so the two men were also sharing a bottle of chardonnay.

Eventually, Jim noticed that Blair’s calm, warm scent was changing into the scent of nerves. Blair kept darting little glances over to him, a behavior he recognized as leading up to something Blair was afraid Jim wouldn’t like. Although apprehension made his gut clench, he was also relieved; it looked as though Blair was ready to talk. He decided a preemptory strike was in order, so he stood up. “Say, Chief. I want to show you something, okay?” He went to the small workshop, and he retrieved a long, carefully wrapped bundle. Handing it to Blair, he waited nervously for his partner’s reaction.

Blair unwrapped the bundle, and gaped, turning the two beautifully made walking sticks in his hand. For a long moment, Blair said nothing. Then he looked up, he eyes shining. “Jim, these are the most amazing things I’ve ever seen! You made them?”

Although one of the stout sticks was slightly longer than the other, they were both made from a veined golden wood and they matched well. An alert panther was carved on the sturdy shank of one, below the smoothly polished handle. A happy wolf was carved into the top of taller one, which was less of a walking stick than a genuine staff, especially for the shorter man it was intended for. Jim had wrapped the grip, just underneath the grinning wolf, with leather, finishing it off with a single turquoise drop.

Jim sat down and leaned closer to Blair, looking into his eyes, willing him to understand. “They’re made from the same tree. It’s so you know, Chief, and understand. I’m ready to take that trip with you.”

"Oh, Jim." Blair stood up abruptly and leaned against the brick wall of the stairwell. The breeze rustled his hair, and Jim held his breath. Blair was so beautiful to him. Jim knew that the ones you truly loved are always the most beautiful.

The younger man turned and looked from the walking sticks to Jim. “Are you sure, Jim? Honestly, you’ve been kind of a jerk over the past year or so, and I’m haven’t been totally convinced you want me around.”

Panic gripped Jim’s heart. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I can only say it again: I intend to take that trip with you.” He spread his hands and tried to look charming. "I’m not letting you out of my sight."

“Jim, these walking sticks—" Blair broke off, a troubled frown on his face. He shook his head. “You know what? I’m not ready to talk about it. Yet. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Blair’s eyes glowed with emotion in the dim light. “I’m gonna crash, and then I’m going to meditate for a while.” Blair turned and headed to the stairwell, but turned back for a moment, shining a tender smile toward his Sentinel. “Stop panicking! I love them, Jim, and I get it, really. It'll be all right, but I have to process.”

He took his walking stick with him, though, and Jim had to be satisfied with that for now.

***

Jim paced the halls of academia; or more accurately, he stalked along the sunny sidewalk at Coastal U, waiting for his partner to finish defending his dissertation. He tried not to listen, but he was pretty much obsessively focused on his Guide, and it was hard. It was difficult not to hear Sandburg respond to the examiners with technical and dispassionate academic lingo with regard to “modern community guardians” and “increasing viability of sensory techniques in forensics,” and “police,” “closed society,” and finally, “sentinel.” All those buzzwords rather captured his attention.

Jim gritted his teeth, and turned the corner, back in the direction of the social sciences building. He nervously shoved his hands in his pockets. Whatever insight Blair was gaining, he hoped he would share with his Sentinel soon. Since he had shown Blair the walking sticks, Blair had been warm and happy, but only distantly reassuring. He was still “processing.” Jim felt like he was on tenterhooks; restless and struggling with urges he wasn’t prepared for. He hoped that defending his doctorate would be the last step in Blair’s processing. He missed his Shaman.

He really didn't know what Blair was planning to do, either—whether he would go to the Academy, or whether he had some other plan up his sleeve. The Weird Shit was giving him hints of possibilities that were alarming. Maybe an extended vacation was in order—travel was supposed to be broadening, wasn’t it?

For the Sentinel, the worst part of this limbo was that Blair was avoiding touch; perhaps even withholding it. Touch was one of the most underrated senses, in Jim’s opinion. It included not only the feeling and awareness of a human touch, but the feel of the air and pressure upon his skin, and his sense of location and balance; even rhythm, walking, and movement. Jim had resisted most of Blair’s touch experiments from early on, because he craved it so much. He’d been uncomfortable turning that dial up in Blair’s presence, but this was getting ridiculous. No amount of woodworking or working out could substitute for the touch of his Guide.

Maybe they could stay home; hole up and block out the world, so he could concentrate on his partner. Jim got flashes of cocooning the younger man in his bed, surrounding him in pillows, catering to his every wish and desire, and keeping him there, and not letting him go. Ever.

Yeah, that could be good.

Jim realized that his ruminations had distracted him, for when he looked up, there was his partner. Jim had always thought the phrase, “his heart leaped in his chest” was a figure of speech. Not so, apparently, as he caught sight of his friend. Sandburg's relieved expression told Jim all he needed to know.

Blair held out his arms and Jim slipped gratefully into them, relishing the touch he had craved; squeezing hard. “I have a doctor in the family! Congrats, Dr. Sandburg. I knew you’d wow them!”

“Did you? Well, they were glad to get rid of me, I suppose.”

“Don’t say that,” Jim said, aghast. “I’m sure you’ll have a very illustrious career.”

Blair kept one arm around Jim, and turned them toward the parking lot. “What career? No, I’m out of academia pretty much. That's over.”

Jim stopped dead in the sidewalk. “What are you talking about, Chief? You just got your PhD! You can still be an academic and a cop.”

“Oh, sure; but not an academic and a Shaman. Haven’t I told you about Michael Harner?”

“Yeah, the guy who founded modern shamanism who got laughed at. So what? Are you planning to go to the academy at all?” Jim’s jaw tightened.

Blair's tone was confidential. “I could do it. But I’m getting that old Sandburg restlessness, Jim. I think the walking sticks are a sign. Haven't you felt it? I feel the need for a spiritual journey and cleansing, just like dear old mom taught me.” Sandburg’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “You wanna come walkabout with me?”

He did, indeed feel it—the restlessness, the need for something new. He didn’t know exactly what they were going to do, but he was very much afraid that his nice, settled life was going to change. He struggled with conflicting urges to lock his Guide up and never go out again, and a need to get the hell out of Dodge. For now, though, he'd settle for getting out of Santa Barbara.

***

(Next)

All my fic: The Sentinel and Smallville

Tue, 05 May 2009 22:10:53 GMT

Well, I thought I'd put together a post which has links to all my fic on it.

Most of these are in the archives (852 Prospect, Smallville Slash Archive, or Artifact Storage Room 3) but there are a few which are elsewhere. Mostly AU, all slash, or at least pre-slash, with varying levels of no-sex to lots of kinky sex. Very fluffy--hardly an angsty moment in the bunch.

If you read any of these, remember--one can never have too much feedback! Thanks!

The Sentinel

Breakfast of Heroes
A well received snippet for Sentinel Thursday. Written while eating breakfast at my fave Mexican food restaurant.

Disability
Jim learns to cope before meeting Blair. I love this one, because Jim does learn to cope pretty well, and yet--there's still that destiny thing!

Jim glanced down at the list of suggested "treatments" the doctors had given him. The light in the office seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat, and his stomach threatened to throw up the emptiness inside. "Is that it? Keep a journal and eat organic foods? I'm losing my fucking job here. I can't eat! I can't sleep! And you want me to see some kind of goddamn witchdoctor?

Plan B
A grumpy ex-cop advertises for a person Friday and contemplates B words. Pretty different versions of J & B, but they appeal to my inner kinkster.

Rituals
Blair wants a house. A house fantasy and wedding fic. Sweet as candy. Here's one of my favorite bits:

He had to admit he had his doubts about the whole scenario, too, from the “male life-partner” to letting Sandburg plan the ceremony. Especially when he twigged to the references to the Sentinel thing, which in his opinion shouldn’t be bandied about. But it was pretty fun being the Chief Warrior of the Panthers; and just look at how *happy* his brother was.

Jim was currently swimming back and forth along the pond’s edge, looking for an opening to get to Blair, who was sunning himself, ostentatiously unconcerned. Jim feinted and mock-growled at the Wolf team defenders, egged on by his villagers on the other side of the pond, but his face was shining. The look in his eyes . . . Steven had never seen that look on his brother’s face before, that look of joy. Maybe on Christmas morning when they were very young. And anything—or anyone—that could make Jim look that way was all right in his book.

There's No Such Thing
Snippet, Death Story

Smallville

Standalones

Are You Straight?
A conversation.

Drumheart
Clark and Lex go on a trip to change their destiny. Written for the ClexFest, and my least successful fic, imo. But you might like it!

Eaves Over Metropolis
What can I say? I like the idea of a big man with long hair. A house fantasy. Lots of people like this one, including me.

Four Quarters
Clark loves football. And Lex. Collegefic.

Harveston Hall
Clark gets lucky. With his dorm room.

Junior Enterprise
What Clark does for his business project. Guess!

South Pacific
Clark takes drama. One of my faves

The Bad Boy
Dirty is fun.

The Contract
Just a little business proposition.

The Day I Woke Up Dead
Death fic with a happy ending. Blame it on the dream.

The Foot Fetish series. Lots of sex and kink! Crossover with Batman eventually. One of my favorite series, but it didn't get a lot of feedback--too kinky for some, maybe.

Personal Jesus
#1 Lex likes feet and things get fruity. Slightly sacrilegious songfic.

"Lex," he was interrupted in his perusal by Clark. "Are you staring at my feet?" Clark sounded outraged, but when Lex dared a look, he saw only amusement and, whoa . . . lust, and . . .

Suddenly, Clark turned on his side, propping his elbow up. He reached for a bowl between them which held fruit, and picked up a guava. "Go ahead. Look. You're certainly entitled." Clark continued, after sinking his white teeth deep into the fruit, his voice very low, "I want you to look."

Viva Las Vegas
#2 Clark celebrates his birthday in Las Vegas.

Road Trippin
#3 Lex on a bus?

Lex sucked in his breath as he got a good look at Clark as he turned toward him. Wearing nothing but denim, from his extremely worn and torn jeans to the rather grubby jean jacket over his bare chest, Clark's presence filled the cramped, if sumptuous, interior of the bus like a storm cloud filled the sky. Dropping his pack, Clark's green eyes focused intently on Lex. Suddenly all of Clark, from shaggy black head to dusty boots, was pressed hard and with intent against Lex. Those arms came around to surround him and the shining face and beloved lips pressed against him, murmuring, between kisses, "Lex, hello baby, oh I missed you, ooh, I love you." But after a few endless moments of blissful kissing, he heard Clark wonder aloud, "Nice digs, but who are all these people staring at us, hmm?" Clark lifted his head and noted with amusement the assortment of people gawking with various expressions of lust and envy at them.

And Everything Nice
#4 Fashion, kink, and Bruce

The Figures Series. This one is a WIP for which I probably won't ever get around to finishing the last story. But you never know. Another of my house fantasies. Collegefic, too.

Mindmap
#1 Lex plans Clark's graduation present

Arrow
#2 An interlude

Square
#3 "I can't believe Lex built this whole thing for me."

Meander
#4 Methos has a cameo. Everyone has begged for a sequel to this one. Maybe someday

Fic: The Sentinel -- There's No Such Thing

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 03:31:27 GMT

Notes: Well, whaddya know? I wrote a snippet. Didn't think I had it in me.
Warnings: Death story! Unbetaed, practically unproofed. Jim/Blair, gen (sorta); J/f implied; AU; sentinelsandguidesareknown.
Rating: For everyone.

There's No Such Thing

"Lt. Rafe. I would say, nice to see you, but not on this occasion."

Rafe nodded at the older gentleman. "Representative Simmons."

"Such a shame. A decorated hero--and a Sentinel, too. Do you know what happened?"

"Not really. Just that he zoned, and his Guide was unable to bring him out of it. That's her over there," said Rafe, pointing to a weeping woman. "She's inconsolable."

Simmons frowned. "I thought Ellison had a male Guide."

"He did, for a while. Guy was a flake, though--kept on and on about spirit animals and kept insisting they had to 'bond,' for chrissakes. Ellison finally threw him out."

"I remember the guy though. Bright kid. Uh . . . Eisenberg or something?"

"Sandburg."

"Right, right. What happened to the kid?"

Looking out over the crowd of mourners, Rafe pursed his lips. "Funny about that. The kid died in a car accident a week ago."

"Really? Both of them gone within a week. You're right, that's weird."

"Oh, I'm sure there's no connection. Although, come to think of it. Jim zoned right about the time of the kid's accident."

"Concidence." The politician shrugged.

"Yeah, I'm sure of it. Coincidence."

Fin.

New blog

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 16:22:15 GMT

Spending lots of time on the internet on my new blog about body piercing:

www.piercedconsumer.com

I WILL be posting my Sentinel/SG1 story--someday! Still working on it.

so I guess this is actually a blog

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 01:16:48 GMT

must have passed right over my head. (whoosh!)

Still editing a story.

Haha! Jut saw that it's now an "undead" journal. cute!

The Sentinel Fic: Rituals--Part Three: The Blessing

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 18:27:49 GMT

Category: Slash, AU, Romance, First Times

Warnings: Rated for adults for sexual situations, language. This is slash fanfiction, meaning male/male erotic situations. If this is not your cup of tea, or if you are underage, don't read it. This story is intended as a parody and is written for personal enjoyment.

Summary: The Shaman and the Sentinel bless their new home.

Note: Not beta'd, so if you see any glaring errors, please feel free to let me know! This is Part Three of three. Follows Rituals Part Two: The Guestbook.

RITUALS: Part Three—The Blessing

Jim stood at the kitchen sink, washing his hands. He and Blair had gotten an early start on the house that morning; he in his "man cave," (Jim smirked to himself, knowing that Blair would never let it go if he found out Jim was thinking of his workshop like that) and Blair in the garden, working on the planting beds and fruit trees.

He glanced up at the framed white “wedding Frisbee” mounted on the wall in the kitchen. It always made him smile, remembering their ceremony. Sandburg was always going on and on about rituals, and about the symbols they made for themselves. Well, their symbols were certainly unique. He remembered how they had jumped over the threshold of their new home, as bound partners, together.

Now Jim felt really good; light somehow. It must have been all the hard work and the satisfaction of working with his hands. Jim had been working with wood all day, crafting some cabinets for their offices. His arms felt heavy and warm, his head light from the repetitive rhythm of the tasks; or perhaps from hunger? He tried to remember what they had for breakfast, and frowned when he remembered Blair saying, "I'll just have some juice, thanks." So he had, too. No wonder.

He caught sight of his partner on the platform next to the hot tub, and stopped to admire him. He felt his heart swell as if his love resonated with the warmth and energy from his arms and his head. Blair was so beautiful and peaceful here. He was sitting on the wooden banquette in lotus pose, meditating. Jim wondered how long he had been at it without him noticing. Focusing his senses on his mate, he found Blair's heart and breathing to be even, strong--and speeding up.

Looking up, he realized the Blair was looking at him. In the dim light of dusk, the outline of his silhouette almost seemed to pulse, as if there were energy coming off him in waves. Blair smiled and stood up, slowly, gracefully. He came down the short steps and held out his hand.

Jim knew that something was up. Blair had that look. He smelled—spooky. Something was raising Jim's hackles; he could feel individual hairs on the back of his neck erecting. His blood began to pump faster in his body. The sounds and smells of his home seemed to come into sharp focus, as he took his Shaman's hand. Knowing it was useless, he nevertheless tried to ask, "What's up?"

Blair just shook his head and smiled. He led them out the door to the atrium space where long ago milkmaids dispensed ice cream, then the door to the outside. Suddenly they were outside their building, standing on the sidewalk. Nervously looking around to see if anyone was observing their strange behavior, Jim was compelled by Blair to walk to the end of their building, where it joined with the florist. Blair was just standing there, staring hard at the juncture where their property line began, holding fast to Jim's hand.

For several long minutes, Blair stood facing their home. He closed his eyes. Then he began to hum, softly, atonally. He began to subtly rock back and forth, and to drum the fingers of his other hand against his thigh. Blair's breathing began to speed up, and his lips began to move, forming consonants insensible even to his Sentinel.

Suddenly his eyes opened halfway, heavy lidded and unfocused, but looking up and down at the seam of their building. The words Blair was repeating began to make sense. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Quechua, Blair began to repeat variations of the phrases: "Bless us. I call on the spirits to bless this home. This is the home of Sentinel James and Guide Blair. Bless this home."

Blair began to move along the sidewalk, tugging Jim behind him. Jim was grateful that the street was deserted due to the evening hour. Blair stood in front of their door, his head moving as his eyes limned the doorway, raised up to the roofline, and back down, tracing the seams of the atrium roofline. He spent some time focusing on the door jam, the door knob, and the lock, and his mantra was supplemented by, "Protect this home. Let no evildoer pass."

Yeah, Jim thought. Let no evildoer pass. I can get with that. Glancing at his partner, he noted the unfocused eyes and calm concentration and decided to take a chance. Taking a deep breath, he slowed his mind as Blair had taught him and unfocused his eyes, letting his powerful sight reach into other spectrums. Sure enough, Jim thought he could see, after a while, a fine network of light spreading over his home, creeping along in their wake, webbing the home in love and protection. So he added his thoughts to his Shaman's, sending his feelings of protectiveness and defense through his link to Blair.

He followed Blair as he walked around the block. Blair kept his focus on the outside walls, placing a shield that was both a blessing and a warding. When they came to the back side of their property, where the back wall joined with the florist on the other side, Blair gave him a furtive look, and shook off Jim's hand. He proceeded to scamper up the brick, using handholds that looked as if they were set there. Not questioning his partner's suddenly monkey-like abilities, Jim heaved himself up after his partner. They scrambled up onto their sitting roof, then down the side of the wall toward the walkway. All the while, Blair chanted blessings and protection into the perimeter.

Blair grabbed Jim's hand again, and went back to his work. They started along the walkway toward their bedroom, but Jim could tell that Blair's focus was still on the wall separating their property from the neighbors'. His Shaman entered their bedroom, and finally came the corner of their property, on the landing outside their bedroom above the atrium. Holding his hand out flat against the wall, Blair shuddered once and took a deep breath. Looking at his Sentinel, he managed a smile, and whispered, "Three times around, Jim. This time, we'll do the inside. You with me?"

"Always." Jim nodded, and they set off once again. This time around, it took longer, because they had to wind their way inside and outside of rooms, and walls, and windows. They spent a lot of time sending their energy into the fixtures of their home. Jim found he could add a lot of strength and—order—or whatever it was, reinforcing and supplementing Blair’s power. Thanks to Blair's patient tutelage over the years, his visualization skills were excellent. Order was at Jim's core, and strength, and protection, and he visualized pouring those qualities into the house. Into the windows, so they wouldn't rot. Into the pipes, so they would flow with clean, fresh water. Into the handles, and switches, and the thousand details that took so long and frustrated them during the remodeling of the house. Now he poured order, and Blair poured magic, and he could see the webbing of light seeping into their walls, giving their home a glowing shell of love.

By the end of second circuit, his knees felt a little wobbly, and Blair was shaking. Glowing, but shaking. His eyes beamed wide and blue, and his mouth was sweet and happy. "Once more, for love and luck!" So they went around the house again, fast, taking an inside/outside, up and down route dictated by Blair. They strengthened the protections, particularly around the perimeter, the foundation, the doors, and windows. Jim actually pointed out a weak spot which they concentrated on until the webbing was solid, and tried not to think about how this all seemed like something out of Harry Potter. Blair spent a long time at the spot where they had climbed up, adding additional suggestions making passersby ignore the area. The handholds were no longer easily discernable to the casual eye.

Eventually they stood in the middle of the courtyard, on the old brick and stones that Blair had laid in a spiral pattern. Sentinel and Guide were wrapped around each other, too, no beginning or end. Blair was hoarse by now, his never-ending litany changing slightly as he poured on the power. "Bless this home. This is the home of Sentinel James and Guide Blair. Let no strife enter this home. Bless this home." Finally, Blair glided toward the same inside corner as before. They climbed the stairs to the landing, and Blair slapped his whole body against the wall, pulling Jim's body against his. There was a sensation which Jim could not identify. Like the snap of a rubber band, the power in Blair and Jim rushed out of their bodies.

Jim opened his eyes wide, feeling as if he had awoken from a dream. Blair slid down the wall, and Jim followed him into a heap.

"Wow." Blair said, sounding surprised as hell, now.

"Care to tell me what the hell that was?"

"Er, well. I should think it was obvious. We, uh, blessed the house."

"Yeah, I got that, O great Shaman. Where did you learn how to do that? That's—some serious shit. I could see, literally see, the protection that you wove into the house."

Blair sighed, and shifted so he was cuddled against Jim. "I really don't know. It just seemed right. And it wasn't all me, so don't take that tone." Blair poked him. "I felt your energy in there, too. You're the protector, so that was a big part of it."

Jim felt ready to sleep for a week, and could sense his partner’s exhaustion, too. He could also feel the power and protection they imbued their house with, so he knew something had happened. But he wasn’t ready to let it go so casually. "So you just know this stuff? With no training?"

Blair let his body slump against Jim’s, shifting tiredly. Jim felt like he could sleep for a week. "I have plenty of training, Jim. What do you think Naomi was doing with the sage?"

"Besides trying to kill me? Probably not a whole lot. No, this is in you, Chief."

"And you. And on that note . . . how 'bout a little nap?"

So Jim took his personal Shaman, Guide, and love, to bed and found he had some energy left, after all.

Sweet!

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 21:49:52 GMT

I've been back to reading Smallville fic. I've forgotten how sweet those boys could be!

Am working on Rituals Part 3--will post soon!

The Sentinel Fic: Rituals--Part Two: The Guestbook

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:46:24 GMT

Title: Rituals -- Part Two: The Guestbook

Part Two of Three

***

Category: Slash, AU, Romance, First Times

Warnings: Rated for adults for sexual situations, language. This is slash fanfiction, meaning male/male erotic situations. If this is not your cup of tea, or if you are underage, don't read it. This story is intended as a parody and is written for personal enjoyment.

Summary: Whaddya mean, no sex before the wedding?

Note: This will be posted on LJ in three parts. Not beta'd, so if you see any glaring errors, please feel free to let me know! Follows Rituals Part One: The Courtship.

***

RITUALS -- Part Two: The Guestbook

". . . we can't just hire a protestant minister to read the Book of Common Prayer over us. A non-practicing Jew and a lapsed Catholic? Who believe in spirits?"

On a bright spring afternoon, Brian Rafe looked over at the beautiful woman sitting in the aisle seat of the small hotel shuttle bus, and his eyes warmed. Courtney was an architect from California. Elegant and sexy in an understated way, she looked relaxed in her casual outdoors outfit, full of curiosity about and plans for the wedding. There was also a group of faculty from the community college who were Sandburg's friends, and they were getting rowdy, clearly ready for a party. Brian wasn’t a big outdoor fan himself, but Blair assured him the cabins were really nice. It looked like it was going to be an *interesting* weekend, to say the least. He wondered what he should pick for the honeymoon pool H was organizing. Was Mexico nice this time of year? Maybe Hawaii?

He couldn't believe it when they told him they were quitting; and still didn’t know what to think about the whole Jim and Blair shacking-up-for-good thing. This “ritual of celebration” as the invitations said, sounded exactly like something Sandburg would think up, though.

But, hey, he owed the guys many times over, and he really liked Courtney, who had surprised him when she agreed to go with him to an unconventional wedding as his “and guest.” It didn't hurt that her father was a bigwig police commissioner in California, either. Hell, if Jim and Blair could find The One, why couldn’t he?

***

At the beautiful resort hotel that was “main base,” Henri Brown was a man on a mission. It was his duty, on Blair’s behalf, to greet and organize the guests as they checked in with the hotel, and get them oriented for the trip out to the camp. Hairboy had explained it to him. “You’re the warrior chief of the Wolf Village. Naomi is the Headwoman of the village, and together, you guard the Guide—that’s me.”

Sandburg had these elaborate stories about the kinship ties and how men would steal brides from other village (“Not that I’m a bride,” he’d said, with a wink), and about the importance of ritual separation, yadda yadda. Basically, Henri was a member of the wedding party, along with Naomi, and he was Blair’s team captain. The Captain and Jim's brother, Steve, were the counterparts at the Panther Village; the Headman and Chief Warrior, who back up the Sentinel. Henri wasn’t sure of the wisdom of bringing the Sentinel stuff into it—regardless of what Jim and Blair said publicly, Henri was no fool--but it sure looked like it was going to be a pretty interesting party.

It was also the wedding party's job to discourage the media. The hotel had set up extra security, but he'd already seen Naomi eject one aspiring reporter. He shuddered. What *was* it about that woman?

The hotel was really first class, and they were going all out for Jim and Blair. Or maybe it was that Jim and Blair that were going all out. Each guest got a “goodie” tote bag with a Frisbee, a team sweatshirt, a water gun, natural bug repellent, bottle water, biodegradable wipes, a map of the camp, the activities, and assorted other souvenirs. Henri knew for sure that there were more to come. He had overheard talking about the flowers and other stuff.

He and Steve were sitting by a table in a lounge area, which was conveniently next to the hotel bar. There was a sign that said, “Sandburg-Ellison Celebration” with a picture of a wolf and a panther on it. Henry spared a thought to how Sandburg always managed to get first billing in that relationship. He grinned.

It was Saturday afternoon and the wedding weekend was getting off to a good start. Two shuttles from Cascade were arriving that afternoon, although some people were choosing to drive in on their own. They greeted and sorted the parties of people into their “villages” as they checked in and gave out sleeping assignments. There were a limited number of very nice and well-appointed cabins, and a more generous number of campsites, RV spaces, and covered sleeping sites. Most of the good friends and close family made every effort to be here tonight, as well as people wanting to make a weekend of it. Many more were showing up tomorrow morning for the ceremony itself. Those people would be shuttled directly to the camp site when they arrived, about 20 minutes of rough road away.

There was a lot of excited chatter about the activities planned, which got louder as drinks were served. The webpage had the ceremony details, directions, and the schedule, and people were curious. Were there really going to be dancers and a drum circle? Could they switch teams? (Henri always hid a snicker at that one, considering the occasion). Did they serve breakfast? He checked the schedule again. Right now, the Captain and were greeting guests at the camp and getting them situated. He bet some people were already suiting up and getting into that pond. There was a rope swing. Henry had plans for that swing.

He slanted his eyes to where Steven was talking with a bunch of well-dressed preppy types on his team. Friends of his and Jim’s family, it looked like. He just knew they were up to something. It was part of his job, Blair had explained, to keep Jim and Blair apart before the ceremony, and he figured the Sentinel’s team would try to steal the Guide away, or at least run interference for Jim. Feel free to improvise, Blair had said, but nothing mean or harmful. He didn't want a lot of upset wedding guests. Still, Henri had a few ideas.

“Hey, Steven. You not planning any thing over there, I hope?” He laughed as the group overtly conspired, and people sat around waiting for their transportation. He pointed out the sign-up sheet for the honeymoon pool to several people.

Jim told him that they tried to keep the guest list fairly small, but that people, the mayor included, accosted them wherever they went to congratulate them and cadge invitations to the “non-wedding.” Henri laughed to himself as he thought of Jim. Mr. “I’m-the-Original-Hardass” had been walking around as dazed as if he’d been hit with a 2x4; and Hairboy was as hyper as he’d ever seen him, which was saying a lot. He hoped Jim was going to tackle him and sit on him soon. This time, Henri couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Ooh, boy, were they in for a lot of teasing, now that they were off the clock. He hoped his relief got here soon so he could join the party.

Henri spotted a gaggle of young university types. Sandburg’s friends, this time. He guessed they were also the entertainment, because they were all toting instruments. The women wore jingly chain belts and bells, and there was a pronounced odor of patchouli and worse about them. Dreads and beads, oh boy; Jimbo was gonna love them. All of these people were going into the “Gypsy Camp” and were supposed to be neutral, but maybe they could be influenced. He saw Steven heading this way. Uh oh. He better get back to work.

***

Sheila, the wedding planner was well pleased. A complicated wedding, oh, excuse me, she said to herself –celebration ritual—she smirked—to put together on short notice. Not that she had a problem with gay people, no matter what her pastor said. They usually had great taste and could pay well.

Well, most of them did. This bunch--body paint, stuffed animals, and belly dancers! She shook her head. Well, it certainly would be interesting. And the men involved not like any gay men she’d known. But they were a couple, no doubt about it. For all their differences, they presented together as one person almost, which was very—intense.

She wasn’t sure about all that anthropological stuff the shorter one was talking about, but she was used to rolling with demands made by brides and grooms. And at least these two looked happy. A lot of the brides and grooms, or whatever, were surprisingly unhappy on The Big Day, and any little detail out of whack could instantly unbalance them into a serious tantrum. It was part of her job to hold the bride and groom's hands (or *whatever* she insisted to herself), but these two guys had things well in hand.

In fact, she got the impression from the big guy that the less she focused on, talked with, or god forbid, touched the little one, the better.

Unlike many of the events she coordinated, a full schedule of events had already been planned by the principals, and all she had to do was set up the area and manage the food. The idea of the two “villages” competing against each other was working surprisingly well. The symbolism of the villages uniting into one people, just as the two men were uniting, was simple and moving. She would have to bring this up at her next professional planners meeting. Already, she could see how the competition was adding extra excitement, especially for the men. She guessed that was to be expected when there were two men marrying. Committing!

***

Rhonda anxiously dug out her invitation and the schedule Steven had given them. Because she helped Simon, Jim’s best man, or Headman (where did Blair come up with these names?) she was privy to a lot of the wedding details. She hoped she didn’t forget anything. In the back of her husband’s truck were a lot of the special items wanted by Jim and Blair. There were special-ordered wedding favors: Adorable jaguar and wolf stuffed animals, with tags that said J+B on them. There were musical instruments, bells, and rattles and other noisemakers. There were also tribal beads and necklaces by the pound. There was face paint, special ordered from California. It came by overnight express just this morning, and she was panicked that it wasn’t going to come in time. Apparently it was the only kind that Jim could use. Waiting for the courier had put them running late. Why they insisted on face paint at a wedding was beyond her, but it was on her list.

She yawned and rubbed at her neck, and looked over at her husband fondly. He had been pretty philosophical about the whole thing. Free food and drink, he said, what’s wrong with that? At least her two young sons were asleep in the rear cab. They had a long day ahead of them. Did she bring the right clothes for everyone? What does one wear to a gay wedding in the woods? And just what the heck was the “celebratory attire” suggested by the invitation, anyway?

She hoped their wedding gift was okay. It just didn't seem like pillowcases were enough, but it was one of the registered items, and she couldn't afford much. She checked her pocket for the envelope that Jim had given her. She had been instructed to guard it with her life and to Tell No One! She guessed it contained their airline tickets and passports. Well, no one was going to find out from her.

Jim and Blair did look happy together, she had to admit. Rhonda thought back over all the things the two men had been through, starting with Blair’s very first day at the station. They deserved all the happiness they could get. Yep, it was going to be a hell of a party, but things could still go wrong. It was up to her to help Simon run this show. She sat up in her seat, and pulled out her cell phone to contact the wedding planner.

***
Steven was dressed in shorts, sandals, and not much else. His suits and cell phones were far away. Or at least, in his “tent.” He was wet, tired, mud-splattered, and so hungry he could eat a horse. His chest heaved from running, and his cheeks hurt from laughing. He was having the most fun he could ever remember.

Oops! There went Jim again. He raced after his brother around the pond, carefully aware of slippery rocks. Jim snagged the rope swing and made a mighty yell, splashing the group on the rocks who had Blair sequestered. Henri Brown sang out raunchy taunts to Jim and other the Panthers, coached by Blair. All the Wolves had supersoakers which they used to defend their charge.

Blair lounged against the rocks. He had flowers in his hair, and elaborate leis and necklaces. His face, chest, and back were painted, and a lot of the Wolves also sported body paint and beads. Jim, on the other hand, was painted up like in soldier’s camo, and he wore an old army shirt and a bandana on his head. Some kind of thing between them. Steven didn't want to know about any role playing!

He remembered with embarrassment the conversation he had with his brother, in which he explained that no, he hadn't been gay his whole life, and neither had Sandburg, but it was just the way it was between them. And that they were waiting until the wedding night. Jesus Christ! Can you say TMI? He tried to ignore the steamy looks the two sent each other.

He had to admit he had his doubts about the whole scenario, too, from the “male life-partner” to letting Sandburg plan the ceremony. Especially when he twigged to the references to the Sentinel thing, which in his opinion shouldn’t be bandied about. But it was pretty fun being the Chief Warrior of the Panthers; and just look at how *happy* his brother was.

Jim was currently swimming back and forth along the pond’s edge, looking for an opening to get to Blair, who was sunning himself, ostentatiously unconcerned. Jim feinted and mock-growled at the Wolf team defenders, egged on by his villagers on the other side of the pond, but his face was shining. The look in his eyes . . . Steven had never seen that look on his brother’s face before, that look of joy. Maybe on Christmas morning when they were very young. And anything—or anyone—that could make Jim look that way was all right in his book. It was too bad Dad died before he could see Jim like this.

Steven laughed as Jim pushed his way through. The defenders really didn’t try too hard to keep him away. After all, would be bad luck to injure the husband-to-be on the day before the wedding. Either of them. Jim and Blair put on a blatant display of horseplay, tussling and necking passionately, hamming it up for the crowd until their teams managed to pull them apart. Okay, ick.

Steven gestured to a likely-looking teammate, and began to plan his tactics for later.

***
Thirteen year old Todd Hanson licked the barbeque sauce off his fingers and wiped the rest off on his shorts. This wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. It was his weekend to be with his Dad, and at first he resisted being bundled into the car for a wedding. Weddings were boring. But Dad explained about the two guys he worked with at the police department, and how it was going to be camping, and really fun, honest!

He was getting a little colder, so he pulled on the sweatshirt that was given out to his team. His was brown with a silver wolf silhouette. The others were green with a black panther. Maybe Dad was right. He'd had fun at the river, battling it out with water guns with a young black guy on the other team. And the food was fantastic—there was salad, grilled veggies, corn pudding casserole, hamburgers, wings, baked potatoes, and there was pie! He started walking toward the "mess tent," a big wooden structure adjacent to the hotel's permanent building there, which housed the kitchen, storage, and the bathrooms for the campsite.

Dad was happily occupied with a bunch of guys he knew, which meant leaving him alone—extra good. And a whole group of older kids were setting up some kind of drum circle. All right!

He thought of the two guys, Jim and Blair, and how they were together. They weren’t flaming or girly, they were just ordinary guys, obviously in love. And people accepted them. Look at all the people here already, and the wedding wasn’t even until tomorrow. Todd started to look toward the future with a little more hope. He already knew what gender he was attracted to. Maybe Dad wouldn’t freak out too much after all.

***
The sound of drums, recently silenced, reverberated through his blood. Wow, this is the life, the young man thought. The stars shining above, the fire crackling, the smell of pine and fresh air.

Darryl Banks pulled his jacket more securely around his shoulders. It was chilly, which he hadn’t noticed earlier while he was dancing, so he edged closer to the fire pit. The two Villages each had their own bonfire, yards apart but close enough for interaction. Blair had passed around sacks with bells and sticks, and encouraged everyone to dance and join in with the drums. The two groups, Wolves and Panthers, tried to out dance each other. There was even a group of Polynesian-style dancers, who taught the teams a haka challenge dance like they did before rugby games, and danced poi. Darryl had never even heard of the Maori before this. He'd have to look them up before Blair asked him about it.

Jim and Blair danced with each other at the end, their bodies swirling like ballet dancers or stomping like primitive man, pivoting around each other in perfect awareness, their bodies not touching at all, not breaking the taboo. That dance! Darryl tried to describe it. Like warriors challenging each other? Like artists pantomiming a story? Like primitive man capering by the fire? Like sex? Maybe once he had some, he'd find out. Whatever, it certainly was—interesting. He shifted around on the ground.

Now all he heard were the sounds of the fire crackling and the Guide—that was Blair—shaking his single rattle as he told a story. It was about a young wolf who wandered the forest, searching for something. Darryl was sure Blair had some deep meaning to impart, but he just let the sound wash over him. His shin hurt from where he scraped it against some rocks in the stream, and he was tired from all the running around and swimming earlier, but he also felt full and happy. The light beer he held in his hand contributed to his contentment, as did the excellent meal and the company.

He was sitting with a bunch of people from Rainier. They told him Blair was a legend there, a hero for fighting the administration. Blair continued to teach classes and tutor whenever he could, and a bunch of these people were taking for-credit classes taught by him offered through the Internet. Blair had a following of social science and humanities students, and several “Sandburg Lives!” shirts were proudly worn tonight.

Maybe he shouldn't have left Cascade. There were some pretty cool people here. He had wanted the independence that going away to college provided, but he found himself thinking about transferring back home lately. To put it bluntly, he was homesick. He wished his best friend back at the college had come with him so Darryl could show off his home town. But his friend had just curled his lip with disgust and said, “Hell no, I’m not going to any fag wedding. Forget it.”

And okay, maybe it was weird that Jim and Blair were getting married—to each other—but, somehow . . . it didn’t seem weird for them. And they sure looked happy. Darryl thought about that for a while. Maybe his friend wasn’t as cool as Darryl had first thought.

He smiled at the girl next to him, wondering if her piercings hurt when she wore them, and if they got in the way of . . . things. She was one of the belly dancers who performed. Whooee, these girls could move and do some damn incredible things. She was a student at Rainier, and--she was smiling back. Darryl had a space in the Guide's cabin for tonight, but maybe he oughta get his sleeping bag and camp out on the covered platform that was the gypsy’s post. He scooted closer to her.

***

INTERLUDE NO. 1: Jim

Jim’s eyes opened half an hour before dawn. It was the exact same moment that the alarm on Blair’s watch went off, on the other side of the campsite. For a split second, he floated in the awareness that something good was happening today. Then he remembered what it was.

Despite a fairly wild party and a late night, he felt great. He and Blair would have plenty of time to sleep later, preferably cocooned in the new bed he bought for them, which was installed in the loft yesterday. They were going to have their own little ritual to break in the bed, before they headed out on their honeymoon. With that cheering thought, he roused himself into the cold of the admittedly luxurious cabin and prepared to go into the chilly morning of his wedding day.

Blair would have preferred an all-night vigil followed by a dawn ceremony, but since they had to wait for day guests to arrive from Cascade, the actual ceremony wasn’t until 11. They compromised with a dawn awakening: each of them were to seek out solitude to meditate and prepare for the ritual. Blair insisted that there had to be spiritual "cleansing" followed by actual cleansing and "ritual adornment."

Jim shook his head. Only Sandburg; but Sandburg was the choreographer of this show and, if Jim were honest, the master of ceremonies for their lives, so Jim bundled up against the cold spring morning, and quietly stole up the hill to a lookout spot he had chosen. He automatically scanned the dim vegetation as he climbed for critters, crap, or other pitfalls.

He shivered a little at the summit, and the Sentinel became concerned for his cold-blooded Guide. However, a quick check using his unerring sense of his Guide's location told him that Blair was already sitting by the bonfire, stirring the banked coals for warmth in preparation for his own meditation.

Jim found a likely boulder, and sat down. He took a swig of water from the bottle in his pack, then sent his senses over the camp. He concentrated, and riffled through his senses almost simultaneously, seeking any jarring sensory perception which would alert him to trouble. Taste and smell, as well as touch, were acknowledged; the sensations of an awakening forest were cataloged. Sight and hearing, his two most powerful senses, were dialed up for a scan. Jim knew that such fine control was only possible because of the man he was about to join his life to.

Most of the near seventy-five people in the campsite were still asleep, with the exception of some of the hotel staff, who were working on the food and grounds, and a few people who were engaged in sleepy morning sex. Jim's senses told him early on that a lot of people routinely engaged in what Blair called, “birdsong at morning.” Jim realized he was likely to get some of that himself after today; a lot of it, maybe, though Blair was not much of a morning person. Jim would just have to be persuasive. He smiled in anticipation, noting that his cheeks were still sore from smiling all day yesterday. He was ready to get this circus over with, and enjoy the honeymoon.

It was fully dawn now, and Jim faced east, admiring the beautiful sight of those rosy fingers creep over the tops of the hills. Used to waking early, he relished his time alone in the morning. He often sat on the balcony in good weather with his coffee, enjoying the light play and colors of the sunrise, the silence and the stirrings of the day, but this morning was special. Blair knew this was his favorite time of day and he blessed his partner for allowing him this time to collect his thoughts and prepare for what was ahead.

He spared a thought for his father, and wondered if his spirit was out there watching. Though his Dad had succumbed to pneumonia the year before, Jim couldn’t help thinking about him, and what he would think about this whole thing. He probably wouldn’t like what they were doing, but Jim could see him rising to the task of village chieftain quite easily. He sighed, and shifted on the rock.

If Jim concentrated, he could hear Blair, sitting by the remains of the Wolf Village fire. He could also see him quite clearly from this vantage, arrowing his sight through the foliage. Jim grounded himself by focusing his senses of sight and hearing on his Guide, and began to breathe deeply, as Blair had instructed him practically from the first. He further instructions: To greet the dawn; to connect with the earth, the elements, and the spirits, and ask their blessings for and guidance on their marriage; to contemplate his new relationship with Blair and their future.

He pulled out the slip of paper with the invocation Blair had written down. Jim sighed again. The things he did for his Guide.

***

INTERLUDE NO. 2: Blair

Okay. Breathe in hold one two three four; breath out one two three four five six seven. Breathe IN hold one two three four; breathe OUT hold one two. . . I’m usually better at this. Wonder if it’s just wedding jitters. Brrr, it’s cold. Did I stir the coals enough? Maybe I should add another log. Breathe in; breathe out. Breathe in; breathe out. That’s it. Just clear your mind . . . Shit, how can I clear my mind? I’m getting married today! To Jim! God, I wish we could actually call it a wedding. But then again, how many times have unions between Sentinel and Guide been held? Breathe in; breathe out. Boy I’m tired. But I don’t feel sleepy. I just feel kind light. Like I’m floating on a cloud of happiness.

My mind is clear. Useless thoughts are leaving my mind.

But Jim’s up there. I can feel him. He’s looking at me. He’s supposed to be meditating. Bad boy. I’m supposed to be meditating. Bad me! No! Good me. It’s all good today. It’s gonna be so good with me and Jim . . .

Center, center. Don’t think about Jim yet! Breathe in; breathe out. Breathe in; breathe out. Hold one two three . . .

I wonder if Naomi’s up yet? Are we the only ones? Hope she remembers to take out my clothes and hang them up by the showers. Have all the flowers been delivered?

Breathe in; breathe out.

Ugh. There's a rock under my butt!

The air feels so clean and crisp up here. Jim said he could smell how fresh the water was, and that he could hear deer, and foxes, and beavers, and even bears. Hope there are no bears near. Jim would know.

Clear the mind! Expand your consciousness with your breath. The brain is only a shell.

I wonder what the beavers make of these noisy humans crashing around in the river? Boy, the birds are sure starting to sing. It’s like the animals are like our guests too.

Blair’s brain obliging supplied him with an image of Cinderella and the little mice and birdies singing and making her gown. Cinderelly, Cinderelly, they sang.

Arggh! Focus!

Breathe in; breathe out. Breathe in; breathe out. Yeah, better. Send out my thoughts to those friends out there. To the wolf and the jaguar. To the universe. It was an invitation. (I’m getting married today! To Jim!)

Shussh! Thoughts, go away.

In. Out.

Joel. The older man’s face appeared before Blair. Was Joel was going to make it to the ceremony? Blair hoped he would. He wished Joel would have been comfortable enough with Jim and Blair to be part of the wedding party. But his wife was being a bitch about it, and Joel was embarrassed and apologetic.

Why do stupid narrow-minded people care what two men do in the privacy of their bedroom? It was none of their business.

No negative thoughts! Not good for the soul to be angry on your wedding day.

Innnn . . . out . . . . . . . . . Okay.

He began the chant in Quechua that he and Jim worked out.

Creatures of the wood, The Guide comes to the Sentinel. Sentinel and Guide ask that you bear witness to our ceremony, that you add your presence and blessing to our ritual, and make our binding stronger. Bless our union. Spirits of the light, spirits of the Sentinels and Guides before us, bless our union. May the strength and love of our family and friends strengthen the ties that bind us together. Bless our union.

Bless our union . . . Breathe in; breathe out. Jim. Jim . . .

Hold . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four; out one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five

Breathe in; breathe out. The Guide comes to the Sentinel. Blair willed his energy and happiness around him, spreading out toward the sleeping guests, wanting to create a perfect sense of community for their ceremony.

. . .

Blair’s mind finally slowed enough that the only thing remaining was Jim.

***

Meagan giggled as a freshly washed Blair streaked with only a towel from the outdoor shower to the safety of his cabin. She’d been officially deputized by Henri, their warrior chief, to assist in the “ritual cleansing and adornment ritual” as Blair put it. “Better run fast, Sandy, or Jim is gonna get you.” The few early morning risers laughed and cheered. She jogged after Blair. The village headwoman, (Naomi, that is) followed at a more sedate pace, carrying a smudge stick of burning herbs of some kind. All Meagan knew is that it didn’t contain sage. She hoped Jim wasn’t sneezing over at his cabin.

Meagan hovered as Naomi fussed around Blair, giving him various pots of oils or lotions to try. Blair waived it all away, saying he had his own things—no doubt Sentinel approved--and dug in his luggage. Meagan eyed that towel-covered backside and thought what a lucky man Jim was. Of course, Blair was pretty lucky himself. Jim was good looking and had a body to die for. She had goggled at Blair when he whispered to her the night before, that he and Jim hadn’t had sex; that they were waiting. Oh, boy, they must be going crazy by now.

Well, now she got a chance to make Blair pretty for his man. She giggled to herself again. Criminy, I’m not normally such a giggler. Must be the occasion.

Blair allowed himself to be attended by his mother, who looked charmingly mussed in a long gown and robe. It was still early, but Blair had first crack at the bathhouse. It was only fair, after all. It always takes longer for the bride to get ready. She sniggered, but put on a straight face when Blair glanced suspiciously at her. He was dressed now, in white boxers and undershirt, while he allowed Naomi to dress his hair with gel to bring the curls out and some kind of oil to make them smooth and glistening.

She sighed in aggravation. If only *her* hair looked like that, maybe she could snag a man as fine as Jim. Or Blair, either one.

Meagan laughed out loud now, as his mother put his hair into clips to dry, and began to apply makeup. A little clear gel for his eyebrows, lip balm, and a little bit of eyeliner. “Shut up, Connor. It’s ritual body paint.” Sandburg grumped, but his eyes laughed. He held his hands out for her to see. They were covered in reddish brown loops and whorls, put there by henna a few days ago.

Even she had noticed there was a bewildering mish-mash of cultural influences in this little farrago of Sandy’s. Indian, Northwestern Native American, Middle Eastern, African, Celtic, South American, European. She asked Blair about it, but Blair just shrugged. “We’re children of the universe, Meagan, and we want to invite all people to celebrate in their own way.” They, typically, he launched into a cross-cultural comparison of wedding customs until her brain was stuffed.

He put on a gorgeous embroidered robe over his underwear. She was sure Blair could give her an entire lecture on the ethnic group that made it. Naomi carefully applied a swirl pattern in white paint on Blair’s cheeks, and a dot on his forehead, where his third eye was. His eyes were bright against the black eyeliner, and his demeanor was calm and happy. She wondered what he had done to appear so serene, since he had worked himself into quite a tizzy over the wedding details. Right now, he looked a little exotic with the robe on and his body paint, a little funny because of the clips still in his hair, and a little scary in his beauty and intensity.

Meagan knew that today they would see what few people ever had the chance to see; a shaman Guide joined with his Sentinel. She had seen the two in action together too many times not to believe there was something more than just two buddies who happened to be cops. She paid careful attention over the years, and knew they were so much more than they pretended to be. The pretense would be stripped from them for this one weekend.

Blair’s wedding clothes were hanging up, protected, waiting for donning just before the ceremony. He had long pants made of loose snowy white cotton, and a fine white tunic, delicately embroidered in white thread. Over that, he planned to wear a white silk vest, made in India and heavily embroidered with white, gold, and silver beads. He was going barefoot to the ceremony, and his feet had been hennaed, too.

Henri came in and said people were starting to hit the showers to get dressed and ready. She better get a move on. Her hair might not be as great as Sandy’s, but she did all right with the proper preparation. She got out her camera and snatched a picture of Naomi kissing her son carefully on the forehead so as not to muss him. She also got Blair’s expression when he realized she had a picture with those clips in his hair.

Blair was still getting the clips out as she exited, stage left.

***
Simon stood on the pathway outside the Sentinel’s cabin, his mind trying to go over every detail. He was ready to lead his village to the ceremony site, if only his “village” would get on with it. Things had been slightly frantic in the camp, and they were making up for a late start, after their discovery that all the Wolf team’s shoes had mysteriously landed in a pile in front of the mess hall. Simon disavowed all knowledge of such a dastardly prank, but cherished the memory of the late-night footwear raiding foray led by the Sentinel. He hadn’t had so much fun in years.

He pounded the headman's drum which Sandburg had given him, and bellowed out, “Panther Village! It is time to assemble for the ceremony.” He hoped Blair would forgive him for the corny lines.

Ah! There was Jim in a tailored white suit. He wore a silk shirt and white tie, as well as cuff links, braces, and dress shoes. Simon knew the details of the wedding attire had been negotiated rather fiercely between the two. He wondered what Blair was wearing. Jim looked amazing; happy and eager just as any man about to get married would. Simon, however, felt slightly ridiculous in his caftan, even though it was a beautiful garment. But Blair had insisted, and god knows they would all jump through tighter hoops than that for the guy. Jim told him to consider it Sandburg’s version of an ugly bridesmaid’s dress, but Simon admired the rich black and burgundy bark cloth pattern of the garment and its matching hat. At least Sandburg had let him keep his trousers underneath.

He sighed. Well, this whole thing certainly was – unique. But what would he expect from Sandburg? He wondered, again, where Jim was taking them for the honeymoon. He'd refused to say all along. Simon had bet Peru. He figured that with all these requests for blessings, they'd want the Chopec's, too.

Jim nodded to him, indicating that the last of the guests had arrived. Finally! Simon could see the tenseness in his old friend’s face. He was sure it wouldn’t relax until he had his Guide in his sight. He led Jim, and the rest of the people of the Panther Village, toward the amphitheatre-like space in the woods. He walked slowly to the beat of the drums and pipe echoing in the space, his feet crunching the pine needles below. Simon’s face was grave, but he was mentally going over his checklist. Rings—yes. Vows—they got ‘em. Flowers—that was Naomi’s department.

The late morning was cool and pleasant. The sounds of voices were subdued. He spared a thought for his friend’s extraordinary perception. Did he smell the clean air, or was the combined scents of the guests a problem? Was the stress and anticipation eroding his control? As they approached the site, Simon could see the officiant was waiting by a stone pedestal which had been laid with a cloth and a heap of flowers.

Whoa, there was quite a crowd. Okay, he could make out Naomi in a green dress, and Blair behind her, approaching from the opposite direction, followed by a crowd of people. He twisted his head around and, sure enough, he could see that Jim’s eyes—and surely all his other senses—were focused on his Guide with all the intensity he possessed. Simon was privileged to see, at that moment, the enormous radiant grin that transformed Jim’s face at the sight of his soon-to-be-mate. Simon felt the last of his reservations crumble. They were so happy together.

He faced forward. Wow, look at Sandburg. He smiled blindingly at a point several paces behind Simon.

It was almost time for the challenge. The officiant—what was his name again? Was a tall old Native American man dressed in his tribe’s ceremonial robes. He called lifted his arms and faced Simon and the rest of his people. “Stop. Who approaches this sacred space, and for what purpose?" Simon’s cue.

”The Sentinel of the Great City seeks to claim his Guide before the spirits and witnesses.”

Simon could feel the Sentinel of the Great City burning a hole in the back of his head, because Simon was between him and his Guide. Well, that wouldn’t last long.

He heard Naomi’s voice, strong amid the hush of the day. “The Shaman of the Great City seeks the blessings of the spirits on the union between Guide and his Sentinel.”

As he listened to the response from the officiant, Simon still thought they were crazy bringing this all out in the open. Simon didn’t know what the hell his honor the mayor, who he spotted standing on the dirt looking uncomfortable, thought of the whole thing. But they had refused to change their minds. Jim had said, “It is what it is. It’s not legal anyway, so we’re just going to do it our way.”

And their way meant this blessing under the trees, with the sound of the stream adding to the music of the day. Not a bad way, Simon supposed. The sheltered bowl wasn't, as far as he knew, consecrated ground for any religion—the hotel had merely enlarged and landscaped a natural feature for the convenience of its guests. But he also knew enough, even without Blair's lectures, to understand that people sometimes made their own symbols. He thought of the broom he and Joan had jumped over at their wedding. He thinks she still has it in a closet somewhere.

The native shaman gave permission to approach, and Simon lifted a heavy white flower and leaf lei from the pedestal and carefully placed it over Jim’s head. He gave Jim a ritual kiss on both cheeks, and then happily stepped back, his main duty over. After all, as Blair had carefully explained, his primary duty was as chief witness. He eyed Blair and Naomi intently as she repeated the gesture, giving him a mother’s blessing. His cop’s eye automatically took in details; there were always questions about this later.

Sandburg looked as joyful as any bride in his white finery. Simon was almost sure he actually glowed in the dim light of the glade. He wore a garland similar to Jim’s, but draped around his neck until it fell to the ground. Naomi, although stunning in a complicated floaty dress reminiscent of leaves, couldn’t compete. Jim, in his power suit, looked like what he truly was: A white knight standing tall, exuding strength—and love. The two men eagerly reached out for each other.

The officiant began: “I greet you at this most solemn and joyful occasion, in the name of our friends, Jim and Blair. All of you who have gathered as friends and loved ones of these men, listen, for two villages become one this day. Leave aside your partisan loyalties and mingle as a single, joined family of man, to witness these two men’s vows of commitment.” The shaman chivvied the crowd closer, so that the people of the teams were mixed together with the more recently arrived guests. “As the two villages are joined by ties of friendship, so shall Jim and Blair be joined by words of love and devotion."

Simon watched as the crowd melded together in celebration. Then he watched his two best friends exchange rings and say the words that bound them together forever.

***

Naomi looked around in satisfaction. The florist at the hotel had done a wonderful job, even with the large special order of flower and herb leis and garlands. The mess tent was decorated garlands of tribal beads, bells, feathers, and tassels; the tables were set up with pots of herbs and seasonal greenery; and Champagne and strawberries were being passed around. The caterers had almost finished setting up for the reception meal.

It was so nice to finally be able help plan a wedding for her son. The ceremony was so profound, and she was so proud of Blair! Oh, Blair had all sorts of ideas on the general scope and content of the whole weekend, but Naomi fancied she provided a few touches to flesh the concept out. She worked with the wedding planner and Rhonda, Simon's secretary (and didn't Simon look handsome in his caftan) and they planned all sorts of enhancements that those two boys were just too busy to think about, like the wedding favors. She also made sure they had a photographer--to think that Blair insisted on no photos during the ceremony. At least he had allowed her to arrange for a photography session afterwards.

She was having so much fun as the Headwoman of Wolf Village. She fingered the short wand-like noisemaker tucked into her dress that she used to call the gathering. How clever of Blair to think of all this! She helped plan the activities, and the pranks against Jim's team. Blair had explained that it was just for fun, as an echo of past practices, and nothing mean or destructive was to be attempted. She and Henri organized the team to decorate the "getaway car," i.e., Jim's truck, with boxer flags and giant stuffed animals—a wolf and a black panther--strapped to the roof. She kept an eye on all the young people in the camp, and made sure they were participating appropriately.

Blair had given her a great gift by including her, and by allowing her to participate in the cleansing and grooming ritual. She cherished the opportunity to be so intimate with her son on his wedding day. He told her he wasn't a bride, but he really was, in a way. The Guide comes to the Sentinel, isn't that what he said? And he looks so beautiful!

She beamed at her two sons. After a ceremony like that, no one could deny that Jim was her son-in-law. Except for those misbegotten SOBs in Capitol Hill. In fact, when she left, she ought to talk to a few people she knew. It was really intolerable the way gays were discriminated against.

But she wasn’t going to ruin her happiness and her sons’ by thinking about that now! She’d rather look at the brightness and joy on her darling’s face. He and his spouse were receiving a long line of well wishers. The two men were seated by tables at the mess tent, which had been transformed into a tribal fantasy for the occasion. Jim and Blair were encouraging each guest to take a boutonniere, a lei or garland, or some beads for the reception. Blair said, you join people together and create a festival when you dress up. So, the mixed bag of wedding guests, comprised of cops, university students and faculty, assorted civic leaders and businessmen, and a random sampling of humanity which Jim and Blair knew, stood awkwardly around with their flowers. They should loosen up! Naomi was never surprised at the easy way her son made friends. She was so like him.

She watched the way he looked up at Jim, his whole heart in his eyes. Maybe her son wasn’t so much like her, after all. He had a need for rootedness, and he had found a home in Jim. Maybe Jim wouldn’t be her first choice in a spouse for Blair, but you couldn’t deny they were good for each other. Their auras practically outshone the sun, so happy were they together. Her baby hadn’t done too badly for himself.

Her mind flinched away from the hurt she had done him. Inadvertently, of course. How was she to know what a mess her favor would create? Determinedly, she focused her thoughts back on the wedding. She wondered where Jim was taking them for the honeymoon. Maybe she should go on a trip soon? There was that nice little place in Morocco. Evidently, she was having trouble focusing and could use a good cleansing routine.

***.
Jonas Arthur waited by the Sentinel's Tent for his turn. He needed to say goodbye, and add a private word with those two before he left the campsite. They were getting their pictures taken, giving last minute instructions to the wedding party, and making sure all their items were packed up before they left on their honeymoon. He went over his final blessing in his head. He looked at his watch. He had to get back in time for the once-a-week dinner with his extended family, and they still had to make their “grand getaway.”

A tall blonde woman talking to a hotel staff member and was fussing with large bags full of--stuffed animals? Oh, wedding souvenirs. Oh, the wolf and the jaguar. He wondered if the two men understood their significance. He suspected they did.

The two main attendants, Ms. Sandburg and--what *was* the man’s name?-- were holding large bouquets of herbs and greenery, to be tossed by both men to the crowd for special blessings.

He grinned to himself. He remembered the poleaxed look on both of their faces at their first meeting, when he had greeted Sandburg as an equal. Dr. Sandburg may be a modest young man, but he was a shaman rising in power. These two were on a path that few men chanced. He and his Sentinel failed to appreciate just how well they were known in certain circles. They were to be instructed, supported, and protected at all costs.

He thought back over the unconventional ritual he had just presided over, which, as far as he could tell, was completely self-invented. That boy may draw his practices from all over, but he sure has a shaman’s intuition and touch for the dramatic. No one in the audience could miss the symbolism or fail to be moved by the simple but powerful ceremony.

In all his years, Jonas had been witness to some pretty incredible things. Things that most white men—most people—didn’t get a chance to believe in. He had sensed the presence of powerful benign spirits of many types, flickering just beyond the edges of his vision, and the blessings of these beings were strong and true. The spirits of the universe had paused this day; bated until the final vows were exchanged and the two men's lips had met. He felt his broad face expand helplessly into a smile again. They were in for a wild ride!

***

Desultorily pushing a piece of wedding cake around on her plate, Jessica Flynn, also known as Mrs. The Honorable John Flynn, Mayor of Cascade, waited for her husband. The lush chocolate cake was delicious, but it was her third piece and she really shouldn't be eating it. Her feet hurt. The invitation had specified casual or celebratory attire, and good walking shoes, but her brown boots pinched her toes after a while. She should have worn her black slacks.

She looked around. She was seated at a table with an attractive couple, and another man --his police partner, she thought--who were discussing permaculture gardening. The girl was apparently an architect; she really should be doing a little networking—her husband was always interested in urban renewal. Her husband, however, was off talking to Simon Banks about Jim and Blair.

She was glad she pressed John about approaching them for an invitation, even though the whole thing had been a big headache for him. He'd had to issue a press statement about the "hero cops' gay marriage" story, not to mention that the City was losing its most effective detectives. She still remembered how quickly the two policemen had found the man who murdered Claire, her friend in the Heights district. Whatever else they were, they were good cops.

She knew her husband had been in intense contact with the Governor, the Lieutenant Governor, and the AG about offering them some kind of special deputy position, so the government wouldn't lose them as a resource or have to pay them an exorbitant consultants' fee. She hoped they took that sabbatical they were talking about instead. They looked so *happy* together.

Those two men . . . maybe she ought to invite them to dinner, soon. She had a feeling they were good people to have as friends. Besides, gay men were always fantastic guests at dinner parties. They had manners, and watching them bait the straight men was always fun. She thought with glee of the scoop she had over her friends. Gay weddings were so chic now, and this one had been a doozy. She began to mentally compose a list of wedding details.

The reception had featured lots of very good Champagne and a full brunch buffet. It was followed by some kind of strange "blessing" dance by some very flexible women in red dresses and bells, an incomprehensible speech by Dr. Sandburg, and a spirited round of wedding Frisbee between two teams before the two men had finally dashed to their vehicle.

Standing on the bed of the truck, Jim had shouted out the name of the winner of the honeymoon pool: Simon Banks, for guessing, "Peru," as the closest to South America. The Indian shaman had given a parting blessing. Then, in lieu of bride's bouquets, the two each blindly tossed a large sheaf of greenery and herbs into the crowd for good luck.

The getaway had been a madhouse. Somehow the media had infiltrated the camp so there was a rowdy crowd of protective cops and wedding guests trying to fend off the reporters and allow the partners to leave. You could see Ellison getting ticked off, poor man. Finally, Dr. Sandburg sweet-talked the crowd into letting them go, and they left in a scramble of honking vehicles, both escort and pursuers, blue and white boxer flags trailing behind.

Jessica rubbed a bruised spot on her feet where someone in the crowd had stepped on her. The ceremony had been so odd. At least they hadn't thrown rice. What religion was that exactly, with all that talk about spirits and guides? Was that what those Wiccans did? She wondered if Jim and Blair really were some kind of new-age guardians of the tribe. Her husband certainly seemed to think so.

She petted the fragrant "bouquet" of herbs that she had caught, and looked at the little pile of sweatshirts and stuffed animals she had been given for her grandkids. Spiritual guardians or not, they certainly were fine specimens of men. She'd heard the reception gossip that they were waiting for the wedding to sleep together. She wasn't sure she believed it—did gay men act that way?—but maybe, tonight, after her husband had passed out, she'd let herself imagine what they were doing on their honeymoon. She felt a tingle of anticipation, and no longer felt the pinch of her shoes.

***

CODA:

Well, this certainly is . . . interesting, Jim thought. He felt his eyebrows go up as he got his first look at the pool at San Alfonso del Mar. The "World's Largest Swimming Pool" certainly was big. At least it smelled clean.

Okay, so the whole wedding thing had gotten a little out of hand there at the end, what with Blair's over-active imagination, the enthusiastic response of all their friends, and Naomi's last-minute tinkering. Not to mention to goddamn press. Who knows what kind of story they'll return home to? All because Blair had wanted a house.

Nobody had guessed the ultimate destination for the honeymoon. Simon's guess of Peru was close, but Jim decided he would save that for another time. Family visits were a different kind of trip altogether. He'd sent a message to Incacha's tribe about the union of Sentinel and Guide, and he was sure he'd seen Incacha's spirit present at the wedding, along with their spirit guides, and a whole host of beings, human and otherwise, out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't really talked about that yet with his personal shaman, but Jim was sure he'd eventually get to it. They were just too happy right now to pick things apart.

After riding on horseback through Ecuador's hacienda country, they had toured the Galapagos Islands. Talk about an experience of a lifetime! The natural beauty, strangeness, and aliveness of the islands and sea were wonderful to sense, and he and Blair had a blast. Jim figured he got the equivalent of at least two college-level seminars on history, evolution and biology through his ever-knowledgeable partner's lectures. Jim periodically had to apply the only time-tested way to shut his voluble partner up: a tongue or other body part inserted into the mouth. Jim carefully stored the sensory memory of those experiences, and those nights, for recall. They were worth remembering, as was their actual wedding night. They had blessed the new bed in the loft, for the first time, together, before heading out on this trip.

Snagging his Guide, who was still gaping at the sight of the beach-sized saltwater pool, he steered them over to a likely spot to soak in the salt water pool and lie in the sun. Their trip was almost over. They were making a stop at this resort because Sandburg once mentioned he wanted to see this marvel of engineering. After a couple of days trying to get from one end of the pool to the other (it really was quite large), they'd move on to Buenos Aires to try out their tango before finally heading back to Cascade and the joys of construction financing.

They were discreet at this Chilean hotel, but lounging on floats in the pool, Jim's eyes never left the smaller man. In the chaise next to him, Sandburg was talking excitedly about the construction of the pool and the filtration system he'd read about in the guidebook, but Jim was just watching him talk. He was so beautiful like this, brown from the sun, relaxed, with sparkling drops of water covering his body and reflecting the sun, and his, all his . . .

Oops. There he went in his "pay attention" voice again. What was the question?

Jim smiled.

***

The Sentinel Fic: Rituals -- Part One: The Courtship

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 21:56:01 GMT

Title: Rituals -- Part One: The Courtship

Part One of Three

Category: Slash, AU, Romance

Warnings: Rated for adults for sexual situations, language. This is slash fanfiction, meaning male/male erotic situations. If this is not your cup of tea, or if you are underage, don't read it. This story is intended as a parody and is written for personal enjoyment.

Summary: Blair wants a house. Jim is a traditionalist, and ritual is Blair's bailiwick.

Note: This will be posted on LJ in three parts. Not beta'd, so if you see any glaring errors, please feel free to let me know! Read the first part here:

Part One: The Courtship

Jim grimaced as he peered at the meager offerings in the small refrigerator. He and Blair had just concluded a tedious case, and although the long hours always proved ultimately satisfying when the case wrapped up, they were tired. Things between him and Blair had been on an even keel since Blair became an official cop, but their workload had been brutal lately. Sandburg’s schedule was just as crazy as it had always been, since he still managed to cram anthropological stuff and volunteer stuff in, too. Turns out there were plenty of other opportunities for Ph.D. in anthropology that didn’t involve Rainier University. Good riddance to bad rubbish, Jim thought.

It was a dismal night out, wet and sloppy; but they needed provisions, so Blair had gone off to the store. If he concentrated, Jim could hear the splashes, plops, and susurration of the sodden city. People’s feet went smack-pop-splash as they walked through puddles. Rain on the roofs sounded one way; rain dripping off eaves and onto the street sounded another. Cars made soft whissst splash sounds constantly as they accelerated and decelerated on the wet streets. It was all background noise which Jim had learned to filter out and filter through to find the sounds he always longed to hear.

Jim could hear one now--his partner’s ancient vehicle as it wheezed into a parking spot a ways down the street. He frowned, annoyed that parking on the street had gotten so bad after the coffee place had opened around the corner. Jim pulled out a package of chopped bison steaks to defrost, automatically averting his eyes from the frozen ice crystals, lest he be drawn in too far while admiring their structure.

It was raining pretty hard and Blair was complaining bitterly, cursing in several languages as he slogged toward the building entrance. Jim smelled produce, coffee, wet paper, and wet Sandburg. Jim washed his hands and set out to help his partner. Before he got to the door, Blair banged it open, his wet hair plastered to his face, and his arms full of paper grocery bags. "Here, goddamnit! I've got another load." Thrusting the bags toward Jim, they awkwardly exchanged them.

"Let me put a jacket on. I'll help."

Shaking his head, Blair said, "No, no. No need for both of us to drip all over. I'm just going to go get the rest." And he turned to trudge back out the door.

Jim eyed the puddle left behind on the floor, and decided he would wait a few minutes to mop up the inevitable aftermath. He tracked Blair with his hearing all the way out to the car and back, and if anything, Blair just sounded more and more pissed off. Jim sighed. Blair didn't often get like this, but he glanced around for likely projectiles just in case. Sometimes the stress and frustration of their job just got too much, and Blair always took on so many responsibilities--including guiding a needy Sentinel.

"Goddamn it. I've had it! I swear to god, Jim, I have had it with this third floor walk-up shit." Blair slung more grocery bags up to the counter, and Jim rushed to help him with a couple of paper bags that were quickly crumbling. Missing one, it disintegrated, baggies of various produce rolled around the floor. Blair didn't notice, a furious look on his face, soaking wet down to his skin, even with his jacket and hat on. He threw the hat off his face in disgust.

Stepping up to Jim, Blair poked him in the chest with a finger, a gesture he knew was sure to get Jim riled up. He delivered a bombshell. "I want a house!"

Jim's world seemed to freeze just for a moment. But Blair wasn't finished. "A house, Jim! No more goddamn flights of stairs. A place to park! Huh? How would that be?" Blair squished over to his bedroom, beginning to peel wet clothes off as he talked. "I'm so sick and tired of that hijo de puta elevator not working half the time. Half the time! How about never? Why don't we complain to the landlord, huh?"

Jim felt like his heart was going to explode. He felt a pain in his chest like his heart was breaking, and felt every hair on his body stand up. His senses pulsed nauseatingly--he smelled bacon and laundry, the light started to strobe in and out. Blair wanted to move out! No! Not, now. Not after everything was going great. Blair was a cop and a damn good one, and a fantastic partner. The best partner he could ever ask for! Things were going great, weren't they? And Blair loved the loft, didn't he?

Didn't he?

He sank down on the couch in shock. Blair couldn't leave him, he just couldn't.

Wet splats could be heard now as Blair toed off his shoes and socks. Jim tried not to think of the wet clothes on his floor. After all, his world was crashing down around him.

"Jim. Jim!"

Huh? He looked up at Blair's face. Still wet, still pissed off looking; but concerned, too--and floating above a naked chest now, over wet jeans.

"Oh, Jim. Don't do this to me! What is your problem?"

Jim clutched at his Guide’s cold bare arms. "Don't leave! You can't leave!"

Blair gave him a look like he was a silly child; a look that comforted him even as it pissed him off. "Jim, you idiot! That's not what I was talking about at all. I'm not leaving!"

"You're not?" God, could he sound any more pathetic? "But . . . you said—"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Calm down. I'm not leaving!" He walked off toward the bathroom, slinging a towel over his shoulders.

Oh. Okay.

He could hear Blair continue to talk to him as if he were right next to him, instead of in the next room. Usually Blair communicated to him like a normal person, instead of a person imbued with--Jim sighed internally--super hearing. But sometimes, for effect, or in emergencies, Blair employed a special Sentinel whammy version of communication. Jim could never, ever avoid him, and Blair knew it. He had no choice to listen, even over the water now running in the shower.

"All I'm saying, Jim, is maybe we could look into some real estate. You know? We've got that extra money from the lawsuit settlement, and I know we agreed to sit on it for a while, but we could get a house. A house, you know? With a ground floor? And a garden? And how 'bout this bathroom, huh? What about a nice, big bathroom, with two sinks! And a nice, big hot water heater."

Sounds of ablution.

"Jim, come on, man. You gotta know I'm not going to leave. Jesus, you are so insecure! I know you love the loft, man, I know, and so do I. It's just--I don’t know, man." Blair sighed, and for a long time the only sounds Jim heard were of a man trying to wash off stress and frustration along with the mud.

Jim sat and thought about that terrifying pain felt when he thought that Blair was planning to leave him. He still felt the tremors of that pain throughout his body, more painful than any shooting. Jim realized with a soul-deep certainty that he never wanted to experience that pain again.

So, Blair wanted a house, did he? Jim frowned, unaware that he was sitting in the dark, with the kitchen faucet spitting water over the bison steaks, half of his mind and body on his partner messing around in the bathroom, and half on the conundrum presented to him. Move out of the loft? He looked around. He loved the loft. It was his! It had always and ever been his, even when he and Carolyn were married. He thought about that a little.

Whoops. His Guide was standing in front of him again. He raised his eyes. Blair’s hair was wrapped in a towel and he had his hands on his sweat-panted hips. And he wasn't going away, he said. Good. Jim had to make sure that never happened.

"And no offense man, but what about the whole closet under the stairs thing? Don't you think I might rate a whole bedroom one of these days? All I'm saying is, think about it. We can look at some options, some numbers and—think about it, okay?" Blair didn't look pissed anymore, he looked hopeful. Hopeful was good.

"Yeah, okay, Sandburg, I'll think about it." Big sigh as he stood up. "How about we clean up all this mess. Jesus, do we really need all these vegetables? I swear I'm gonna grow leaves one of these days."

***

And he did think about it. For the next several days it was never far from his mind. He considered his instinctive, knee-jerk negation of the idea. He considered the fact that he was actually considering moving out of his beloved loft. For Blair.

He knew that Carolyn had disliked the loft. Her personal taste in home decoration was rather frillier. It was where she showed her feminine side, such as it was. But the loft was trendy, and had good bones, which made up for a lot. Several times though, she had mentioned house hunting, and Jim had cut her cold. No, he said, we live in the loft. That was the deal. It was convenient, and it suited Jim. So it didn't suit his wife much, so what? He had never even considered moving.

Until now. Blair had a point. As convenient as the loft was to downtown where they worked, it wasn't terribly suited to two grown men. As Blair had pointed out, there was no parking, the single bathroom was small, and the kitchen—Jim remembered the conversation about the kitchen two nights ago, as they were preparing dinner.

"What's the matter with the kitchen?" He looked around Sandburg, reaching for the spices in the cupboard over his head. Blair ducked.

"Don't you see?" He patted the back of his hand against Jim's chest. "We're in awful close quarters here. Your appliances are ancient, man. Like you." The younger man laughed and danced away. "We could get something with a prep sink, you know." Blair held out his hands and pranced around like a TV design-show diva. "Extra big sink, bigger prep surfaces, maybe a beverage station. More storage." He glanced over at Jim, mischievously. "So we wouldn't keep bumping into each other when cook."

Jim frowned to himself. But what if he liked it when they bumped into each other?

Jim considered that thought for a few more days.

For a whole week, he thought about exactly what Blair meant to him. He pondered things he usually didn’t allow himself to acknowledge. He thought about the connection between Sentinel and Guide. He thought about Blair's bedroom under the stairs. He thought about their careers as police officers. He thought about the rest of their lives.

And though some might describe him otherwise, Jim Ellison was a very intelligent man. He realized what the pattern of lying to himself and avoiding the difficult and painful had cost him in his life, and he vowed it would not cost him the best thing that had ever happened to him. So, being the brave and skilled warrior that he was, he made his plans.

***

"Oooh, man, what's the occasion?" Blair took in the loft, dimly lit and redolent with cooking smells. The table was set with placements and the good china and silver that Jim only brought out for holidays. The sets belonged to Jim's mother, and were delivered as a wedding gift to Jim and Carolyn by Jim's father, in absentia.

"Hey, Blair." Jim frowned as he got a good look as his partner. "What happened to you? You look like you've been rolling around in the dirt."

"Yep. Dirt and mud are my world. I helped out Roger Hanson—you know, the Third District sergeant? There was a whole slew of puppies Animal Control had to rescue from a drainage canal back side of Talbot Street. You should have seen it, man! Police, fire department, Animal Control, heavy equipment—more monkeys than a circus for those little pups." He plucked his muddy shirt ruefully.

“At least you didn’t bring one home.” Although, if they got a house . . .

"Something smells awfully good." He looked doubtfully at his Sentinel. "You have a date or something?" Neither man had dated in months. Or was it years? By his expression, Blair wondered if he about to be kicked out of his home for the night after chasing through drains and mud after puppies.

"Or something. Why don't you to change?" It seems like he was always ordering Blair to get out of his clothes. Must be an omen.

Half an hour later, once again warm and dry, Blair accepted a glass of good wine from Jim. His face clearly demanded an explanation. He watched his Sentinel warily, but Jim was nervous, hyped, preparing the table and putting last minute touches on the dinner.

Finally, Jim cleared his throat, and said, "It's an anniversary, see? The first anniversary of me--being flexible. Gotta be a first time, you know."

"What?" said Blair, amused.

Jim got them situated at the table, and started to dish out the chicken pasta dish he made. "I told you I was considering what you said. You know—about the house." Jim's glance was less calm than he pretended to be.

"Yeah?" said Blair, taking a bite of his pasta. "And did you?"

Jim nodded, grateful for the straight line. "Yes, I did."

Unfortunately, Jim didn't seem ready to talk after that, so Blair had to prod him again. "And?"

"I, uh, would like to discuss it, seriously. Just—after dinner, okay? I just want to say—" Jim looked away, his face in some distress. "I’ve got a lot of things to say, actually, and I don't want to mess it up. Afterwards, okay? Can we relax and enjoy the dinner?"

Blair looked at him searchingly for a moment, then shrugged and dug into his meal. Giving every evidence of relaxing and enjoying it as ordered, the younger man changed the subject to a childhood autism charity they were involved with.

But Jim could tell that Blair hadn't forgotten. He ate fast, so as not to keep his friend in suspense any longer. He felt the outline of the small box in his pocket, and tasted little of the meal he had so carefully prepared.

***

"So."

Jim knew Blair was dying of curiosity. He felt like he was dying himself; like he was jumping off a cliff. He rehearsed his speech again in his mind as he arranged himself on the couch next to his partner.

Jim shifted. He cleared his throat. Blair crossed his arms. Oh, that was not good. Try again. He closed his eyes and centered himself. This was important! Opening his eyes, he moved closer to Blair. "Blair, give me a second, here. This is hard." Taking one of Blair's hands in his, he continued. "Yes, I said I would consider moving, and I have."

His manner was so grave, that Blair said, "And the answer is no? So what, this is a consolation dinner?"

"No. No consolation prize here. This is the whole enchilada."

Blair’s face was still amused, but his scent and pulse indicated anxiety. "Jim, we had pasta."

"Shut up, Junior, I'm making a speech here." And, grinning at each other, they both suddenly knew it was going to be all right.

"Specifically, I have considered it. And have come to some conclusions. But the big question in my mind is: Why was I considering it at all?"

"Um . . . because I asked you to?" Blair said, impishly.

"Exactly. Because you asked me to." Jim looked straight into Blair's eyes. "Blair, Carolyn didn't like the loft too much either. But I flatly refused to even consider moving. But you ask, and suddenly my whole life is turned around."

"But why, Jim? Does it matter so much where we live?"

"No, it doesn't! That's the point. I'd live anywhere, so long as you were there, Blair. I would never move for Carolyn. But I love you far, far more than I ever loved Carolyn."

Blair gasped, but Jim went on. "I don't care if we live in a shack in the Canadian wilds, but I don't want you to leave. If you want a house, we'll get a house." Softly, "Whither thou goest, Chief, I will go."

Ignoring Blair's suddenly skyrocketing heart rate, Jim reached out to caress the younger man’s brow. "I've been doing some hard thinking about our lives, Blair, and I'm ready for some changes. A house is a good start. And, I've been thinking about another change, too." He reached into his pocket, and brought an object out. Blair watched him with wide eyes, hardly daring to breathe.

"I want to marry you, Blair. Will you be my spouse?" Taking advantage of his partner's unusual flabbergasted silence, Jim put the small box in Blair's hand.

"Marry you?" Blair sounded dazed. "But—" Suddenly, Blair took a deep breath, and said, "Yes!"

What? Jim thought he wasn’t hearing right past the thundering in his ears. "Yes? Yes, just like that? I mean, that's great, but I thought you'd have questions –"

"Oh, I have questions, all right, big guy, like how exactly you had the balls to do this—"

"Hey!"

"—but if you think I’m going to give you a chance to change your mind, you're sadly mistaken!" And without further ado, Blair latched on to Jim's face and planted a big, wet, loving kiss right on the lips.

"Yes, I'll marry you, you big lug. I thought you'd never get with the program!"

"What?" As usual, despite his careful planning, he appeared to be leagues behind his younger partner. Now affianced partner. Heh.

Blair just grinned at him, and snuggled right into him as naturally as breathing. Which, Jim guessed, for them, it was. "Yes, yes, yes, yes! Now that’s settled, what the fuck, Jim?"

Distracted by an armful of warm Blair, Jim only caught the last word. Fuck. Hmm. That was a real possibility for the future, wasn't it?

Ow! "Blair! Do you normally hit your intended like that?"

"No, because I've never had an intended so lummoxy as you."

"Lummoxy? Is that even a word, Sandburg?"

"Jim, so help me god, if you don't unpack that scheming brain of yours, I will punish you."

Jim was suddenly assailed with thoughts of Blair punishing him, and the warmth and closeness of him, and the smell of him . . . Oh god--he was going to have to sit up just a bit if he wanted to have a conversation. Jim placed his hands on Blair’s warm chest, pushing him away—but not too far. His fingers wanted to play against that warm acreage. He could feel the chest hairs crunching beneath Blair’s shirt. He wrenched his attention back to the conversation.

"Okay, okay. Blair, when I realized why I was considering moving with you, I realized a bunch of stuff. Like how we are practically married, already."

"Practically." Blair smirked.

"Yeah, okay, practically. I mean, we've already been through our rough parts, and we're still together, stronger than we've ever been. And—you're right about the cupboard under the stairs bit." Looking over toward the French doors, then up to his bedroom, he said, very softly, "That's not where you belong at all."

Blair touched him on the arm. "Like you, Jim, I belong wherever you are. In whatever capacity you want me.”

"No, that's not it. Don't you see?" Jim's voice was low, passionate; his eyes roamed over the smaller body reclining against the sofa. "You deserve a say, too. An equal say. I've been—squashing your life in a way that's not good for either of us."

"Squashing my life?" Blair laughed softly. "Oh, boy, when you think, you really come up with some doozies, don't you?"

"I'm serious, Blair. You life's been derailed since you met me—on a collision course—so many sharp turns I expect to see you lying on the side of the road in a rollover."

"Dude, can it with the mixed metaphors, and spit it out. Does this have to do with the getting married thing and the moving thing?"

"Yes. No. Shit!" Jim ran a hand over his face. "I got to thinking of being married to you, and how much I liked that idea, and our lives as cops, and how much I was tired of that."

Blair sat up abruptly. "You don't want to be a cop anymore?" He sounded shocked.

Jim sighed and stood up. He got themselves both another glass of wine, then leaned against the kitchen island. "It's not that. I think we're good cops. Great cops, in fact. Even before you became ‘official’ you had the instincts. And I appreciate all you’ve gone through to get where you are, with the dissertation, the lawsuits, the academy, and all of that.”

"Then, what?"

Jim looked off into the distance, as he tried to form the words. "Well, is being a cop really the highest and best use of Sentinel and Guide? Is that what you and I want for the rest of our lives? I want to be married to you, Blair." Jim was earnest, serious. "Regardless what the law says, I am not ashamed. And I’m a traditional kind of guy--I want to stand up before our friends and loved ones and declare our commitment to each other. But I don't want that to interfere with our lives as cops, and I think it would.

“If I have a chance at the kind of happiness this could lead to, I don't want us to be constantly in danger. I've lived my whole adult life in the line of fire. I've served my country, and my home. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of worrying about me, and you, and the things we could be missing." He sighed. "I suppose it sounds really hokey to say that we were meant for bigger things, too, but that's the way I feel."

"Oh. Well, okay then. What will we do?"

Jim looked at Blair. Blair was calmly accepting his decision that they would quit their jobs, with the implication that whatever Jim wanted to do with their lives, together, was fine with him. A sense of tenderness and pathos swelled up in Jim as he regarded the beautiful face of his Guide, alive with happiness.

"Well, I guess we're going house hunting, then, aren't we?"

Blair laughed. "Well, all right then!" He looked down at the box in his hands. Standing up, he walked toward Jim, his whole body coming to rest against him. The sensation was both shocking and familiar. Jim let his hands trail up and down Blair's arms.

Blair opened the box and felt his eyebrows climb as he saw the pendent within. It was a silver-colored medallion with the infinity symbol hanging from a handsome leather cord. "It's titanium, for eternity." said Jim, taking it from Blair. "May I?" Blair nodded, tilting his head forward. "I thought we could discuss rings, or bracelets, later, but I wanted to give you something tonight."

"It's beautiful." Blair fingered the pendent for a few moments, then looked up. "I will treasure it, as I treasure you."

Unable to resist, Jim let himself fall into Blair's mouth, tasting the sweetness there. Was this what love tasted like? It certainly tasted better than anything Jim had tasted before. The sensory impression of his Guide, here in his arms so willingly, was intense and fulfilling. Speaking of which . . . he pulled back a little. "Blair, I—"

Blair murmured very softly, into his neck. "Come on, Jim, you can say anything to me, you know it, right?"

Even so, Jim hoped Blair wasn't going to be upset at what he said next. He whispered back, "Blair, it's me, Jim, asking you to be my—husband, I guess. But it's also me, the Sentinel, asking you to be my Guide and Shaman. As much as I have struggled against this stuff for so long, it's real. Denying things like that has gotten me into trouble. No more. And I would be wrong if I didn't mention to you that it was part of this thing between us." Jim couldn't believe it; he was trembling. The shivers and the movement of the air against his erected fine hairs caused intense sensations of hot and cold to wash over him. Damn sense of touch!

"Shh, Shhh. I know Jim. You think I don't know? It's been there from the beginning between us, and it's only gotten stronger. We don't have to fight it anymore." The pair was silent for many moments, just hanging on to each other. "But we will have to talk about it."

"But do we have to right now? I vote we go back to the couch and make out."

"Oh, you do? You get a vote?"

"Oh hell, yeah, Chief. Equal partners, remember?"

"Well then, pardner--Race ya!"

It wasn't much of a race (being all of four whole feet to the couch) but the finish line was pretty fun. After several satisfying moments of handsy wrestling, both of them realizing they didn't have to be careful where their hands, or their lips, landed anymore, they subsided into contentment, each thinking over the various revelations exchanged.

"You know . . ." Blair began.

Uh oh. Jim knew that tone of old. It was the tone Blair used when he was about to spring something unpleasant on them.

"I don't know what kind of wedding you're thinking about Jim—“

Jim started to demur he was thinking of any such thing. Wedding? That was for Sandburg to plan. But as usual, Blair continued to talk and Jim was left behind.

". . . so no sex until then, don't you think?"

What? "What!"

"I just mean, Jim, that we can mark our changed status with sex. It's what married people do, after all, and you just said it's like we've been practically married anyway."

"What?" His mind was still caught on the "no sex." He hated it when he failed to follow Blair's arguments.

"Jim." Oops. Blair was using his “pay attention” voice. Jim just knew he wasn't going to like this. "Weddings are important rituals. They are about transitions. If we just started bonking away, there would no transition. We already live together and work together."

"No bonking?" Jim was disappointed.

"Not until the wedding night." Blair looked far too pleased with himself for this statement. "Just, you know--fooling around." Blair's eyebrows went up in that stupid cutesy move he made.

"Don't you think we're a little long in the tooth for fooling around, Chief?"

"Nope. Not at all. Especially since we are entering into the mysterious realm of gay sex, in which I, for one, am not an adept."

"Really? I thought you might . . ."

"No. You?"

"Uh, no. Thought about it. But never got the chance to really try it out."

"Well, see? It's just like when we were teenagers then. Trying to figure stuff out. This is going to be fun!" Blair was practically bouncing. He probably was planning research. And tests.

"Oh, brother."

***

Oh, shit. What was this? Jim eyed with trepidation the white board set up next to the table, along with Blair's laptop and some paper and pens. One of Sandburg's projects, apparently. Why couldn't they get back to cuddling some more? He and Blair had had some "fun" last night on the couch, eventually falling asleep bundled together. With silly grins on both their faces, no doubt, since Jim could barely keep one off his face now.

They had spent the morning snuggling and talking about new plans and dreams, barely moving from the couch. After they had reluctantly peeled themselves off each other and departed into necessary errands, Jim had been looking forward to another good meal with his, his—fiancee—he could feel that silly grin again—and perhaps more cuddling. Definitely more cuddling!

Blair came out of his office. "Hey, m'dear. Bring the bacon home?"

"Sandburg. You don't eat bacon, remember? ' Pork products are indigestible.'" He mimicked his partner. "This is Chinese. Savvy?"

Blair laughed at the mishmash of cultural references. "Yeah, I savvy. Gotta love America, man," he said, taking the bags bulging with white, savory smelling, takeout cartons from the bigger man.

"So, in the immortal words of my personal Shaman: What the fuck?" Jim indicated the whiteboard.

"Oh, that's for brainstorming!" Blair made this statement as if it were self-evident, the kind of ritual Jim would recognize. Well, he did, but . . .

"Brainstorming." He hoped the flat tone would indicate his displeasure at this weirdness. Unfortunately, his mate seemed oblivious to this subtlety. Hmm. Blair could be damned subtle, therefore, Jim suspected deliberate obfuscation. Hah!

Grinning to himself at his own wit, Jim nevertheless succumbed to the inevitable, and allowed his Guide to set up dinner, and position him at the table in front of the whiteboard. Blair began to talk and gesticulate, alternating between using the whiteboard pens to mark on the board and the chopsticks to shove moo goo gai pan into his mouth at odd intervals.

"See, Jim, I thought we might want to do a little strategy session here. I mean, we are talking about a lot of changes. Like this." He proceeded to outline categories on the board, for all the world like Jim was his student.

"Okay, we've got the Wedding category." He marked that on the board. "And the House category. Those two are related, of course, since we've already determined that one precipitated the other."

Jim, who was vacillating between being insulted at Blair's patronizing tone, to fascinated at Blair's lecture style—the guy was just so darn cute—caved when he intercepted Blair's smoldering look, but offered a token protest anyway. "Is this really necessary, Chief? We could actually have a conversation, you know."

"Uh huh. Like you are such a skilled conversationalist about this stuff. No," he turned back to the board, "this way is better. We can at least identify the broad categories of stuff to have conversations about. Now, we also have the job-money-time categories, which for now I'm gonna lump into Lifestyle." He wrote this down.

"Wait a minute. Job, money, and time are less important than Wedding and House?"

"Not less important, just less urgent. I'm trying to prioritize here. And Wedding is definitely most important."

Smiling, Jim asked, "And why is that?"

There was that two-year old look again. "Because, Jim. No sex until the wedding, remember?"

Oh, yeah. Right. "Definitely first priority, Chief."

"I see we're on the same wavelength at last, Jim." Blair smiled. "First question, therefore, how soon can we accomplish this wedding? This obviously impacts the job question, too," he made a check mark in the Lifestyle column," since we have determined that we can no longer work at our current job after marriage."

After a moment, Jim offered, "And the House column, too. Do you want to start life as a couple in a new house? I mean," Jim faltered a bit, "I do sort of see your point about a new life in a new place, Blair. I lived with my wife here, and we've lived here, as a, a non-couple." Jim shrugged.

Squinting at the whiteboard, Blair said, "It's a question of timing. Whatever we decide on for a house—and we haven't even got there yet—it's unlikely a suitable place will fall in our laps quickly enough to move in on wedding day. No, our limiting factor is the job. How long will we need to extricate ourselves?"

Jim thought about the PD's policies. "Well, given our case load, we'll need to give a minimum of four weeks' notice to HR."

"Four weeks." Blair nodded. "Okay, so we could get married, say—five weeks after handing in our resignations."

"Okay.” Five weeks! He’d go insane before then. Jim thought of another alarming thought. "We're going to have to tell Simon right away. Shit. He's gonna go ballistic."

"Yeah. And we'll have to tell him everything, too. But he's our friend—he can take it."

"He's not gonna be happy, Blair. Professionally, he'll be losing a huge asset to his department. Two huge assets."

"Hey! My ass is not huge!”

“No, but I bet it’s tasty!”

The two men exchanged leers, before Blair continued. “Well, he's just going to have to be happy for us personally, then. But you're right. We will have to tell him when we hand our letters in."

Blair wrote "ltr + 5 wks" under Wedding. "Next, I guess, has to do with how soon we can find a place for the wedding, the officiant, all that. We have to talk about what we want."

"I'm leaving that to you, Chief. Ritual and ceremony—isn't that your bailiwick?"

"Yes, it is, Jim, but this isn't a research assignment. This is a wedding. Our wedding."

"All the more reason for you to design what you want."

"Jim, what was all that about being an equal partner? Don't you want to be involved, too?"

"Sure, but—" Jim wasn't sure how to say it. "I trust your instincts. How ‘bout you plan the ceremony, and I’ll take care of the honeymoon?"

"Didn't Carolyn involve you in the wedding planning before?"

"Chief, I don't care if you want purple and green for our colors, or if you want shrimp crackers. I just want the ceremony to mean something to you and me. Hell, it's not as if it’ll be legal, anyway."

Blair nodded, "And that's something else we have to talk about. Should we call it a 'wedding' and speak of getting 'married' even though that isn't currently allowed by law? As law enforcement officers, you know."

Jim groaned. Why was this so complicated? "Well, we won't be law enforcement officers when we get married, will we? But I get your point."

"Maybe it would help if you would tell me what’s in your thoughts when you think of marrying me. I mean, it's obviously important to you to present ourselves in this traditional way, right? Why?"

"I told you. Regardless of what the law says, to me, to stand up publicly and exchange vows—that's a wedding. We make promises to each other. It, I dunno—makes this complete. There have been so many rumors and stories about us. I want to make a statement."

Blair nodded, encouraging. "Okay, that's great, Jim. What kind of statement?"

Jim paused to collect his thoughts. He looked at the whiteboard, with Blair's crazy brainstorming categories. "I just want to tell the world that you're mine. That we belong together. That we were meant to belong together, whatever people believe. And that I am never letting you go. Make it official, you know? Or at least as official as it can be." Jim was a bit red in the face, but very serious. "It took us too long to get where we are now, and I'm not giving it up for anyone's preconceived notions. We are what we are."

"And what are we?"

"We're Jim and Blair." Jim added, low-voiced: "Sentinel and Guide."

After a beat, Blair said, "You know that's pretty hokey, don't you, big guy?"

Jim eyed the hyperactive love of his life, as he waved chopsticks and colored markers around. "You're enjoying this!"

Blair laughed. "Of course! It's not every day that a girl gets to plan her wedding!"

"You're not a bride, Sandburg!" Jim glared, but he was amused.

"Actually, there is a long tradition in many cultures of shamans being gender-reversed. So, in a way, I am the bride."

"No brides."

Blair played at pouting, but conceded the point. "Okay, no brides. Well, let's see: public declaration, exchange of promises, okay. Our close friends and loved ones, right? I can work with that. We'll have to come up with a guest list, ASAP, in order to figure out venue and budget." Blair hummed along to himself, making notes on the board. "Hmm. Some of our friends, well. . . ." He stopped for a moment. "Guess we'll find out exactly who our friends are, with this."

"Probably. But if they have a problem with us—screw it. We'll find new friends."

Blair spared him a doubtful glance at his, but moved on. "One thing we should discuss is our, well, religion."

"What? What religion?" Jim was put out. Why did they have to talk about religion? Jim hadn't been to church for other than weddings and funerals since he was a preteen.

"Well, I mean," and Blair was apparently serious about this shit, because he was pulling up a chair, "we belong to a kind of special religion, don't we?"

"Uh. We do?"

Big sigh from Blair. "Yes, Jim, we do. Spirit guides, vision quests, shamans alive, dead, and in between. Ring any bells?"

"Yeah, sure, but so? I mean, is that really a religion?"

"Well, leaving aside the definitions of religion, because we'd still be discussing this until daybreak, it's what we believe, isn't it? There's no denying that our spiritual beliefs have changed through direct experience of the spirit plane. Even you can't deny it, Jim, as much as you might want to. In a way, it's a religion of two."

Jim shook his head, although he knew Blair was right--denial had gotten him nowhere good in his life. He said, rather plaintively, "Does this have to do with our wedding ceremony, Blair?"

"Of course it does! I mean, we can't just hire a protestant minister to read the Book of Common Prayer over us. A non-practicing Jew and a lapsed Catholic? Who believe in spirits?"

"Okay, okay; I see your point. What do you want to do about it?"

"Well, I've got some ideas. I just wanted to point out that our ceremony will have to reflect our spiritual beliefs. It is, after all, a joining of a Sentinel and his Guide, as you specifically pointed out. Okay!" Apparently feeling all was settled, Blair bounced up and brandished his whiteboard pen again. "I think I got what I need for now about the wedding—"

He had? Jim was still confused.

"—and we have a plan, at least for now, for the job. We'll tell Simon at the same time we submit our resignations, and plan to have the wedding as soon after that as we can."

Well, that worked out well. Were they done? Jim wondered if it was time for more cuddling. No, Blair was still talking.

"The house? Well, we agreed to look at different types of houses for comparison purposes—"

They had? Jim didn't remember agreeing to any such thing. Maybe during the cuddling? It was all right, of course. Whatever Blair wanted. Jim's thoughts drifted back to the couch, remembering the feel of Blair's solid, warm body against his . . .

". . . will be doing after resigning."

Oops. Blair was looking at him expectantly and pointing at the Lifestyles column again. "Uh, sure."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Jim, I'm just saying that we should think about traveling, or a sabbatical."

Jim re-focused his wandering thoughts. "You want to travel?" Travelling with Blair. For fun. Suddenly, the idea was compelling. "That would be—fun, probably. But I thought we were going to get our private investigators’ licenses and do some consulting? I know you’ve been doing some writing based on your police subculture diss—couldn’t you get more into that?"

"Oh, that too, definitely. And that's a good point, because as we’re wrapping up our cases, we don't want to burn any bridges." Blair started doodling something on the board, which Jim guessed was a burning bridge. At least, flames were coming out the top. "We want to be sure to strengthen connections in law enforcement over the next few weeks so we can get some good referrals when we do go into business. Hmm." And Blair stared at the board unseeingly for a few moments.

Jim waited patiently while his Guide created the blueprint for the rest of their lives. Eventually, Jim knew, Blair would get around to sharing it with him. Speaking of sharing . . .

"Blair," Jim said tentatively, "maybe we can use the sabbatical time to explore ways in which we can reach out to other potential Sentinels. We know there have to be others. Maybe we are the only functioning Sentinel and Guide team in the Western world, maybe we're not. But surely our experience could be of benefit to others, don't you think?"

The look Blair gave him was devastating. Admiring, adoring; Jim felt his face prickle from the intensity of that look. In an instant, his vision was locked onto—the warp and weft of cotton? Oh, Blair was straddling him, and his chest was, yeah, right there. Jim let his hands travel up the sturdy back of his companion, barely listening to Blair's litany of, "Oh, Jim, I love you, I love you, you are so smart, my very own Sentinel . . ."

Blair was babbling. Nothing new, of course, but he usually wasn't so close! Jim happily gave up the mental brainstorming, in order to concentrate on the purely physical. In fact, bodystorming sounded like a pretty accurate description of the way their bodies reacted to each other. Oh god, Blair smelled so good! He couldn’t wait to taste and smell all of him. Five weeks was a hell of a long time for a Sentinel in love.

***

Stakeouts were much more pleasant these days, Jim mused, now that he had the advantage of cuddling with his partner. Even on this cold, overcast afternoon, he and Blair were toasty warm in the cab of his truck.

They were parked three blocks away from a coffeehouse in which they expected a suspect in a car jacking ring to frequent. Jim was monitoring the location with his sight and hearing, and Blair was leaning with his back to him, working on his laptop. His partner's active mind kept him multi-tasking. Working as a police officer, Guide to his Sentinel, teacher, and perpetual student—Jim could only aspire to match his energy. Peeking over his shoulder, Jim could see that he was monitoring his online anthropology students' progress, and doing a little bit of wedding planning. They even had a wedding website, to Jim's bemusement.

Their timeline had begun to run last week. They had handed in their letters of resignation, sealed, late Friday afternoon to the Human Resources Department, then took their boss out for a drink. That was their first big hurdle—and Simon took it about as well as they expected. After his initial astonishment and blustering, he settled down and admitted that he expected something like this to happen one day. Not necessarily the wedding thing—both Jim and Blair had been amused at Simon's surprise at that—but the moving on thing.

As Simon had put it, "I wouldn't say your talents are wasted at MC, and I've been glad to have you, but I knew I couldn't keep you all to myself forever. And that someday working for the City wouldn't be enough for you." To their astonishment, he added, "You've only gotten better since Sandburg became a real cop. Scary better, and you've attracted notice. I've had to fend off the Feds, the state troopers, and others asking for the loan of your services. I guess if you are going to go solo, you'll have enough contacts and reputation to do it."

For now, they were trying to keep things quiet. That wouldn't last long at work, Jim knew, as they would have to begin wrapping up and parceling out their case load soon. This would give him and Blair the opportunity to talk individually with each of their teammates, in order to spring the "we're going to have a gay wedding" thing on them gently. And privately, in case anyone freaked out. Speaking of which . . .

"Hey Chief. Did you get a hold of that guy?"

"What guy, Jim?" Blair appeared to be looking across the street at an empty building and didn't turn around.

"That native American shaman guy. You know, for the ceremony." They had decided not to refer to their wedding as a "wedding" in order to avoid any political overtones, so they were calling it a commitment ritual or ceremony. He'd heard enough lectures from Sandburg on ritual to teach a course in it himself, so it seemed fitting terminology for them anyway.

This time, Blair did turn around. His eyes were large and blue beneath the knit cap he wore, and Jim was caught, as always, by their luster. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that. We have an appointment with Dr. Arthur on Saturday. We'll have to drive over to Rockhampton, but he wants to talk to his together before he agrees to perform the ceremony."

Saturday. Okay. A thought occurred to him. "So, do you guys have a secret handshake or something? Will he care that you're a Shaman?"

Blair gave him a pitying look. "What, you think he's going to take one look at me and think I'm a high-powered Shaman muckity muck? Come on, it's not like that. Just because of . . . " he sighed, "what happened with Inchacha, and, and the drowning, and the fact we joke around calling me Shaman, doesn't mean . . . "

"Can the obfuscation, Chief. It doesn't work with me anymore. You know it's more than that, and you know I know. I thought we weren't going to hide anything between us anymore. You have to face it."

"Jim, I—"

But Jim interrupted, knowing Blair sometimes needed a push. "What do you fear?"

Blair returned him a solemn look, then suddenly smiled brightly. "Nothing. When I'm with you." It's possible that Blair was simply trying to distract him, but Jim allowed it for now, simply pulling Blair close to him again and returning his gaze to his target.

Blair's gaze returned across the street, and after a while he said, "Jim? Look at that place across the street, will you?"

Across the street? Keeping his hearing focused on the coffee shop, Jim complied. All he saw were the same kind of older commercial buildings as the rest of the surrounding blocks. Specifically, that side of the block had a flower shop on one end, open for business and advertising a special on a dozen roses, and a closed brick storefront.

"I'm looking, buddy. Even with my sight, I can't tell what I'm looking at without you explaining it to me." He squeezed his arm around Blair tighter, just because he could.

"What do you think about that place?" Blair pointed at the empty building.

Jim was confused. "The empty store? What about it?"

"Well, I mean, for our house."

Blair started to vibrate in place, almost a contained bounce in his seat, but Jim was dubious. They had tossed around various options for new housing; a suburban or ranch-type house farther out of the city center, a townhouse, building their own place from scratch, even vacation housing had been discussed, but they hadn't made any kind of firm decisions yet. They liked being in town, but their options for a house and yard there were limited. And besides, they were concentrating getting the wedding put together. First priority!

Jim couldn't see what his partner was getting so excited about. This neighborhood was a fairly old industrial area, with a mix of retail, commercial, and professional offices. True, it showed signs of recent improvement; there was the coffeehouse after all, and the thriving florist, and one block over there was a building which had been converted into upscale condos. Jim studied the building Blair had pointed out. Sure enough, there was a For Sale sign and the name of a real estate agent on the storefront, which contained merely a door and a couple of non-descript windows. The property apparently shared one wall with the florist, but took up the entire rest of the block. There was a large rusted metal gate at the corner, spanning a driveway or garage of some type.

"I'm just saying, we could at look at it, you know? Think outside the box, you know? We like being close in, and if we found the right type of property, we could remodel. And this neighborhood looks like it's on the way up. Something like this could be an investment."

"Yeah, but wouldn't zoning be a problem? It's zoned commercial down here."

"Well, we would have to see. Maybe we could get a variance, or something. We'd have to see if it's suitable first. Why don't you see what you can find out with your senses, and I'll look online."

And so the very next day, the found themselves escorted into the property by a real estate agent, a heavily made-up and coiffed older lady who eyed the pair with speculation. Nevertheless, she appeared quite competent as she answered their questions about the property.

"Well, it's certainly large enough," Jim commented, as they stood looking around.

It turns out the place used to be a dairy office and distribution point, back when milk was still delivered daily. The entire property took up three-quarters of the block, and was encompassed by a high brick wall. On one side of the property was a large open courtyard, used for parking and turning the delivery trucks around. There was a large iron canopy in the far right corner, where the trucks had been loaded and worked on. A rather rickety shop structure clung to the back wall. The front door opened up into a smallish reception area, which according to the agent, used to be a store front, selling milk, gallons of ice cream, and other dairy products to the public. This anteroom opened up into a large, two story building which housed the offices of the dairy. The second floor was loft-like, open to the rest of the building. Jim could just picture the managers looking down on the worker bees below.

Already his mind was evaluating the space, figuring out what would need to be done. "Chief, this is going to be expensive to remodel, don't you think?"

"Well, it might take a bit, but yeah, we've got the money, don't we? We can keep the slightly industrial look, but just update it. We can use green building materials for uh . . .," he darted at look at the lady, "your allergies. And we can do a lot of the work ourselves. Come on, Jim--it's like the loft, only bigger!" he enthused. "We can open it up, make it a real urban homestead. We could have an atrium entry where the storefront was, there's space for a little greenhouse, and space for an office, and a gym . . ."

Jim shared a look with the real estate agent, amused, as Blair started to walk around, gesticulating and talking all the while. It looked like things were coming together.

Blair had found a wonderful site for the ritual, at an upscale "camp" operated by one of the nicest resort hotels in the mountains, about three hours out of Cascade. It was like a fancy hotel out doors, with a well-appointed tent cabins sprinkled next to the banks of a beautiful, placid stream, complete with its own swimming hole. It was the perfect place for a non-traditional wedding. Normally booked months in advance by large companies or family reunions, they had lucked out when the resort had a cancellation. Jim privately thought that was a little more evidence of the spirits smoothing the path for Sentinel and Guide, but he didn't mention that to Blair. Kid had a swell head as it was.

He mentally thanked Blair for his organizational skills. Now he and Blair had a date, place, and a definite direction for the wedding; and also, apparently, a piece of property to make into a home. Jim was frankly looking forward to the rest of his life with his delectable Guide, and he was pleased their plans were marching right along.

There was the little matter of no sex until marriage, for one thing. Jim could do research, too, and they were having a lot of fun getting used to each other, teasing and touching in preparation for the main event. In fact, it was getting to be pure torture. It was definitely time to get this show on the road!

Still here

Sun, 03 Aug 2008 20:38:25 GMT

waves at the world

The Sentinel--the Poster On The Door

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 04:35:43 GMT

I think I saw The Poster -- or a reasonable facscimile thereof -- at Target today.

a little gem by Bone

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 01:24:43 GMT

as opposed to the robins egg ruby that is Out of Whack. Ceiling:Unlimited

http://www.mrks.org/~bone/sentinel/standalone/ceiling.html

It's a Jim-and-Blair-go-camping story, (slash) but with some really great bits:

"I always thought the practical idiomatic translation of 'carpe diem' was probably more along the lines of 'fuck me now,'" he says. "Either that or 'another round on me, bartender.'"

I'm as prepared as any Eagle Scout, which is pretty funny since I got kicked out of Weblos for tying the freaking handkerchief thing in my hair instead of around my neck. Not much for nonconformity, those Weblos. Don't get me started on the Boy Scouts. Between the religion thing and the gay thing, they give me the creeps. Like there aren't any gay Boy Scout leaders. Yeah, you just keep believing that. Doesn't the name "We-Blo" make you wonder just a little?

Handy!Jim!

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 00:52:37 GMT

there are a lot of stories touching on Jim as a handyman, woodworker, and hardware store addict. I came upon this in Curtains by Anna: http://www.drizzle.com/~eliade/curtains.html

"Coming to the hardware store with Jim was an anthropological wet dream, almost as good as traveling with a Dani tribesman to market. Jim's studious examination of DIY pamphlets, the skeptical scrutiny he gave to novelty gadgets, his exchanges with sales clerks which could be anything from laconic grunts to sophisticated debates on the merits of water-based versus solvent-based polyurethanes--all this fascinated Blair. And . . . a sense of all that he'd missed by not having a father or brothers. He'd forever be a geek in the woodshop; . . . He was here on Jim's passport."

I especially like that last line.

But all these fics about Handy!Jim! got me to thinking: how did Jim acquire his own fascination and expertise with tools? Not that I can't picture Jim as a craftsman--enhanced senses would surely heighten his capability and pleasure in making things. I'm personally interested in the role of craftsmen in society, so the idea of a Sentinel Craftsman intrigues me. However, most kids with Jim's canon background aren't into wood or auto shop (although he could have taken those to piss off his dad). William Ellison seems more the type to pay someone else to do such things, not the type to bond with his sons over fixing a car. Jim he wasn't brought up to such things. And Jim surely didn't learn how to build furniture in the army.

Just trying to figure out when he might have had the time and opportunity to learn fine cabinetmaking, for example, which features in several stories. Is there canon on this?

Unusually fine sex descriptions in this fic, too.

Don't think I've come across this one before . . .

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 02:46:59 GMT

From "Somewhere under the Rainbow" by Elaine: http://www.852prospect.org/archive/archive/14/somewhereunder.html

She actually made foreskin sexy. Blair's got his, because his "Momma lived on a commune, came this close..to calling me Rainbow, and thinks that circumcision is genital mutilation."

not a big foreskin lover, but this took me by surprise. Cool!

"he scoots up a bit and holds his dick up against mine. Then he slides his foreskin over the head of my dick. It's soft and slippery and warm; and it closes around my dickhead like a second skin. For a while I can hardly breathe while he moves it back and forth over my dickhead. I've never felt anything so smooth, so silky."

Sentinel Concepts

Fri, 07 Dec 2007 01:22:15 GMT

From Guide's Touch by neichan:

http://www.squidge.org/~peja/cgi-bin/viewstory.php?sid=25592&textsize=0&chapter=8

I like the concept explored here about Sentinel space. (and I like Jim!Kitty!)

". . . the Sentinel exploring his new territory with growls when Jim wasn't pleased with something he found, or low purrs when he was happy.

Blair didn't even want to imagine how long it had taken Jim to adjust to the house he now lived in. That vast building was five times the size of the loft. With all sorts of hidden niches, many doors, enclosed rooms... Bonded Sentinels didn't like to have barriers they had to piggyback their senses to get around. Sentinels didn't like closed doors, closed doors in territory they saw as their own...they dialed up automatically, suspicious. . . certainly, he'd never be able to lock it if Jim was in residence. To do so would surely bring Jim to the door, leaving off what ever he'd been doing to investigate why his Guide wanted a locked door between them. . . An unbonded Sentinel liked smaller spaces, less light. Spaces that kept the senses more contained."

Caveat: the author's use of "ghod" for god during the series is irritating. (to me)

Less than a rec; more than a compliment

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 15:37:06 GMT

Sometimes, when I'm reading a fic, I come across ideas or language that strikes me. Most of the time, I simply move on, and forget (and can never find it again), but I'd like to start highlighting some of that here.

One of the things that I really like in stories is unusual or unique ideas of what Jim can do with his senses. I think there's so much more, even after all these years, that can be done with that.

Here's a snippet from Kit Mason's Identity series, which I think exemplifies what strikes me:

http://www.twistedchick.org/original/stories/sentinel/birth.htm

"[Blair says] What do we both need to work on?

[Jim responds]: It's so hard to say in words, but I try. "We need to talk in more languages. . . . We don't speak the same language, Blair. We never have. It's not just cop cop talk or academic jargon." Where are the tripwires? Words can be traps, or liberators. "Words are your tools, not mine. Sometimes I need you to tell me things, to talk with me -- without them."

Touch. Smell. Sight. Hearing. Taste.

The movement of bodies in space, in proximity, a spiral dance like a stairway, like a helix, like a circle game over time.

Did I ever tell him I can visualize in six dimensions, or more? It's not hard if each sense is a dimension, plus time.

There are other patterns as well, other ways of understanding that I perceive, all of them beyond the fragile touch of human language. I'd be glad to try to explain it to him, if I could reduce it to only two dimensions, sound and the shape of letters on paper."