arrow00 | New J/B Story: When Irony Hands You Lemons (R)

Title: When Irony Hands You Lemons
Author:

arrow00
Fandom: TS
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Rating: R
Category: FT, HC
Wordcount: 4,738
Warning: unbeta'd, hardly even spell-checked.
Summary: The gods of irony are laughing at Jim.
Notes: Oh, I suck at taking prompts, but this is for

dodificus and

bluebrocade who won the
8 Truths and 2 Lies thingy. Prompts were "Jim
gets what he deserves" and "the no-good way
Simon finds out about Jim and Blair".

When Irony Hands You Lemons

by Arrow

"So, I was thinking," Sandburg says, bouncing next to me while he walks. I've always wondered if that's what helps him go faster. "...and what I was thinking was, what if we went to the beach or somewhere really flat and clear and tested you on pure distance? Because I don't think we've ever ascertained—"

"No."

"—or maybe from a fire-watch on top of a forest?"

"No."

"C'mon, Jim—"

I make a quick left and it takes him a while to catch up. By then I'm zeroing in on the coffee stand on the corner. I can practically taste the java. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can just from smelling it—it's easy to connect the two, and when I piggyback taste on smell I sometimes get some wild results.

Don't tell Sandburg though.

///

He puts his hand on my back just above my waist. I can feel his palm there, a small circle of heat. The rest of me is so damned cold.

She's dead.

It would be better, maybe, if there were some blood, but there's just the poke of her swollen tongue and her bulging, bloodshot eyes. Hardly any bruising on her throat—that will come later. She died too fast to bruise right away.

Dan walks in, and we step back, but Blair pushes me a little, asking me to make the visual grid and start the hunt for anything, any tiny thing the killer might've left behind.

He's good, this killer. Good and clean and quick. Part of me, the sick part, wonders how he can get any joy out of his kills. He doesn't roll in the mud like other psychos. But she isn't any less dead. Dead is always dead, that curious absence I've always been able to detect, even from far away. Not a senses thing, because I wasn't online when I first became a cop. More a beast instinct thing.

She's been dead long enough that her eyes have gone whitish. They were a startling, rich blue in the photo on her mantel. I know, without even looking, that there won't be any signs of struggle. Probably there will be traces of that toxin in her blood just like all the others. Four of 'em now, so far. Fucking sick.

I feel a nudge and realize I've been staring instead of doing my job. So I put on my gloves and start in, pacing the grid then following the box further out, going around and around. I find two threads caught in the windowsill, and I reach out. Sandburg is there with the bag, and he uses one himself for a hair he finds stuck in the blind.

It's unlikely any of them belong to the killer. He's too quick and clean. But we go through the motions. I don't know why, but this particular guy has me really worried.

Sandburg isn't, though. He thinks I can do anything, thanks to the senses. The fucking senses are all he sees.

I swear to God I'm sick of it. I'm just plain fucking sick of talking about my senses with him, exploring them, testing them, theorizing about them until it's all we talk about, all the guy seems to care about. When it comes to me, that is.

But I don't tell him that. I can't.

Hang on, there's a smell in the bathroom. It smells like come, and I find a dot of it on the underside of the toilet seat. She lived alone. It has to be his. It has to be the killer's. This is how he does it, keeps it so clean. He kills them then he jacks off nice and tidy into the john. But he screwed up this time.

Dan hands me a swab and I take the sample. Sandburg is bouncing again. Yeah, DNA is good for trial evidence, but it's next to useless in finding a killer.

///

It turns out Sandburg was right to be excited. Two days later we get the lab results and it happens this guy has a rare form of mad cow disease. Only Sandburg says we should call it Creutzfeldt-Jakob, and since this guy has the genetic version, there are markers in his DNA. That's rare; in fact, the whole thing is rare enough for us to reach out to pharmacies for the only known treatment. And even if that doesn't do the trick, it's good to know he'll be dead soon enough.

Like nature cleaning up for herself.

I have court today. I hate court. There's nothing quite like the brown-green smell of a government building, especially one where thousands of criminals and lawyers have sweated through their cheap polyester suits while judges sit in robes that haven't been dry-cleaned since they were sworn in.

Not only that, I think those are rats I hear scrabbling in the basement.

Of course, soon after I arrive, sweating in my own suit, the D.A. tells me all it took was seeing the arresting officer show up to make the weasel beg for a plea. It was nothing big—just some guy who got pissed that his sister's boyfriend had parked wrong and gotten her car towed. He was pounding on the guy when I heard the ruckus from a couple of blocks away and came running.

I'm glad to be out of there and heading over to Major Crime. Sandburg's already at my desk when I walk in, and when he sees me in my suit he gets this gleam in his eye like he's going to make fun or something, so I tell him to shut up before he even starts, and give him a noogie for good measure.

Sometimes I think he does shit on purpose just to have me rough him around. Maybe he missed not having an older brother or something.

"I've been calling all the pharmacies in town. Man, it's amazing how ready they are to give up info on people just on my say-so that I'm with the cops. Well, that and when I leave a message they have to hit the switchboard to reach me, but still—hasn't anybody heard of privacy?"

As usual I just wait until he's finished with all the talking. He always gets to the important stuff eventually, and interrupting him just makes the process go slower.

"So, you wanna know what I learned?"

"Yeah, I wanna know."

Sandburg sits up straight and lifts his eyebrows, "Twenty-two pharmacies and only one name, a guy in his forties." The eyebrows go even higher. "And the winner is...Mr. Dailey Hascombe. He works at GenerEx, a biotech company. I even got a home address."

"That's great work, Chief." I give him a pat. He's spent hours on this. I don't get why he just keeps coming back for this stuff. This isn't even about the Sentinel thing—it's just cop work. Maybe he wants to be a cop.

Sandburg with a gun. There's a thought. It would nice to have someone armed at my back I could trust to watch out for me. Something I haven't felt, really, since Jack.

But no way. Sandburg's already putting enough of himself into this thing we're doing. And the last time I brought it up he acted like the thought of carrying gave him the willies.

I get that. Guns aren't for everyone. And, hell, he can do more with a vending machine than most people can do with an Uzi.

I give Simon the status and he files for our search warrant while we eat lunch. I get a ham sandwich from the vending machine, which earns me some ribbing from Sandburg, who has brought, I kid you not, tofu mixed in with some lentils. He's still picking over it when Sandra Byelick, our friendly D.A., comes in and drops the warrant in front of me. She wants to make small talk, but I'm too antsy to chit-chat. I grab both our jackets and Sandburg and I head out to the truck.

Our backup is coming along with us this time; I don't like the feeling in my gut about this guy—if Hascombe really is our guy—and I've learned to pay attention to my gut.

Jesus Christ, I'm glad I did. When I identify myself at his apartment door there's no answer, and for the hell of it I try the knob. It's unlocked. Just as I'm pushing the door open slowly, my weapon already out, I hear this tiny, tiny click. More like a snick.

I freeze with my head halfway in, and I'm thinking oh shit, I know that sound, that's a pressure trigger. "It's a trap," I manage to say. Except instead of an explosion there's this loud hiss, and suddenly I'm flat on my back with Sandburg's yell of surprise ringing in my ears.

It's all pretty foggy from there. I'm completely paralyzed; can't twitch at all when there's this rush of movement above me and a guy in a gas mask comes tripping out, a gun in his hand. Blair is crouched on my other side and I can't fucking move and shit, he's going to shoot Blair, I fucked up. I really fucked up.

Except I didn't, because Officer Scott is down the hall with his partner Maria, who yells a warning and then shoots, and the guy goes down right on top of me. In fact, his gun hits me in the face as he smashes down onto me. I can hear Sandburg yelling my name but I can't move, can't breathe, even, because Hascombe is crushing my chest.

So, that's the last I remember for a while.

///

I wake up with a sore face and a tube in my throat. Not a happy feeling, I'll tell you, not to mention having a smaller one up my dick. I wonder if all guys get a painful almost-hard-on from that, or if it's just me? Just another thing I will never, ever be able to ask Blair about.

Speaking of which, I can hear him next to me. He always is when I wake up from something like this, and I spend a second thanking whoever that I'm not alone anymore. And then I spend about another ten with my eyes squinted shut trying not to think about what that means.

"Jim?"

I try to wave at him and it's then I realize that squinting my eyes is one of the only things I can do. I can't lift my arm. I can't wriggle my fingers or my toes. I'm still frozen. My heart bangs in my chest when I realize it, and I fight against the machine that's breathing for me because I'm trying to breathe faster. About a second later I hear the monitor by my bed give a warning bleep.

"Hey, it's okay, man. You're gonna be all right. Jim? Relax, okay? You're gonna be fine."

I try to say, "You sure of that?" but what comes out is garbled mush.

"Yeah, you're awake. That's good. Can you open your eyes?"

I open my eyes.

"Okay, can you blink? Blink once for me, Jim."

I blink at Blair's worried face, and he smiles.

"Aces. So, one for yes, two for no, unless you think you can talk around that tube."

I mumble something that sounds like, "Grrrgrlsh," and then blink twice at him.

"No big deal. I can talk enough for both of us, you know that."

Yes, I blink. Maybe a little too firmly, because he gives me a long-suffering look.

"First of all, like I said, you're gonna be fine. Eventually. He got you with the same stuff we couldn't identify from the women he killed. Turns out it's some specially engineered toxin. A bioweapon they developed for torture." Blair's voice sounds a little shaky. "You stopped breathing on your own, Jim. It hit you pretty hard. And the docs wanted to try a bunch of different counter-agents but I told them it was better if they let you work through it."

Yes. Yes.

"Is that two yeses, or a no?" But he already knows the answer, so I roll my eyes at him.

"Okay, so we're just going to wait this out. But you're gonna be fine, I swear."

I don't know how he knows that, and with the sound of a machine breathing in and out for me, pushing my chest up and down, I have this panicky memory of when I first heard about Polio and iron lungs.

Maybe because I'm not moving the rest of me, Blair is paying way too much attention to my face, because he puts his hand on my arm right above the IV and squeezes me.

"I'm telling you, it's not a problem. Your system is just overloaded, Jim. Even minute doses of stuff hit you hard, and this was a big lungful aimed right at your head. So, take it easy."

I try to take it easy. I let him ring for the nurse and she does the checking up thing, writes down my numbers, and then tells us Doctor Sheldon will be by to see me soon.

In the meantime, I focus on trying to wiggle my toes. Nothing doing.

When the doc shows up, she looks real glad to see me awake, which makes me wonder if Sandburg was soft-peddling how serious the situation had been.

"I see your partner was right," she says. "He kept telling us to be patient before trying any measures beyond support."

I blink at her a couple of times and then mouth around the tube. She seems to get the picture, or maybe it's the first thing every patient asks her when they wake up with a tube down their throat.

"We'll try taking you off the respirator later today. I don't want you on it too long, but I don't want us to lose any ground, either. Let's see how the rest of you is doing."

She pulls down the blanket and starts poking me, asking me if I feel stuff. I feel all of it just fine; I can even feel the tug of the IV brushing against the inside of my vein, which is something I didn't really need to learn what it felt like. I feel her little poker in the ball of my foot, but when she bangs my knee my leg only twitches. She tells me to squeeze her fingers, and I can't even close my hand.

Still, I'm not panicking too badly, because I remember how sure Sandburg was that my vision would come back after the golden that time, and he was right then. He's right now, I know; I just have to wait.

When she starts to lift up my gown I roll my eyes at Blair, but he doesn't get the message that I want him to leave. So I close my eyes and pretend he isn't maybe looking at my impaled dick. She puts her cold stethoscope on my chest and my nipples get hard. This is so much fun. What more could a guy ask for than to be felt up by a pretty doctor while his roommate looks on?

Finally, she's done with me. I'm a little tired, so after she scribbles on my chart and leaves, I don't open my eyes again. But I can still hear Blair talking softly next to me as I fall asleep.

He's always there.

///

I wake up a lot later, and the first thing I notice is I can wiggle my fingers. Hurray for me. That's all I can do, though. The second thing I notice is the inside of my thigh itches, high up near my balls. It itches something fierce, and I can't fucking scratch it. I imagine somehow asking Sandburg to scratch it for me, and cringe.

Blair isn't there, anyway. I try to listen for him, figuring he's down chatting up the nurses at the station or maybe on another floor at the cafeteria, but I can't stretch my ears out. I try again, using the dial, but nothing happens. Maybe my Sentinel muscles are frozen, too.

Sandburg walks in a couple of minutes later, when the itching has gone past annoying straight to maddening. But he's brought a doctor with him, a skinny guy with dark hair, an intern, maybe. He says he's going to take the tube out if I can pass some tests. The first is he makes me try to sit up, but I can barely tighten my stomach muscles. The guy has his hand on my stomach, and he kinda nods like I've worked a miracle there. Dumb-ass.

Then the guy tells me to try to cough around the tube. That I know I can do. I cough a little for him, and Sandburg says, "Good going, Jim."

I give myself a second to dream about recovering enough to be able to rip out his spine for patronizing me.

The intern, Dr. Kaul, pokes the control so my bed sits me up. Then he untapes the tube from my mouth.

What happens next is disgusting and a little scary. Like from the movie, Alien, except the long, stringy thing is stuck for a little while and I feel like I'm choking to death. The whole time both the doc and Sandburg are urging me to cough my weak little coughs. Finally it's out, and I just lie there panting for a while.

The doc watches me, and Sandburg watches me, so I'm still feeling like that poor guy in the movie, like maybe they think next something hideous will explode out of my chest. But instead the monitor beeps, and the doc tells me to try to take some deep breaths. I do, but it's exhausting.

I hate this. I hate being feeble like this. I'm starting to hate Sandburg a little, too, for seeing me so helpless. Doctors are okay—you can just walk out and hopefully never see them again. But Sandburg I see every day.

I'm coughing again. Blair gets up and brings me some water. The doc says something about monitoring my oh-two levels and remembering to breathe, take nice deep breaths. Then he takes off.

Blair holds the cup and straw up to my lips and I drink down some water. It's disgusting—chock full of chlorine—and I make a face.

"Sorry, Jim. I'll bring you some of the bottled stuff."

"Thanks." It comes out as this rusty mumble, but Blair's smile is bright.

"Hey! The man talks!"

"Yipee." Yeah, it's good to talk, but now I'm thinking about that itch I can't scratch, and that I won't have to blink it out in Morse code if I get the gumption up to ask Sandburg to scratch my balls.

"What, is talking not good enough? Actually..." Sandburg grins, and then tries to clamp down on it.

"You finding something funny, Shecky?"

"Just...for you to..." He coughs. "I mean, it's serious, I know. This sucks." He makes an earnest face and then ruins it by snorting. "I mean, this has got to be hell for you—you can only talk. All you can do is talk."

Funny man. "You saying I deserved this? Like I had it coming because I'm not some chatterbox?"

His eyes go way too wide and innocent. "No! It's just, well, ironic, I guess."

It is kind of funny when he puts it that way. Funny in an irritating way. In a way that makes me want to grab him and pummel him until he cries uncle. Except I can't.

He's right. This sucks. And suddenly my balls itch worse than ever, which gives me the idea for a little payback.

"Hey, Chief, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything, Jim." He looks relieved I'm not pissed at him for laughing. "Whatever you need until you get better. Think of me as your hands." He waves his as he talks.

I smile, and I guess he sees something in my face because all of a sudden he frowns, looking wary. I feel myself grinning even wider.

"Scratch my balls for me?"

Bingo. His mouth drops open and he turns bright red.

"They itch something awful," I say, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "It's been bugging me since I woke up."

"J-Jim--"

"Actually, it's my leg, right next to my balls. You know, right where they touch? If you could just give me a hand, I'd be real grateful." Man, this is fun. I haven't managed to make Sandburg speechless since...well, I don't think I've ever managed to make him speechless before. This is a proud moment in Ellison history.

He shakes his head and seems to steel himself before he pushes down the sheet. It's about then I remember I have a catheter up my dick. But no big deal, he's already seen it, and anyway it's worth it just to have Blair touch my balls.

That's a weird thought. Hold that thought, worry about it later. Right now the itch has gotten worse, as if it knows it's about to be terminated. Sandburg lifts up my hospital gown real carefully, as if there's a bomb under there. He looks so serious I want to laugh.

Then I don't want to laugh so much, because his fingers are on my leg pushing right next to my balls. I can feel them shiver up a little, and the itch gets worse.

"Here?" he says, moving his fingers underneath, and the breathless way he says it makes my dick tingle a little. I'm suddenly way too excited.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks." It comes out sounding strange.

Then, ah, God, he's scratching me right in the right spot, finally. The backs of his knuckles are nudging up against my balls, feels real nice. Real nice to have him touching me there.

"Is that good?" Blair says, his voice low.

"Oh, yeahhhh." Scratch, scratch, scratch, just the right amount of pressure, and the relief I feel is huge. Not to mention Blair seems to be enjoying it, too.

Of course, it's right then the door swings open and Simon walks in.

Blair freezes with his hand where it is, then snatches it back, completely red-faced.

Simon frowns so hard his glasses almost fall off. I can see the steam building up between his ears.

Me, I start laughing.

"I did not just see what I just saw, gentlemen," Simon says like he's strangling. He's bitten down so hard on the cigar in his mouth that I'm worried he's going to end up swallowing the end. Sandburg is stuttering out some kind of explanation, and I'm still chuckling, which feels really good, almost as if my stomach muscles are finally getting back in the game.

"I-I was just scratching an itch!" Sandburg finally sputters out. Simon makes another face which almost starts me laughing again.

"I'm sorry, sir. Sandburg just can't seem to keep his hands off me."

"Jim!"

"Ellison!" Simon takes the cigar out of his mouth and waves it at my privates, his face averted. "You mind covering up?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

Sandburg rushes in to pull down my gown. "He's still paralyzed, Simon. I mean, Captain."

"Still?" Simon looks serious again. "Is that...uh...normal?"

"Normal for me, apparently. But Blair thinks it's only temporary."

"Only temporary?"

"Yeah." I don't feel like laughing anymore. Blair still looks embarrassed, but he's recovering. Simon seems to get Blair was just helping me out, but I can't be sure. Doesn't matter, though. Because considering how much Blair seemed to like touching me there, I have a feeling things are going to be changing soon, anyway, and it's just as well if Simon knows it.

Assuming I ever get use of my hands back, I'm going to see if Blair is willing to let me peel him out of all those layers he keeps putting on.

///

Turns out another reason Simon stopped by was to get my official report, so I don't get a chance to talk to Sandburg just then. He blows out of there, mumbling about picking up my pajamas and coming back later. I'm worried he thought I was playing with him, that I didn't get how serious this is—that we both feel this way.

I know it's serious. We've got a lot we could lose. But it seems like after everything we've been through, still keep going through, that we can survive pretty much anything. Even going all the way with this thing between us. But if he's freaking out, then I'm going to have to do something I really hate, which is talk about it.

I hate talking. I'd rather just do it and let the chips fall.

I finish giving Simon my side of the events in question, and he gets up and shrugs into his coat. He mumbles about getting Rhonda to type up my report, and then stops at the door. I can tell he wants to say something about what he saw, but I'm not willing to discuss it until I have things squared with Sandburg.

I'm wrong about what's made Simon nervous. He turns and says, really serious, "Get better, Jim, all right? I don't like seeing you like this."

"I'll be back on my feet in no time, Simon." We avoid each other's eyes, and he nods, then leaves.

Blair comes in pretty soon afterward, so I know he must have rushed home and back. Probably telling himself the whole time that he was not freaking out, that he's a child of free love and can handle anything life throws at him. I hope he keeps on believing that.

"Hey," he says as he comes in. He's got my flannel PJs, the ones with the ships on 'em. Those are the ones I wear when I have the flu. He knows me pretty well.

"Thanks for bringing those," I say. I can lift my hand a little now, so I do, and wiggle my fingers at him, hoping to get him to smile.

He does. This big ol' grin, like I just jumped a motorcycle through a flaming hoop.

"That's terrific, Jim!"

"Yeah, I'm a ninth wonder."

I wave him over to the bed, and he takes the chair there. He leans forward, then leans back again, trying to look casual. I have to put him out of his misery.

"Thanks for your help earlier, too," I say. His face pinks up, and he starts to reply, but I interrupt him fast. "I mean it. I liked it. I don't—you can touch me, Blair. Anytime you want."

It's stupid—a real dumb way to put it. See, this is why I hate talking about stuff. But I think he gets my meaning, because his eyes get bluer somehow, like my words really got to him.

"Jim, are you—? Do you mean what I think you mean?"

"Yeah, I mean it. Come on over here and I'll show you."

That gorgeous mouth of his pouts up. He looks doubtful, I guess because he knows I can't touch him.

"My lips are working just fine, Chief," I point out.

Yeah. That gets him right up next to the bed and leaning over me. Funny to be looking up at his face for once, but I wouldn't trade the view. He tilts down, his eyes still looking worried, but then they close, and he kisses me.

It's good. Just about perfect, having those pouty lips on mine, and that tongue of his—Jesus. Oh, man. If I'd known we could be like this together, that he could look at me seriously as someone he wanted—not just his Sentinel, but this guy he wanted, just for himself—

Well, I still don't actually know that. But I can guess, because right here, right now, I'm lying in this bed useless, not even able to do more than wiggle my fingers, and he still wants me. That's gotta count for something.

For everything, I'm hoping, because just from his kisses, his gentle but still pushy kisses that are melting me into the pillows, I'm getting hard. Really fucking hard. I've got a new itch. And if we can find something to jam up against the door, I'm going to ask Blair to scratch it for me.

He pulls back and stares at me like the stars. Like the sun. Like acres of pristine, uncut forest. And somehow my hand has crept up and is gripping his arm with some real strength to it.

He likes that. He looks down at it, then back at me, and we both grin crazily.

"You're getting better," he says, sounding relieved.

I nod. "I can't wait to get you in my bed," I whisper, just to see his eyes shine. "Can't wait to roll you down on that soft mattress and make you beg for my mouth."

I see him swallow hard, and then he says, "You're pretty good with the words when you want to be, Ellison."

And, you know, I think he's right.

At least, he makes me want to be.

..................
2008.06.13

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

From:

bumpkin-is.livejournal.com

This was great! Such a good 'Jim voice' with his irritability and everything but still with the wicked sense of humor. And Blair was fantastic too - making the flow, hitting the snags and then just going with the flow again. Perfect.

And the bit with Simon walking in was priceless!

thanks so much for sharing and keep penning,
Marns
~pN

From:

arrow00.livejournal.com

hey pN: yay! I'm glad you liked the guys in this. thanks, baby!

From:

janedavitt.livejournal.com

New J/B fic from you is the perfect start to the weekend :;happy sigh::

Loved the timing of Simon's interruption and the way jim dealt with it. Loved Blair's anxious, maddening self which I'm sure is a contributory factor to Jim's swift recovery just so he can whack him around the head.

Your Jim and Blair always feel so real and plausible, somehow, so very them.

And Jim has special flannel PJs with ships on? :;dies of the cute:;

From:

arrow00.livejournal.com

thank you! hope you had a good weekend, my sweet.

of *course* Jim has special flannel PJs he wears when he has a cold. the big baby. :)

For the love of GOD don't press that button

New J/B Story: When Irony Hands You Lemons (R)

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