God Alone Knows Why I Feel This Urge: Sentinel Fic (no, that is not the title)
Caroline knew she shouldn't be in the loft. Or more accurately the loft, Jim's little women-free sanctuary, where he could clean and polish and shout without getting under her feet. Caroline also knew that she shouldn't be seeing her husband, her exhusband lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling.
It was as if he was dead or something.
She'd told herself that she wasn't rushing to check his breathing, that she wasn't panicking that there might be something behind that scene in the restaurant, that Jim might have developed some weird and exotic allergy. After all his time in the wilds of Peru. She pauses, maybe that's it, maybe he'd become sensative to detergent or something, and then the screaming in the restaurant made sense, lemon-fresh poison, and of course, Jim insisted on cleaning everything. Her father made disingenious comments about it, repeatedly. That she'd decided to finally get herself a man, who was less womanly. Her father ought be glad that she was womanly not to sock him one.
But Jim was still breathing, little shallow breaths, and she couldn't see any trigger-gun bottles of spicandshine about the place.
Instead, the loft seemed something of a dump. There were unwashed plates in the sink, it looked like Jim might just be on the verge of running out, and starving it off by getting every meal courtesy of Wonderburger. Men.
But this wasn't Men. Or Jim. This was Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Then she noticed the pills on the counter-top. Just as Jim was stirring, coming back from wherever he was.
"Jim, what are these?" She didn't mean to be so aggresive, she didn't mean to thrust them under Jim's nose like he was a sniffer-dog or something, she didn't mean...
...but then, Jim didn't notice, not a bit, and a lazy far-away not-her-husband voice replied dreamily, "Anti-epiletics, went to see the doctor, said it was petit mal, that I should be getting better, but I'm not and there are just more and more and more of them..."
Jim was rambling, Jim was drugged, Jim was sedated. No wonder he hadn't turned up at Cascade PD for days on end.
Then it hit her: Jim was sick.
And suddenly, everything she thought gone came flooding back, and she held him on the sofa, Jim not even bothering to struggle out of her arms, "Oh Jim."
And a single tear ran down her cheek and suddenly even this not-quite-Jim, sick-Jim, was gone in the haze.
No I don't know what possessed me to write this either. I know next to nada on canon, and was working on Blair not having shanghaied Jim at the hospital.
I'm in one of those weird high-spaced things again. So, sentinel!fic, when I ought to study.
It was as if he was dead or something.
She'd told herself that she wasn't rushing to check his breathing, that she wasn't panicking that there might be something behind that scene in the restaurant, that Jim might have developed some weird and exotic allergy. After all his time in the wilds of Peru. She pauses, maybe that's it, maybe he'd become sensative to detergent or something, and then the screaming in the restaurant made sense, lemon-fresh poison, and of course, Jim insisted on cleaning everything. Her father made disingenious comments about it, repeatedly. That she'd decided to finally get herself a man, who was less womanly. Her father ought be glad that she was womanly not to sock him one.
But Jim was still breathing, little shallow breaths, and she couldn't see any trigger-gun bottles of spicandshine about the place.
Instead, the loft seemed something of a dump. There were unwashed plates in the sink, it looked like Jim might just be on the verge of running out, and starving it off by getting every meal courtesy of Wonderburger. Men.
But this wasn't Men. Or Jim. This was Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Then she noticed the pills on the counter-top. Just as Jim was stirring, coming back from wherever he was.
"Jim, what are these?" She didn't mean to be so aggresive, she didn't mean to thrust them under Jim's nose like he was a sniffer-dog or something, she didn't mean...
...but then, Jim didn't notice, not a bit, and a lazy far-away not-her-husband voice replied dreamily, "Anti-epiletics, went to see the doctor, said it was petit mal, that I should be getting better, but I'm not and there are just more and more and more of them..."
Jim was rambling, Jim was drugged, Jim was sedated. No wonder he hadn't turned up at Cascade PD for days on end.
Then it hit her: Jim was sick.
And suddenly, everything she thought gone came flooding back, and she held him on the sofa, Jim not even bothering to struggle out of her arms, "Oh Jim."
And a single tear ran down her cheek and suddenly even this not-quite-Jim, sick-Jim, was gone in the haze.
No I don't know what possessed me to write this either. I know next to nada on canon, and was working on Blair not having shanghaied Jim at the hospital.
I'm in one of those weird high-spaced things again. So, sentinel!fic, when I ought to study.