Fifth story!
Title: Close Call
Author: PsychGirl (snycock)
Email: jsnyder@snycock.com
Category: Slash, h/c, established relationship
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes it's not the person who was hurt who needs comfort the most.
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Sentinel or any of the characters and this is written for entertainment purposes only.
Prompt by: Lexy
Prompt: What the hell is that?
“What the hell is that?”
Jim stared bemusedly at the brown, barbed shape leaning against the wall of the loft. It looked like some kind of weird avant-garde sculpture or something. Had Blair developed a taste for modern art while he’d been in the hospital? He took a few careful steps towards it, trying not to lean on Blair’s shoulders too much.
But Blair was having none of it. “That’s what’s left of our Christmas tree,” he said, as his arm tightened around Jim’s waist and he maneuvered Jim firmly towards the living room. “You remember - the one we bought just before we got the call from Simon that Pruitt had been sighted down at the harbor?” He gave Jim a crooked grin as he helped him ease down to sit on the couch.
“Oh, right.” Now that Blair had said that, he remembered them going to the lot and picking the tree out, wrestling it into and then out of the truck, then into the elevator - which had been working, then - and into the loft. At which point he’d put it against the wall because they’d forgotten to bring the tree stand up. Blair had just lifted the keys to their storage unit off the hook on the wall when the phone had rung.
It was all kind of fuzzy and distant, though, like something seen through a piece of thick glass. Dr. Mitchell had told him that might happen; trauma had a way of affecting a person’s memories, especially those right around the event itself. And getting two bullets in the chest certainly qualified as trauma.
Blair had shrugged his backpack off and was looking at his watch. “It’s almost time for your next dose,” he said. “I’ll get this cleaned up and then get your meds.”
“You don’t have to-” he began, but Blair was already off, getting an industrial trash bag from under the sink and the broom and dustpan from the pantry. Jim settled back against the cushions and closed his eyes, feeling his body relax as the comfort of being home started to permeate his senses.
His chest ached and he rubbed it gingerly, eyes still closed. He was still pretty sore. Twelve hours of surgery would do that to you. And the walk up three flights of stairs, no matter how slowly Blair had made him go or how much he’d tried to help, had been a strain on already bruised and abused muscles.
Blair’s hand on his knee startled him out of a light doze. “Sorry,” Blair said, a rueful smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “This is like waking you up to take your sleeping pill, but the doctor said it was important to keep ahead of this….”
“S’okay,” he murmured, reaching to take the glass and the pill Blair was handing him. Something didn’t look right with Blair, but he was too sleep-addled to make sense of it. He swallowed the medication, grimacing at the chalky taste on the back of his tongue, and handed the glass back.
“I’m going to clean up a little, then I’ll get dinner started. Something simple and light, huh? Like soup?”
“Sounds good,” he said, stretching out lengthwise on the couch and closing his eyes again. It was such a relief to be home.
He heard Blair go upstairs to get clean clothes, then listened to him pad softly across the loft to the bathroom. The shower started; the sound was rhythmic and soothing, and normally would have put him to sleep, but he couldn’t quite shut his brain off. He thought about how Blair had pretty much been at his bedside for the past ten days, which was, of course, why the Christmas tree was now a brittle, dry mess. He thought about how Blair had been there for him, an island of sanity, when the painkillers they’d given him had had him hallucinating off his gourd. He thought about how Blair looked tired, and how there was something else, something he couldn’t quite name, deep in the shadows of his eyes.
The bathroom door opened and a warm, damp waft of steam carried Blair’s clean, earthy scent to his nose. He heard Blair’s footsteps head towards the kitchen, then hesitate, then go into the room under the stairs.
They’d been planning for a few months now - ever since they had gotten together and Blair had moved most of his stuff upstairs - to put a real guest bed in that room, as well as fix up a desk for the computer that was currently up in their bedroom. Curious, he dialed up his hearing a little. What could Blair be doing in there? Surely he didn’t think this would be a good time to start cleaning?
He couldn’t hear anything, which was strange. When someone was in a room alone, there were always small noises - steps as they walked around, the rustle of moving fabric, the creak of furniture being used or moved. But he heard nothing. It was as if Blair was standing stock still in the middle of the room.
With a frown, he dialed hearing up some more and added smell. And then he caught two things - Blair’s heart, thumping like a bass drum, and the faint scent of salt.
He sat up, wincing as his bruised and battered chest muscles reminded him why that was not a good idea. Moving carefully, he swung his legs around to the floor and stood, easing his way around the couch to the room under the stairs.
Blair’s back was to him as he pushed the door open. One hand was gripping the chair in front of his old desk, and Jim could see the stress in the line of his shoulders. “Chief?” he said softly.
A quick inhale, then Blair said, “I’m fine, Jim.” But his voice was thick with tears.
Jim took a few slow steps in, then reached out and drew Blair into his arms. Blair resisted for a second, his body stiff, and then he exhaled heavily and leaned against Jim’s chest. Turning his head, Jim took a deep breath, letting his partner’s familiar scent wash over him. His hand cupped the back of Blair’s neck, fingers winding gently into his hair, thumb stroking the soft skin at his nape. A deep sense of peace and contentment flowed over him, and he tried to impart as much of that as he could to the man in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Blair murmured, after a while; Jim wasn’t even sure how much time had passed. “I just wanted this… it was our first Christmas together - I mean, not together, but, you know, together. I wanted it to be good, really good. I wanted it to be the best.”
“It was.”
Blair made a sound that was half snort, half sob. “Watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ for the third time on the crappy hospital TV and eating red and green Jell-O is not my idea of a good Christmas.”
“Hey, I was conscious, so it was in the “good” category as far as I’m concerned.” The pills he’d taken were making him a little light-headed, so he shifted backwards until he was propped against the desk.
“You should go lie down-” Blair said, trying to pull away.
He was having none of that. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, refusing to loosen his grip. “Honestly, this is doing me a world of good.” Blair had been at his side constantly at the hospital - well, at least every time that Jim had been awake. He’d been comforting, distracting, amusing, cheerful, and energetic; he’d put up with Jim being grouchy and cranky; he’d held Jim’s hand, helped him eat and dress and shower and go to the bathroom. He probably hadn’t slept much, or very well when he had, and he had probably eaten nothing but junk food. And he hadn’t had anyone there to support him. So Jim figured it was his turn to provide the comfort, and Blair’s turn to be comforted.
“I didn’t even get you a Christmas present.”
He smiled and pressed a kiss to Blair’s temple. “Yeah, babe, you did.”
That made Blair fall quiet for a while, his head against Jim’s shoulder, his fingers tracing the incision through the thin cotton of Jim’s t-shirt. “I was so scared,” he whispered, so softly that Jim had to turn his hearing up a notch to catch it. “You were under so long, and then you had that bad reaction….”
“I know. It’s okay.”
There was tension in Blair’s shoulders again, and Jim could smell the tears Blair was struggling not to shed. He held Blair tightly, stroking slow, gentle circles on Blair’s back with his free hand, and ignored the damp patch growing on his shirt. Gradually he felt the stress seep out of Blair’s muscles, felt his body become more relaxed as the storm of his emotions passed.
Eventually Blair blew his breath out in a long sigh. “Okay, I’m good now.” He tilted his head up to look at Jim. “Thank you.”
He leaned down and kissed Blair. That was another thing they hadn’t gotten to do very much lately, thanks to the joys of a semi-private room. “You’re welcome.” It felt so good, he did it again.
“Easy, Tiger.” Blair slid out of his arms, but his eyes were sparkling. “First some soup, then bed.”
“Promise?” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.
Blair rolled his eyes. “To sleep, you big goof.” But he took Jim’s hand as he headed towards the kitchen.
“If you say so, Chief,” he replied, following.
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Author: PsychGirl (snycock)
Email: jsnyder@snycock.com
Category: Slash, h/c, established relationship
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes it's not the person who was hurt who needs comfort the most.
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Sentinel or any of the characters and this is written for entertainment purposes only.
Prompt by: Lexy
Prompt: What the hell is that?
“What the hell is that?”
Jim stared bemusedly at the brown, barbed shape leaning against the wall of the loft. It looked like some kind of weird avant-garde sculpture or something. Had Blair developed a taste for modern art while he’d been in the hospital? He took a few careful steps towards it, trying not to lean on Blair’s shoulders too much.
But Blair was having none of it. “That’s what’s left of our Christmas tree,” he said, as his arm tightened around Jim’s waist and he maneuvered Jim firmly towards the living room. “You remember - the one we bought just before we got the call from Simon that Pruitt had been sighted down at the harbor?” He gave Jim a crooked grin as he helped him ease down to sit on the couch.
“Oh, right.” Now that Blair had said that, he remembered them going to the lot and picking the tree out, wrestling it into and then out of the truck, then into the elevator - which had been working, then - and into the loft. At which point he’d put it against the wall because they’d forgotten to bring the tree stand up. Blair had just lifted the keys to their storage unit off the hook on the wall when the phone had rung.
It was all kind of fuzzy and distant, though, like something seen through a piece of thick glass. Dr. Mitchell had told him that might happen; trauma had a way of affecting a person’s memories, especially those right around the event itself. And getting two bullets in the chest certainly qualified as trauma.
Blair had shrugged his backpack off and was looking at his watch. “It’s almost time for your next dose,” he said. “I’ll get this cleaned up and then get your meds.”
“You don’t have to-” he began, but Blair was already off, getting an industrial trash bag from under the sink and the broom and dustpan from the pantry. Jim settled back against the cushions and closed his eyes, feeling his body relax as the comfort of being home started to permeate his senses.
His chest ached and he rubbed it gingerly, eyes still closed. He was still pretty sore. Twelve hours of surgery would do that to you. And the walk up three flights of stairs, no matter how slowly Blair had made him go or how much he’d tried to help, had been a strain on already bruised and abused muscles.
Blair’s hand on his knee startled him out of a light doze. “Sorry,” Blair said, a rueful smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “This is like waking you up to take your sleeping pill, but the doctor said it was important to keep ahead of this….”
“S’okay,” he murmured, reaching to take the glass and the pill Blair was handing him. Something didn’t look right with Blair, but he was too sleep-addled to make sense of it. He swallowed the medication, grimacing at the chalky taste on the back of his tongue, and handed the glass back.
“I’m going to clean up a little, then I’ll get dinner started. Something simple and light, huh? Like soup?”
“Sounds good,” he said, stretching out lengthwise on the couch and closing his eyes again. It was such a relief to be home.
He heard Blair go upstairs to get clean clothes, then listened to him pad softly across the loft to the bathroom. The shower started; the sound was rhythmic and soothing, and normally would have put him to sleep, but he couldn’t quite shut his brain off. He thought about how Blair had pretty much been at his bedside for the past ten days, which was, of course, why the Christmas tree was now a brittle, dry mess. He thought about how Blair had been there for him, an island of sanity, when the painkillers they’d given him had had him hallucinating off his gourd. He thought about how Blair looked tired, and how there was something else, something he couldn’t quite name, deep in the shadows of his eyes.
The bathroom door opened and a warm, damp waft of steam carried Blair’s clean, earthy scent to his nose. He heard Blair’s footsteps head towards the kitchen, then hesitate, then go into the room under the stairs.
They’d been planning for a few months now - ever since they had gotten together and Blair had moved most of his stuff upstairs - to put a real guest bed in that room, as well as fix up a desk for the computer that was currently up in their bedroom. Curious, he dialed up his hearing a little. What could Blair be doing in there? Surely he didn’t think this would be a good time to start cleaning?
He couldn’t hear anything, which was strange. When someone was in a room alone, there were always small noises - steps as they walked around, the rustle of moving fabric, the creak of furniture being used or moved. But he heard nothing. It was as if Blair was standing stock still in the middle of the room.
With a frown, he dialed hearing up some more and added smell. And then he caught two things - Blair’s heart, thumping like a bass drum, and the faint scent of salt.
He sat up, wincing as his bruised and battered chest muscles reminded him why that was not a good idea. Moving carefully, he swung his legs around to the floor and stood, easing his way around the couch to the room under the stairs.
Blair’s back was to him as he pushed the door open. One hand was gripping the chair in front of his old desk, and Jim could see the stress in the line of his shoulders. “Chief?” he said softly.
A quick inhale, then Blair said, “I’m fine, Jim.” But his voice was thick with tears.
Jim took a few slow steps in, then reached out and drew Blair into his arms. Blair resisted for a second, his body stiff, and then he exhaled heavily and leaned against Jim’s chest. Turning his head, Jim took a deep breath, letting his partner’s familiar scent wash over him. His hand cupped the back of Blair’s neck, fingers winding gently into his hair, thumb stroking the soft skin at his nape. A deep sense of peace and contentment flowed over him, and he tried to impart as much of that as he could to the man in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” Blair murmured, after a while; Jim wasn’t even sure how much time had passed. “I just wanted this… it was our first Christmas together - I mean, not together, but, you know, together. I wanted it to be good, really good. I wanted it to be the best.”
“It was.”
Blair made a sound that was half snort, half sob. “Watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ for the third time on the crappy hospital TV and eating red and green Jell-O is not my idea of a good Christmas.”
“Hey, I was conscious, so it was in the “good” category as far as I’m concerned.” The pills he’d taken were making him a little light-headed, so he shifted backwards until he was propped against the desk.
“You should go lie down-” Blair said, trying to pull away.
He was having none of that. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, refusing to loosen his grip. “Honestly, this is doing me a world of good.” Blair had been at his side constantly at the hospital - well, at least every time that Jim had been awake. He’d been comforting, distracting, amusing, cheerful, and energetic; he’d put up with Jim being grouchy and cranky; he’d held Jim’s hand, helped him eat and dress and shower and go to the bathroom. He probably hadn’t slept much, or very well when he had, and he had probably eaten nothing but junk food. And he hadn’t had anyone there to support him. So Jim figured it was his turn to provide the comfort, and Blair’s turn to be comforted.
“I didn’t even get you a Christmas present.”
He smiled and pressed a kiss to Blair’s temple. “Yeah, babe, you did.”
That made Blair fall quiet for a while, his head against Jim’s shoulder, his fingers tracing the incision through the thin cotton of Jim’s t-shirt. “I was so scared,” he whispered, so softly that Jim had to turn his hearing up a notch to catch it. “You were under so long, and then you had that bad reaction….”
“I know. It’s okay.”
There was tension in Blair’s shoulders again, and Jim could smell the tears Blair was struggling not to shed. He held Blair tightly, stroking slow, gentle circles on Blair’s back with his free hand, and ignored the damp patch growing on his shirt. Gradually he felt the stress seep out of Blair’s muscles, felt his body become more relaxed as the storm of his emotions passed.
Eventually Blair blew his breath out in a long sigh. “Okay, I’m good now.” He tilted his head up to look at Jim. “Thank you.”
He leaned down and kissed Blair. That was another thing they hadn’t gotten to do very much lately, thanks to the joys of a semi-private room. “You’re welcome.” It felt so good, he did it again.
“Easy, Tiger.” Blair slid out of his arms, but his eyes were sparkling. “First some soup, then bed.”
“Promise?” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.
Blair rolled his eyes. “To sleep, you big goof.” But he took Jim’s hand as he headed towards the kitchen.
“If you say so, Chief,” he replied, following.
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