TS Ficathon entry!
Man, I almost thought I wouldn't get this done on time!
Title: The Noble Experiment
Rating: mild PG-13
Disclaimer: Whilst Frank Costello was indeed a real person, he did not do anything mentioned herein and The Sentinel sadly, does not belong to me.
Summary: Prohibition is in full swing and newly transfered Detective James Ellison is sent to case the speak-easy of a local gangster.
A/N: Written for round five of the TS Ficathon, this year’s theme was vices and my prompt was: Sake, Baked Alaska and Aspirin. Also, I did loads of research to make this as historically accurate as possible but I’m sure there are loads of historical inaccuracies in there, so be gentle please!
Bata: Midnightskyrose, thank you so much sweetie!
The Captain’s door flew open with enough force that it hit the wall behind it, the sound echoing throughout the rest of the department. Jim winced, the noise adding to his already pounding head, before smiling wryly, wondering if door banging and shouting was a mandatory element of becoming a police captain.
“Ellison!” The gruff bark was a summons that Jim did not feel the need to argue with.
“Shut the door behind you.” The Captain did not look up from the stack of papers he was reading from and Jim found himself missing Simon, his previous Captain and the only reason he had considered not taking this transfer. Taking a seat in front of the desk, Jim waited for the man to finish reading the report. Sighing, Captain Collins folded his glasses and regarded Jim with his cool green gaze, still unable to read his new Detective. All the reports and recommendations that he had received regarding Detective James Joseph Ellison had been positive, three times Cop of the Year in Texas and one glowing personal reference from Collins’ counterpart in Dallas, all of which contributing to his belief that Ellison would not be bought by any of the five families of New York nor any of the other criminal gangs, something, he was sad to say, he did not believe was true of the majority of his other detectives.
Collins slid a manila folder towards him, it contained, amongst other things, several grainy shots of what appeared to be a restaurant, the sign outside declaring that some broad by the name of Naomi Sandburg was due to sing there the night that the photograph had been taken, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim was aware that he shouldn’t have been able to read that.
“That’s the Baked Alaska,” Collins’ voice cut through his thoughts. “It’s owned by a man by the name of Frank Costello, there should be a picture of him in there somewhere. We believe that Costello is the consigliere for Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano.” Stevens paused, glancing at Jim to see if he recognised Luciano’s name and at Jim’s nod continued speaking. “We’re sure that him and Luciano are behind a number of political protection rackets as well as the sale and supply of alcohol and the murder of at least one Cop. Costello’s a smart bastard and we’ve never been able to make anything stick.” Again Collins’ paused, but this time his gaze rested briefly on a newspaper cutting behind Jim. Visibly shaking himself out of his thoughts, Collins turned back to Jim. “Every Thursday night Costello’s wife performs at the Baked Alaska. From what information I’ve been able to gather, Mrs Costello is the flirty sort, even preferring to perform under her maiden name. You should be able to get close to her. She’ll be your way in.” The last was said less than decisively, as though Collins was merely thinking aloud.
“Undercover Sir?”
“Yes Detective, starting from tomorrow evening,” Collins’ voice was surer this time. “Take that information home with you, learn as much as you can.”
“Very good Sir.” Jim stood and turned towards the door.
“Oh and Ellison,” Collins waited until Jim once again faced him, “tell no one.”
*
Jim grimaced and tugged at the restrictive bow-tie for what had to be the thousandth time that night as he waited to be seated.
Cutlery chinked softly against the china plates and a buzz of conversation filled the air. As Jim sat and perused the menu, a remembered and yet strangely unfamiliar scent tickled at his nose, bringing with it memories of sitting across the table from his father at the dinner table and then retiring to the living room afterwards. Memories of laughing with Steven late at night. Memories of a time when he had been more carefree. But all of that was before the war, before he’d lost his brother in the nightmare expanse of land between the trenches. They’d been stuck in a shell hole for days, Steven slowly dying in his arms. When they had finally been found and pulled back to the relative safety of their dug-outs Steven was beyond human help and he was being plagued by sensory hallucinations.
“You ready to order Sir?” The delicate voice broke him out of his reverie and he smiled up into a pair of radiant green eyes. Glancing back down, he quickly scanned the menu again.
“I’ll have the steak please.”
“And to drink?” The tone of her voice suggested that there was a question within her question and Jim frowned, trying to understand what she was really asking even as he ordered water.
It was only as the waitress walked away that he finally identified the scent that had sent him into his memories in the first place. Though he wasn’t naive enough to believe that all establishments had stopped selling alcohol in accordance with the law, all the other joints that he had raided whilst serving with the Dallas PD had been dark, rundown dives catering to the dregs of the city and not a sophisticated, upmarket place like this.
As he waited for his meal a hush fell over his fellow diners and Jim followed their gaze towards the stage where a stunning redheaded woman was making her way towards the microphone, the soft whisper of her full length silk dress brushing the floor audible across the room.
As she reached the microphone, she turned to the man behind her and Jim’s breath caught in his throat. With shoulder length curly hair and striking features he was the most beautiful man Jim had ever seen. Long suppressed desires and urges rose in him, urges which were ruthlessly clamped down upon.
The man sat down, his hair falling to obscure his face as he bent his head and concentrated on the fret board of the acoustic guitar on his lap, the sound of skin brushing across steel echoed in Jim’s ears as he positions in his fingers on the starting notes. Tucking the errant hair behind his ear, only to have half of it fall back over his face again, he nodded, smiling at the woman and began to play.
Flashing a grin at the sitting man, the woman wrapped delicate hands around the microphone stand, took a breath and began to sing.
“Her voice cracks, it twists and turns me in a way I can’t explain.” The woman was undeniably talented but Jim was captivated by the guitarist, the surety of his strong fingers, the amazing sound he could produce from a simple acoustic guitar, the multitude of colours in those gorgeous curls as the spotlights shone upon them, almost bringing each strand into sharp focus...
A warm, strong hand landed on his shoulder and Jim jumped in shock before blinking and looking around him, the Baked Alaska far emptier than he remembered it being a second ago.
“Hey man, you okay?” Jim started for a second time, looking up into the face of the speaker, he found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of the guitarist.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a headache, thanks uhhhh...” The man grinned before offering his hand to Jim,
“Blair, Blair Sandburg.” Jim smiled in return and shook Blair’s hand, fire shooting through his veins as their skin made contact.
“Jim Ellison.” Blair grinned again and took the chair opposite Jim.
“Well, Jim Ellison, I believe your dinner has turned stone cold,” he paused, motioning over the waitress and requesting that a new meal be brought for Jim and ordered a salad for himself. As he spoke, Jim caught a faint scent of alcohol on his breath, but it was different from the smell of alcohol he remembered, more exotic somehow.
“As for your headache man, I have the perfect thing,” Blair produced a small, ornate pillbox from his jacket pocket and passed a white pill to Jim, who stared dubiously at it, producing a laugh from the man opposite him.
“It’s just Aspirin, they’re good for your heart. I take them every day, but they’ll cure your headache too.” Strangely trusting of this man that he’d only just met, Jim took a mouthful of water before pressing the tablet past his lips and swallowing.
Blair stayed with Jim for the rest of the evening, only pausing in his talk to eat and Jim couldn’t help but smile inwardly as he wondered whether or not he actually stopped in order to breathe.
“So, where did you learn to play like that?” He asked as Blair was raising his glass to his mouth.
“The guy my mom used to sing with taught me,” Jim could tell there was more to the story than that, but he didn’t push.
“Was that your mom singing with you tonight?” Jim couldn’t keep the incredulous tone from his voice.
“Yeah, don’t say it, I know she doesn’t look old enough and if you tell me how hot she is, I swear I will have to hurt you man.” Jim chuckled and held his hands up in surrender.
Blair leaned back in his chair, an embarrassed flush spreading over his skin as a yawn caught him unawares.
“Sorry, long day,” he grinned apologetically.
“It’s not a problem,” Jim assured him before looking at his watch, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s late, no wonder you’re tired. Let me drive you home,” he suggested as he discreetly tried to pay the bill, only to have his hands slapped away.
“My treat man, to say thank you for letting me talk your ears off,” Blair added as Jim began to protest.
“Alright, but I pay next time.” Jim blushed as he realized what he had said.
“Okay, it’s a date.” Jim’s eyes flew to Blair’s mischievously sparkling eyes in shock before nodding shyly but decisively.
It was only when Jim climbed into bed that night, his head and senses full of Blair that he remembered about the assignment.
*
Against his better judgement and desperately trying to remember that he had be instructed to seduce the singer and not her beautiful son, Jim found himself being seated at the Baked Alaska for the second time in two weeks.
Attempting to distract himself from thoughts of Blair, a task with which he’d had little success over the past seven days, Jim began to concentrate on the snatches of conversation going on around him. Men boasting to their wives about how successful their days at work had been and how much money they had made on the stock market. Or men bragging to other men about the beauty of their wives and the sexual talent of their mistresses. Jim grinned wryly, some things just didn’t change from state to state, south to north.
Just as before, a quiet descended over the crowd as Naomi made her way onto the stage, only this time the silence seemed more pronounced. Jim’s mental voice spoke up loudly, I’m here on a case. I’m here on a case. I’m here on a case. Glancing up onto the stage, his breath caught in his throat as he saw Blair was watching him.
The curly haired man maintained eye contact with him as he sat on the stool, flashing an impish smile at Jim and just like that all thoughts of the case dissolved from Jim’s mind. Blair turned his attention to the fret board and Naomi began to sing.
“I gave my heart away. I sold my soul for a promise made. The mask you wore, the mad charade... Will I ever learn?” I’m so screwed, Jim thought before allowing himself to enjoy both the show and his meal.
The set ended to thunderous applause and Naomi bowed slightly, waving at the crowd before whispering,
“Namaste,” and leaving the stage.
It was mere minutes before Jim felt Blair’s approach, his frenetic natural energy not the least bit depleted from his time on stage, the faint scent of foreign alcohol clinging to his breath.
“Jim,” the smile was audible in his voice as he sat, “I wasn’t sure you were going to show tonight man.”
“Hey, I promised you a meal and I don’t stand my dates up.” A soft shy smile stole over Blair’s features as he sat.
“So man, I have a theory about what happened last week.” Jim’s puzzled expression was more than eloquent of how he felt. “About half way through the set last week I glanced up and you were just staring at the stage. Like you were there but you weren’t y’know?” Blair explained, a hesitant look in his eyes, unsure of how Jim would react to what he was saying. “And it wasn’t until you were touched that you started responding again.” Jim nodded, willing to see where Blair was going with this, his shoulder tingling in remembered sensation. “And it reminded me of something and I gotta ask, what are your senses like?” As Blair talked, Jim could hear the excitement rising in his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Noises that shouldn’t be loud? Smelling things that no one else can smell? Weird visuals? Tastebuds off the map? Extra sensitive touchy-feely?” Blair’s words brought memories better left forgotten back to Jim’s mind, arguments with Carolyn as sensory hallucination after sensory hallucination strained their already troubled marriage.
“How can you know that?” Jim’s voice was quiet, amazed that someone could describe what was happening to him and not be shocked and frightened about it.
“I have this monograph by Sir Richard Burton, an English explorer who died around thirty-six years ago,” Blair stood suddenly, excitement shining from his beautiful blue eyes. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Nodding at the suited man standing discreetly near the door, Blair slipped backstage, talking all the while. “It’s called The Sentinels of Paraguay and has been disputed ever since it was published. Frank, Naomi’s husband, bought me a copy a few years ago. I brought it with me tonight, just in case y’know?”
Blair pushed the door to his dressing room open and stood aside to allow Jim to pass. A leather-bound book lay on the dressing table and Blair began to flick through it, cursing himself for not marking the page. Jim looked around the room, surprised at the amount of things that Blair had been able to cram into a relatively small space. His attention was drawn to two huge wooden masks that were hanging on the wall, the likes of which he had never seen before.
Turning back to Blair, he found him smiling at him,
“They’re really something huh man?” Jim nodded and turned back to the masks, running a hand down the side of one. “Me and Naomi picked them up in Africa when we visited a few years back.” The dark tone that Blair had had when talking about Naomi’s former guitar player was back in his voice, but he shook it off, offering the Burton monograph to Jim.
“Burton says that every tribal village he visited had what he called a Sentinel, someone who patrolled the border, like a... a watchman. The Sentinel would watch for approaching enemies, change in weather, movement of game. Tribe survival depended on it. This Sentinel would have a sensory awareness that can be developed beyond normal humans, senses which would normally be honed by time spent in the wild. Anything like that happen to you?” Jim’s mind flashed on Steven’s barely conscious body cradled in his arms.
“Yes.” The tone brooked no further questioning and Blair fell silent, unsure of whether or not Jim was angry with him. Jim, laid a hand on his shoulder in apology, his voice quiet, he offered only one word for an explanation, “Marne.” Blair rested his hand briefly atop Jim’s, squeezing gently. At the touch of Blair’s fingers, Jim’s heart rate skyrocketed, without his volition his sense of touch flared, allowing him to feel each ridge of unique design on Blair’s finger pads, the roughness of the calluses from years of playing guitar, the comparative softness of the rest of his hand.
“So what do you say?” Jim looked at Blair, confusion showing in his eyes.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” At hint of a smile played across Blair’s face, almost as if he were aware of what had distracted Jim.
“I can help, with your senses, if you’ll let me. I mean, Burton talks about these Sentinels having a partner a... a Guide, if you will, that watched their backs and pulled them back when they got too lost within their senses.” Blair was babbling now, desperate to spend more time with the taller, handsome man, both because he had been curious about Sentinels since he’d read the monograph, when they had become fantasy protectors and an escape for him during one of the darkest periods in his life and because he’d been intrigued by Jim since he’d seen him sitting in the Baked Alaska a week ago.
The hand that had been resting on Blair’s shoulder moved to his neck, thumb stroking gently. Blair’s gaze shot to Jim’s face in shock, but he made no attempt to move away.
“Like you did the other day?” Jim asked, his voice quiet. Blair nodded, stepping closer without being consciously aware of it. “Guess that makes you my Guide then,” he whispered, lowering his head and claiming those tempting lips.
Blair’s pulse beat wildly under Jim’s hand, first from the surprise and then in arousal as his gasp allowed Jim to deepen the kiss. Someone stumbled down the corridor outside, banging into Blair’s door on the way past and the two jumped away from each other, fearful of being caught together.
“It’s late, let me walk you home.” Jim breathed, kissing him gently again before stepping away.
Darkness bathed the city as they exited the Baked Alaska and the slowly descending full moon bathed Blair in its glow, taking Jim’s breath away with the man’s beauty. A cat shrieked in the distance as the two walked through a park. Blair stopped abruptly, smiling at Jim’s questioning look.
“Over there are rose bushes,” his voice seeming louder in the darkness as he indicated the direction of the roses several feet away. “Can you smell them?”
Jim closed his eyes as he scented the stillness of the air and was almost immediately overcome by the very distracting smell of the man next to him, fighting the urge to lose himself in Blair, he followed the smaller man’s instructions, his eyes flying open when he detected the distinctive smell of June roses. Blair just smiled, the awed expression on Jim’s face telling him all he needed to know.
*
The weeks passed and the two grew ever closer. Every Thursday before Blair spent the afternoon testing the limits of Jim’s senses, before the two would make their way to the Baked Alaska, Jim sitting in the restaurant, as close as he could get to the stage, as he waited for Blair to finish his set and then the two of them would have dinner together.
One such Thursday, Jim was sitting blindfolded at his kitchen table as Blair opened various jars and bottles that he had brought with him, getting Jim to guess the contents of the containers by scent alone, Jim admitted something that he had noticed the first time he had met Blair.
“When you come to the table after playing, I can smell the lingering traces of a foreign alcohol.”
Blair grinned, stunned at the strength of Jim’s senses, stroking the side of Jim’s face, he removed the blindfold before speaking.
“It’s called Sake,” he explained, not the least bit disturbed that he was confessing to illegal activities to Jim. “Me and Naomi visited Japan the year before she married Frank, a group of Shinto monks invited me to partake in a purification ritual. It was an honour, not something that they offer to outsiders, particularly not white men. Now it’s something I do before I go on stage...” The rest of Blair’s explaination was lost to Jim’s plundering mouth as Jim, astounded by the trust Blair had him, kissed him to stop him from incriminating himself any further.
Blair’s breathing hitched and pressed against Jim’s body, one leg rising to wind around Jim’s hips, before gasping as Jim lifted him so that he was sat on the table. Jim’s hands fell to the buttons on Blair’s shirt, silently asking permission. Pulling back a fraction, Blair whispered his assent, his own hands moving under Jim’s shirt and stroking across the warm skin he found there. Humming his pleasure, Jim reclaimed Blair’s lips in deep kiss, his fingers stroking along Blair’s arms as he removed Blair’s shirt, before tossing it behind him to land somewhere in the open plan living area, with the rest of his and Blair’s clothes following soon after as inhibitions were lost and desires built.
Pulling away, Jim gasped for breath before shyly and hesitantly offering his hand to Blair and leading him up the stairs when Blair’s warm, strong hand gripped his.
*
Blair awoke several hours later, content to lie within the circle of Jim’s arms, until he saw the clock on Jim’s wall. Biting back a curse, he pressed a kiss over Jim’s heart before slipping out of bed and padding down the stairs in search of his clothes.
Jim’s living room looked like it had been the site of a fabric explosion and Blair couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across of his features and stayed there as he dressed. As he was bending down to retrieve his shirt, he caught sight of the corner of a manila folder under the couch. Curious, he shrugged into his shirt and pulled out the folder and began to read, tears filling his eyes as his mind processed what it meant.
Concerned at waking alone, Jim sent his senses out in search of Blair, hearing his elevated pulse rate downstairs, Jim swung himself out of bed and started down the steps. Halfway down, Jim froze, his heart simultaneously sinking into his stomach and leaping into his throat, knowing that Blair had found the case information Collins had given him, case information that Jim hadn’t looked at since before he met Blair and had hastily hidden the first time he had invited Blair into his home.
Blair looked up at him, blue eyes full of hurt,
“I trusted you,” Blair’s voice was deadly calm and quiet, even as he shook a little from anger and heartbreak. “I love you and this was just a case for you? A game?” Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Blair cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever excuses or taunting words Jim had to say to him. “It might not have been real to you, you bastard, but it was for me.” Blair’s voice shook on the last few words and he desperately tried to hold on to his control, refusing to cry in front of the cop. Standing on unsteady legs, Blair left, taking care to make sure that the door did not slam on the way out.
Jim sat heavily on the sofa, glaring at the innocuous off-white folder that had started all of this. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, trying to decide what to do. His relationship with Blair had never once been about the case and the information he knew about Costello couldn’t fill a teacup.
His skin tingled with the memory of Blair’s lips and fingers and his heart ached at the thought that he would never be able to see the exuberant young man again. His mind played Blair’s parting words back to him over and over, stuck on a constant loop, three words seeming to get louder and more despairing on every repetition, ‘I love you’. It had been the first either of them had acknowledged the feelings that were developing between them and the words had been said in anger, Jim felt something inside of him wrench painfully.
“I love you too Blair,” he whispered to the empty room.
*
Jim waited anxiously outside the Baked Alaska, it had been a week since Blair had found out that he was supposed to be undercover and he was desperate to apologise to him and beg for a second chance. A chance that he was aware he did not deserve.
Reaching the front of the queue, Jim was met by the waitress that had served him that first night. A cold look settled over her otherwise beautiful features,
“I think that you’d better leave Sir,” her voice was polite but firm and the arms crossed across her chest let Jim know that there was no way that she was willingly going to allow him to pass her.
“Please, I have to speak with Blair.” He was not above begging her in order to be able to talk to Blair. With her head, she indicated the two suited men standing either side of her a subtle distance away.
“I’m sorry Sir, but that is not going to be possible.” Sadness flashed briefly in his eyes as he nodded, not willing to cause a scene, certain that was not the way to gain Blair’s forgiveness.
In the weeks that followed, Jim went to the Baked Alaska every Thursday night and every night the serving staff turned him away until one night a man wearing an impeccable black suit waited for him outside, leaning against the wall, the look in his eyes inscrutable. From the photograph Collins had given him, Jim recognised him to be Frank Costello.
Looking up and seeing Ellison standing before him, Costello pushed himself off of the wall and moved towards the bastard responsible for breaking his step-son’s heart.
“Walk with me.” It was an order, not a request and Jim nodded, falling into step with the consigliere.
Costello led him to the park that Blair had first tested Jim’s senses in, the lateness of the hour meaning that many had already left the park, but those still remaining took one look at Costello and decided that it was time to move on.
The gangster turned to look at Jim, his expression still unreadable.
“So, are you going to kill me?” Jim asked, the intense scrutiny and resulting feeling of needing to squirm irritating him. “I know I won’t be the first cop that you’ve killed.”
Jim was unprepared for the fist that crashed into the side of his face, having been expecting Costello to pull a gun on him. The other man laughed at the stunned expression on Jim’s face, guessing the cause.
“I haven’t carried a gun for over ten years, so if I do decide to kill you, it will be with my hands.” Costello’s voice was deadly and Jim had not doubt that he would carry through with his threat. “Second that cop bastard got what was coming to him for raping Blair.”
Jim’s jaw dropped and it felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. Awed by the amount of trust Blair had had for him to allow Jim to touch him in the way that he had and knowing that he had not be worthy of the trust that Blair had placed in him. In a way, what he had done to Blair had been exactly the same, if not worse. If Costello did decide that he was going to beat him to death, then he deserved it and wouldn’t stop him.
Costello watched the play of emotions across Jim’s face with interest and when Jim eventually looked him in the eyes again, he would have had to be blind not to notice the deep guilt staring back at him. Costello stayed silent, waiting to see what Jim had to say for himself.
“I know that it doesn’t look like it,” Jim began, his eyes dropping away from Costello’s, “and I understand if you don’t believe me. But I do love Blair. More than anything. I swear to you, from the moment I saw him, it was never about the case not once. I mean let’s face, I don’t know enough about anything to make an arrest, other than the alcohol that is being served. And even if I did, I’m not sure that I would act on it. Not at the cost of Blair.” Jim took a breath, fighting against the despair welling up in him and the shock at his realisation that he probably wouldn’t have arrested Costello if the opportunity had presented itself. Raising his head to once again look Costello dead in the eyes. “I love him and I would do anything to prove that to him. Anything.”
Costello smiled, knowing what saying that would have cost a man like Jim,
“Anything?” The tone was almost challenging and Jim lifted his chin definitely.
“Yes.”
“Good, meet me at the Baked Alaska next Thursday before it opens.”
*
It had been the slowest week of Jim’s life, the long late summer days stretching into an eternity, yet he found himself hesitating outside the door to the Baked Alaska. At least for the past week he’d had the slight hope that there was a chance that Blair could forgive him but even that small solace could, and probably would, be taken away from him now and he fought the urge to flee.
The decision was taken away from him in the end as Costello swung the door open and gestured him inside. The despairing and terrified look on Jim’s face almost had Costello feeling sorry for him. Leading him over to the door that Jim knew led backstage, Costello paused, his hand gripping Jim’s arm tightly.
“If he does forgive you, and you hurt him again, I will kill you. Understand?” Jim nodded,
“If he does forgive me, I won’t hurt him again.” The conviction in the cop’s voice was enough for Costello and he swung the door open before leaving Jim to continue on his own.
Jim could hear Blair’s heart beating down the corridor and instantly felt calmer, knocking on the door he prayed that Blair would give him a second chance.
Opening the door, a bright smile crossed Blair’s face as he saw Jim, a smile which dropped off of his face less than a second later.
“What do you want?” Blair voice was quiet and full of pain.
“You,” Jim answered just as softly, continuing quickly, even as Blair’s eyes shot to his face. “I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness or for you to take me back. But I love you Blair, so damn much.” Blair gasped and turned away from Jim, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.
Jim walked up behind him and lightly placed his hands on Blair’s shoulders, Blair tensed but didn’t push his hands away, which Jim took to be a good sign.
“Please Blair, tell me what it’ll take to make this right. Please, I love you.” Jim fell silent, not knowing what to say.
Taking Jim’s hands in his, Blair removed them from his shoulders and turned to face him.
“I need to get ready. Go, get something to eat and I’ll see you after the set.” Jim nodded, grateful that Blair hadn’t told him to leave and never come back.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he slipped out of the door, following Blair’s instructions.
Jim was so distracted during his meal that he may as well have been eating sawdust for all the attention he paid it. When Naomi and Blair emerged onto the stage, Blair refused to look at him and Jim felt his heart clench painfully in his chest, what if Blair never forgave him?
By the time the set finished and Blair approached his table, Jim was a wreck, all his worries and doubts showing across his face for all to see. Blair froze, almost willingly to forgo his plan, he knew what a proud and emotionally controlled man Jim was and for him to allow his fears to show on his face let Blair know just how much this was affecting him.
Taking the seat opposite Jim, he held out his hand,
“Hey man, I noticed you staring at me while I was playing, my name’s Blair by the way.” Jim stared at him for a moment before his mind caught up with what Blair was offering him, a fresh start.
“Jim, Jim Ellison,” he said, taking Blair’s hand and shaking it.
“Cool, wanna grab some coffee with me?” Blair smiled at him, invitingly albeit shakily, as though he was not convinced that he had made the right decision. Jim fought the urge to take Blair into his arms and kiss him. It would probably be many months before Blair would welcome a touch like that, but Jim was more than willing to wait. Blair was giving him a second chance and that was all he needed.
“I’d love to,” he grinned back at Blair, happier than he had been in weeks.
FIN
Alternatively, the fic is also here
Enjoy!
Title: The Noble Experiment
Rating: mild PG-13
Disclaimer: Whilst Frank Costello was indeed a real person, he did not do anything mentioned herein and The Sentinel sadly, does not belong to me.
Summary: Prohibition is in full swing and newly transfered Detective James Ellison is sent to case the speak-easy of a local gangster.
A/N: Written for round five of the TS Ficathon, this year’s theme was vices and my prompt was: Sake, Baked Alaska and Aspirin. Also, I did loads of research to make this as historically accurate as possible but I’m sure there are loads of historical inaccuracies in there, so be gentle please!
Bata: Midnightskyrose, thank you so much sweetie!
The Captain’s door flew open with enough force that it hit the wall behind it, the sound echoing throughout the rest of the department. Jim winced, the noise adding to his already pounding head, before smiling wryly, wondering if door banging and shouting was a mandatory element of becoming a police captain.
“Ellison!” The gruff bark was a summons that Jim did not feel the need to argue with.
“Shut the door behind you.” The Captain did not look up from the stack of papers he was reading from and Jim found himself missing Simon, his previous Captain and the only reason he had considered not taking this transfer. Taking a seat in front of the desk, Jim waited for the man to finish reading the report. Sighing, Captain Collins folded his glasses and regarded Jim with his cool green gaze, still unable to read his new Detective. All the reports and recommendations that he had received regarding Detective James Joseph Ellison had been positive, three times Cop of the Year in Texas and one glowing personal reference from Collins’ counterpart in Dallas, all of which contributing to his belief that Ellison would not be bought by any of the five families of New York nor any of the other criminal gangs, something, he was sad to say, he did not believe was true of the majority of his other detectives.
Collins slid a manila folder towards him, it contained, amongst other things, several grainy shots of what appeared to be a restaurant, the sign outside declaring that some broad by the name of Naomi Sandburg was due to sing there the night that the photograph had been taken, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim was aware that he shouldn’t have been able to read that.
“That’s the Baked Alaska,” Collins’ voice cut through his thoughts. “It’s owned by a man by the name of Frank Costello, there should be a picture of him in there somewhere. We believe that Costello is the consigliere for Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano.” Stevens paused, glancing at Jim to see if he recognised Luciano’s name and at Jim’s nod continued speaking. “We’re sure that him and Luciano are behind a number of political protection rackets as well as the sale and supply of alcohol and the murder of at least one Cop. Costello’s a smart bastard and we’ve never been able to make anything stick.” Again Collins’ paused, but this time his gaze rested briefly on a newspaper cutting behind Jim. Visibly shaking himself out of his thoughts, Collins turned back to Jim. “Every Thursday night Costello’s wife performs at the Baked Alaska. From what information I’ve been able to gather, Mrs Costello is the flirty sort, even preferring to perform under her maiden name. You should be able to get close to her. She’ll be your way in.” The last was said less than decisively, as though Collins was merely thinking aloud.
“Undercover Sir?”
“Yes Detective, starting from tomorrow evening,” Collins’ voice was surer this time. “Take that information home with you, learn as much as you can.”
“Very good Sir.” Jim stood and turned towards the door.
“Oh and Ellison,” Collins waited until Jim once again faced him, “tell no one.”
*
Jim grimaced and tugged at the restrictive bow-tie for what had to be the thousandth time that night as he waited to be seated.
Cutlery chinked softly against the china plates and a buzz of conversation filled the air. As Jim sat and perused the menu, a remembered and yet strangely unfamiliar scent tickled at his nose, bringing with it memories of sitting across the table from his father at the dinner table and then retiring to the living room afterwards. Memories of laughing with Steven late at night. Memories of a time when he had been more carefree. But all of that was before the war, before he’d lost his brother in the nightmare expanse of land between the trenches. They’d been stuck in a shell hole for days, Steven slowly dying in his arms. When they had finally been found and pulled back to the relative safety of their dug-outs Steven was beyond human help and he was being plagued by sensory hallucinations.
“You ready to order Sir?” The delicate voice broke him out of his reverie and he smiled up into a pair of radiant green eyes. Glancing back down, he quickly scanned the menu again.
“I’ll have the steak please.”
“And to drink?” The tone of her voice suggested that there was a question within her question and Jim frowned, trying to understand what she was really asking even as he ordered water.
It was only as the waitress walked away that he finally identified the scent that had sent him into his memories in the first place. Though he wasn’t naive enough to believe that all establishments had stopped selling alcohol in accordance with the law, all the other joints that he had raided whilst serving with the Dallas PD had been dark, rundown dives catering to the dregs of the city and not a sophisticated, upmarket place like this.
As he waited for his meal a hush fell over his fellow diners and Jim followed their gaze towards the stage where a stunning redheaded woman was making her way towards the microphone, the soft whisper of her full length silk dress brushing the floor audible across the room.
As she reached the microphone, she turned to the man behind her and Jim’s breath caught in his throat. With shoulder length curly hair and striking features he was the most beautiful man Jim had ever seen. Long suppressed desires and urges rose in him, urges which were ruthlessly clamped down upon.
The man sat down, his hair falling to obscure his face as he bent his head and concentrated on the fret board of the acoustic guitar on his lap, the sound of skin brushing across steel echoed in Jim’s ears as he positions in his fingers on the starting notes. Tucking the errant hair behind his ear, only to have half of it fall back over his face again, he nodded, smiling at the woman and began to play.
Flashing a grin at the sitting man, the woman wrapped delicate hands around the microphone stand, took a breath and began to sing.
“Her voice cracks, it twists and turns me in a way I can’t explain.” The woman was undeniably talented but Jim was captivated by the guitarist, the surety of his strong fingers, the amazing sound he could produce from a simple acoustic guitar, the multitude of colours in those gorgeous curls as the spotlights shone upon them, almost bringing each strand into sharp focus...
A warm, strong hand landed on his shoulder and Jim jumped in shock before blinking and looking around him, the Baked Alaska far emptier than he remembered it being a second ago.
“Hey man, you okay?” Jim started for a second time, looking up into the face of the speaker, he found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of the guitarist.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a headache, thanks uhhhh...” The man grinned before offering his hand to Jim,
“Blair, Blair Sandburg.” Jim smiled in return and shook Blair’s hand, fire shooting through his veins as their skin made contact.
“Jim Ellison.” Blair grinned again and took the chair opposite Jim.
“Well, Jim Ellison, I believe your dinner has turned stone cold,” he paused, motioning over the waitress and requesting that a new meal be brought for Jim and ordered a salad for himself. As he spoke, Jim caught a faint scent of alcohol on his breath, but it was different from the smell of alcohol he remembered, more exotic somehow.
“As for your headache man, I have the perfect thing,” Blair produced a small, ornate pillbox from his jacket pocket and passed a white pill to Jim, who stared dubiously at it, producing a laugh from the man opposite him.
“It’s just Aspirin, they’re good for your heart. I take them every day, but they’ll cure your headache too.” Strangely trusting of this man that he’d only just met, Jim took a mouthful of water before pressing the tablet past his lips and swallowing.
Blair stayed with Jim for the rest of the evening, only pausing in his talk to eat and Jim couldn’t help but smile inwardly as he wondered whether or not he actually stopped in order to breathe.
“So, where did you learn to play like that?” He asked as Blair was raising his glass to his mouth.
“The guy my mom used to sing with taught me,” Jim could tell there was more to the story than that, but he didn’t push.
“Was that your mom singing with you tonight?” Jim couldn’t keep the incredulous tone from his voice.
“Yeah, don’t say it, I know she doesn’t look old enough and if you tell me how hot she is, I swear I will have to hurt you man.” Jim chuckled and held his hands up in surrender.
Blair leaned back in his chair, an embarrassed flush spreading over his skin as a yawn caught him unawares.
“Sorry, long day,” he grinned apologetically.
“It’s not a problem,” Jim assured him before looking at his watch, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s late, no wonder you’re tired. Let me drive you home,” he suggested as he discreetly tried to pay the bill, only to have his hands slapped away.
“My treat man, to say thank you for letting me talk your ears off,” Blair added as Jim began to protest.
“Alright, but I pay next time.” Jim blushed as he realized what he had said.
“Okay, it’s a date.” Jim’s eyes flew to Blair’s mischievously sparkling eyes in shock before nodding shyly but decisively.
It was only when Jim climbed into bed that night, his head and senses full of Blair that he remembered about the assignment.
*
Against his better judgement and desperately trying to remember that he had be instructed to seduce the singer and not her beautiful son, Jim found himself being seated at the Baked Alaska for the second time in two weeks.
Attempting to distract himself from thoughts of Blair, a task with which he’d had little success over the past seven days, Jim began to concentrate on the snatches of conversation going on around him. Men boasting to their wives about how successful their days at work had been and how much money they had made on the stock market. Or men bragging to other men about the beauty of their wives and the sexual talent of their mistresses. Jim grinned wryly, some things just didn’t change from state to state, south to north.
Just as before, a quiet descended over the crowd as Naomi made her way onto the stage, only this time the silence seemed more pronounced. Jim’s mental voice spoke up loudly, I’m here on a case. I’m here on a case. I’m here on a case. Glancing up onto the stage, his breath caught in his throat as he saw Blair was watching him.
The curly haired man maintained eye contact with him as he sat on the stool, flashing an impish smile at Jim and just like that all thoughts of the case dissolved from Jim’s mind. Blair turned his attention to the fret board and Naomi began to sing.
“I gave my heart away. I sold my soul for a promise made. The mask you wore, the mad charade... Will I ever learn?” I’m so screwed, Jim thought before allowing himself to enjoy both the show and his meal.
The set ended to thunderous applause and Naomi bowed slightly, waving at the crowd before whispering,
“Namaste,” and leaving the stage.
It was mere minutes before Jim felt Blair’s approach, his frenetic natural energy not the least bit depleted from his time on stage, the faint scent of foreign alcohol clinging to his breath.
“Jim,” the smile was audible in his voice as he sat, “I wasn’t sure you were going to show tonight man.”
“Hey, I promised you a meal and I don’t stand my dates up.” A soft shy smile stole over Blair’s features as he sat.
“So man, I have a theory about what happened last week.” Jim’s puzzled expression was more than eloquent of how he felt. “About half way through the set last week I glanced up and you were just staring at the stage. Like you were there but you weren’t y’know?” Blair explained, a hesitant look in his eyes, unsure of how Jim would react to what he was saying. “And it wasn’t until you were touched that you started responding again.” Jim nodded, willing to see where Blair was going with this, his shoulder tingling in remembered sensation. “And it reminded me of something and I gotta ask, what are your senses like?” As Blair talked, Jim could hear the excitement rising in his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Noises that shouldn’t be loud? Smelling things that no one else can smell? Weird visuals? Tastebuds off the map? Extra sensitive touchy-feely?” Blair’s words brought memories better left forgotten back to Jim’s mind, arguments with Carolyn as sensory hallucination after sensory hallucination strained their already troubled marriage.
“How can you know that?” Jim’s voice was quiet, amazed that someone could describe what was happening to him and not be shocked and frightened about it.
“I have this monograph by Sir Richard Burton, an English explorer who died around thirty-six years ago,” Blair stood suddenly, excitement shining from his beautiful blue eyes. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Nodding at the suited man standing discreetly near the door, Blair slipped backstage, talking all the while. “It’s called The Sentinels of Paraguay and has been disputed ever since it was published. Frank, Naomi’s husband, bought me a copy a few years ago. I brought it with me tonight, just in case y’know?”
Blair pushed the door to his dressing room open and stood aside to allow Jim to pass. A leather-bound book lay on the dressing table and Blair began to flick through it, cursing himself for not marking the page. Jim looked around the room, surprised at the amount of things that Blair had been able to cram into a relatively small space. His attention was drawn to two huge wooden masks that were hanging on the wall, the likes of which he had never seen before.
Turning back to Blair, he found him smiling at him,
“They’re really something huh man?” Jim nodded and turned back to the masks, running a hand down the side of one. “Me and Naomi picked them up in Africa when we visited a few years back.” The dark tone that Blair had had when talking about Naomi’s former guitar player was back in his voice, but he shook it off, offering the Burton monograph to Jim.
“Burton says that every tribal village he visited had what he called a Sentinel, someone who patrolled the border, like a... a watchman. The Sentinel would watch for approaching enemies, change in weather, movement of game. Tribe survival depended on it. This Sentinel would have a sensory awareness that can be developed beyond normal humans, senses which would normally be honed by time spent in the wild. Anything like that happen to you?” Jim’s mind flashed on Steven’s barely conscious body cradled in his arms.
“Yes.” The tone brooked no further questioning and Blair fell silent, unsure of whether or not Jim was angry with him. Jim, laid a hand on his shoulder in apology, his voice quiet, he offered only one word for an explanation, “Marne.” Blair rested his hand briefly atop Jim’s, squeezing gently. At the touch of Blair’s fingers, Jim’s heart rate skyrocketed, without his volition his sense of touch flared, allowing him to feel each ridge of unique design on Blair’s finger pads, the roughness of the calluses from years of playing guitar, the comparative softness of the rest of his hand.
“So what do you say?” Jim looked at Blair, confusion showing in his eyes.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” At hint of a smile played across Blair’s face, almost as if he were aware of what had distracted Jim.
“I can help, with your senses, if you’ll let me. I mean, Burton talks about these Sentinels having a partner a... a Guide, if you will, that watched their backs and pulled them back when they got too lost within their senses.” Blair was babbling now, desperate to spend more time with the taller, handsome man, both because he had been curious about Sentinels since he’d read the monograph, when they had become fantasy protectors and an escape for him during one of the darkest periods in his life and because he’d been intrigued by Jim since he’d seen him sitting in the Baked Alaska a week ago.
The hand that had been resting on Blair’s shoulder moved to his neck, thumb stroking gently. Blair’s gaze shot to Jim’s face in shock, but he made no attempt to move away.
“Like you did the other day?” Jim asked, his voice quiet. Blair nodded, stepping closer without being consciously aware of it. “Guess that makes you my Guide then,” he whispered, lowering his head and claiming those tempting lips.
Blair’s pulse beat wildly under Jim’s hand, first from the surprise and then in arousal as his gasp allowed Jim to deepen the kiss. Someone stumbled down the corridor outside, banging into Blair’s door on the way past and the two jumped away from each other, fearful of being caught together.
“It’s late, let me walk you home.” Jim breathed, kissing him gently again before stepping away.
Darkness bathed the city as they exited the Baked Alaska and the slowly descending full moon bathed Blair in its glow, taking Jim’s breath away with the man’s beauty. A cat shrieked in the distance as the two walked through a park. Blair stopped abruptly, smiling at Jim’s questioning look.
“Over there are rose bushes,” his voice seeming louder in the darkness as he indicated the direction of the roses several feet away. “Can you smell them?”
Jim closed his eyes as he scented the stillness of the air and was almost immediately overcome by the very distracting smell of the man next to him, fighting the urge to lose himself in Blair, he followed the smaller man’s instructions, his eyes flying open when he detected the distinctive smell of June roses. Blair just smiled, the awed expression on Jim’s face telling him all he needed to know.
*
The weeks passed and the two grew ever closer. Every Thursday before Blair spent the afternoon testing the limits of Jim’s senses, before the two would make their way to the Baked Alaska, Jim sitting in the restaurant, as close as he could get to the stage, as he waited for Blair to finish his set and then the two of them would have dinner together.
One such Thursday, Jim was sitting blindfolded at his kitchen table as Blair opened various jars and bottles that he had brought with him, getting Jim to guess the contents of the containers by scent alone, Jim admitted something that he had noticed the first time he had met Blair.
“When you come to the table after playing, I can smell the lingering traces of a foreign alcohol.”
Blair grinned, stunned at the strength of Jim’s senses, stroking the side of Jim’s face, he removed the blindfold before speaking.
“It’s called Sake,” he explained, not the least bit disturbed that he was confessing to illegal activities to Jim. “Me and Naomi visited Japan the year before she married Frank, a group of Shinto monks invited me to partake in a purification ritual. It was an honour, not something that they offer to outsiders, particularly not white men. Now it’s something I do before I go on stage...” The rest of Blair’s explaination was lost to Jim’s plundering mouth as Jim, astounded by the trust Blair had him, kissed him to stop him from incriminating himself any further.
Blair’s breathing hitched and pressed against Jim’s body, one leg rising to wind around Jim’s hips, before gasping as Jim lifted him so that he was sat on the table. Jim’s hands fell to the buttons on Blair’s shirt, silently asking permission. Pulling back a fraction, Blair whispered his assent, his own hands moving under Jim’s shirt and stroking across the warm skin he found there. Humming his pleasure, Jim reclaimed Blair’s lips in deep kiss, his fingers stroking along Blair’s arms as he removed Blair’s shirt, before tossing it behind him to land somewhere in the open plan living area, with the rest of his and Blair’s clothes following soon after as inhibitions were lost and desires built.
Pulling away, Jim gasped for breath before shyly and hesitantly offering his hand to Blair and leading him up the stairs when Blair’s warm, strong hand gripped his.
*
Blair awoke several hours later, content to lie within the circle of Jim’s arms, until he saw the clock on Jim’s wall. Biting back a curse, he pressed a kiss over Jim’s heart before slipping out of bed and padding down the stairs in search of his clothes.
Jim’s living room looked like it had been the site of a fabric explosion and Blair couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across of his features and stayed there as he dressed. As he was bending down to retrieve his shirt, he caught sight of the corner of a manila folder under the couch. Curious, he shrugged into his shirt and pulled out the folder and began to read, tears filling his eyes as his mind processed what it meant.
Concerned at waking alone, Jim sent his senses out in search of Blair, hearing his elevated pulse rate downstairs, Jim swung himself out of bed and started down the steps. Halfway down, Jim froze, his heart simultaneously sinking into his stomach and leaping into his throat, knowing that Blair had found the case information Collins had given him, case information that Jim hadn’t looked at since before he met Blair and had hastily hidden the first time he had invited Blair into his home.
Blair looked up at him, blue eyes full of hurt,
“I trusted you,” Blair’s voice was deadly calm and quiet, even as he shook a little from anger and heartbreak. “I love you and this was just a case for you? A game?” Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Blair cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever excuses or taunting words Jim had to say to him. “It might not have been real to you, you bastard, but it was for me.” Blair’s voice shook on the last few words and he desperately tried to hold on to his control, refusing to cry in front of the cop. Standing on unsteady legs, Blair left, taking care to make sure that the door did not slam on the way out.
Jim sat heavily on the sofa, glaring at the innocuous off-white folder that had started all of this. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, trying to decide what to do. His relationship with Blair had never once been about the case and the information he knew about Costello couldn’t fill a teacup.
His skin tingled with the memory of Blair’s lips and fingers and his heart ached at the thought that he would never be able to see the exuberant young man again. His mind played Blair’s parting words back to him over and over, stuck on a constant loop, three words seeming to get louder and more despairing on every repetition, ‘I love you’. It had been the first either of them had acknowledged the feelings that were developing between them and the words had been said in anger, Jim felt something inside of him wrench painfully.
“I love you too Blair,” he whispered to the empty room.
*
Jim waited anxiously outside the Baked Alaska, it had been a week since Blair had found out that he was supposed to be undercover and he was desperate to apologise to him and beg for a second chance. A chance that he was aware he did not deserve.
Reaching the front of the queue, Jim was met by the waitress that had served him that first night. A cold look settled over her otherwise beautiful features,
“I think that you’d better leave Sir,” her voice was polite but firm and the arms crossed across her chest let Jim know that there was no way that she was willingly going to allow him to pass her.
“Please, I have to speak with Blair.” He was not above begging her in order to be able to talk to Blair. With her head, she indicated the two suited men standing either side of her a subtle distance away.
“I’m sorry Sir, but that is not going to be possible.” Sadness flashed briefly in his eyes as he nodded, not willing to cause a scene, certain that was not the way to gain Blair’s forgiveness.
In the weeks that followed, Jim went to the Baked Alaska every Thursday night and every night the serving staff turned him away until one night a man wearing an impeccable black suit waited for him outside, leaning against the wall, the look in his eyes inscrutable. From the photograph Collins had given him, Jim recognised him to be Frank Costello.
Looking up and seeing Ellison standing before him, Costello pushed himself off of the wall and moved towards the bastard responsible for breaking his step-son’s heart.
“Walk with me.” It was an order, not a request and Jim nodded, falling into step with the consigliere.
Costello led him to the park that Blair had first tested Jim’s senses in, the lateness of the hour meaning that many had already left the park, but those still remaining took one look at Costello and decided that it was time to move on.
The gangster turned to look at Jim, his expression still unreadable.
“So, are you going to kill me?” Jim asked, the intense scrutiny and resulting feeling of needing to squirm irritating him. “I know I won’t be the first cop that you’ve killed.”
Jim was unprepared for the fist that crashed into the side of his face, having been expecting Costello to pull a gun on him. The other man laughed at the stunned expression on Jim’s face, guessing the cause.
“I haven’t carried a gun for over ten years, so if I do decide to kill you, it will be with my hands.” Costello’s voice was deadly and Jim had not doubt that he would carry through with his threat. “Second that cop bastard got what was coming to him for raping Blair.”
Jim’s jaw dropped and it felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. Awed by the amount of trust Blair had had for him to allow Jim to touch him in the way that he had and knowing that he had not be worthy of the trust that Blair had placed in him. In a way, what he had done to Blair had been exactly the same, if not worse. If Costello did decide that he was going to beat him to death, then he deserved it and wouldn’t stop him.
Costello watched the play of emotions across Jim’s face with interest and when Jim eventually looked him in the eyes again, he would have had to be blind not to notice the deep guilt staring back at him. Costello stayed silent, waiting to see what Jim had to say for himself.
“I know that it doesn’t look like it,” Jim began, his eyes dropping away from Costello’s, “and I understand if you don’t believe me. But I do love Blair. More than anything. I swear to you, from the moment I saw him, it was never about the case not once. I mean let’s face, I don’t know enough about anything to make an arrest, other than the alcohol that is being served. And even if I did, I’m not sure that I would act on it. Not at the cost of Blair.” Jim took a breath, fighting against the despair welling up in him and the shock at his realisation that he probably wouldn’t have arrested Costello if the opportunity had presented itself. Raising his head to once again look Costello dead in the eyes. “I love him and I would do anything to prove that to him. Anything.”
Costello smiled, knowing what saying that would have cost a man like Jim,
“Anything?” The tone was almost challenging and Jim lifted his chin definitely.
“Yes.”
“Good, meet me at the Baked Alaska next Thursday before it opens.”
*
It had been the slowest week of Jim’s life, the long late summer days stretching into an eternity, yet he found himself hesitating outside the door to the Baked Alaska. At least for the past week he’d had the slight hope that there was a chance that Blair could forgive him but even that small solace could, and probably would, be taken away from him now and he fought the urge to flee.
The decision was taken away from him in the end as Costello swung the door open and gestured him inside. The despairing and terrified look on Jim’s face almost had Costello feeling sorry for him. Leading him over to the door that Jim knew led backstage, Costello paused, his hand gripping Jim’s arm tightly.
“If he does forgive you, and you hurt him again, I will kill you. Understand?” Jim nodded,
“If he does forgive me, I won’t hurt him again.” The conviction in the cop’s voice was enough for Costello and he swung the door open before leaving Jim to continue on his own.
Jim could hear Blair’s heart beating down the corridor and instantly felt calmer, knocking on the door he prayed that Blair would give him a second chance.
Opening the door, a bright smile crossed Blair’s face as he saw Jim, a smile which dropped off of his face less than a second later.
“What do you want?” Blair voice was quiet and full of pain.
“You,” Jim answered just as softly, continuing quickly, even as Blair’s eyes shot to his face. “I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness or for you to take me back. But I love you Blair, so damn much.” Blair gasped and turned away from Jim, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.
Jim walked up behind him and lightly placed his hands on Blair’s shoulders, Blair tensed but didn’t push his hands away, which Jim took to be a good sign.
“Please Blair, tell me what it’ll take to make this right. Please, I love you.” Jim fell silent, not knowing what to say.
Taking Jim’s hands in his, Blair removed them from his shoulders and turned to face him.
“I need to get ready. Go, get something to eat and I’ll see you after the set.” Jim nodded, grateful that Blair hadn’t told him to leave and never come back.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he slipped out of the door, following Blair’s instructions.
Jim was so distracted during his meal that he may as well have been eating sawdust for all the attention he paid it. When Naomi and Blair emerged onto the stage, Blair refused to look at him and Jim felt his heart clench painfully in his chest, what if Blair never forgave him?
By the time the set finished and Blair approached his table, Jim was a wreck, all his worries and doubts showing across his face for all to see. Blair froze, almost willingly to forgo his plan, he knew what a proud and emotionally controlled man Jim was and for him to allow his fears to show on his face let Blair know just how much this was affecting him.
Taking the seat opposite Jim, he held out his hand,
“Hey man, I noticed you staring at me while I was playing, my name’s Blair by the way.” Jim stared at him for a moment before his mind caught up with what Blair was offering him, a fresh start.
“Jim, Jim Ellison,” he said, taking Blair’s hand and shaking it.
“Cool, wanna grab some coffee with me?” Blair smiled at him, invitingly albeit shakily, as though he was not convinced that he had made the right decision. Jim fought the urge to take Blair into his arms and kiss him. It would probably be many months before Blair would welcome a touch like that, but Jim was more than willing to wait. Blair was giving him a second chance and that was all he needed.
“I’d love to,” he grinned back at Blair, happier than he had been in weeks.
FIN
Alternatively, the fic is also here
Enjoy!