Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to Pet Fly and Paramount Television.

I. Vulgar: lewdly or profanely indecent

"Man, what a mess." Blair stood over the victim, wrinkling his nose. "I haven't smelled anything like this since...ever, actually."

"I've smelled corpses that make this one seem like a fucking flower garden." Jim knelt next to the body and rolled it over carefully. "Looks like your average businessman. Nice suit - expensive."

"Those dress shoes must have cost him a couple hundred." Now Blair was in there, too, cataloging every detail. That meticulous methodology he once brought to academic life had come in handy with police work.

Jim looked over the victim - really looked, in the ways Blair couldn't. "There's some sort of fuzz all over his shirt. Like lint."

Blair bent down and took a scraping of the material, swiping along the line Jim indicated although he couldn't see anything there.

"He wasn't killed here, either. There's not enough blood. Must have been dumped."

"This area's pretty dark and quiet at night. But busy during the day. Not the best place to drop a body if you want it to stay hidden."

"This isn't a professional job." Jim tipped the body to one side and looked at the exit wounds. "Little bit of overkill, here. Six shots and not one of them to the head."

Blair gestured to the items scattered around the body. "Careful, they weren't."

"Good point. Let's get this stuff bagged up and get out of here."

"What's with you today? Did you fall off the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"No. I tripped over your shit on the way down the stairs, though."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Blair took the bag from Jim with an impatient grab. "You threw the jeans there on the way up. I wasn't in a position to pick them up and fold them at the time."

"What position were you in, exactly? Remind me."

"Listen, we have work to do. Are you going to hang around here all day thinking about my ass, or are we going back to the station and try to solve this murder?"

"Tough choice."

"Asshole." Blair smiled.

II. Desecrate: to treat disrespectfully, outrageously or irreverently

"Sandburg, could you please get your ass over here and look at this sometime today?" Jim shoved the two evidence bags toward Blair. "You might want to take some notes instead of relying on mine for a change. Since you say my notes don't make any sense."

"They don't." Blair picked up the bags and dumped the contents on the desk. "Your notes suck. How'd you make it this far without me?"

"Must be natural ability."

Blair made a noise, something like a cough but not quite a snort. "Must be bullshit." He opened the wallet in his hand, pawed through it, tossed it aside. "Not even a condom."

"Couldn't have been a Boy Scout." Jim deposited the wallet back in the bag, along with a cell phone and assorted papers.

"No ID." Blair opened the small key case and dutifully made an entry in his field book about each key, numbering them. "I'll have the lab check each of these for prints. Anything on the paper scraps?"

"Nothing helpful. Undated convenience store receipts and a receipt for video rentals - Armageddon and Terminator II."

Blair winced. "I'd hate to be his date for that double feature."

"You got something against testosterone?"

"Aside from the question of his bad taste, no, I've got no problem with it. In case you hadn't noticed, I've got a big fucking craving for testosterone in the worst way."

"Just asking. Speaking of cravings, you think we could get lunch after this?"

"We need that phone number, too." Blair pointed his pencil at the cell phone. "Battery's dead. Got to get the phone charged up."

"How 'bout Mexican? Let's try Rudy's. They don't get a big lunch crowd."

"Fuck tacos. Let's go home for lunch."

"Fuck lunch. There are better ways to spend that hour."

Jim grinned; Blair grinned back.

III. Coarse: crude or unrefined in manners, taste or language

"What are you having?"

"I don't know. I don't have a menu." Blair reached over and swiped the small laminated card out of Jim's hand.

"Get your own fucking menu!" A moment later, the menu was back in Jim's possession.

"Fuck you," Blair said amiably, shoving back his chair with a violent motion. He retrieved a menu from a nearby table. "The taco salad sounds good."

"You're ordering first this time. I'm not living through that I Love Lucy episode again, with you changing your mind once I've ordered."

"Oh, like it's such a big damn hardship." Blair rolled his eyes. "What, do you own the pencil factory? Do those erasers cost you money or something?"

"It's annoying. Not to mention what it says about your state of mind and the fact that you can't stick to your decisions."

Blair scrutinized him, squinting. "What?"

"You heard me. You're a flake."

"You've got some nerve, Ellison. This from a guy who spent ten minutes this morning going through his closet choosing a shirt. In-fucking-credible."

"Yeah, well. At least I don't wait till you've chosen a shirt and then go back upstairs and pick another one, do I?"

"If you did, I'd leave you."

"The hell you say. What are you ordering?"

"None of your damn business."

"What'll it be, guys?" Their waitress was pretty, cheerful, entirely pleasant.

Jim opened his mouth to speak and heard Blair's voice, beating him by a millisecond.

"I'll have the enchilada platter. Extra beans and rice."

"I'll have the same," Jim said immediately.

"Sonofabitch," Blair said, grinning. "Just like you to fuck up my joke."

"I like the enchiladas. What can I say?"

"You can give me a theory. Tell me why this guy has finely milled textile fibers all over him."

Jim munched a tortilla chip, musing over the question. "There are only two textile factories in town. One's been closed for years - building's abandoned. The other manufactures carpet fiber."

"That's not a theory, Jim. That's a history of commerce and industry in Cascade."

"I hate to promote the obvious here, but maybe out perp was after something in one of those textile factories." Jim's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. "Ellison."

Blair scooped up a pile of salsa on a chip and stuffed it in his mouth. "I wonder why they never call me on my cell phone? What am I, some kind of loser? They think I can't figure out what the pretty buttons are for?" Jim waved a hand at him; Blair obediently fell silent until Jim shut the phone with a snap.

"Got an ID on the victim. David Cornish, 44. Owns several buildings downtown and has shares in the carpet factory. His wife made the identification."

"Poor wife. Guess we'd better go grill her for information. Man, I hate that part."

"You're not the only one." Jim picked up the salt and shook a generous amount onto a salsa-laden chip.

"You're going to have a heart attack. You're going to die young. Your blood pressure can't be even close to normal." Blair stared at him. Jim leisurely dropped two more shakes of salt on the chip.

"Mind your own fucking business. It's better than that bland shit you made last night - what the hell was that, anyway?"

"Tahini. And never mind. You are such a-"

"Do you kiss your mother with a mouth like that?"

"Not like I kiss you. Want me to remind you how I do it?"

Jim dropped his chip.

IV. Profane: serving to debase or defile; to treat with irreverence or contempt

"I do not snore. You've lost your fucking mind."

"Oh, yeah. Right. I could have sworn I heard you sawing logs last night. Matter of fact, you were cutting down the whole goddamn forest. Right in my ear, actually."

"Maybe we should put that wax back in your ears. Since you are so obviously delusional. I mean, come on, man. I've never snored."

"Could be the altitude. Maybe we should move you back downstairs to your own little bed. Where you won't make noise."

"Try it and I'll be forced to stop dusting the bric-a-brac. And you know what that means."

"Yeah. Death by dust bunnies."

"Don't make me go there, Jim. I'm begging you."

"Shut up." Jim's smirk spread all the way across his face. "Can we get back to business, please? So the wife says this guy had seven keys with him, and two are missing. House, car, office, storage shed, house safe, and keys to two of his properties."

"Good that she keeps track of these things."

"That's what wives do. Trust me, I know. They also keep track of automatic teller numbers and dust the bric-a-brac."

Blair's laughter was contagious. Before long, Jim was chuckling too.

"David One Five Two." The radio chirped at them. Blair picked up the handset.

"David One Five Two."

"One Five Two, meet Charlie Three Seven on tack two."

"10-4." Blair switched over quickly. "Simon?"

"Sandburg. I'm out here at the riverfront. That surveillance paid off. We've arrested a suspect; he had several keys in his pockets. One of them is a match to the victim's office."

"Copy that; we'll see you at the station." Blair glanced over at Jim. "Is it just me, or do we seem to pull the easiest fucking cases in the history of police work?"

"It's because we're the best goddamn detectives in the history of police work."

"Hmm. I didn't even get a chance to exercise my phenomenal investigative skills. I'm underused."

"I can fix that little problem."

"Don't tease me."

V. Filthy: offensively dirty

"Sandburg, I swear to god, if you don't get out of that shower this very fucking minute-"

"I'm out." Blair climbed out of the shower, dripping on the tiles. "Where's the bath mat? Where's my towel?"

"You threw it in the laundry this morning and there's nothing clean."

"I used to remember to do the towels on the weekends. You should have reminded me." Blair swiped the towel from around Jim's shoulders and began to dry himself off. "Did you use my razor again?"

"Payback's a bitch." Jim slapped down the razor and grinned. "I can't keep a bottle of shampoo filled in this house because of you. Deal with it."

"I'll deal with it, all right," Blair muttered, picking up the small steel object and eyeing the blade. "What are you wearing tonight?"

"What are you in the mood for?"

"Hot sex."

"You think Simon and Daryl will mind if we're late for the game?"

VI. Obscene: abhorrent to morality or virtue; designed to incite lust or depravity

"Say it, baby," Jim said, low and dark, pushing his cock inside Blair. Blair moaned, bucking back against the thrusts. His face was obscured by the pillow. "Blair!"

"I...can't!" The words were just a gasp, just a breath of desire.

"Say it...oh, fuck, Blair, just say it!"

"I...you...please, Jim." The raw need in Blair's voice went straight to Jim's heart.

"Tell me what you want. What you need." Jim slowed his strokes, pressing deep, changing the angle so the objective of each gliding thrust was to bring Blair pleasure.

"Oh...oh..." The soft moans almost made Jim come, simple from the sheer lush erotic thrill of hearing Blair unraveling.

"Say it, oh goddamn, say it, fucking say it..."

"Jim!" Blair cried out and came, and the sight of those muscles tensed beneath him, the spine arched, the hands clenched in the blankets, threw Jim into orgasm as well.

After a moment, he withdrew and burrowed up against Blair, enfolding him in a loose, gentle embrace. "I can't believe you can't say it," he said, chuckling, gently biting Blair's tempting earlobe.

"Fuck off," Blair murmured. Jim snorted with laughter.

"Why won't you say it when I'm inside you?"

"Because. It's dirty."

Now Jim was out of control, just completely helpless to stop the laughter that bubbled up inside him and spilled out into Blair's hair. "Dirty?" he gasped. "I'm fucking you senseless, I'm saying filthy things to you, and you asking me to fuck you is dirty?"

"It's about love, Jim." Blair was laughing, too, but his words were serious. "I'm not going to do it. I'm just not."

"Okay, okay." Jim buried his face in Blair's neck, licking away at the small love bite he'd left earlier. "When you say it, I'll probably come just from surprise at hearing it."

"I'm not going to say it. Didn't you hear me?"

"I'm incredibly persuasive. I'll change your mind."

"The hell you say."

"Exactly."

End