Title: ALL THAT
Author/pseudonym: Candy Apple 
Email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com
Rating: E- 
Pairings: J/B (Pre-slash)
Category: Pre-slash, Humor, Drama
Status: NEW, complete
Date: 09-2-00
Archive: YES
Archive author: Candy Apple 
Archive email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com
Series/Sequel: First of two stories.  "Landing in Love" follows.


Disclaimers: Pet Fly owns the guys and The Sentinel.  No money being
made.  Just for fun.

Notes: This story was inspired by a song on Collin Raye's new CD,
"Tracks" ("She's All That").  Generally I'm not a country music person,
but there's an exception to every rule. <g>  No infringement on the
rights of whomever owns those lyrics is intended.   I have no idea if
"You're Lookin' Better, I'm Gettin' Drunker" is a real song, but it ought
to be.

<<>> Denotes song lyrics
// Denotes thoughts

Summary: During an annoying undercover assignment, Jim gets
inspired by a song, and reaches a decision.

Warnings: Song lyrics, no actual bed bouncing, Jim's musings,
irreverent references to dolls, un-PC thoughts about barmaids,
language...  That about covers it.

****************************************************

ALL THAT

by

Candy Apple


     I'd like to choke the living shit out of the asshole who suggested
I'd be perfect for this undercover assignment.  Even if it was the Vice
captain.  But then, he always was an asshole, so this is nothing new.  

     This is the third night I've spent gagging on second-hand smoke,
playing pool with rednecks and trying to pretend I want to catch the eye
of the tough blonde who tends bar.  She's got more miles on her than
my truck.

     This particular ring of car thieves favors hayseed music, pool,
well-worn barmaids and watered down beer.  In other words, the
Hitchin' Post is their idea of Nirvana.  If the jerk who keeps playing the
same fucking song on the jukebox wasn't six-foot-six--both in height
and width--and I wasn't a cop, I'd kill the bastard.  If I hear the refrain
to "You're Lookin' Better, I'm Gettin' Drunker" one more time, I'll
either shoot him or myself.  Whatever it takes to stop the pain.

     Pain...that's another thing.  My head pounds steadily from when
I get here until I leave.  I can't bring Blair along on this assignment,
because these guys would eat him for lunch.  Or I'd end up calling in
back-up and blowing the operation because some cretin pulled his hair
or slapped his ass and I felt compelled to rip the fucker's head off and
spit down his neck.

     That's another thing I've had time to think about while I sit here,
my butt atrophying on the barstool.  Initially, I figured Blair is younger
and smaller and not a cop--he really is a neo-hippie version of the nutty
professor, so that's why the whole protective instinct goes into
overdrive.  He can take care of himself, but nobody that looks like he
does and isn't armed could take care of himself in a place like this.  So
that's why I have such homicidal thoughts about someone hassling him
in here--because these guys would play rough.  If they didn't want a
piece of his action, they'd still figure he was a good diversion since
pool is getting old, and they outlawed dwarf-tossing.

     I know there's more to it than that.  I've had this half-assed
assignment to thank for that.  Three nights of zero intellectual
stimulation does that to a person after a while--you turn inward and
start messing with your own head, because God knows there's no other
worthwhile head available to mess with.   Well, there's Barbi the
bartender.  She leaves the "E" off the end.  Trust me, there are a host of
other ways in which she does *not* resemble her namesake...of course,
I read somewhere that if a real woman were built like one of those
dolls, they'd be too top heavy to stand up and their hips would be too
narrow to bear children.  Not that it would be much of an issue, since
they have no genitals and their legs don't spread.
     
     Please don't ask me to explain how I know that.  I just...do.

     At any rate, maybe it's because Blair would know how to get rid
of this headache for me.  He'd charm Barbi, give a running commentary
on the anthropological theories the denizens of this sty represented, and
he'd make me laugh.  In the middle of all this...shit...I'd be laughing.  I
could shut out the smoke by focusing in on the smell of him--his soap,
his shampoo, the leather in his jacket...who the hell am I kidding?  His
body, his hair, his breath...all the smells that are *Blair*.  I could shut
out that goddamned song by listening to his voice, and somehow, he'd
make something fun out of this.  An adventure.  

     <<You're lookin' better, I'm gettin' drunker...>> 

     Fuck that jukebox.  Right now I'd forfeit my pension and face
brutality charges just to stick that guy's head through the glass.

     The song mercifully ended, and some other guy went over and
picked something out.  I scanned the bar again for any sign of the guy
who allegedly hung out here, but saw nothing.  Either he was onto us,
or he didn't hang out here anymore.  Maybe it was the music...

     Thankfully, the next song had a better beat to it, and it wasn't
quite as depressing.  A few people were actually dancing to this one. 
My toe was tapping.  Shit...three nights in a hayseed bar and my
fucking toe tapped involuntarily.  In a cowboy boot.  If they make me
sit here another three nights, I'll have to be deprogrammed.

<<She was singin' love me tender at the local karaoke.
I knew right then and there I had found my one and only>>

     //At least she looked good before you got drunk, and you're
building a firm foundation for a lasting relationship.// I snorted at my
own humor and tried to avoid breathing too deeply as the guy next to
me lit another cheap cigarette.

<<She takes my breath away every time I see her
Just couldn't wait for all my boys to meet her
She's got season tickets and sweet pouty lips
She's all that, well-equipped>>

     //Sounds like Sandburg.  He *did* score those season Jags
tickets in that drawing he entered in the sporting goods
store...everybody in the bullpen loves him...he's got the lip thing
covered...//

<<She's all that, she loves to ride in my pick-up truck>>

     //Sandburg...//

<<She can throw a split finger and she's got her own glove.
When she sinks a twenty-footer, man, I know I'm in love>>

     //Does she ever knock out gun-wielding drug lords with a 
well-placed pitch?//

<<She only gets mad when she misses SportsCenter,
She's all that, even tempered>>

     //I hate to break this to you, bud, but she's a guy in drag and
your buddies are havin' one hell of a laugh.// I took another swig of the
watery beer.  

<<She's all that, she swings a nine handicap,
She's all that, she looks sexy in a baseball cap>>

     //I never *have* gotten around to getting Blair out on a golf
course.  He did look pretty cute in that baseball cap he had on at the PD
picnic, with that big hunk of curls hanging out the back of it.// I
glanced up at Barbi. //Still no sale.  Is she ugly enough to make me get
hot for my male partner?  Or was I already halfway there before? 
Damn it, is that guy around who likes that other song?  It was less
complicated.//

<<She's all that, she makes me wanna lay it on the line,
She's all that, she's all mine>>

     //She's all that, she's *a guy*.  A guy who's all mine.  Sort of.  A
guy who lives with me, basically builds his schedule around mine, and
is there for me if I've got a hangnail or am blind from a designer drug. 
Does he make me "wanna lay it on the line"?  Would I feel better about
laying it on the line if he had boobs and no chest hair?//

<<She's a perfect combination, 
Got my defense off the field,
Every day's an education,
Got my head spinnin' like a spoke inside a wheel.>>

     //Every day's an education, all right.  If it's not an anthropology
lecture on the way in to work, it's a painfully detailed account of
whatever book he happened to pick up and *devour* in one sitting the
night before.//

<<Goin' home to baby sure is fine
She's all that, she's all mine...>>

     //Going home to Blair right now sure would be fine.  And
there's apparently no fucking reason for me to stick around here.  Three
nights is long enough in a place that was always an every night hang
out for this prince.  Either somebody made me, or the redneck and his
band of thieves have moved on.//

     I tossed a few bills on the bar, and headed for the door.  Once I
was in the truck, I let out a relieved sigh, then started up the engine and
headed for home.  

     Assuming, of course, that Blair would be so delighted with my
revelation of love that he would fly into my arms, we'd kiss,
symphonies would play, and we'd live happily ever after.  I never
entertained the idea that he might get pissed off and deck me.

     Nah, Blair won't do that.  After all, he's all that...and he's all
mine.

********
THE END