Early

by akablonded

Fandom: Sentinel

Pairing: Jim/Blair

Rating: NC-17

Early

by akablonded

8:15.

I, Blair Jacob Sandburg, am early. For the first time in I don't remember how long, I'm someplace I have to be before I have to be there.

Alert the media.

I'd spent the day slaving over a Cascade Police Department crime statistics analysis that needed to be finished A.S.A.P. Major Crimes detective and Sentinel Jim Ellison, my partner and the senior member of our team, assigned the paperwork to me. (Being low man on the totem pole sucks. Big time.) He got bitching privileges. ("Christ, when will these damned bureaucrats stop with the reports already and let us do our jobs?") Simon Banks, our captain, boss, and friend, will get the bragging rights or the flak from the mayor if the study isn't worth the paper it's printed on. ("This is the kind of thing you do best, Blair, my boy. So, no arguments. It's your baby, but I'm the proud papa. I want you to make the department look good.") No pressure, right?

But even after 14 hours of mind-dulling, butt-numbing archival research, yours truly arrived at the appointed place before my roommate could speed dial and yell "Where the hell are you, Sandburg? Didn't I ask you to pick me up at 8:30? Can't you ever be anywhere ..." Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Truth is, I'm ... flexible with time. Like the Navajo. Early and late are relative terms. Most people in my immediate circle are fairly comfortable with my perceptions of the dimension and make allowances accordingly.

Not Jim "I have a circadian rhythm that's within 3/10 of a second accuracy" Ellison.

James Joseph Ellison. The 6'1", 200 lb., hair-challenged, 40-something itch I can't scratch. The zig to my zag. The black and white to my rainbow. The yin to my yang.

The unrequited love of my life.

Because of electrical problems (again), the Police Department gym and boxing ring was down for the count (am I one witty bastard, or what?). So, my buff friend took up Detective Brian Rafe's offer to work out at Spa d'Oro, Cascade's trendiest health club after work. (Sure, Jim's desk was *clean,* dammit, so he had plenty of time.) Rafe uses working out as an acceptable tool in his ever-expanding GQ social life. Jim just does it almost daily because he's ... well, Jim. Nike would be proud. It's not vanity, a way to have the best body west of the Rockies (although God knows he does, damn him.) It's because a well-tuned, physically fit "instrument" is just the price of doing business for Cop of the Year three years running. Maybe it's part genetics, combined with being a Sentinel. See, Jim was born with five extraordinarily heightened senses which I've helped him learn how to control. As a "back-up," his body has to be ready for anything life can throw at him, whether it's in the jungles of Peru where Jim's abilities first came to light, or in a mid-sized Washington city where they came back on line with a vengeance after a five-year absence.

And then there's everything a 158 lb., 5'8" former anthropologist/pagan wildchild/rookie detective can -- and has -- lobbed in his direction over the past three years. That's me, in case you're a little slow on the uptake.

Just look at him, over there on the bench farthest away from me. I focus on that sweating, straining, gloriously fit body through the big viewing window behind the blonde receptionist cum Ken doll lookalike. Kal with a "K." (That's what the nameplate reads. I couldn't make this up if I tried.)

Kal with a "K" looks at me piteously, as though he knows he could never pump up a "little girly man" like me into someone socially acceptable at the creme de la creme of workout facilities.

"Can I help you?" Kal asks with curled lips, flashing white-on-white Chicklet teeth.

"I'm here to pick up a friend." Kal seems genuinely surprised that I'd know anybody at this toney sweatfest. Like most well-built, good-looking men, he's probably unaware that quite a few women have been attracted to my long-haired, neo-hippie witch doctor punk persona along the way, and we're talking way into the double digits here. Not to blow my own horn (OK, that's a pretty bad analogy), but even a couple of men have thrown an appreciative glance in my direction. My stock seems to go up 1000%, however, after I mention Rafe's name. And when I say that I'm actually picking up the guy who's Brian's guest, Kal becomes positively efferfuckingvescent.

"Jim? You're here to pick up Jim?"

OK, people. Rock and a hard place time. Are the comment and inflection in his voice polite chitchat? Wishful thinking? Real interest? Real interest based on *what* about my straighter-than-straight partner?

"Yeah, man, he's my roommate."

From behind me, a woman's voice chimes in. "*That* Jim?" A short, extremely attractive female instructor with a "Robin" tag like Kal's is standing by the window. She nods her sweat-banded head in the direction of the big man who's lifting about 175 lbs. over his head. "Uh-huh. *That* Jim."

In a flight of X-rated fancy, I see his nude, sweat-slicked, prone body bench-pressing an equally naked, hard as a rock *me* up and down over his face. Guess where I'm aiming my cock?

"Jesus!" She says with throaty wonder. "You're one lucky man!" I'm about to explain that I'm not ... that we're not ... when she continues, "If I had a 'partner' who looked like that, I'd AMEX him." At my puzzled look, she explains. "I'd never let him leave home without me."

"Yeah. That's me, alright. Lucky." I don't know else what to say, so I say nothing, but turn back to the almost empty exercise area. Rafe's *spotting* Jim, standing behind his head and shoulders, ready to lift the weights in case Jim couldn't return them to the starting position.

In silence, the three of us watch Jim's bulging muscles flex, stretch, and roll under the glistening skin. It's like looking at the elegant, raw beauty of a powerful animal. And I love every inch of that two-legged panther. I have for a long, long time. What would it be like, I wondered, to feel all that power surging over me, or better yet, under me?

I see Jim say something to Rafe, who swings his head up, and waves me into the Fitness Center. He flashes a $64,000 smile at Kal who nods, then says, "Go on in, sport. You can do a short workout with your buddies, if you want." Another benefit of early orthodontic intervention. Straight teeth, apparently, are an "Open, sesame" to locked gym doors.

"Chief, you're early. Jesus. Is it raining frogs?"

"Very funny, Jim. *Not.* How's it going, Rafe?"

"Pretty good, Blair. Well, now that you're here, I'll leave Jim in your capable hands. I'm going to split. Jim, you don't mind if your buddy takes over for me?"

From his horizontal position, which is just a little lower than my crotch -- Jim's eyes scans me as though he's looking for some Guide bar code.

"Sure, Rafe. And thanks for letting me work out with you. We'll see you tomorrow."

"OK, guys. And don't forget, you can use the locker room and shower until 9:30. Good night."

With that, the Beau Brummel of the gold shields picks up his water bottle and towel, and heads on out. My guess is to shoot the breeze a while with the lovely Robin. What was that look he just gave me? And what was the one that passed between him and my partner? Jesus, I've only been a *real* cop a month and a half, and already I'm suspicious about everything. Of course, a wise man once said, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't talking about you."

"Earth to Sandburg. Pay attention, chief, so I can finish this set and we can get out of here."

"Sure. Sorry, buddy. What do you want me to do?" I ask, sweat suddenly sluicing down my face and neck as I look down at Jim Ellison, with his sweat-soaked, workout tee-shirt and shorts clinging like a jealous lover. Fuck. I mean fuck.

"Put your hands over mine. That way, if I need you, you'll be ready."

"Uh, like this?" My palms are dripping now, as I wrap my fingers around Jim's, which are, in turn, loosely gripping the bar. Suddenly, I'm almost dizzy from the sensation of flesh on flesh. I swear a lightning bolt surging through my body couldn't have been any more powerful. It's as though we're connected by fire and electricity -- like touching a live wire. I start to pull away, as if I've been burnt, when I hear a soft request.

"Don't."

"I just wanted to -- " My bullshit excuse is interrupted.

"Run? The way you always do?" He's somehow shifted his hands over mine, and closed them like a vise grip holding me in place.

"Jesus, Jim, there are people ..."

"Nobody here but us, chief." I look around and see he's right.

"The question is, Sandburg, is it *us* -- or is it *you* and *me?*"

"I don't ..."

"C'mon, chief. Time for truth here. Three years is a long time to not admit how you feel." Those blue heartbreakers look right through me. "I hear your heart rate spike and those little gasps under your breath when I'm close by." Guilty.

"And you've been leaking pheromones by the bucketful for the last few months. I'm swamped by them every time you get near me." Guilty squared.

"Oh, and then there's the wood you're sporty." Calling Johnny Cochrane.

"Unless I'm wrong." Jim squeezes my fingers a little harder for effect. "If I am, then I'm sorrier than you'll ever know, because I'll have screwed up the best, truest friendship I've ever had. If that's the case -- and I'm really way off-base -- we'll forget about this conversation. It'll be just a blip on the screen of Blair Sandburg's love life."

"You're not."

"Not what? Right? Wrong? Give me a clue here."

We're both still, because the next few seconds will change who I am to my Sentinel -- and who he is to me, his Guide.

"A blip. You're not a blip. You're a frigging ocean liner."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jim sighs, in relief, I guess. "As long as it's not the Titanic, I think we're *jake.*" He laughs a little. So do I.

"Just don't start singing about your heart going on."

Just then, the thought of the two of us standing on the prow of that doomed ship screaming something about being kings of the world hits me. I crack up.

"Glad you're amused. So, Darwin, maybe we should go somewhere and talk?"

"And get something to eat?"

"Sounds like a plan, Sandburg."

"I'm full of them."

"You certainly are, chief."

"Asshole."

"Prick."

Love, ain't it grand?

***

"C'mon buddy. I reek. And you're no bouquet yourself. You smell like old files, bad coffee, tuna salad from a cafeteria machine, and Simon's cigar smoke. Let's go get cleaned up."

A minute later, we find ourselves down in the state-of-the art locker room. Jim opens up #69. (I swear to God, it's true. I couldn't make this shit up.) He pulls out the unscented, natural hard-milled castile soap I bought him, along with towels I recognize from home, laundered in Ivory Snow, and rinsed in a special softener for supersensitive skin I got at our local health food store.

Unselfconsciously, my roommate takes his clothes off. OK, if I knew you better, I'd describe just how unequivocally stunning this man is. Not grotesquely muscled like some, but with each element of his body developed to absolute perfection. Balance. That's what Jim Ellison is all about. The light from overhead bounces over each ripple, each hard edge. The surfaces glow. I feel my mouth drop open. I must look wonderful -- slack-jawed and drooling. That should get his attention.

"Sandburg, close your mouth, take your clothes off, and join me."

Jim swings his eyes away from me and steps into the stream of hot water he's turned on, and begins to wash himself the way he does everything else. Methodically, efficiently. I can't *not* watch his hands, as they glide over those pecs, down the washboard abs to his ... uh, OK, I think I'd better ...

"See anything you like?"

*Like?* Well, duh. Parts of me are already applauding. Somewhat distractedly, I want to ask if that thing hanging between his legs has its own zip code.

"Yeah ... uh ... no ... uh ... so, you mean we should, like, shower together?"

"No. Let's bake something." He's positively growling. "Get in here, God damn it." Then, he tempers his voice and says: "Only if you want."

Only if I want. It's only what I've wanted since day one.

"Hang on a minute, Jim. Let me get this straight. You want me to *shower* with you in a public place."

"Well, not in Cascade Municipal Park, for God's sake, " he returns irritably, still soaping his clearly enormous, beautiful dick. (Jesus, I think I have penis envy.)

"And ... uh ... we're going to do more than shower, right?"

Even as he looks at me sympathetically, as though I'm brain-damaged from the steam, a voice on the P.A. system informs us: "Spa d'Oro will be closing in 30 minutes. Please return all locker keys to the front desk before leaving. Thank you and good night." Kal must have taken Public Speaking 101.

"Well, yeah, that pretty much says it." He takes two fingers of his right hand and pokes them vigorously and repeatedly through a circle made with the thumb and index finger of his left. "You. Me. Get it?"

"Yeah, but thanks for the tutorial, though." I snort.

"So, what about it, Sandburg?"

It's going to happen. I'm going to get naked with my Sentinel and we're going to do a little close-quarter drilling.

"You could at least call a guy by his name before you ..."

"Fuck him?" He offers, helpfully.

"Uh-huh." And this getting undressed in front of another guy isn't so easy when you know he's going to be kissing parts of your body you can't even see in the next couple of minutes.

"So, *Blair.* What about it, *Blair?* Wanna go for it, *Blair?* "

Gee, let me think about the offer. I begin to strip off my clothes. (Survey says "He's going for it!") But apparently, it's taking too long. My P.D. sweat shirt is stripped from my body and thrown on the floor (the wet floor, dammit). The pants and boxers are pulled down so fast I have to steady myself on the nearby Titan's shoulders so I don't end up on the same damp pile as the clothes. Thank God, I'd already toed my sneakers off, or there I'd be, swaying in the wind, with outerwear, underwear, and footwear tangled up at my ankles. Very attractive. Just the way I always pictured ... well, I'd never actually pictured a first time with Jim, but if I had, this sure as hell wouldn't be it. Why is that so difficult to believe that I wouldn't want to paint erotic scenarios over and over again in my head? I couldn't afford to make myself any crazier than I already am over this man.

Next problem. And it's a whopper. Not unlike the Erection That Walks Like a Man next to me.

"See, the thing is, Jim --" My words are lost as Jim pulls me possessively and easily against him under the spray of hot water, grabs my face between his two hands, lowers his head down and proceeds to kiss the stuffings out of me. Closer to the truth: Jim's trying to scoop said stuffings from the back of my throat with his wicked, talented tongue.

"Ivnvrdntswthamnbfr," I try to gasp. He stops instantly, and looks at me almost incredulously.

"Never? Nothing with a guy?"

"Just a little fooling around. You know, none of the 'big' things." My eyes are locked on one of those *big* things -- and let me tell you, it's a real attention-grabber. The shower's soaked my hair, and I probably look like a used floor mop. Or a shitzu on a rainy day. Very enticing. Very alluring.

"Blair Sandburg. Cherry. Who would have thought?" My Sentinel smiles at me. Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, master tactician Jim Ellison changes direction.

"OK, baby. We'll make allowances." With those five fateful words, he falls to his knees, locks his lips around my hard-as-diamonds cock, and proceeds to start turning me inside out by the sheer force and suction of that unbelievable mouth of his. Did I mention how strong Jim is? Somehow, he's eased my legs over his wide shoulders. With my back flat against the shower wall, I'm being totally supported by those magnificent sets of deltoids, pectorales majore, biceps and latissimi dorsi. (I've read the Nautilus machines quite a few times and know my way around Latin.)

Jim's powerful hands are wrapped around my trembling quads, squeezing them in time with his rhythmic, deliberate sucking. Mine are frantically trying to latch onto the back of his head, as I begin ramming myself down Jim's throat as far as I can. But my partner doesn't fight fair. Taking a soapy finger, he pierces my ass with it. When he hits something -- either my prostate or Nevada -- I lose it. Big time. Fuck. I've never felt an orgasm literally ripped from my body like this before. Until tonight. The brain cells that didn't shoot out of my dick are probably leaking from my ears. Christ. My scream must have rattled Kal's teeth in the lobby. Well, if we get caught, it's going to look swell on the front page of the tabloids: Cascade Cops Copped for Night Nookie.

Suddenly, I'm cold, even under the running hot water, hit with the full implication of what just happened. And I begin to shake as I slide down to the floor. I know I'm still the same person I was 10 minutes ago, but it sure as hell doesn't feel that way. Even though I love this man -- who's taking the time to lick my deflated, exhausted equipment clean -- more than my own life, I've crossed some line, and I don't think I feel very good about it.

But my Blessed Protector knows something's not right. Turning the shower off, he *gentles* me, as though I were someone in trouble. Christ, I am.

Before I know what's happening, I'm being wrapped in the large towel, and rubbed ... tenderly. It's the only word that fits. The whole time I'm being dried, I hesitate to lift my eyes to meet his, afraid of what I might find there. What I see when Jim tilts my chin up with two of his knuckles make me happy. And safe. In his bottomless blue eyes, I see myself ... because I see love. (And maybe more than a little residual lust.)

Everything's going to be OK. As he rubs my hair with a smaller towel, he stops periodically to check me out, and pepper kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, my jaw line, my chin, and the tip of my nose.

Correction. Everything's going to be better than OK.

The clock on the wall says 9:25. Before anybody from the staff comes walking through to escort us out, Jim and I dress quickly, quietly, and get ready to start writing a new chapter in our Sentinel/Guide Book.

"So, Sandburg, prepped for your next gym workout?"

"Sure. I promise to do better."

"And I promise not to wear you out on the *Jim* equipment before you can get back here."

Because I've lost most of my intelligence along with enormous quantities of body fluids, it takes few seconds for what he says to sink in.

"You're such a wit, Ellison. Half of one, at any rate."

"Bite me, chief." Chuckling, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with walks out of the Locker Room.

And I hurriedly follow him. Like always. "Do-able, big guy. Do-able."

***

Please send comments to: akablonded@aol.com