Nessun Dorma
By BAW
Disclaimer: The TV show THE SENTENEL and all
characters therein are the property of Pet Fly and UPN; according to counsel's
opinion, fanfic qualifies as 'fair use' so long as it is not written or
distributed for money.
Pairing: J/B; somewhere between PG-13 and R
Classification: Romance
Summary: Jim gets romantic; Blair freaks a little
Sequel to "The Shummanite"
Comments to web2575@charweb.org
Archive if you wish; just tell me.
The Shummanite 2:
Nessun Dorma
By BAW
As he pulled into the parking deck of Police Headquarters, Detective James
Joseph Ellison, Major Crimes Unit, Cascade (Washington) Police, glanced at his
reflection in his truck's rear-view mirror; he noticed that he was wearing a
wide grin; he had been wearing that particular expression a lot recently, and
he had enough self-knowledge to know that this was unusual for him. He half
expected one of his colleagues to say, "Who are you and what have you done
with Detective Ellison?"
There was a reason for the normally morose detective's good mood; he was in
love--and with a most unlikely person. Indeed, if a month or so ago anyone had
predicted this development, he would have distracted the person, tied him up,
and called Mental Health. The grin and an expression suggestive of having been
hit on the back of the head with a board were now his default expression.
If any of his co-workers knew of this development, they would have been
surprised; some may have suspected that there was some new person in his life--but
he was willing to lay odds that nobody had guessed who that new person was. The
person in question was so totally different from his previous paramours that
nobody could possibly guess.
In spite of his ruggedly handsome face and a body that could be favorably
compared to Michelangelo's David, Detective Ellison's romantic history was not
an active or varied one. As a young man from a family fairly high up on the
Cascade Social Register, he had been pursued for reasons of social prestige; as
a handsome, athletic young man, he had been pursued for his looks. Few young
women had been interested in him for himself, and for the sensitive youth he
had been this intensely painful. All his life he had shown an uncanny talent
for attracting the wrong kind of woman, up to an including his former wife. The
redheaded harridan who had been the former Mrs. Ellison had, before walking out
on him, given him a long list of adjectives to describe his bedroom skills; the
least uncomplimentary word was 'unimaginative', and it went downhill from
there. It had been a long time before he had even wanted to become involved in
a romantic relationship. In contrast, his current flame reveled in his erotic
skills.
"Hey, Ellison!" said a voice behind him, "Where's
'Tigger'?"
"Tigger?"
"That," replied his interlocutor, a youngish man in a dark wool
topcoat, "is my new name for Sandburg. I was watching my neighbor's kid
and they put 'Winnie the Pu' on the box; Tigger reminded me of him."
"Really?"
"'Their heads are made out of rubber,'" he quoted,"' their
bottoms are made out of springs.'"
"Yes, that's Sandburg all right! He's at the University today. I'll tell
him you asked about him."
The two men entered the elevator and shot to their floor.
Some people were of the opinion that Cascade, Washington, was the "crime
capital of the Pacific Northwest." This was an exaggeration; Cascade's
crime rate was not unduly high for a city of that size. Indeed, for
"normal" crimes--burglary, muggings, car theft, etc.--it was rather
low. However, somehow Cascade seemed to attract more than its share of mad
bombers, terrorists, organized crime turf wars, and similar unpleasantnesses.
The School of Criminal Justice at Washington State University had studied the
phenomenon extensively, but had not come up with a reason why this was so. Be
that as it may, it was a quiet day in the Major Crimes Unit--at least so far.
Most of the detectives were using the opportunity to catch up on paperwork and
analyze evidence in between the exchange of jokes and gossip.
"Guess what I heard in the ladies'," said an Australian-accented
voice.
"Running water?" hazarded Jim.
"Don't be silly," replied Megan Connor, the Irish-Australian
detective responded, "No, I heard two ladies discussing the Men of Major
Crimes. They called you 'Iceman', but were of the opinion that someone was
thawing you. Come, luv, tell us who it is."
"A gentleman never asks, a gentleman never tells."
"They mentioned Rafe, too," she said.
"What were they saying about me?"
"Well, one said you were good-looking."
"What did the other one say?"
"That she made it a point never to date a man who was prettier than she
was. She wondered how much time you spent in front of the mirror each morning
and if you had put your IRA in Armani and Doir stocks or something."
As Detective Rafe was something of a cloths-horse and had a face fit to grace
the cover of GQ, this statement was received with laughter all around. Rafe
turned pale, then blushed, and hurriedly left the bullpen. Jim's sensitive ears
heard him stomping down the hall towards the men's room swearing in a language
that was not quite German.
"Megan," said Henry, "That wasn't very nice."
"I have to keep him humble. Tell me, guys, does the men's room mirror have
lip marks on it?"
The end of the day; no stakeout or other night duty. The Sentinel of the Great
City was going home. He showered and shaved at the station and changed into the
clothing he'd brought that morning: brown woolen trousers, a tweed jacket, a
blue silk knit turtle neck, and brown tasseled loafers. On his way out of the
building he encountered Megan.
"Woo-hoo! Hot date tonight, Jimbo?"
"Right."
"Well, looking like that, you'll get some action. Come on, who's the lucky
woman."
"As I said, Connor, I don't kiss and tell."
Jim did not want to lie to Megan, but he didn't dare tell her the truth. Two
weeks earlier he and Blair had made a mutual discovery-each had harbored a
strong sexual attraction for one another, and each had thought the other was
uninterested. They had been experimenting ever since. Jim had never been with a
man before, and had limited experience with women; Blair, on the other hand,
was even less experienced-although almost thirty, he had never been with a man
or a woman.
Jim had been flabbergasted; he could not understand how an attractive young man
like Blair could have managed to reach his age. . .untouched. Blair's
explanation was perfectly logical: he had skipped high school, taking his GED
at fourteen and starting college at fifteen and a half. The college girls
wouldn't give him the time of day; at best they got all sisterly. When he got a
bit older, he decided that his 'first' had to be special-and though he had
dated (it seemed) fully half the eligible women in Cascade-with a few from
Seattle, Tacoma, and Vancouver for good measure-none had, apparently, been
special enough. It had taken all of Jim's self-control not to cry when he
realized that Blair considered him so special.
Considering that both were fairly ignorant-neither having anything to go on except
instinct and locker room jokes-they had not done too badly. Jim had sensed that
Blair was very nervous; he could discuss with perfect equanimity the courting
and mating rituals of a hundred cultures, but there is a difference between
knowing and doing. Jim had been therefore as gentle as possible. He had always
thought that between two men sex could be a little rougher, more unrestrained,
more aggressive, than between a man and a woman; in Blair's case, however, Jim
had to exercise all the tact and patience he could muster. They had progressed
from kissing and cuddling, to petting above the waist through clothing, to
petting above the waist on skin, to mutual masturbation. Jim was hoping that
this would be the night to go farther-although Jim was not entirely sure what
to do next. Cascade was a relatively liberal city, and Jim personally knew two
openly gay men on the force; nevertheless, he did not know either very well,
and certainly not well enough to ask for pointers. Just thinking about asking the
questions made Jim blush.
Blair had prepared a special meal that night-a rich, hearty tomato-y, garlic-y
beef stew, a salad with a pungent dressing, crusty bread from the best bakery
in Cascade, and a Cassata Siciliana from the Italian pastry shop down the
block. He was careful to make the spices pungent enough to stimulate him, but
not so strong that Jim would react badly. He'd chosen the wines also-dry Sherry
as an aperitif, a California Zinfandel with the meal, and a very expensive
Cognac for after dinner. This was a bit more alcohol than they normally had,
but Blair really felt he needed to relax.
He'd taken as great care with his outfit, consulting Rafe about what to wear
for a 'hot date.' Rafe's first idea was a white raw silk suit, a dark blue shirt,
and a black tie; Blair had dismissed this idea as 'nice for you, Rafe, but so
not me!' Rafe had reconsidered and suggested black toreador pants, a dark blue
silk poet's shirt, and black boots with Cuban heels. Blair had balked at the
boots at first, but Rafe said, 'Blair, I've seen the Amazons you date; you need
heels.' (Blair had great difficulty stifling a laugh he'd never have been able
to explain.) Rafe had confided to Blair that when he retired from the force he
planned to open a haberdashery, and was taking correspondence courses in
fashion design and merchandising; Blair was sure it would be a roaring success.
Blair had the stew simmering, the bread crusting in the oven, the wines
breathing. After a quick shower and shave he put on the outfit, topping it with
a heavy silver Celtic brooch at the throat; the carvings showed stylized
wolves, and there was a blue stone in the center. He dimmed the lights, put
some soft music on the stereo, lit candles, and composed himself to wait.
Several blocks away Jim's Sentinel nose picked up a glorious smell. He wasn't
sure what Blair was cooking, but whatever it was it made his mouth water.
Knowing that Blair was cooking something special, he had deliberately eaten a
small, early lunch, and whatever it was almost made him zone. Indeed, by the
time he had reached their building and gotten off the elevator on the third
floor he was in a small one.
Forcing himself back to normal, Jim came down the hall, deliberately making
more noise than he normally would; Blair probably had an idea for a scene for
his entrance, and Jim decided to indulge him.
Jim opened the door. The loft was dim, illuminated only by candles. The stereo
was playing---opera? Blair never listened to opera. A clear tenor voice rose
triumphantly over the orchestra; after his final ringing note the orchestra
took up the theme, broadening it and raising the listener almost to heaven. Jim
vaguely remembered this aria from a music history class he'd taken in college;
he couldn't quite remember the composer's name.. . . .it began with a P.?
Jim shook his head. This was no time to think of music, not with the vision
before him.
Blair stood directly before the door his shirt glowed in the candlelight. At
his throat the blue stone gleamed like a third eye. His hair flowed to his
shoulders; the candlelight picked up the red highlights that were his heritage
from his mother.
"Blair!" gasped Jim.
"Do you like it?"
"You look like. . . you look like. . . .There are fairy tales of a knight
meeting an elf princess who takes him under the hill for what seems to be a
night of love, but when he comes back thirty years have past. Even as a child
I'd wondered how the knight would be so silly as to go with a stranger he met
in the woods. Now I understand. If I met you in a dark forest by moonlight I'd
follow you, even if I knew full well what would happen. You look so beautiful,
and like something not quite of this world. I'm not sure if this is real or a
dream. Blair, my elf-prince."
"Jim."
"Blair."
"You are the handsomest man in Cascade. You are so large, and warm, and
strong, and dependable. When I'm with you I feel safe. I feel as though nothing
really, really bad can happen as long as I am with you. You are like an island
in a stormy sea, like a standing rock in the desert. When I look at you I feel
as though I have been wandering through a snowy forest, my hands and feet like
blocks of ice, and I come into a clearing with a cabin. A solid log cabin. With
smoke coming up the chimney and light shining through the chinks in the door,
and I know that there is hot soup on the fire, a soft rug on the floor, and a
big, comfortable easy chair, so big that my feet can't touch the floor, with
deep cushions and an afghan, and that if I can just make it a few yards farther
I can wrap myself in the afghan, sit in the chair, and eat some of that soup.
That's what you are to me. A shelter from darkness and winter. A bowl of hot
soup on a cold day. A soft easy chair when one is weary."
"Blair, I'm almost afraid that if I touch you you'll disappear back into
whatever strange world you came from. Will you stay?"
"Jim, I'm so cold. Give me your warmth."
Nothing more was said for some time.
"Jim, get up. The floor is hard, and you're heavy." *Good lord, he's
zoned.* "Jim, Jim, come back to us. Jim. Jim. Jim, that isn't a
comfortable way for my leg to bend.. Jim, get up. Jim, you're squashing me
here. Jim, Jim. . ."
"What happened?"
"You zoned. Now get up and let's get something to eat."
"For long?"
"No; three, five minutes. We were hugging and then. . .whump. Me flat on
my back with you on top of me."
"Did I hurt you?"
"Knocked the wind out of me, that's all. I'm fine. Go, sit."
Blair poured Jim some sherry and gave him a plate of Moravian cheese biscuits.
"Tell me about your day."
The rest of the meal passed almost normally. The food was good, even for
Blair's cooking, and they exchanged stories about the day's happenings.
Then Jim noticed something wrong. Blair was tense, nervous, and he was drinking
more wine than he usually did. He wasn't enough off for anyone else to notice,
but one can't deceive a Sentinel that easily. He began concentrating, trying to
figure out what was wrong. After the dessert, when Blair poured himself a LARGE
brandy and gulped rather than sipped, Jim had enough.
"Blair, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Jim did not like the sound of that nothing; that nothing was something. Blair
was definitely upset about something. Jim repressed his initial urge to scold
and to shake some sense into Blair. Instead, he came over to his side of the
table and took him by the elbow.
"Leave the dishes; something's bothering you. You're the one who always
says that talking about it helps. Come, let's go over to the couch. I'll light
the fire."
Once they were settled on the couch, Jim put an arm around Blair and drew him
close.
"Jim, I love you."
"I love you too, Chief."
"And I do want to be with you."
"I do too."
"But. . . "
"But what?"
"Well. . . .well. . .you know that I've not done this before."
"Nor have I."
"I don't know what to do. I wanted to find out. I have some gay friends,
and I thought about asking them, but I . . .couldn't."
"Well, of course not; one doesn't ask about such things."
"I thought about pretending I was doing a study, but that would be wrong.
Unethical. I couldn't do that any more than you could take a bribe or. . .well,
you see what I mean."
"Yes. Go on."
"I did some research."
"Research?"
Blair got up and went into his room. He came out with a book and some
magazines, which he handed to Jim.
"I got the book from the Library. I went to a little shop on Esther Street
for the magazines."
Jim looked at the book. THE GAY MAN'S ILLUSTRATED GUIDE TO TOTAL SEXUAL
FULFILLMENT, read the cover. He flipped through it. Illustrated was right.
"This one," said Blair, "Looks real uncomfortable."
"I think they misprinted it; the picture is upside down."
He turned the book around.
"Or perhaps not."
"The magazines Jim. I looked at some of the pictures, read some of the
stories and. . . ."
Jim looked at the magazines.
"Let me get this-pardon the pun-straight. You looked at some pictures and
freaked."
"Yes. A little. Well, a lot. I have a full-blown panic attack this
afternoon. But I love you, Jim; I want to be your lover-if that includes doing.
. . .some of those things I will, but. . ."
"Blair, didn't I say we'd take it slow?"
"Yes, Jim."
"Chief, this isn't a class; there's no exam and you aren't being graded.
Now, these magazines. You've seen straight porn, and you know that it often
bears only a passing resemblance to heterosexual lovemaking, right?"
"I've been told-but how would I know?"
"Blair, do you trust me?"
"With my life, Jim."
"Then trust me in this. Pornography and lovemaking often have little to do
with one another. I know that this is true for straight porn, and I'm fairly
sure the same holds for gay porn. Give me the magazines."
Jim threw the magazines on the fire.
"Now, as for the book. Well, think of it like a cookbook-a big one like
FANNY FARMER or JOY OF COOKING. Do you want to try every dish in the
book?"
"No, of course not. Kidneys-eeuch!"
"There you are. We don't have to do everything in the book, but we can use
it to get ideas. I admit that I was a little nervous about what to do, and this
may help. But. . ."
"But what?"
"No more independent study; we're a couple. Now, let's look at that
book."
There followed a period of "that looks like fun" and "that looks
hard on the back" and "I'd rather not try this" and
"hummm" with an occasional, "NO WAY!" interspersed with kissing
and giggles. A hand grasped the remote and started the CD player; once more the
tenor voice recalled a night in a faraway city. Then came the sound of a pair
of loafers taking long strides, and a pair of Cuban heels taking short ones
across a hardwood floor and up a short flight of stairs. More kissing and
laughing. The sound of silk over skin the creak of a bedspring. The tenor's
voice rose, with the orchestra under it, proclaiming: "Vincero! Vincero!
Vincero!"
**************************************************************************
"Well, Tigger, how'd the 'hot date' go?"
"Oh, great. Thanks for your help with the outfit."
"She liked it?"
"It went over great. I'd never have been comfortable in the suit."
"Do you even own a suit?"
"One."
"You're hopeless!"
"How'd the date go?"
"Great."
"Did you get lucky?"
"Connor!"
"You Yanks! Such prudes!"
"I don't kiss and tell."
END