Title: Seven Days

Author/pseudonym: Silk

Fandom: The Sentinel

Pairing: Jim/Blair

Rating: R

Email address: silkn1@att.net

Disclaimer: All things Sentinel belong to Pet Fly and Paramount. This work is not for profit.

Status: New/Complete

Date: 4/18/02

Series/Sequel: No

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel/

Archive: If I sent it to you, please feel free. All others, please ask.

Summary: Blair gives himself seven days to tell Jim something that will change their relationship forever.

Warnings: m/m, humor, bad language

Notes: This story is in first person and from Blair's POV.

As always, for Tinn.

Seven Days
by Silk

I give myself a week. Seven days. Sounds kinda arbitrary, huh? But when you figure that I've been dancing around the idea for close to four years now, well, um, suddenly seven days doesn't seem like enough time.

Enough time for what, you ask? To make the transition from friends to lovers. If Jim is the King of Repression, I'm undoubtedly the Clown Prince of Procrastination. I could say that I've been postponing gratification in a major way, but hey, why state the obvious? Maybe I just like savoring the anticipation of making Jim my love slave...

...or maybe I'm just too chicken shit for words.

*****

Monday

I hate Mondays. Mondays invariably suck. It must be the Peter Principle for weekdays. It aspires to greater things like a weekend day, but it never gets there. Mondays are for going back to work. Mondays are for handing in papers that take up way too much of your grade. Mondays are for discovering bodies that were lying there over the weekend waiting to be discovered.

I can't tell him on a Monday. That would be such bad luck and it's not like I need more of that.

*****

Tuesday

Ah, Tuesdays. Better than Mondays but not by much. All the cases that were opened on Monday either get continued or closed. Tuesdays are for writing reports. Reports filled with the details on all those festering bodies that got discovered. Ewww...I keep telling Jim that there's such a thing as *too much information*, but he ignores me. Personally, I think he *likes* squicking me.

Not conducive to romance, man. So I have to give Tuesday a pass.

*****

Wednesday

Wednesdays would be fine. Good ole Hump Day. Heh. Appropriately named,doncha think? Yeah, riight. As if. I should live so long to be so lucky.

Still, you can't blame a guy for trying.

Sigh.

Wednesday *would* be fine if we could just manage to connect. But first thing this morning, I jump out of bed, hit the floor running and head into the kitchen...only to find that Jim isn't here. I should be thrilled that he left me a note. But it looks like all those wondrous possibilities will just have to wait till Thursday. He's going to be in court all day.

*****

Thursday

Thursdays can't be beat. The cases are pretty much wrapped up, the reports are pretty much written, and we're pretty much ready for the upcoming weekend. I'd say "Go, Jags", but at the moment, my interest is in a different kind of sport.

I want to do the kind of calisthenics that can only be done without getting out of bed. I am *ready*, man. I'm going to tell Jim how I feel and he's going to fling himself on top of me and...oh, shit.

Jim is *not* in a good mood this Thursday. Court was hell, the lawyers were disciples of Satan, and they refused to take one word when three would do. Evidently they don't understand that cops don't like being on the receiving end of interrogations.

I tell my dick to mind its own business and try being Mr. Empathy. I sneak a hug in to cop a surreptitious feel, but Jim does *not* want to be handled in any way, shape or form.

Thursday's a goner, too. But Friday'll work. Anyway, it'll give me more time to work myself into a fucking panic attack.

*****

Friday

Fridays are a window to the weekend. Yeah, that's a little too poetic even for me. Tragedy has that effect on me. And it was, dammit, it was fucking tragic the way the U called an emergency staff meeting. I mean, come on, a staff meeting on a Friday? Who calls a staff meeting on a Friday? No one, that's who. No one calls a fucking staff meeting on a fucking Friday. You know why? Cause no one will come. No one wants to be there. Not even if their jobs depend on it. They'd rather be home.

*I'd* rather be home.

Why am I not home?

Okay, there's some major whimpering going on here, but jeez...it's not going to happen on a Friday either.

Shoot me now.

*****

Saturday

Saturdays are for sleeping late, eating lunch instead of breakfast, and hanging out in shorts and a T-shirt. *That* is the only way I want to see Jim dressed today. Well, not the *only* way. All things considered, I'd really rather see him naked. But since Fate seems determined to conspire against me...

I do *not* believe that the man is violating his own rules. Up at the crack of dawn, fully dressed in a sweatshirt and the tightest jeans I didn't even know he owned, Jim wants to clean the loft.

Correction: Jim wants to *sterilize* the loft.

And himself, by the look of him.

I manage to catch him at the exact moment he keels over. I'd love to chide him for buying something that's *not* on my Approved for Sentinels supply list, but I don't. There should be more than enough time for that *after* we get back from the ER.

Then, of course, there's always Sunday. I've still got Sunday.

*****

Sunday

Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. But if I have my way, the only time Jim spends in bed will be sprawled on his back while I fuck him. He can always rest later. Hey. I'm nothing if not fair. If he doesn't feel like participating, he can always read a book.

He doesn't take kindly to being awakened by 160 lbs. of Guide straddling his lower body. He tries to throw me off, but I resist. I grab him by the wrists and kiss him until he suddenly relaxes under me.

When I finally break away, both of us are breathless. But Jim says something that I can't quite hear. I ask him to repeat it. He starts to laugh.

"I love you, Chief, but what took you so long?"

I freeze at the sound of words I never expected to hear cross those lips in my lifetime. Then I rub my half-hard dick against his abdomen, carefully encased in Sentinel-safe cotton, of course, and I swear the man practically purrs like the big cat that's his spirit guide.

He stretches with feline grace and I curl myself around what is shaping up to be a magnificent hard-on that could not *possibly* be faked. Trust me.

God made the world in seven days.

I took almost four years to find Jim, even though he was right there in front of me.

So I'm not God. I'm not perfect.

Sue me.

End