Touchy-Feely Matters

Fandom: Sentinel

Pairing: Jim/Blair

Rating:

Summary:

Touchy-Feely Matters

By Akablonded

Extra-sensitive touchy-feely is the way he put it the first time we met.

If I'm ever tempted to have a phrase tattooed on my ass to commemorate what my relationship to my partner, Blair Sandburg, is all about, I think this is the one I'll go for. (The "Technically, BS is a form of male bonding" just doesn't do it.)

Touchy-feely does.

Touch. Heightened tactile response. It's the one sense that Sandburg and I haven't investigated and researched to death in the three years we've known one another. Three years of being partners. Three years of being Sentinel and Guide. What's he gonna say, "Hey, Jim, when you jerk off, how does it feel?" Damned fine, Sandburg. Mind your own fucking business, thank you very much.

Or, "When you stick Mr. Happy into someone, what's it like?" Hey, that's personal. And none of your fucking business. Thank you very much.

Not that Blair would ever ask anything that crude, when he's being the brains of this team and science whiz kid. Oh, the little perv would nod, he'd wink, he'd nudge me, make in and out, up and down hand gestures, and stop just short of drawing diagrams to get the message across.

Actually, I'd love to do some close-quarters testing on the business of this touchy-feely thing with him ... because ... I've come to an inescapable, head-shaking, life-altering, gender-questioning conclusion: I love my partner. Yeah, yeah. yeah, you're saying. All you big, dumb cops love your partners. Starsky and Hutch. Simone and Sipowitz. Those two guys on the sci-fi show, "The Watchman."

When I say love him, I mean I 'love' him. As, in 'in love.' As in horizontal mambo, huffing and puffing, sweating and screaming, 'Forever and ever -- or 48,000 miles, whichever comes first' love/lust with my roommate.

Hey, start breathing. You heard me. I love the little guy, dammit. I love that Blair's smart, and funny, and kind. I love that he's pretty much the same wonderful/infuriating person whether he's shooting the breeze with Captain Simon Banks, our boss at Major Crimes, the mayor and his missus at a political dinner, the bagel girl who has an enormous crush on him, or Carl, the blind vendor who sells him chewing gum and a newspaper at the corner of Prospect and Monroe.

I love the way Sandburg always took a little something for Emily, Carl's seeing eye dog. I used to think I was losing my mind -- that I'd eaten the extra piece of steak or hamburger, and hadn't remembered. Wrong. Blair had squirreled it away with his broccoli sprouts ("That much red meat will kill you, man!"), a move guaranteed to distract a super-sensitive nose like mine.

Apparently, not Emily, who used to greet Blair with as much enthusiasm as her owner did. When she was killed by a car, I watched my friend -- tears and consolation shared with the dog's distraught owner -- try to comfort someone obviously hurting so bad. Someone who's pretty much invisible to the rest of the world.

Maybe it's because Sandburg knows what that's like, to feel invisible, what with the way he grew up and being on his own for most of his life. Always on the outside looking in. Always the new boy in school, odd man out. Always trying to fit in to find a place.

And it can't have been easy to be my 'shadow' here at the Cascade PD. Not even noticed by the rank and file of when he first joined me on our project -- this 'Sentinel thing.' He was the ultimate outsider -- a geek, know-it-all, short, longhaired, earring-wearing, grunge layered observer. But Sandburg put up with all the shit the "gold shields" -- Metro detectives -- and the uniforms could dish out. Now they respect him not only because he's the best partner a cop could ever have, but they also give it to him in his own right, because he's a 24-carat, living template for a bona fide good person.

Christ, he's one of the strongest people I know, maybe because he's not afraid to show the other side of the coin.

Blair Sandburg is one piece of work. Only God or a damned cunning devil could have put together pretty much the same parts that every average Joe has, and come up with a one-of-a-kind like Naomi Sandburg's baby boy.

That touchy-feely kind of stuff -- being strong on the inside where it really counts -- well, it just blows me away. It touches me. And it matters to me. Blair matters to me. I guess that's why I need to do this right. I need to find out if I'm way off base here, or if what I've sensed ... what I've felt over the last few months --- shit, make that the last year -- is true.

Yeah, the last year. I guess I'm slow on the uptake. But you have to cut me some slack. We -- Sandburg and I -- had a couple of serious meltdowns in the last 12 months. First, he died because I was stupid and scared. You don't need to know the details. Trust me on this.

Then Blair's life -- I mean his academic one and his reputation -- fell apart because his doctoral thesis, of which I'm the star and subject -- was leaked to the world in a media circus that would do P.T. Barnum proud.

And because I was stupid and scared.

The short and not-so-sweet of it is that I fucked up royally. Our lives were in shambles, and we're still recovering from the fallout. I've acted like a horse's ass -- S.O.P., for Jim Ellison.

So, there's no more chalk, or blue books, or students with smart/stupid questions. No more teaching -- Blair Sandburg's life's blood. He's going to start cop school soon. A consolation prize for being ruined. And now I want to tell him about touchy-feely. How I'm dying to touch him and feel him. Not just a fuck between buddies. I want to touch and feel his soul. To assure myself that Blair is still 'here,' that I didn't sacrifice him on an altar of my fears. (Christ, I sound like a reject from one of those God-damned 'sensitive man' weekend bitch-offs.)

Me, I could disappear and start over again. At the very worst of times, there are IOUs I could call in and get myself a new life.

That's bullshit. To do that, I'd have to leave everything ... and everyone behind.

I'd have to give up my Guide. Maybe one Sentinel in a thousand could do it and survive.

Jim Ellison would have to give up Blair Sandburg. But that I couldn't do. No stats on it. It's kind of like the ... what's the word? ... epiphany I had. I finally figured out what women wanted from me. Everyone of them, from the girls I knew as a teenager, to the experienced women I came across during my Army days, and the working girls I met during my stint in vice. Then there was Emily, my first partner's, Jack Prendergast's, old lady, my ex-wife, Carolyn Plummer, and all the ones I dated afterwards.

They didn't need love or commitment so much as knowing that they 'mattered' to me. I guess I always had an escape hatch. Even with Carolyn. They mattered, just not enough. Now I know what it feels like.

And I'm sorry for what I did to them, because being on the other side sucks.

Big time.

Back to touchy-feely. Since my Sentinel abilities have come to the forefront, I've had pretty uneven success at handling the five, heightened senses. I'm more or less successful with sight, hearing, smell and taste.

Toughest -- bar none -- is touch. Sometimes, I have to dial touch down (Sandburg's word for making it less all-consuming) as low as I can, without becoming altogether numb. Last month, my dad gave me a really expensive, pure cashmere sweater for my birthday. (The old man's trying to buy his way back into my life. If it weren't for Sandburg chewing my ear off about "family," I'd have told Wild Bill Ellison to shove it.) As the feel of the pullover washed over my body, all I could think was the pure pleasure of hundreds of thousands of points where the fibers contacted my skin.

Luckily, Sandburg had called up to my bedroom, to find out how long it could possibly take for me to change into something before we headed over to have dinner with the Major Crime people. When I didn't yell back "Change into what, Sandburg?", he knew something was wrong.

The thing that brought me back -- that always brings me back -- from yet another major zone-out was the sound of my Guide's voice -- the quiet, calming, reassuring cadence that I swear could yank me back from the jaws of hell.

As I drifted up through the layers of consciousness, I was also aware of a strangely erotic sensation. The threads of the impossibly soft garment were being gently pressed into my biceps, as my partner stroked my arm with his fingertips.

With a touch like that, this kid could be a whiz at taming large animals. (No cracks, please.)

Funny thing, though. As he continued to pet the material of the sweater, he released enough pheromones around us to make inanimate objects sit up and take notice.

If you're not up on scientific jargon, pheromones are the chemicals a human body released to attract a ... to get ... to show ... well, let's just say, that the one 'pitching' the little buggers is more than mildly interested in whomever is 'catching' them.

Get my drift?

So there I was, sniffing out that Blair Sandburg, former anthropologist, teacher, my backup and the keeper of this damnable Sentinel secret was interested. My Clark-Kent vision (at least when someone's sitting next to me on my king-sized bed) detected another piece of evidence: Blair was sporting enough wood in his pants to build a log cabin.

He suddenly got flustered when he saw that I saw and said, and said "Uh, you OK now, big guy? It's getting late. The reservations at Donatelli's are for 8. Get your ass in gear!" Then, he fairly bolted down the stairs, taking two at a time, leaving me to strip off the pullover, and put something on that was 'touch-proof' -- and 'Blair-proof.'

We'd be sitting next to one another at the table, and since he and I touch ... we kind of invade ... see, there's this thing about personal space ... oh, fuck, I couldn't afford to zombie out in front of a roomful of detectives, and Blair couldn't afford to get a hard-on between the soup and the rigatoni, OK?

Then there was the shaving cream incident. The feel of good-old fashioned foam on my face is like liquid silk, as it glides across my skin. Well, a few mornings ago, I missed rinsing away a little patch of it where my jaw and ear meet. AS he passed by me at the breakfast table, Sandburg ran his napkin across it with a "You have a little foam there, Jim ..." In a cold, New-York minute, the connection made me feel as though I were hopped up on something. Christ, a cattle prod to my balls couldn't have gotten my attention any quicker. I jumped about 10 feet, almost knocked him down, and did succeed in scattering the plateful of toast he was holding in his left hand.

"Jesus H., Sandburg, don't sneak up on me like that!" I bellowed, overreacting to what was basically a harmless, if not totally innocent, gesture.

"Give me a heart attack, why don't you, Jim! God Almighty, take a chill pill!" I heard him grouse "It's decaf for you from now on in the morning!" as he went about retrieving the far-flung pieces of bread that looked as though a grenade launcher had lobbed them all over the living room and kitchen.

"Sorry, chief, you just ... "

"Snuck up on you to do what? Force food into that big, hulking carcass of yours?"

"I said I was sorry. So ... is there any clean toast?"

Blair looked at me and my piss-poor attempt at humor, took one of the less mangled pieces, proceeded to wipe it off on his flannel shirt sleeve, all the way up and including under the armpit, then tossed it dead center onto my plate.

"Bon apetit, buddy. I'll see you at the station this afternoon." With that, he picked up his backpack, and headed out the door.

And you know what stuck with me? What a great butt Sandburg has, and how swell it would look with me attached to it.

I am definitely in trouble here.

***

I feel Sandburg in my hip pocket when he sings. Sandburg doesn't sing 'to' me. He sings to himself. I think it's a habit he must have had since he was little. (Well, younger.) A few weeks ago, I was surfing the channels after dinner, when I heard him finishing up the sink, humming while finishing up KP. I cook, he cleans. Them's the rules. He sang a line to himself, which I would never have been able to hear except for my super-sensitive hearing. And the fact that I guess I'm always "tuned into" Mr. Entertainment. "Loving you is not a choice, it's who I am. Loving you is not in my control. Loving you is what I'll do for the rest of my life ... I don't want to leave ... now that I am loved ..." I got a jolt to the front of my pants, which were threatening to cut off any and all circulation below the waist. I nearly lost it. What if ... what if he was singing it for somebody else, not me? What if it were somebody who 'mattered'? I snapped like a 50 lb. fishing line with a 200 lb. marlin snagged on it.

"Sandburg, are you singing show tunes?"

"Uh, sorry, Jim, was I singing that loud? And how did you know it was a show tune?"

"Because it doesn't rhyme and you can't march to it. Jesus, Sandburg, you're hanging with cops now. You shouldn't be ..."

"What? Enjoying good music? Jim, please don't turn into a ... a ..."

"What?"

"A stereotypical, paranoid ... jerk. I can't believe you sometimes." He threw down the dishrag. "After all this time, you can still come up with the most half-assed stuff." He angrily turned on his heel, and stalked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Shit. Shitshitshit. I didn't mean it. I love listening to his voice. It's wonderful. Rich and warm and inviting. The truth is the words were making me crazy. Did I tell him that? Of course not. I'm a man. I never say I'm sorry. I never say what's really on my mind the first time around. "Hey, chief, I was only kidding. Can't you take a joke?" Christ, that's SO fucking lame. I didn't even buy it.

"Sure, Jim." I heard from behind the still-closed French doors. "I'll just reserve Steven Sondheim for people who appreciate him." And then there was silence.

Shit. Shitshitshit. As I touched one of the glass panes in the door, I wondered just how I could have all these fabulous senses, and still be one of the most insensitive nimrods around.

I would have asked the smartest man I know for the answer. But, unfortunately, he wasn't speaking to me.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

***

I never told Sandburg more about ... my ... uh ... the night I spent with Wendy Hawthorne, the blonde TV reporter. Actually, it wasn't a night. It was dinner, drinks, then a pretty enthusiastic stab at some good, old-fashioned, consensual sex between two fairly attractive adults. And if I can't share what happened with my best friend, well, you're just plain out of luck.

Let's just say that as I slide home, the equipment went on the fritz. Big time. At first, I couldn't believe it. Something that should have felt so wonderful, felt like ... nothing. Even after my senses had come back on line -- what's it, almost four years now? -- I'd been able to have ... to get ... you know. But this was awful. I apologized a million times, and got the hell out, even though Wendy was pretty good about it, and even suggested that I stay over, and see if anything could 'develop.' Nope. One strike is bad enough. A second would be ... well, I just couldn't.

And any action I've seen since then has been with my senses turned way down, to what passes for normal. Well, as normal as a Sentinel can be. Don't get me wrong. Even bad sex is good sex.

But I keep wondering what it would be like if all my throttles were set to "high" and I wasn't just with a warm body. That I was with someone who mattered. With my Guide.

As I visualize the whole scenario in my head, I'm starting to sweat like a racehorse in the home stretch.

It would be a raining, like today. No place to go, but here, together. There'd be soft jazz playing in the background, and a roaring fireplace. (Blair's always cold.) Standard seduction scene. I don't have all the particulars on how we get to be with one another, but he'd end up straddling my lap, with a light sheen of perspiration glistening on his extremely naked body. I'd teeter on the brink of the aloe and honeysuckle scent swirling around his hair. I see myself wrapped around him, Blair's agile legs squeezing my waist, his heels locked in the small of my back. I'm buried dick-deep in his greedy ass. Safe and warm. IN a place that's forever.

Then we start to move. Him in a sensual, rhythm that's a tribute to extraordinary muscle control, barrels of hormones, and years of yoga (tantric variety, I'm betting). Me, I'm shoving my hard as diamonds self up into him.

As wet as Lake Superior, and as ready as I'll ever be.

I can only imagine the feel of the relentless, exciting body friction at the internal points of contact, between my Guide's firm, yet pliant butt, and his Sentinel's insistent, eager cock. I lay awake at night thinking about using my senses to find and hit his prostate, and rub the head of my cock over the little nub again and again, triggering looks of astonishment on that beautiful, open face of his, and involuntary moans of disbelief and pure pleasure form that swollen need-to-be kissed/fuck royally mouth of his.

I grab him by the shoulders and plunge him down onto me, impaling him over and over, until I feel his body gathering readying to spill himself over my belly and chest. At the last second, just before my gorgeous new lover's about to scream something (my name, curses, prayers -- it doesn't much matter at this point), I cover those wet, wanton lips with mine and kiss him for all I'm worth. And as he's shooting off like a rocket, I hold onto him, as though if I let go, he'll disappear. He collapses forward, his forehead presses against my shoulder. I'd let him recover slowly and come back to his senses and the reality of the loft if I could. I can't. I'm almost on Sentinel overload, what without he touch, the taste, the sound, and the feel of my Guide. I can't wait one more minute. I start pumping into that beautiful butt of his -- which will be a sore as all get out -- using my dick as a key that will unlock Blair Sandburg's enormous heart. And as my body gives it all that it has to give, and a little more for good measure, I sink my teeth into his neck to mark him as mine. Nobody else. Ever again.

What happens after that is a little hazy., but I gotta think that I would slide into a place I'd never been before. Not a zone out, exactly. Maybe just the oblivion you reach only when it's special and you're with someone that matters.

When it's with "the one."

So, that's what it would be like. Well, that is, if Blair Sandburg were bisexual, instead of the most raging heterosexual I've ever seen date more than one woman on the same night.

I wish my balls made me brave enough to tell him how I feel, instead of just keeping my penis company.

But what would I say? This is Blair Sandburg we're talking about here. "I love you Sandburg, can I go down on you?" would be the away to go. (Unless I really get desperate.) Where the hell is he? It's pouring now. He'll be soaked to the skin and well on his way to a 9.7 on the Richter Scale cold by the time he gets home. Let me get a fire started, and the water on to boil for some tea.

It just hit me.

I know how to do it. I hear Sandburg pounding up the pavement, hitting the front door of the building, which defers to his wetness and uncharacteristic bad temper. He drags up the stairs, making the kinds of squishing sounds that only thoroughly soaked, expensive Nikes Severes can.

I open the door before his Schlage hits the lock. "Jesus, Jim, you scared me. Man, it's awful out there and ... Jim ... what's wrong? You look ... funny, big guy."

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"It's who I am, too."

It takes him a second to figure out what the hell I'm talking about. But, then I see it. That Blair understands. Bright as a supernova, Blair Jacob Sandburg understands. (I told you he was more than just a pretty face.)

As he leaps up, arms laced around my neck, impossibly wet body plastered against mine, muscular thighs wrapped around my back, trying to crush the life out of me, he whispers, "What took you so long, you son of a bitch?" as he kisses me into submission.

I know I matter.

And it's everything it's cracked up to be.

***