Whine Wine

Fandom: The Sentinel

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jim/Blair

Summary: Wine in the afternoon

Whine Wine

by Akablonded

In my thirty odd years on this earth -- and believe me, some of them have been damned odd -- I've learned a few things. High on the list: cheap wine is for sure better than sodium pentathol for extracting the most interesting, intimate, and even gut-wrenching truths from those who've decided to wade hip-deep into any alcoholic beverage costing less than four bucks a bottle.

Take what happened with me and my friend Margaret, for instance. But for a modest jug of warm, red table wine from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, I would never have found out how sweet, demure, and straighter than straight Margaret "saw" my best friend and partner, Detective Jim Ellison.

Margaret Mary Naughton, a teaching assistant in the Biological Sciences at Rainier University where I hold a similar position in anthropology, had come over to the loft today "to talk." I'd promised her my roommate Jim Ellison would be out, so that we could have some privacy. From her tone of voice, I knew that it was going to be talk with a capital "T." Topic of conversation: Margaret's considerable interest in all things Jim Ellison and his apparent, and infuriating, lack of same. Against my better judgment, I'd introduced the two of them on the phone right before that whole Golden incident. If you don't remember, Golden was a terrible, hallucinogenic designer drug making the rounds of Cascade, Washington, that struck Cop of the Year and Sentinel to the Great City, Jim Ellison, blind. Literally. So when he and Maggie actually "met" the first time when she dropped into the bullpen, she was enthralled, and he was pretty much in the dark. I thought they might hit it off. But then, over a buttermilk donut, the big man himself set me straight. Jim informed me that he and Margaret had decided to be just friends. Trouble was, she hadn't been party to that conversation.

Hence the pow-wow. And here she was, armed with supplies for the afternoon in the form of two gallons of jug wine which she swung onto the kitchen table with no little degree of effort, and a large box of donuts, the buttermilk variety (This girl is *good.*) which she dropped from a precarious hold between her left elbow and her tiny hip.

"I brought these. We can open one now and maybe the other when Jim gets home?" Ahh. I see method in the lady's madness. We'd be sitting here, shooting the breeze, Jim would come in, join us in a drink, see how charming and lovely she was, and wouldn't be able to resist the combination of beauty and brains. In Margaret's scenario, I bet Jim would declare his intentions, as in making her his own, right on the spot.

I'm fucked. Either way you look at it, I'm fucked. With a capital "F." By sundown tonight, somebody's going to be using Blair Sandburg's damned fine butt for field-goal practice. Either Margaret will ranting and raving because she thinks I've sabotaged the two of them, or Jim will be ranting and raving about my minding my own business, and leaving his personal life, well, personal.

Life is not easy for a peacekeeper. Unfortunately, the "piece" Mags wants to keep isn't hers. It belonged to my partner.

After two, full tumblers of this incredibly unpretentious stuff, she spills even more. Details, that is.

Right off the bat, she "sees" Jim naked. Hard. And *over* her. Color me fucking surprised and the shade of a good Bordeaux. I asked exactly how Maggie came to this decidedly carnal, totally understandable conclusion. She blurted out (well, belched out is closer to the truth) how sensual Jim was.

Not sexy.

Not hot.

Not buff.

Sensual. Between sips/swigs, Margaret dreamily painted a picture that was a revelation. She began to, well, rhapsodize about how Jim could move. How every gesture, every motion sent out messages that hit her like a velvet sledgehammer.

"You know the one I like best?" She whispered almost conspiratorially. "When Jim leans up against something with one shoulder, and his arms are folded over that impossibly gorgeous chest of his. It should be a relaxed pose, but it's tense, like a jungle cat ready to jump. And I'd give you a million bucks cash money if he would jump me!"

Then she realized where she was and who she was with. "Oh, Jesus, Blair, please don't tell him." My friend sounded almost ashamed. "I kinda forgot for a minute you were his roommate."

"I know." I sympathized as I poured us another round. "It'a kind of like talking to a ..."

"Girl friend?" She slurred, helpfully.

"I was going to say 'bartender.'" Well, sympathy just got shot in the ass. Don't you hate it when women are that comfortable with you? You sign up for father confessor and have to check your dick and balls at the door.

"It's OK." It isn't.

"And the way he's suddenly 'there.'" She went on, forgetting my little hurt feelings in the blink of a blurry eye. "Those long legs. And all those muscles you can see under his tee-shirt. God, it's a good thing you're not a woman, Blair. You would have been a goner for Jim Ellison a long, long time ago. I know I'd be."

See, here's the thing.

I was. I am.

Somewhere between being slammed into an artifact shelf in my office three years ago by a 6,' 200 lbs. semi-berserk stranger with heightened senses that were making him crazy, and taking said thesis subject up on his one-week offer to bunk in at the loft after my apartment had blown up, something happened. First, Jim fell into relying on me as naturally as breathing, and depending on whatever expertise I had about Sentinels, people with augmented sensory abilities, to help him cope. We became unofficial partners at the Metro Police division where he works. Like a real-life version of the Odd Couple, we found a strong, supportive friendship with one another. One that's blessed me more than I ever would have hoped. Don't laugh, but honest to God, Jim's given me a greater purpose in my life. I matter. I belong. I have something I've always wanted. Something that wasn't very much in evidence when I was a kid traipsing around the globe with my mom, Naomi Sandburg, the last of the flower children.

I have a home. A place that's *mine,* thanks to a gruff, somewhat inarticulate at times, highly intelligent, and, most important of all, a principled, good man who shares it with me: James Joseph Ellison.

Even with the troubles we've had, and they've been every bit as intense as our Sentinel/Guide bond, I wouldn't trade a minute of it. (Well, maybe I'd take a pass on dying the next time around. It's a long story.)

I'd never want to have missed the opportunity of getting to know the "real" Jim. The one I had to crack through all that thick, scarred, flawed psyche and tough, outer layers to get to. And guess what I found underneath it all? Treasure, man. Not the brass ring. He's the frigging solid gold one.

So, as I was tripping through what Jim laughingly calls 'the trainwreck that is my love life," I accidentally took a header and fell in love with him.

Love with a capital "L," folks. I mean the kind of love that's deep, and forever, and still illegal in a handful of states. Writer Oscar Wilde may never have shared the niceties of "the love that speaks not its name" (I'm paraphrasing) but he probably got the message across loud and clear to Bosie, Alfred Lord Douglas, his main squeeze. Often. And vigorously, if I'm any judge of witty, urbane, 19th century homosexuals.

Just like I'd like to do with Jim. Sensual Jim.

You know, Margaret's on to something. The Jim/cat thing -- OK, the Jim/panther thing -- is to the left of awesome. He's got what I think used to be called the X factor in the '70s. It's a quality that makes people stop and take notice. And want some of it for themselves. They crave it. But not many take the time and do what's necessary to earn Jim. So Carolyn, the ex-wife, fell by the wayside. So did the Lilas, the Lauras, and the Veronicas of the world. They stopped and took a big bite out of the sensual part of my friend -- which is quantum, make no mistake about it -- but trampled all over the ... what? I guess it's the caring side of Cascade's resident Watchman, the one that makes him speak reassuringly to little kids, pet and feed stray dogs, and throw his arm across my chest when we take a corner in the truck going way too fast -- even though I'm buckled up. The side that makes him defend the weakest member of his tribe, and keep his friends and family close.

It's the soul.

Family to Jim is happenstance rather than blood. Simon Banks, our captain and boss at Major Crimes, is family. So's his son, Daryl, whom we've known since he was a kid. So are the other gold shields: Brian Rafe, Henry Brown, and Megan Connors, our Aussie transplant.

And there's Mrs. LaCosta, our 83-year-old neighbor across the hallway. Having survived her husband of 57 years by more than a decade, Anna LaCosta lives alone, is still an active member of her church, helps run a senior citizen center around the corner on Monroe, and has a raft-load of children, grandchildren, one or two great-grand rugrats, who visit often. She's the building's surrogate grandma/bubby, and the only woman who makes my Jim (*MY* Jim???) sound like an eight-year-old Eddie Haskell clone when answering her sharp-as-tacks questions.

"James Ellison, you look thin! I have you been eating properly?"

"Yes, Mrs. LaCosta." No mention of Wonderburger or Denny's. Ever.

"James Ellison, have you been running around in the elements without wearing your raincoat or rubbers?"

"No, Mrs. LaCosta." I guess he couldn't tell her that an overcoat of any kind would make access to the gun he carries in his trouser waistband impossible. I'm not touching the subject of Jim wearing rubbers.

"And, most importantly, James Ellison, are you taking care of your friend, Blair, the way you should?"

"Yes, Mrs. LaCosta."

"Good. The little man deserves it."

Christ, now that I think about that conversation last week that I overheard (OK, eavesdropped on), what *did* she mean? Little man as in ... oh, shit ...but we're not ... Jim's not ... I'm not, at least not with him ... not that I wouldn't ... I would ... I mean I do ...but he doesn't ... he wouldn't .... would he?

Wine's made me invincible. And a seeker of wisdom and truth.

"Margaret, sit tight. I'll be back in just a minute. I have to go talk to my neighbor across about something REALLY important."

Why is she starting to laugh so hard her long hair is slipping out of the barrettes holding it in place?

"Tight ... yeah ... I'll sit ... tight ..."

Even though I am three-sheets-to-the-wind, I still know the little play on words is not *that* funny.

That settles it.

"Mags, you're flagged. Please eat something while I'm gone. And don't drink anything else."

"OK, Blairy." God, I HATE that nickname. (Another long story.) "You got any Skippy and Chiquitas? And Wonderbread? I could go for a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. It would taste great with this thingamajig we're drinking."

Right. One Elvis Presley-inspired snack coming up. Oops. Bad choice of words.

"Uh, Margaret, maybe you could just have some crackers and cheese or something."

I find myself talking to her backside, as she bends over and peers into our refrigerator.

"Got any sardines?"

Ugh. Gross me the fuck out.

"If you start feeling ... unwell ... or if, like, want to ... freshen up ... you know where the bathroom is. Right?"

My friend looks flushed, and really pretty in her present, over-served state. Her eyes are literally twinkling, brunette hair flying in every direction. And she's taken off the shapeless fisherman's sweater that's too big for her. All's right in Margaret Mary Naughton's world. Inexpensive wine, an afternoon of good sex talk, and little fish swimming in heavy oil.

"Huh? Oh, sure, Blairy. Stairs ... up ... no, back? There?" She points unsteadily and rather frantically with a wiggling finger, either to the bathroom at the end of the hall, or the one at the Mobil Station on Alpha Centauri.

"Yeah. Lock the door when I leave. I'll be back." I say, sans Schwarzenegger accent as I scoop up keys from the basket by the door. As it slams shut behind me, I am instantaneously aware that the set in my hand is to my good luggage in the basement storage space. Well, no sweat, I'll just palm the one I hide over the ... SON OF A BITCH... that anal-retentive bastard Jim "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, it's where thieves look first" Ellison's removed it. AGAIN.

Well, Maggie will let me in. I hope. But first, I have to talk to Mrs. LaCosta.

***

I knock at Apartment #305.

"Mrs. LaCosta? It's me, Blair Sandburg."

The door opens. A neat as a pin, 5,' 89 lb. white-haired woman, smelling of lavender and vanilla, and wearing a jogging suit that looks like a Christmas present, scans me with sharp, suspicious eyes, sizing up my condition. She immediately pulls me into her cosy, overfurnished living room and onto the couch in the corner.

"Blair Jacob Sandburg! Have you been drinking? In the middle of the afternoon? What is that James Ellison thinking of?"

Uh oh. We're both in deep trouble now.

"No, he's working, Mrs. LaCosta. I have company and ..."

"Obviously, a bad influence on you, Blair Sandburg. You need strong, black coffee. Just wait until James gets home! I know how he worries about you. And apparently with good reason ..."

As she tsk-tsks her way into the tiny kitchen, preparing a caffeine-laden witches' brew to infuse into me, I start to laugh silently. She's so sweet. Doesn't want the "little man" to get in trouble with his "Mr." because of evil companions.

The laugh comes out of my mouth, and turns into a knock-down, drag-out roar.

"Mrs. LaCosta! I love you! Come on back in here. I promise Jim won't be angry. Honest to God."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, young man."

"Yes, Mrs. LaCosta." Danger, Eddie Haskell alert.

Next to me, I notice a threadbare souvenir pillow from pre-casino Atlantic City.

"That pillow was our secret to a happy marriage, dear."

"What secret, Mrs. L.?"

"Of why my husband and I were so contented ..." She becomes flustered, as I put two and two together and realize that this was a real whoopee cushion. As in making whoopee. As in boffing like bunnies. As in *doing* it. Mrs. LaCosta, sitting there in a rust-colored warm-up outfit, *did* it.

Apparently pretty damned well, if the smile on her late husband's face in the photos on the mantle is any indication.

I can't resist.

"Mrs. LaCosta. My young ears! I'm shocked!" I flash Cheshire teeth at her.

"Be that as it may, dear, I want you listen to me. Dom and I shared this pillow every night. And we sometimes used it ... so we'd never go to bed angry. I suggest if you want to keep that James Ellison home and happy, you get one just like it."

Only good manners stop me from spitting hot coffee out of my mouth.

"Careful, dear!" She blots the dripping liquid from my chin and shirt with a cloth napkin. "You don't have to *put on* with me. I know how much that man loves you. Almost as much as you love him." Then she sighs, and for a moment I see the spitfire in the old photos who had charmed a lucky man into sharing life to the fullest.

"Your Jim," she says, almost wistfully, "he's what we used to call a 'pistol.' Do they still use that word?"

I'm not going to survive this conversation. I'm either sobering up real fast, or it's going at warp-speed. I don't know which.

"Uh, yes, I think they still do."

"Good. It suits him. Now, go home, dear. Tell your company to leave. Clean up the apartment, and for heaven's sake, spruce up a little before James comes home."

"Yes, Mrs. LaCosta." I'll go home and figure out a way to tell Jim Ellison -- that old pistol -- that I'm in love with him. And that if he'd like to shoot anything into me, short of bullets, I'm jiggy with it.

She pats the side of my face tenderly, then "shoos" me home.

I've spent the last half-hour finding out that 1) Jim Ellison may love me; 2) Mrs. LaCosta is a better detective than the legit ones at Metro because she *knows*; and 3) an 83-year-old grandmother's sex life was probably better than mine.

Too much information.

I'm trying to walk erect, what with all the Jim talk. I'm erect, all right. I just can't stand up straight.

Keys. Dammit. I'm just about to knock on my own front door to get Margaret's attention, when it suddenly gives way under my knuckles.

"Thanks, hon, I --"

"I find myself being twirled around by something cutting off the circulation to my left arm. The vise grip is attached to an angry-looking Jim Ellison.

"Sandburg, get the hell in here!"

"What --"

"Are you deaf? I said get your ass in here! Right now!"

I've seen Jim Ellison miffed, perturbed, incensed, irate, and just plain pissed, along with a few other choices from the thesaurus that escape me at the moment.

There's no word to describe what he is now. Postal comes closest.

At least, that's all I can come up with, still being half-drunk, and now dizzy on top of it.

"Jesus, man, give a guy a heart attack, why don't you?"

He doesn't release my arm. If anything, my mad-as-a-hornet's-nest partner squeezes more insistently, and pulls me roughly toward him.

"Listen to me. I'm only going to say this once. You've got five minutes before I ask your friend to leave."

"Christ, lighten up. And let go. You're hurting me. I'm sorry we started before you got here, but there's still enough if you want some."

"WHAT?" He's fairly screeching at me in disbelief.

"Calm down, Jim. OK. So it was meant for you. And I had more than my share --"

"MINE? What the fuck are you saying?"

I'm really confused now. My head hurts and I wish Margaret had made the peanut butter and banana snack, because I really could "go" for it.

I sputter: "Well, Margaret and I --"

"Margaret? Your FRIEND, Margaret? Sandburg! I can't believe I'm hearing this! How fucking low --"

"Stop yelling!" I scream at my Blessed Protector whose muscles are popping out of the black tee-shirt that's painted on his sculpted torso. His neck's corded pretty good, too. And then, most interestingly, he's sporting enough wood in his jeans to build a cabin. I'm a trained observer. You notice these things.

Enlightenment. I think he's reacting to *me,* to 5'8," 160 lb. Blair Sandburg,the Jewish/pagan wild child who's been leaking pheromones into our shared air for like only the last three years or so to get this kind of reaction out of him.

I start to giggle. (Yeah, giggle.) Bad move. Jim picks me up by my biceps, such as they are, and stretches me vertically to the level of his insanely beautiful, dangerous stare. I'm on tiptoes, we're eyeballing one another, when we hear a moan from overhead. A woman's bleating voice. "Make the room stop spinning ..."

"Who the hell is that?" I wonder, somewhat distractedly.

"MARGARET! IT'S MARGARET! HALF-NAKED IN MY BED, WHERE YOU LEFT HER. THAT'S WHO!"

Someday, I know I'll -- make that *we'll* -- look back at this bad impression of a French farce and laugh our asses off. Nah. I think I'll start now. I can't speak because I'm gasping for breath between gales of helpless laughter.

"You ... thought ... me ... Margaret ... too much, Jim, too much."

Sinking to the floor -- I think my bones have been dissolved by the wine -- I'm suddenly defying the laws of gravity. Nothing's touching the ground. I'm in Jim's arms, crushed to his chest. I hear the strangest sound coming from his throat.

"Mine!"

The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back on my little bed, my old flannel shirt's being pulled apart, big hands are stripping my sweats from my body like there's no tomorrow. (And there probably won't be, once I sober up, and my Sentinel comes back from his side trip to Bizarroworld.)

Ever read any slash fiction? Where male soon-to-be-lovers slowly and methodically take time to prepare one another for the ensuing boinkathon?

Fiction, people. Sciencefuckingfiction. A naked, sweating, swearing Jim Ellison takes the gunk I use on my hands and feet during winter ("Bag Balm," the stuff they use on cow udders), smears it on the rubber-sheathed Howitzer jutting from his body (where'd he find my stash?), puts about a shovel full of it up my ass with his long, probing, scissoring fingers, then pulls me onto his lap.

There I sit. Legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. Astounded that I'm impaled on my friend's cock and not screaming my head off. I'm too busy chewing his lips in a savage kiss, grinding my heels into the small of his back, digging my nails into his shoulders, trying to rip the damned shirt off his body, and bob up and down on him in some kind of rhythm.

When I feel Jim grab my butt with what can only be described as ownership, I know I'm a goner.

To take my mind off being pretty much split in two while being fucked up the ass, he grabs Mr. Happy and strokes *him* for all he's worth.

Now I'm a comer. And a screamer.

I splatter Jim's chest, the side of his face, my laptop (good thing it was closed, thanks to whichever deity protects drunks and Guides on limited incomes) and the wall behind us for good measure. (I figure I scored 7.1 for my technical performance. It would have been higher, but you know how tough those German judges can be.) Just then, my Sentinel grinds out my name, as he rockets off in my chute.

A definite 9.3 -- at least -- for a pretty flawless, artistic interpretation of lovemaking in the new millennium.

So now we're face-to-face, sated, stuck on one another, and with one another (any way you care to interpret that).

The next thing I know, my big, hulking partner has pulled out of me, as gently as he can, but he still hasn't released me. My sweating face is mashed against the skin of Jim's broad, glistening chest near a tempting left nipple.

What the hell. I latch onto it and start sucking.

Between my cheeks -- the ones down South -- 40-something Jim Ellison's 40-something dick is stiffening up again.

Uh, no way, Jose. I'd like to oblige, but I'd also like to be able to sit down sometime within the foreseeable future.

"Buddy, I can't..."

"Shh. It'll be alright." He makes the soothing sound as he positions me over his slick tool, and begins to slide under me. Because I have 1 1/2 braincells still working, I catch on and clench my gluts together, mirroring what I'm doing around his tit. We rock back and forth a long, long time.

So long, having his flesh in my mouth and his cock beneath my sore tush seems the most natural thing in the world. Finally, I decide to up the ante, so to speak, by pushing my thumb into that tight, secret little rosebud opening of his. Somewhat surprisingly, my Sentinel doesn't say much as he explodes in the second orgasm in less than 30 minutes.

Just the most important thing I've ever heard.

"Love you, chief. Always."

I'm sticky, I'm sober, and I'm grossly aromatic. Translation: I stink. And I'm where I belong. In Jim Ellison's arms.

"Yeah, me too, big guy. Me, too."

Now we're really exhausted, but can't fall forward, backward, or off the futon without doing severe bodily damage to one another. So we opt to slide backwards against the come-speckled wall.

From somewhere between Prospect Avenue and heaven, a confused whine begs, "Please ... don't ... tell ... Jim, 'Bl-bl- ..." Then silence.

"What shouldn't you tell me, 'Bl-bl- ...?" The hard planes of Jim's unquestionably handsome face have softened. Maybe sex does make you look younger.

Nah. It's love that does it. I must look about 11 years old.

"Margaret thinks you're the most sensual man she's ever met."

"Yeah?" His eyes dance as he smiles *that* smile for me.

"And Mrs. LaCosta thinks you're a pistol."

Now he's chuckling as he pets my sticky chest and thigh fondly.

"And what do you think, Sandburg?"

I look at the love of my life, disheveled, wrapped around me protectively, and grinning from ear to ear. And I notice that Margaret's right. Jim's body is still primed for action. It's relaxed, but not at rest. I bet if I fingered my flute, he's swoop down on me like white on rice.

Let's see what happens. What's a hypothesis if you don't test it?

I do. He does. I didn't think I could make sounds like that. That's how good Jim is. (I'm going to have to ask him where he learned that particular skill. But later. Much later.)

Shit. This is going to get noisy. I hope Margaret is a sound sleeper. And Mrs. LaCosta can spare that A.C. pillow for the next couple of decades or so.