It started that night, when Blair was cooking, though everything had been building up.
Jim walked to the kitchen, showered and dressed in clean clothes. At the counter, Blair was slopping an egg mixture into a bowl. As Jim watched he added milk, flour, nutmeg and salt.
"What are you making?" He asked finally, stepping from the doorway. His partner looked up and smiled.
"It's a dutch baby. They make them in Germany," he explained, carefully pulling a hot pan out of the oven, where he had melted butter. He mixed the batter and poured it into a pan, returning it to the oven. Then he turned to gaze curiously Jim who was standing with his mouth open in an expression of mild shock and horror.
"You're making WHAT?" He all but yelled, taking a step back. "Maybe it's time for bed kiddo." Jim suggested, cautiously reaching out to touch Blair's arm. Blair laughed.
"A Dutch baby is a pancake, Jim. There's no cannibalism involved." He chuckled over his friend's suspicion and set the oven timer. "Dinner's in twenty minutes, so go take a nap." Jim, relieved but equally exhausted, turned and went back to his room.
He woke a few minutes later to the delicious aroma of food that infiltrated the entire loft. There was the sound of the microwave as the maple syrup was warmed up and the pop of the margarine lid. Smiling, he rubbed his eyes and stood, running a hand through his short hair.
Jim came down the stairs just in time to see the oven mitt slip from the pan, exposing Blair's finger to the hot glass. The very hot 425 degree glass. Blair yelped, luckily making it the half inch to the stove top to drop the dish harshly.
"Ouch," he whimpered, cradling his hand to his chest. Jim had run from the other room and grabbed him by the shoulder, steering him to the sink where he reached over him to turn on the cold water. Blair stuck his finger under the cool stream, wincing a little when it hit the burn. They stood there for a second, Jim still holding him before Jim let go and turned to get some ice from the freezer.
"That'll do," he said later, as they sat on the couch watching T.V., Blair holding an ice cube and a bowl to catch the water. The usual house rule about eating in the living room had been pardoned for the occasion. Indeed, two large slabs of Dutch baby sat on the table, drenched in margarine and syrup. "No more cooking for you," Jim teased, though he meant it.
"Sheesh man," exclaimed Blair harshly, causing the Sentinel to look up in surprise. "I'm an adult you know."
"Sure don't act like it sometimes, Chief," smirked Jim. "Wasn't it you that was running around the house singing the SpongeBob theme song the other day?" He was almost cut off by Blair, who bit into him.
"I lived on my own before you, Jim. I could do it again!" Usually Jim would have rushed now to soothe his guide's ruffled feathers, but then again usually Blair wasn't this confrontational. They were both tired and stressed from a case that had been resolved unsatisfactorily at a shoot-out today.
"Well than, why are you here?" asked Jim, sick of this conversation.
"You know what- oh, forget it," growled Blair, dropping the bowl on the couch and running to his room.
The next day was still tense. Everyone at the bull pen did their best to avoid the grim Jim and seriously pissed Sandburg. Only Joel was brave enough to wave to Hairboy and suggest they go out for drinks. His invitation was declined.
Jim got agitated while they were doing some observation because he was worried that if something happened they wouldn't be able to communicate well enough. He started to lecture Blair the second he got back into the car, only to have the door slam in his face when Blair went to get a ride in the other cruiser. Jim sighed, leaning back in his seat and pinching the bridge of his nose. He vowed never to have kids because, along with all the trials of diapers and such, they eventually rebelled, becoming nasty teenagers that rendered all of your work useless. Now he was getting that same trouble from his Guide.
At the end of the day, Simon called him in to his office. He was smoking and looking down at his desk.
"Hello Simon," he said from the door.
"Come in Jim. Shut the door." Jim did so, sitting down tentatively at the chair opposite his captain.
"What is with you two? Blair has seemed, well, rather angry. I'd hate for something here to get it between you-"Me too, thought Jim, standing. "Jim?"
He looked out the window at the street below, feeling numb, as if his senses had just evaporated into nothingness.
"I'm resigning." He said, to nobody in particular, turning to leave.
"WHAT!" Bellowed Simon, leaping up to follow him. "C'mon Jim, come back, let's talk about it…" The voice faded as he dashed through the bull pen, running down the stairway and into the street. Pausing for a second next to the guards, he looked both ways and then took down the street, leaving the police car in the lot.
Blair came home late that night, probably coming from Rainer, where he was a permanent TA. He walked through the door, wiping his feet on the mat and dropping his backpack in the corner.
"Hey," said Jim noncommittally, casually channel surfing.
"'Hey'.' Hey!' That's all you have to say! How could you Jim?" Blair shouted, tears in his eyes. "I've given up so much, so much work, just for you. I almost got drowned in a fountain for you. I-"
"You knew it was dangerous! You didn't have to, I told you a thousand times-"
"But I WANTED to Jim! I wanted to work with you, to help-"
"And now I am finally protecting you, so that you don't ever get hurt-"
"You know, that is just not going to cut it Jim. Where am I going to go, back to Naomi? My academic career no longer exists," shot Blair, grabbing his bag up from the floor again and marching over to point a finger accusingly in Jim's face. "Without you I don't even have a job at the police station," he whispered looking out the window, his hand limply falling to his side.
Jim stood and stared at him. "It's okay, we can work it out. C'mon Chief, let's go to bed," he soothed, reaching for Blair's arm. Suddenly, the boy flung around to face him, his eyes wide.
"NO Jim! Don't you get it, you are giving up MY life when you do this," he swung around, marching right out the door. Jim was left standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost.
"Wait, Blair," he called, then sighed and put a hand to his forehead. What was he going to do?
He heard Blair's angry footsteps receding, his heart beat disappearing into the bustle of the city. Sighing, he turned into the kitchen to get a glass of milk. Tomorrow, when they both felt better, they could make up. He would find a way to keep Blair happy and safe too, no matter what it took.
The next day, there was no Blair in the loft or at the bullpen when he went in to look. Unfortunately, he got caught for ten minutes talking his way out of Simon's firm grasp. Finally, he decided to go to Rainer. He wondered if Blair still had his tiny annex of an office as a teaching assistant. Sighing, he took a big breath and got out of his car, heading toward the building.
Blair was not feeling good. He had spent the night in a tiny hovel of a warehouse, worrying about being knifed or freezing to death. Somehow the loft seemed a lot nicer, and no matter what happened, it would sure be nice to have a friend in the world. Like Jim. He stretched, leaning back against his desk chair. He had talked to the chairman of the department today and discovered that there was always the possibility of continuing his education, though it was suggested he chose a different field. Archaeology, maybe? He wouldn't get to deal with people as much, but it could still be interesting. He felt as if a weight had been lifted off his back.
He still needed to make up with Jim. Blair wasn't sure he could apologize, not if Jim didn't first, not after all that happened. But he knew he needed his Sentinel back, because no matter what went down he would always want Jim. Sighing heavily, he stood and gathered a few books and his headphones in his arm, slinging the already filled backpack onto his back as he took off for the library.
Rushing down the steps of the building, he saw the green field before him, filled with college students. They were playing Frisbee, the red disc flying free through the air. He wished he was a Frisbee.
That was when he saw Jim. Staring at the spinning disc also, entirely entranced. In the middle of the street, where a truck was barreling through.
"Jim!" He screamed, dashing down the steps. He dropped his books, hardly noticing, and opened his arms wide, tackling the strong form and bringing them both into a hearty landing on the pavement. Just in time, for he saw the bumper and then the underbody of the truck. It screeched to a stop, their feet sticking out the back, and the driver jumped out. People were yelling, but it was cool and quiet under the car.
"Jim," Blair whispered, tenderly reaching out to touch his friend's hair. "Are you with me man?" Jim grunted, turning over and opening his eyes to see his Guide's worried face.
"I'm so sorry," he apologized, hugging Blair to him.
"Me too," said Blair.
"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?" Bellowed a familiar voice, and two big hands grasped their feet pulling them out. "Hi boys," said Simon, his expression upset and angry.
An hour later they were sitting around in the bullpen at their lunch hour. Someone had caught on tape Jim's zone out and Blair's subsequent tackle from a spectacular angle. It had made the Cascade news channel.
"Holy," moaned Blair, bowing his head of curls as he watched the third rerun of the vehicle coming right for Jim. The person in question put his arm around Blair's shoulders, holding the ice pack to his own head. Behind them, Simon smiled. It was good to have everyone's favorite team restored. Even Jim hadn't been able to dispute that a night in an abandoned warehouse next to a gang hangout was worse for Blair than most things they did. Just then Blair turned to him.
"I'm an adult; I can take care of myself!" He shouted. The bullpen cracked up.
"Yeah right Hairboy."