Bubble
Oh fuck.
Sandburg has that look in his eyes again. That look he only has for me. That deep, pure-white, blazing lovelight that scares the crap out of me every time I see it.
Forget gun runners and drug runners, militias, murderers and maniacs. They aren't half as terrifying as Sandburg in pursuit of the genuine, uncontestable, absolute love of his life... knowledge. Study. Something new to learn about the probably genuine, maybe contestable, but absolute-as-in-only Sentinel in his life.
One of these days, the Sentinel is going to learn to keep his mouth shut.
"You - zoned?" Oh crap, there's that undertone in his voice, deep and intense and colored with something half-way between laughter and excitement. "On - on a soap bubble?"
"Calm down Chief," too late, way too late, "you aren't going to write this up."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd have to kill you."
He just looks at me. "Jim, you zoned on a soap bubble." Since there's no answer to that, I don't. "Jim, this is fantastic, man, this is just - this is -"
"Embarrassing?"
Now he looks blank. There are some things that the blindingly brilliant simply don't get sometimes. Or don't want to.
"Look, Sandburg, it was only a minute or two, just between me and the soapsuds, I don't think it's likely to be a danger to -"
"You don't know that, Jim, it could be significant! It could mean - oh, all kinds of things!" Fuck, he's fizzing now. "And with your job you can't afford to overlook any -"
I don't believe this. "Sandburg, major crimes don't usually involve bubble baths!"
"Oh -" He cracks up, with that deep, gurgling laugh of his and its hundred shades of delight. "Yeah, I guess not, but can't you see Simon's face if it did?"
I wince at the mental picture, but have to laugh as well. "Or Joel."
"Oh, man," he says, and I think it worked, he's distracted, "oh, man, that would hurt the eyes. But seriously, Jim," damn it, it didn't work, "back to the zone. It's important that you tell me about these things. We need to know what it was that made you zone - not the bubble," and crap, the enthusiasm is back in his voice and he's scrabbling in his backpack for pen and paper, "but something in the bubble... the iridescence? Of course, it'd have to be the colors -"
"Colors -?" I can recall noticing the incredible rainbowed swirls just before the zone. How they shimmered and swirled and deepened, all those shades and hues, the blues alone as deep and different as the all the shades of...
Blair's voice pulls me out of the memory. Which is lucky - if I'd zoned on the memory of a bubble, I'd really have to kill him.
"Come on, Jim," he's saying, with notebook in hand, "work with me here. Think about it, the rainbows in the soap film. How many colors do you remember?"
"How should I know?" That was clearly the wrong thing to say. "I mean, I don't know, Blair. Really"
"Jiiimmm." There's a touch of warning here, darkening his voice.
"Sandburg, I didn't finish counting the blues alone. I don't know, three, maybe four hundred..." That was clearly an even worse thing to say.
He jumps on it. "Four hundred?" Oh fuck, that lovelight is blinding now. "You can see four hundred?"
"I didn't say that, I said maybe -"
"Do you realize what this means?" Yes, it means I never ever try to tell him what a rainbow looks like. "Jim, you have got to tell me what a rainbow looks like one day. Why haven't you told me this?"
"It never seemed important, Blair." And I don't have the words.
"Jim, I need to know. I - need to know." He stares at me with those huge, brilliant blue eyes, and I can feel myself caving. "Even if you don't have the words." Okay, that's spooky. "We can find them, that's what I'm here for, they're what I'm good at."
"Yeah, well..."
His eyes soften into calmer shades. "Trust me, man."
I do. "Chief, I do. It's just... it was a bubble, Sandburg, I really can't see your tribal protectors being laid out by a soap bubble!"
"Well, of course not," and he's perfectly serious, "they probably never saw one. Although," scribbling in his book, "I should look into possible alternatives in primitive cultures... and into oil." He catches my blank look. "Oil on water, man. Iridescence. Could be just as fascinating. We could do some tests..."
"Sandburg..." And if my voice is dangerously close to a whine, it's all right, because he doesn't hear me.
"And the colors, the colors - how to describe them? Blue, bluer, blue-with-black, blue-with... no. Blue one, blue two, three, four... might work, but then you'll have to describe each..."
Had to be blue, didn't it? I had to say blue. Blue like his eyes.
"What about red instead?" I try. "There were a lot of reds. At least forty or -" No, hang on, red's too like blood. I don't need to think about the colors of blood, his blood, his blood when he's hurt... "Umm, orange? Green? Chief?"
He jumps up, hands flying (and notebook really flying and landing in the sink). "We need bubbles, Jim. And we need them now. Is there anything to wash up?"
Hell, he'll do housework if he can study it. Sometimes I can't believe Blair. "Sandburg..."
And he turns and stares at me again, detergent in one hand, dripping notebook in the other. And those eyes... one day I should tell him that all of the different blues in the rainbow are in his eyes, and more. "Come on, Jim..." and that every hue of every color is in his voice. "One little test. Just one little test, man."
Yeah right, Cheif. I believe you. One little test... for every one of the four hundred colors of the rainbow.
the end