Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).
Note: This story was originally written in 2005, so technology is not at a 2017 level.
Thank you to Sarai, who has been so nice to review these stories.
Thanks Again
by
By EvergreenDreamweaver
Blair Sandburg whistled softly to himself as he puttered in the kitchen. It was late afternoon on a Wednesday – Thanksgiving Eve, to be exact – and he had several cooking projects he needed to finish, if they were going to be ready to take to Thanksgiving dinner at Simon Banks' home the next day.
They were home much earlier than he'd anticipated, so he had more time than he'd figured on, to do all the prep. That was the silver lining to the definitely murky clouds of the day. The reason they were home so early was because of Jim. And that was the murkiest part of the murky clouds.
Thinking of his detective partner and roommate, Blair instinctively glanced upward, toward Jim's upper-story, open-loft bedroom. He'd gotten Ellison settled, resting...he hoped. Jim was used to the everyday noises of Blair in the apartment, for the most part – after five years of living together, he ought to be used to it! And by slipping in his tiny white noise generators, or even a plain old pair of ear plugs, Jim could almost guarantee a peaceful sleep, even if Blair was stirring, chopping, and clanging pots and pans about, in the kitchen below!
But still, if he's in enough discomfort, he won't be able to sleep... Sandburg eyed the staircase a moment longer, then returned to his culinary tasks, trying to keep the noise level at an absolute minimum, mentally reviewing the day's activities and the incident which had put them in this particular situation.
###
They'd been peacefully engaged in interviewing employees of a downtown mall jewelry store, in relation to an after-hours robbery – a nice, quiet way to spend the morning – when a sudden hubbub out in the mall had alerted them to a new problem. Dashing out of the store, Detectives Ellison and Sandburg had encountered two men apparently fleeing mall security, and had enthusiastically joined in the chase!
Blair had been fortunate – he'd managed to collar the suspect he was pursuing quickly, and had him cuffed and turned over to one of the security guards in no time. Jim, on the other hand, had had the bad luck to go after a speedy, desperate man with apparently nothing to lose. Ellison had caught up to his quarry and stopped him with a diving tackle, but the guy fought back with crazed strength – and he outweighed the detective by at least 50 pounds. When Blair arrived on the scene, he was aghast to see Jim getting the worst of it, with his head being rhythmically pounded against the hard mall flooring by the behemoth straddling him. Before Blair could draw and issue the usual warning, however, Ellison had twisted, dumped his attacker onto the floor, scrambled to his knees, and caught the guy on the chin with a well-aimed right cross. He then looked up, squinted dizzily at his partner and panted: "Chief – do you – have any idea – why we're chasing these morons?"
Between Jim, Blair and the mall security force, the situation was resolved – but Ellison was left with a rapidly-growing lump on the side of his head, a swollen jaw, and bruises over a large portion of his midsection. He'd held up well enough through the inevitable routine of taking the perps into custody and sending them off to jail – it turned out they were shoplifters, caught in the act – but when they headed into Major Crimes to do the paperwork, things had gone downhill. Unluckily – or in Blair's estimation, luckily – Captain Banks had emerged from his office just as a woozy Ellison had nearly taken a dive on the bullpen floor, and despite his protests that he was "...just fine, just give me a minute, I'll be okay in a minute..." Banks had sent them both home, with a stern injunction for Jim to rest and try to recover by the next day.
The police captain had glared at them both, and gestured with his unlit cigar. "I'm expecting you at one o'clock sharp tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner, and just because you chose to get in a fistfight in Cascade Center Mall doesn't excuse you..."
Blair had held up a pacifying hand. "Thank you, Captain; we'll be there, sir," he assured Simon, grasped Jim's arm firmly and steered his dazed partner out of the room.
###
Once back at the loft, he'd had little difficulty persuading Jim to lie down, but knowing Ellison, he didn't expect the nap to last long. Surprisingly, Jim had been asleep for nearly two hours. Blair looked up again, now hearing definite stirrings from Jim's bedroom.
"Sandburg?" A plaintive voice drifted down from upstairs, and Blair grinned a little.
Ah, there it is, right on cue – the Whine of the Wounded Sentinel!
"Yes, Jim?"
"What're you doing down there?"
"I'm making sweet potatoes for tomorrow." Sandburg set down his spoon, turned the heat low under the syrup, and walked to the foot of the stairs. "I thought you were asleep." Concern made him add, "I'm sorry; did I wake you? Are you feeling better?"
"No...wasn't you. Headache," Ellison reluctantly admitted.
Blair winced in commiseration. He thought he'd managed to pour enough Advil™ into his partner to keep the pain damped down; between that and Jim's ability to dial it back... "Want a fresh cold pack? Or some tea? I don't think you'd better take any more painkillers just yet."
"No. No tea, thanks anyway." There was silence for a few moments in the loft. Blair went back to the kitchen and resumed stirring his syrup. Just a few more minutes and it would be done...He wondered if Jim was trying to go back to sleep.
The scrape and bang of drawers and closet doors being opened and shut disabused him of that notion in a hurry!
"Sandburg!"
Uh-oh. The attitude was definitely deteriorating. Jim might have started out whiny but he was rapidly progressing to cranky and irritable. What in the world is he doing now? "What, Jim?" Blair kept his voice calm and soothing with an effort – and kept on stirring his syrup.
"Where's my green shirt?"
"Which green shirt?" He's looking for a shirt now? Why in hell...?
"My good green silk button-down shirt, that's which one! Did you do something with it?"
Oh Lord, give me strength! "What makes you think I'd have done anything with your shirt?" Sandburg was honestly puzzled. He glanced up as a snort from above reached his ears, and saw Jim leaning over the railing. Ellison looked puffy and bruised and was squinting with the headache, but one corner of his mouth was quirked upwards. He stared pointedly at his partner.
Blair looked down at himself and blushed. He was wearing his own jeans, but had topped them with one of Jim's Jags sweatshirts. "I didn't borrow your green shirt," he defended himself weakly. Besides, he added silently, the sleeves are too long, and the shoulders are too wide for me!
"Then where is it?" More banging from upstairs. "I want to wear it to Simon's tomorrow..."
Blair wracked his brain – and the proverbial light bulb flashed over his head. "Was it in that last batch of dry-cleaning?"
"Oh, yeah – it was. Where'd all that stuff go, anyway?" Jim was leaning over the rail again, looking slightly less petulant.
"It's hanging in my room; most of the things were mine. I forgot about your shirt being in there. I haven't taken anything out of the plastic bags yet." He switched off the burner and carefully poured syrup over the waiting pan of sweet potatoes. There – all ready to be popped in the oven tomorrow morning! A noise made him look around. "Darn it, Jim, what're you doing; you're supposed to be resting!"
"Wanted...my shirt," Ellison muttered, easing himself gingerly down the stairs.
"Why in hell do you have to have your shirt right NOW?" Blair demanded. "You aren't going to wear it until tomorrow!" Jim just shook his head, looking utterly miserable. Blair sighed, and moved swiftly to take his partner's arm in a gentle grip. "Sit down, man; I'll get it. Please, Jim...just sit down, okay?" Once he had Ellison seated on the couch, he hurried into his bedroom and located the missing shirt. He exited the room, waving his prize. "Here it is – you happy now?"
Jim's reply was a monosyllabic grunt. He'd closed his eyes and leaned his head against the sofa back. He looked as if he was falling asleep again. For an irritated moment, Blair yearned to smack him upside the head. All that fuss and now he falls asleep?
With what he considered great forbearance, Blair hung the plastic-shrouded shirt on the stair railing and returned to the kitchen. Working quietly, he put the pan of sweet potatoes in the refrigerator, then cleaned up his syrup dishes, and proceeded to start in on a broccoli salad. The familiar tasks soothed his irritation. At least Jim's resting; that's a good thing...
As he worked, Blair let his thoughts range freely. Not surprisingly, they fastened on his mother. Naomi had called earlier that day, from somewhere in New Hampshire, to wish them a happy Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving had always been an important day to celebrate for Naomi and him, when he was younger. With her earth mother and flower-child tendencies, Naomi was big on expressing gratitude, and she'd instilled it in Blair as well. They'd always made lists...
A sudden notion struck Blair. It had been a long time since he'd made a "Thanks For..." list, but he felt like doing it today. After all, he had an awful lot to be grateful for, these days! Mentally, he began composing one while he worked on cutting up the broccoli. He'd write them down as soon as he was done. Basics first: food, shelter, clothing, health.
Shelter – this apartment, shared with his partner and closest friend. Warm and dry and protected...no rodents or roaches. Somewhere he could spread out his things...a place he knew would be there waiting for him every night, a place he wasn't going to have to suddenly leave, for whatever reason or whim. Sure, he and Jim had had their rough patches, but they'd worked through them, and he knew now that the loft on Prospect was his home for as long as he desired – as far as he was concerned, for good. Oh yes, he was thankful for this – big time!
Food – he grinned to himself. That had been one of the rough patches of their earliest days together, all right. There'd been negotiations and compromises on both sides. Jim had graciously eaten boiled tongue, for the sake of Naomi's feelings, and because it was Blair's favorite. He'd learned to tolerate the grad student's algae shakes. Blair himself had learned to sometimes give in to his roommate's predilections for hamburgers and steaks and as much junk food as he could comfortably consume – and had admitted that oftentimes they tasted darned good! They'd discovered that they both liked Italian, Chinese, Indian, Thai...And they both made missteps occasionally. Blair smiled again as he recalled the mashed potatoes issue. He'd grown up with the idea that mashed potatoes were okay with a few lumps left in. Lumps in mashed potatoes, however, made Jim gag, since his heightened senses had come online. After the first disastrous time he'd fixed mashed potatoes, Blair had been very, very careful to always get all the lumps out, even if it meant smooshing them through a strainer!
Clothes – well, since he had a regular paycheck now, his wearing apparel wasn't always from bargain basements and consignment shops any more. And he couldn't count how many warm, expensive articles of clothing Jim had given him as Christmas or birthday gifts – or merely 'because you need it, Chief!' And – Blair flicked a little glance toward the quiet figure sprawled on the sofa – there was always Jim's closet and bureau drawers to raid, as well!
Health – He pondered that one for awhile. He'd gone through more than his share of health issues in the past few years, as Jim's unofficial partner, including accidental drug overdoses and a near-fatal drowning. Now, it seemed as if he'd paid his dues, for aside from getting shot at, or knocked out and concussed, or having his bones broken in the line of duty, he was fairly healthy for the most part, despite a tendency to catch severe colds or the flu. And when he did come down with something, he had a certain Blessed Protector, who nagged at him to rest, and bitched and growled and force-fed him chicken soup and aspirin and Nyquil™, and hovered, and fluffed pillows, and brought him cold cloths... The same Blessed Protector who had spent innumerable hours in ER waiting rooms – or sitting next to a hospital bed, making sure that Blair didn't have to be alone...
###
"What're you making now?"
Sandburg gave a startled leap, and a large chunk of broccoli sailed up into the air. "GAAAAH! For God's sake, Jim, don't sneak up on me like that!"
Ellison deftly caught the broccoli and tossed it into the salad bowl. "I didn't sneak," he averred, "I just walked into the kitchen. You were zoning on the veggies, Chief." He peered into the bowl. "Why are you putting raisins in with the broccoli?" he demanded in a horrified tone.
"Because that's what the recipe calls for," Blair said mildly. "It's a salad, not a cooked vegetable."
"Raisins in broccoli!" Jim shuddered.
"Trust me, Jim; you'll like it."
Ellison shuddered again. He wandered over to the refrigerator and opened the door, staring at the casserole dish of sweet potatoes. "I like your sweet potatoes, Chief...don't like the marshmallows on top that most people use."
"Well, thank you for that." Sandburg gently elbowed him aside and reached for the mayonnaise. "How're you feeling now?"
"Not too bad. Mayonnaise on raisins?" The horror was back in Jim's voice. He peered over Blair's shoulder at the recipe card on the counter. "Sunflower seeds?"
Sandburg briefly considered strangling his roommate, but decided that even a weakened Ellison might be a little too much to handle. Covert Ops, after all... He knew perfectly well that Jim had had this particular salad before and liked it; the Sentinel was just being perverse! "Why don't you go sit down again?" He pointed in the direction of the table. "You hungry?"
"Kinda..." Jim did as requested, gingerly rubbing the lump on his head.
"I'll fix something when I'm done with the salad, okay?" For a reward and a distraction, Blair dug out the box of raisins again and handed it to his partner. "Here – no mayonnaise on these!"
Jim contentedly munched raisins and watched the younger man concoct his salad. He raised his eyebrows a time or two as the various ingredients went in, and shook his head, but kept his comments to himself until Blair was finished and the dish was safely in the refrigerator.
"What were you thinking about so hard, Chief – when I startled you?"
Blair smiled as he wiped off the counter. "My 'thanks for' list. It's something Naomi and I used to do on Thanksgiving: make a list of things we were thankful for. It didn't have to be detailed, but it could be, if you wanted. So it worked for a little kid as well as an adult."
"What had you come up with?" Ellison sounded genuinely interested.
"I'd just gotten the basics so far," Blair admitted. "Shelter—" He gestured around himself at the spacious loft apartment. "Food." Another gesture, one that encompassed the kitchen. "Speaking of which, you want a sandwich? Some soup? Or something more than that?"
"Soup sounds good – kind of hard to chew," Jim admitted, rubbing his bruised jaw cautiously.
Blair dug out a can of soup and dumped it into a pan; added water and turned the gas flame on beneath it. "Clothes," he continued his list, "and health."
Ellison eyed him. "What comes next, then?"
"Adding details." Keeping one eye on the heating soup, Blair got a pen and tablet from one of the drawers. "I was just getting to that when you scared the bejeezus outta me, that's what!"
"Well, go ahead; don't let me stop you."
"I will, I will; give me a minute. You want to do it too?" Sandburg offered the tablet invitingly, and searched for another pen.
"Uh...maybe not." Jim shook his head and then winced.
"What, you're not thankful for anything?" Blair teased.
"I'm plenty thankful, Sandburg, but right now I'll limit it to 'thanks for the soup,'" Jim countered.
Grinning, Blair poured a bowlful of soup and set it in front of his partner, then sat down across the table from him, pen in hand.
"Well, if you aren't going to play, then just for that I'm not going to tell you what I'm writing down," he said.
Ellison merely lifted an eyebrow again as he carefully spooned soup into his mouth. But his eyes narrowed slightly and he focused in on the tablet, watching Blair write.
"Hey!" Blair suddenly realized what the Sentinel was doing. He shielded the paper with his bent left arm. "No peeking, man!"
"Chief, sometimes you are so juvenile..."
"I'M juvenile? Who's the one looking at someone else's exam paper?" Sandburg huffed with indignation and kept his arm where it was.
"Exam paper? Sandburg, we're not in junior high—"
Blair was having none of it. "And don't try to read it in the reflection of my glasses, either!" he warned Jim, who once again rolled his eyes at the ceiling and shook his head. Sandburg then demonstrated his maturity by sticking out his tongue at his partner. Jim just gave him a long, assessing look – and went back to his soup.
With Ellison's keen eyes on him – despite the camouflage of the soup and the dubious protection of his arm – Blair felt suddenly shy about writing down his list of 'thanks fors.' Jim might laugh at him. He decided to spar for time.
"I think I'll have some soup too," he announced, and got to his feet. "If we figure this is dinner, then we won't have to worry about it later. And I want a sandwich to go with it." He busied himself preparing the sandwich – and made more than one, just in case Jim's aching jaw allowed him to eat.
#####
Their early dinner took both their minds off the lists, and after the few dishes were cleared up, Jim settled back on the couch to watch the evening news. Blair seated himself at the table and laid out the tablet once more. He listed the things he had thought of earlier, without going into the details his thoughts had provided. Now it was time to expand on those details. Shelter, Food, Clothing, Health...
Shelter. This beautiful loft, the first 'real' home I can remember ever having, and a patient and understanding roommate who was kind enough to offer to share it with me. Even though I probably drive him nuts.
Food. More than enough to eat, always – and someone to share eating it with. Even when he carps about tofu and ostrich chili and the algae shakes.
Clothing. For being a plainclothes detective and not having to wear a uniform – and for a tolerant partner who wouldn't get upset if I wore my earrings and tie-dye to work! And for those really neat ankle boots...and the new wool coat Jim gave me last month.
Health. For overall good health and for my Blessed Protector who works 24/7 to try and ensure that it stays that way – and who's been so patient with me over the years when it seemed that all I did was get sick or hurt.
"Still working on it, huh?" Jim eyed him lazily.
"Yeah..." Blair gazed thoughtfully at the paper, and wrote down another item.
My job. A great job, where I make a real difference in the world. And the incredible man I am partnered with.
It wasn't the job he'd pursued all through college and grad school. Being a professor of anthropology was no longer in the cards. And yet, Blair knew he was happier and more fulfilled than he'd ever have been teaching Anthro – occasional bullet-dodging aside. He liked being a cop. He was good at it. And oh-so-importantly, it kept him at Jim's side – where he needed and wanted to be...and where he was needed.
My Volvo, which is finally getting the care and attention it needs, so that it keeps running!
A well-developed sense of humor. Lord knows I need one! He chuckled quietly, conscious of Jim's inquisitive look.
Family and friends.
He and Naomi had made their peace, despite her appalled reaction to his becoming a police officer. And even though she wasn't often around in person, they kept in touch. As for friends, he'd found out who his real friends were, after the fiasco with his dissertation, and they sure weren't the people over at Rainier! They were people like Simon Banks, like Joel Taggart and Megan, like Henri and Rafe.
And more than anyone else, encompassing both family and friendship incarnate, there was Jim.
With a soft smile, Blair wrote another few lines.
And above all...more thanks than I can ever express, for Jim Ellison – my partner, my Sentinel, my guardian and protector, my best friend for life, whose friendship means more to me than anything else. For whom I would gladly do it all over again.
He turned the paper over, but left it on the table, along with the pen and the tablet.
"There. Done," he announced. "Unless I think of more later." He stretched luxuriously. "I think I'm gonna get ready for bed now, and then watch TV until I fall asleep," he added.
"Can I read your list?" Ellison queried with a teasing grin. "Or is it still private?"
Blair shrugged. He'd already made up his mind. Jim would either laugh or he wouldn't, and if he didn't let him read it, he'd always wonder.
"You can read it if you want to. You gonna let me read yours, then?"
At that, Ellison looked very uncomfortable. "Who said I was going to do one?" he growled.
"Nobody, Jim – nobody said." With a soft little sigh, Blair walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
###
When Blair finally emerged from his room, clad in sweatpants, a t-shirt and thick socks, all topped by his ratty bathrobe, Jim was still seated on the couch, but he got up and came over to the table as Blair walked past. He looked embarrassed, but determined.
"Guess I'll make one of those lists," he mumbled. He sat down and reached for the tablet and pen. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you read it!" he added, glaring at his roommate defiantly, challenging him to argue.
"Jim...you don't have to, man! I'd never make you do that if you didn't want to." Blair's whisper hung in the air behind him. "I'm going to go watch TV for awhile, okay?"
Jim felt the soft brush of his Guide's hand against his shoulder, and then Sandburg was settling down on the long sofa and picking up the remote control. A few seconds later the music from A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was pouring into the loft, and Blair appeared to be wrapped up in the old cartoon.
Well...he could do this list-thing. He didn't think he could say the words out loud, not easily. But committing them to paper – maybe that was possible. Despite Simon's comments that Jim's written reports were like reading a Dick-and-Jane primer, he did know how to write, when he wanted to. And he'd let Blair read it when he was done – and he wouldn't read his roommate's list until then, either. Jim tapped his pen against the table while he considered further – and then slowly began to write.
Thanks For...
One: Shelter. This loft apartment – and my weird and wacky roommate, who has dragged enough stuff in to furnish a museum...and who helps me make it a home instead of just a place to sleep and eat. Even if he still doesn't hang up the towels most of the time!
Two: Food. And for my talented and resourceful roommate who shares the tasks of cooking it, and the pleasures of eating it with me. Even though he went through that godawful algae shake period, and he's broken every toaster we owned, in the past five years!
He paused again, reflecting. Carolyn hadn't been much for cooking, when they'd been married. She always claimed that she was too busy, too stressed from work, no time...truth was, she wasn't really interested in it; it was too much bother. Take pot roast, one of his favorite things to eat. She'd never made pot roast. But Blair, even when he was still a student, and three times as busy and infinitely more stressed than Carolyn ever could have been...Blair made pot roast. Often. Because he knew Jim liked it.
Three: My job, which I enjoy and am good at. And my brilliant partner, the best cop I know and the only partner I'll ever accept again...whom I am lucky to trust with my life every day.
Four: Good health. And for my own personal witch-doctor, who always does his best to help me stay that way, even if his ideas are weird.
At least he didn't get sick all that often, but days like today – painful minor injuries stemming from work, or worse, major injuries – those were all too common. Thank heaven for Sandburg and his cold packs and his Advil™ and his soup, and his goddamned herbal teas, and his weird peyote-laced remedies, and his back massages, and all the times he had sat beside a hospital bed, waiting for Jim to wake up...
He thought about the next one for quite some time, debating the pros and cons, before finally writing it down:
Five: My enhanced senses, which help me do my job – and my incredible Guide, who made it possible for me to control them. And who continues to make it possible for me to live with them.
From Day One, Blair had helped him. Sometimes not having the slightest idea if his theories would fly or not, but always, always trying to help Jim, doing whatever it took. Hours of damned tests...the gift of those way-too-expensive white noise generators which Jim still used on occasion – today, for instance. "Here, taste this..." "Tell me what you see..." "...picture something you can control – picture a dial." Touching and grounding and coaching. Teaching Jim meditation techniques. Putting up with his complaints and arguing down his protests.
Six: Clothing. I'm thankful that Sandburg's too short to borrow my pants as well as my shirts, otherwise I'd never have anything to wear at all!
Seven: My truck – despite Sandburg's insults about it, it runs a helluva lot better than his Volvo!
Eight: Friends...the guys at the station.
Friends like Simon and the rest of the detectives in Major Crimes, who had once upon a time merely been associates that he forgot about as soon as he left the precinct – but now he considered to be his closest friends. And why had they become good friends? Because of one certain other friend, who had used the emotional equivalent of a lock-pick to get into the padlocked box he'd made of his heart...
...the guys at the station, and especially Blair, who puts up with unbelievable shit from me and still hangs around, which makes him either a candidate for sainthood or in serious need of psychiatric help.
Nine: Family: For my father and brother – Who would still be lost to me without Sandburg's constant badgering.
He chuckled a little, very quietly; he glanced over at the couch, where Blair seemed to be engrossed with Snoopy and Woodstock, and then reviewed his list. A thoughtful frown creased his forehead as he re-read it. He was picking up on one very important detail. Something he'd included in every single item he'd listed.
Blair. Blair – the key ingredient, the essential element.
Slowly, he set the pen to the paper once more.
Ten: And most of all, thanks for Blair Sandburg...My partner, my roommate, my Guide and Shaman. The most important member of my family and my 'tribe.' My best friend, who possesses at least half of my soul. Who has saved my life and my sanity, more times than I can count – and who is the reason that my life is worth living.
Jim reached for Blair's list. He turned it over and began to read. His face remained impassive at first, then crinkled with amusement. And then he reached the end – and he briefly squeezed his stinging eyes shut.
'...my best friend for life, whose friendship means more to me than anything else. For whom I would gladly do it all over again.'
Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Jim set down the pen and laid his list next to Blair's, both of them face-up. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
"I think I'm going to take a shower and turn in, Chief," he said. "I'm still pretty wiped. Okay?"
Blair looked up and nodded agreeably. "Sure Jim, that's probably a good idea. Take some more ibuprofen before you go to bed, 'kay?"
"I will." Jim moved to stand behind the couch, and stretched a hand out to rest it briefly on his partner's soft curls.
Sandburg tipped his head back and smiled. "Finish your list?"
"Yeah," Ellison said huskily.
Caught by the unexpected emotion in his partner's voice, Blair twisted around to look at him more directly. "You okay, man?"
"Fine. Just tired." Jim tugged gently on a curl. "Don't stay up too late, Junior."
"We can sleep in tomorrow," Blair reminded him.
"Yeah, I know." Jim took a few steps towards the bathroom and then turned back. "Sandburg?"
"Mmm-hmm?"
"List's on the table."
"Uh...okay." Blair smiled tentatively. "You sure you don't mind if I read it, then?"
"No...go ahead..." Ellison's voice was still a throaty rasp. "Go ahead, Chief. I read yours." A small smile. "It was...real nice."
"Okay, thanks. I will, a little later." The smile widened slightly. "Go on, get to bed. You look beat. Literally," he added with a grin.
"Very funny," Jim muttered, but his voice was nearly back to normal now. "G'night, Chief. See you in the morning."
"Night, Jim."
#####
Forty-five minutes later, with all evidence pointing to Jim being sound asleep upstairs, Blair finally moved to the table and picked up the list written in Jim's firm, easily-decipherable handwriting. He carried it back to the sofa, sat down, put on his glasses – and began to read.
Oh, man...oh Jim. He blinked hard. He kept on reading, laughter bubbling up as he saw the comments about the clothing, the truck, the need for psychiatric help. By the time he reached the end, he was resorting to sterner measures than just blinking to keep back the rush of grateful emotion, he was alternately biting his tongue and chewing on his lower lip. He meant that much to Jim? No matter what the topic, there was a 'thanks for' directed at him in it. The Sentinel might be reticent about his feelings when asked to talk about them, but, wow! He sure could communicate them on paper!
With conscious effort, Blair schooled his voice to the best approximation of his 'lecture' tone that he could manage, and began speaking, quietly.
"You probably won't hear this, Jim, but if you happen to..." He stopped to clear his throat, then resumed: "Detective Ellison...although your oral presentation leaves something to be desired – and should be worked on in the future – I must say that...that the...the essay portion of this assignment was...far superior to my highest expectations...and is deserving of extra credit, for going above and beyond..." He had to stop again, momentarily. "Oh Jim. Thank you. Thank you for what you said. It means...everything to me."
He was startled to hear a quiet reply from the bedroom above.
"Meant every word of it, Chief. Every word. Now – why don't you call it a night? And don't forget to check the locks!"
The End