Note: This takes place during the middle of Season Two, starting right after Blind Man's Bluff and extending to after Smart Alec. It was originally written as dues for the SentinelAngst group on Yahoo. I got the idea from Kathryn A., who answered a plea on LJ with the suggestion that I do something on Blair and food, using pizza as an example of a type he's inconsistent about.
Pizza
by Helen W.
Just after Blind Man's Bluff...
Italian wasn't Jim's first choice for date food - especially cheap Italian - but Margaret suggested it and so Salvatore's Pizza and Pasta it was. Then she ignored the real menu and insisted on a pepperoni pie - fine, okay, whatever. Jim had actually had hardly any pizza the past year or so - there just seemed to be so many other options in Cascade these days, plus he and Sandburg cooked in a lot. But Sal made a good pie, it turned out, and Jim didn't object too much when Margaret insisted that he take the last two pieces home with him. Blair could have them for breakfast - wasn't that the student Breakfast of Champions?
When he suggested as much the next morning, however, Blair looked kind of sick, and it hit Jim that maybe, given that the last piece of pizza that Blair'd eaten had almost killed him... "Drug free, promise!"
Okay, it had been a bad joke, but did he really deserve a glower and the finger?
A couple of days later, though, after finishing up a chunk of the paperwork that came out of the bust of the dirty cops in Narcotics, Jim decided he deserved another of Salvatore's pies, and asked Blair if he wanted to join him.
"Salvatore's? That's Margaret's favorite Italian," Blair mused. "Anything going on between you two?"
"No, probably not."
"Forget it, Sandburg." He'd spent a chunk of the day unconscious from the blow to the head Dave Brooks had landed with that shovel, and the jury was still out on whether he'd been concussed. And his new, post-wax super-ears were still occasionally driving him crazy. He felt well enough to eat something simple, and pizza with Blair fit the bill, but there was no way he was up to making conversation with a date.
"Well excuse me for giving a damn," said Blair. He grabbed his jacket and keys and was gone before Jim, given the state of his headache, could craft a response that wasn't angrier than he actually felt.
Simon, who'd been observing from his office door, crooked an eyebrow. "Lover's quarrel?"
Jim shrugged. "He gets really weird whenever I mention pizza. I think it's because of..." and he gestured toward where the stack of golden-laced pizzas had been.
"Think it's really a problem for him?" Simon asked. "PTSD's nothing to fool around with."
"I don't know," said Jim. "He was great these past few days - I can't tell you how many times he saved my ass while I was getting used to having my ears unclogged. He was his usual self, all the way. So I think it's just a pizza thing."
"Pizza phobia. Well, unless the bad guys start slinging anchovies or packing pepperoni sticks that shouldn't cause a problem on the street," said Simon.
"Let's hope not."
So Jim used Blair's dial-up account and hit the internet. It turned out there was a lot online about phobias and how to get over them.
However, if he was reading things right, it all boiled down to there being four separate-but-related ways of dealing with phobias. In increasing order of Weird, these were:
1. Systematic desensitization - i.e., lots of exposure, of increasing intensity;
2. Cognitive behavior therapy - i.e., teaching Blair to understand, accept, and, ultimately, overcome the fear response pizza caused;
3. Hypnosis; and
4. Attacking the negative energy surrounding the Blair-pizza interaction.
Jim decided he'd start at the top.
His next big case involved tracking down a serial arsonist. It was a pretty intense case, with a witness and the actual perpetrator both dying before they'd gotten a handle on what was going on. Not a lot of time for desensitizing anyone to anything, but he'd grabbed a slice or two whenever he was out without Blair, and had let a few crumbs accumulate on the truck's passenger seat and floor.
Blair never noticed them, nor did he show any sign of reaction to the way the truck now reeked of tomato, garlic, and oregano, but it was driving Jim crazy. Finally, after dropping off Debra Reeves after their drive out to Cascade Beach, Jim went to Barry's Self-Service Carwash Emporium and spent a half-hour vacuuming and airing his truck out.
It was time to step things up a notch, maybe get Blair into an actual pizza joint.
The next weekend, they had plans to do a little camping and fishing out near Turnersville, so Jim did a some asking around and discovered that the town was known for Ike's Pizza. When Saturday finally came, while they were sharing a pot of 4 a.m. coffee before taking their gear down to the truck, Jim said, "While we're up there, we've got to stop at this little place..."
"Ike's?" Blair asked.
"Yes!"
"I was telling Kelly Parker we were going to Turnersville and she warned me about it. I guess it used to be The Place, but some idiot bought it a year ago and it's spent half the last three months closed for health code violations."
Jim was figuring out how to put a positive spin on this - or even if he wanted to - when he was distracted first by Blair's Cree Indian Fishing Spear, then by Sam Holland's phone call, then by Sam's death and his own kidnapping; and then things got so weird even he couldn't tell the players without a score card.
That evening, he let Blair buy him a Wonderburger with fries and a chocolate shake, and the Blair-pizza didn't cross his mind once.
And then Blair came seconds from dying in the Wilkerson Tower's Elevator #4, and Jim felt pretty crummy for letting Blair's pizza phobia color so much of how he'd been relating to him. Who was he to judge a guy, anyway?
But then they started working the Russian uranium case - they put in lots of odd hours, and Jim found he really didn't like Russian food, but Little Moscow had Ivan's Pizzeria, and, damn, but they could make a good pie. Blair actually went into the restaurant with him, which was something, but he wouldn't have a bite of pizza, just had a salad every time.
Jim was going to up things a little when Blair got suckered into working with the Summers kid. After THAT got resolved and Bob Carlin got sent to the Big House - or should that be the Bug House? - Jim brought home a plain pie from Salvatore's and tried to interest Blair in a slice, just to see if there'd been any progress.
"Ugh, no!" said Blair.
It was time for strategy #2.
A couple of evenings later, Jim got home early so that he could be waiting in the loft when Blair got home after office hours. "Uh, Chief, we have to talk."
Blair seemed almost weary as he took off his jacket and dropped his keys in the basket. "Sorry about not really being present, man. Hal's death, you know..."
And Jim felt like shit, because, really, he hadn't been paying attention. "Did you know Professor Buckner well?"
"I thought I did. He, uh, was a real mentor to me, but that was a long time ago." Blair shrugged, more as if he was shaking off the mood than answering Jim's question with the gesture. "Is there anything specific you wanted to talk about?"
"Well, yes... it's about pizza."
"Huh? I don't eat pizza."
"Well, I noticed, and I think we should take a look at why. Because there are therapies that can help. Have you heard of cognitive behavioral..."
"What the fuck?" Blair had been moving slowly, and hadn't gotten even as far as the living area. He stopped now in front of Jim. "You think I have a PIZZA PROBLEM?"
He turned. "There's a wake for Hal this evening. I thought I'd grab a bite here before heading over, absorb a little normal before I have to go make nice with half the people I know in Surrealsville, but if you're going to be exuding a weird field all your own, I'm out of here."
Jim didn't try to stop him from leaving.
It looked like he'd have to keep working his way down his list.
Jim leafed through the notes he'd taken on hypnotism and phobias a few weeks prior, trying to figure out whether there was a way to do this without Blair's cooperation (or even knowledge), and whether there was actually a use for a crystal suspended on a string, because he'd love an excuse to run out and buy one, just to get a good look at it. Unfortunately, the answer was 'no' all around.
On the other hand, hypnotism did look like a pretty efficient way of getting rid of a phobia, especially one with a known initiating event. If he could just convince Sandburg to give it a try, hell, Sandburg probably knew enough about it to tell him what to do beforehand. They could keep this simple and private.
Yes, this had to be made to work, because Jim just didn't think he was up to #4, the negative energy thing.
And they had to make things right tonight, or at least start; this damn pizza thing could really screw up their partnership if they let it. So Jim grabbed a Clancy novel and settled onto the living room couch.
Just after nine, Blair returned, smelling like a funeral home and looking like he was happy to not still be there.
"I thought you might've gone out for a drink or something," Jim said, mostly because it sounded both friendly and sane.
"Buckner's students have really closed in on themselves," Blair said. "I'm not their favorite person right now. Even some of the faculty seem to think I could have done something to keep things from getting so far out of hand."
"Is this going to be a problem for you?" Jim asked.
"I don't think so," said Blair. "I'm ABD; and they need me to teach. It'll work out."
"Good. That's good."
Blair sank into the chair. "Sorry I got weird on you earlier," he said. "Is there some reason you suddenly care about my taste in fast food?"
"I hate to see you not eating something I know you enjoy," said Jim.
"And you're talking about pizza, right? Because we haven't been doing the communication thing too well, and I want to get this straight."
"Yeah, pizza."
"Jim, I don't like pizza. Don't you remember me going off about it, right before we stumbled upon the armored car robbery, and met Maya and her wonder family? I gave you my whole 'pie of death' spiel. Then you suggested Mexican."
"Oh." And, damn, but Sandburg was right. "Then why did you eat the pizza at the station last month?"
"It was ONE PIECE. And I was starving. And, you know, as a grad student we're trained to set judgment aside when we see free food. And you see how THAT ended."
Yes! "See, that's it! You've gone from an aversion to a full-blown phobia!"
"I'm not phobic about pizza! And, it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you."
"You're phobic and it's deeper than I thought it was..." Jim, realizing his voice was louder than it had to be, paused and sat back. "Pizza's not the worst food on the planet. It's just bread, tomato sauce, cheese, and maybe some meat or vegetables."
"And a hell of a lot of lard and grease," said Blair. "Neither my grandfather nor his father lived past 50, okay? I don't put shit like that in my body if I don't have to."
"Oh." Jim had had no idea. "Heart disease?"
"Yup," said Blair. "They weren't heavy, well at least Naomi's dad wasn't, but they lived on meat and potatoes and deep fried everything, so I figured I'd try something different. Not all the way to whole-food vegetarian, like Naomi, but if I can limit the saturated fats, I'd be stupid not to."
"Well, I can accept that," said Jim, raising a hand, "But - what if we make something here? Real bread, real ingredients all the way around?"
"Uh - sure, if it'd make you happy," said Blair.
After his shift the next day, Jim stopped by Wild America to restock their flour supply and pick up fresh yeast and some tomatoes, organic part-skim shredded mozzarella, a chicken breast, and some black olives and green peppers.
As soon as he got home, he threw together the dough and set it rising; by the time Blair came in, he'd punched the dough down and set it back on the radiator for the final rise. He assigned cutting up and browning the chicken breast to Blair, while he did veggie prep, then made the sauce from scratch, one ingredient at a time, keeping Blair in the kitchen by filling him in on the progress through the legal system of various cases they'd worked on recently.
When the sauce was ready, Jim decided the dough had risen long enough. Wishing he hadn't let Carolyn take their pizza stone in the divorce, he rolled the dough out onto his least-favorite baking sheet, then spread the sauce and cheese, then the chicken pieces, olives, and slices of green pepper.
And into the oven it went.
Twenty minutes later, Jim pulled it out, then uncorked a bottle of white wine while it cooled enough to cut. Blair got his junk off the table and set actual place settings, then poured them both glasses of wine as well as tumblers of water, then took his seat. Jim set the pizza in the middle of the table, and really, it all looked great.
Blair reached forward to take a piece, seemed to hesitate a moment, then completed the motion. Jim couldn't stop a smile as he did the same, then started to eat. Hmm, he could have used a touch more black pepper in the sauce...
Blair wasn't eating.
Jim put down his piece. "What's wrong?"
"I'm just not very hungry," Blair said. "You sure the cheese isn't off?"
"You're asking ME that?"
Blair shrugged, and started to get up. "Sorry, man, I'll just..."
"No, stop, Blair, I'm been doing some reading."
That got Blair's attention. "On what? On my supposed pizza phobia? Can't a guy just not be hungry?"
"There's three ways to deal with a phobia," Jim pushed on. "Desensitization, cognitive behavior therapy, and hypnosis."
"What about Energy Therapy?"
"We are NOT going there," said Jim, and THAT got a smile out of Blair, who always seemed to get a kick out of Jim's discomfort with the truly insane.
"Let's start with desensitization," Jim continued. "I don't think we have any work to do there. You didn't mind the crumbs in my truck, you've gone into a pizzeria with me multiple times, and you're sitting there six inches from a slice of pizza right now and you're fine."
"You put crumbs in the truck? On purpose?"
"It was for a good cause," said Jim. "So, let's go to the second method. As I understand it, you've got to learn to accept your response to pizza, and not make more of it than you should. So, how are you feeling right now?"
"Amused, and a little touched, actually," said Blair.
"Well..." Jim waved a hand. "Turnabout, etc." He stood and moved to stand behind Blair, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Pick up the piece - no, just cut off a little bit."
Blair did so, then slowly speared the piece with his fork and brought it to his mouth. As it approached, Jim felt Blair's heart rate accelerate; between one breath and the next, his breathing shallowed and quickened.
Blair put down the fork. "It's making me feel sick."
"That's just your body overreacting. It's nothing to worry about."
"Easy for you to say."
Maybe it was time to go to method #3; or a modified form. "Blair, do you trust me?"
"Most of the time."
"What do you know about hypnosis?"
"A hell of a lot more than you! And, no, you can't hypnotize me. God knows what you'd dig up."
"Okay, then how about a mantra? A little self-hypnosis?"
"Huh." Blair turned and looked up at him. "That's really more a CBT thing."
"Whatever. Want to give it a shot, while the pizza's still hot?"
"Sure."
Jim thought for a moment. "How about, 'I know who made this, I know what's in this, it's just bread, meat, vegetables, and cheese'?"
"I think I'll stick to, 'I know who made this, I know what's in it.'" Blair sat back a little and visibly forced his body to relax. "I know who made this, I know what's in it," he said softly. "I know who made this, I know what's in it. I know..."
Jim moved back to his own seat while Blair repeated the lines a few more times.
Finally, Blair picked up his fork again and brought it to his mouth, then nibbled off a small piece of mostly-crust and chewed for a moment. "It's just bread," he said. "You were right."
He took a drink from his wine glass, then ate the rest of the piece off his fork. "Okay, I think I'm over this, but I've got grading..."
"Take a breath, try again."
Blair did so, this time closing his eyes. "I know who made this, I know what's in it, Jim made this, Jim made this, even if it's drugged it's okay, even if it's drugged it's okay, Jim's here, even if it's drugged..."
Blair opened his eyes. "Uh... didn't mean to say that part..."
"No, you're right," said Jim. "Even if it's drugged."
"Because this town is crazy. You never know what's going to happen, to anyone, ever."
"No, you never do."
"But you're on top of things."
"I try to be," said Jim.
Blair ate three slices.
THE END
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