What with one thing and another, the first week (*first* week? Jim didn't like the sound
of that, but it was impossible to substitute a different phrase; there was no other phrase, and he
knew it) of Blair Sandburg's tenancy passed in sort of a rush, and Jim saw almost as much of
Larry the Couch Monkey as he did of Blair, except at the station, of course. Although he kept
half-expecting, during that second after the elevator stopped and before the doors opened, to find
Larry at his desk, doing something horrifyingly useful, like opening and sorting Jim's mail.
But it was always just Sandburg. Doing something horrifyingly useful, something that a
tiny seed of headache at the base of Jim's brain told him that he would be coming to rely upon
within the month. Sorting his mail, copying his hastily scribbled notes into bulleted and cross-
referenced lists of information, clipping journal articles on the neurology of perception and
tucking them casually inside Jim's copy of Sports Illustrated.
And that was just at work. At home, Blair had begun an overhaul of Jim's cookbooks,
making notes next to the ingredient lists to remind Jim of which spices to cut and which to
substitute for something else. He had come up with not one but four different white-noise
generators and kept rotating them from room to room; Jim got the feeling he was monitoring the
quality of Jim's mood as he got used to each new one. Jim got the feeling, actually, that
Sandburg was monitoring every damn thing about him, which was probably exactly what
Sandburg would be doing if he weren't living in the loft, only less efficiently. It seemed, in fact,
to be Sandburg's idea of a good time.
Jim guessed he had to have expected that; it was Sandburg's field, after all. He'd chosen
to throw himself into this sensory bullshit, unlike Jim. If Sandburg wasn't enjoying it at least a
little bit, it would definitely be time to rethink the career.
Which just no. No, that wouldn't be happening any time soon. So it was good, on the
whole, that Sandburg liked his work, even if the constant reminders of Sandburg's enthusiasm
were taking Jim's few remaining nerves and twisting them into Guatemalan hemp rope. Sandburg
himself was a busy guy, and when he wasn't at the station, he was usually out of Jim's hair, with
only those jarring notes of disorder to remind Jim that Blair Sandburg now had a key to the front
door. His handwriting in the margins of a book, the VCR light blinking red to show that some
documentary on underwater Japanese ruins was being taped, a flannel shirt stuffed under a sofa
cushion. Little things. Not really intrusive, not as roommates went, but nevertheless, every time
he stumbled across some minor detail of his living environment out of place, Jim was confronted
with the fact that even when you couldn't *see* Sandburg, Sandburg was around somewhere.
You didn't know where, and you didn't know when he'd be back, but it didn't matter, because
there was his damned shirt.
Why that *bothered* Jim the way it did, he didn't exactly know. Other than not paying
any rent, Sandburg was okay where he was. Wherever he was.
The possibility existed that Jim was just an antisocial bastard. That Sandburg was, in fact,
God's gift in the roommate department, and Jim's slight discomfort was just another symptom of
the same low-grade dysfunction that, barring a two-year marriage, had kept him from living
contentedly with anyone, ever.
The way Jim figured it, that was probably the winning theory, right there. So he bitched
and moaned a little about Sandburg's weird food and Sandburg's mild sloppiness, but mostly he
kept his mouth shut. So Sandburg left faucets dripping and the volume turned up too loud on the
stereo so that when Jim flipped it on the noise hit him too fast and hard to ward off. So he
couldn't seem to find the soap dish when he was finished with the soap and he got into Jim's all-
purpose kitchen drawer and took, of all things, a whole box of rubber bands. At least he was
quiet; he kept his comings and goings as unobtrusive as any man possibly could, living with a
Sentinel. The kid was trying, Jim had to give him that.
It didn't make Jim less pissed off or self-pitying about having to surrender his private
space, but it did make him pretty cautious about the force and frequency of his bitching and
moaning. Larry left, and that helped some.
On Monday, exactly eight days after Sandburg moved in, Jim woke up to the smell of eggs
and Portobello mushrooms, and the sound of things moving around. Lots of things, from the way
he couldn't isolate any one consistent noise. For God's sake. Sandburg was *moving things
around* down there.
Of course, he was apparently cooking, too. So Jim had to lay there in bed for a few
minutes, considering his response to this unexpected situation. Option number one was to assume
that Sandburg was totally dismantling his kitchen in ways that would probably take Jim a week to
repair and go down armed for bear. On the other hand, it occurred to Jim that he could just get
over himself; he was cautiously anticipating an omelette and an amazing lack of listening to Blair's
snooze alarm go off seven times, and these were good things, things that should please him. He
could just get out of bed, walk down the stairs, and say *good morning,* like a human being.
Then the singing started, which changed the whole theater of operations.
"Love is like a bomb, baby, come and get it on "
Oh, for *God's* sake.
"Living like a lover with a radar phone "
Jim stumbled out of bed, wondering if the kid had *any* idea at all what they used to do
to people like him in the Army.
"Looking like a tramp, like a video vamp, DEM-olition WO-man, can I BE your man "
"SANDBURG, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! What are you *doing*?"
Sandburg spun around, spatula in hand, grinning for all the world like he'd interpreted
Jim's question as a variant of, "Wow, Sandburg, are those omelettes?"
"Jim!" he said, almost as though he were surprised to see Jim in his own home. "I have
pulled off the impossible, man! I have parted the Red Sea, I am the white Moses of the twelve
tribes of TA's."
"*What are you talking about*?"
"I actually managed to hand off Archaeo 150 you know, the seven-fifty a.m. in the
morning one? Traded it in for Indigenous Religions at twenty-til-eleven, which means my whole
Monday morning is no longer a square peg in a round hole *nothing* up my sleeve, Jim how
do I *do* it?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither, man, me neither. Clean living. But this is great, this is just what we needed,
since you're off most Mondays. We can really get some *work* done now!"
Jim sat down at the table. "Just...Sandburg, the singing. God Almighty."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Jim, was that bugging you?"
And he did seem sorry, so genuinely sorry, with that little furrow between his eyebrows
and a sudden anxiety marring the shape of his mouth, that Jim couldn't bring himself to force the
issue. "It just...surprised me. I wasn't figuring you for an Aerosmith kind of guy."
"Jim, man, are you kidding me? That's Def Leppard the Hysteria album, '87. Shit, it
could've been '89...I was definitely an undergrad, I remember that."
"Def Leppard, then. Whatever. It just...wasn't what I expected."
Sandburg was back to his skillet again, and Jim briefly thought about offering to help out,
and then couldn't imagine why on earth he'd want to do that. It was his day off, after all, and just
sitting here sitting here was good. He didn't do enough sitting, in non-stakeout situations. He
should probably pursue this odd new experience of sitting on his ass and letting someone else fix
him breakfast. "Well, you know how it is, man undergrad, '87. I've got the nostalgia trip
working for me."
"Or against you."
Sandburg chuckled; he could see a joke at his own expense, and that was one of the things
Jim was coming to find kind of fascinating about Sandburg, actually. He wasn't the sort of show-
off gladhander that Jim knew from countless police functions; when Sandburg told a joke, it was
more because *he* thought it was funny than because he wanted to be known as the funny guy.
The kid was a born entertainer, but he didn't have that ego, that desperately ingratiating patter
that always made Jim want to say, don't quit your day job, buddy. "Looks can be deceiving,
Jim."
"You don't say?"
"I listen to a lot of music that can't be played on a didgeridoo, you know."
The urge to fuck with the kid was suddenly crippling; Jim was a strong man, but he was
just a man, after all. "Sandburg, you know something, I already think you're plenty smart. You
don't have to try to impress me by making up fake words."
He spun around, eyes wide. Jim vaguely wondered why the unsolicited opportunity to
explain something made Sandburg look like someone had stuck his finger in a light socket. "No,
no, man, a didgeridoo is an Australian Jim. Aw, man, Jim, you're yanking my chain, aren't
you?"
"Yes, Sandburg," he said calmly. "I am yanking your chain."
He looked amused. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't. Didn't even have a chance. "All
right, all right! Sheesh, you make a man a frittata and you get *nothing* but abuse."
That took a little of the wind out of Jim's sails. "Frittata? I thought you were making
omelettes."
"No, it's a frittata, man. Italian. Eggs, mushrooms, peppers, zucchini, parmesan cheese "
"So...like an omelette."
"Well, but it's all baked here together, as opposed to an omelette, where you, as you well
know, you being a Grand-Slam, hearty-breakfast type of guy, the egg gets flipped over to fold up
the cheese and vegetables."
"So, other than being not flipped over, it's exactly like an omelette."
"It's *related* to an omelette, it's in the omelette *family,* it shares many
*characteristics* of your basic omelette, but the key thing here, Jim, is that it is a frittata.
Traditional. Italian. Frittata."
"Mutant Italian omelette. Gotcha."
"Jesus, Ellison, it's a frittata! What is so wrong with having something new for breakfast
that you have to rationalize the experience away with this incessant need to label and pigeonhole
everything in case it might make you confront something you weren't already anticipating? I'm
not even done cooking it yet, and you've already stuck it in this...this *omelette* box, and now no
matter what it is I serve you, you're going to be thinking 'excellent mutant omelette' or 'sucky
omelette wannabe,' but you still won't have really eaten the freaking frittata, not in any
meaningful kind of way!"
Jim knew he had about four seconds before he started laughing. A few precious breaths,
and it was up to him to use them wisely. "Sandburg. Get a hold of yourself. I do not have an
omelette box."
"Yeah, but you "
"Sandburg, I give you my word of honor, this is going to be the most meaningful fucking
Italian omelette I ever eat in my *life.* Now I'm *hungry,* and if you burn that food while you're
arguing with me, I'm gonna cut you up and fry you for bacon, so I suggest you get cracking."
It seemed to defuse the unexpectedly confrontational moment, but instead of lavishing
more care on his precious frittata, Sandburg removed the pan from the burner and left it sitting by
the stove, coming around to sit across the table from Jim with that exact same *let's share* look
in his eyes that Jim had grown to fear and loathe in Carolyn's. "Sorry, man, that was way out in
left field. It's just that I'm not a freeloader, you know? I mean, not usually.... I know we
haven't had time to do any of the stuff I promised you yet, the serious testing and stuff, and I
*swear,* we'll get there. It's just taking me longer than I thought it would to rearrange my life
and fit this all in. My dance card was pretty full to start with, you know?"
"Sure, Sandburg," he said, puzzled. Did the kid think he'd been walking around all week
pissed off because they hadn't been doing enough together? Because Jim had been
expecting...more help, more attention, just...more? More of Sandburg's screwy, noisy, laughing
*presence*?
Well...had he?
"I said I'd be there for you, and I will. Jim, I totally will. I'll pay you back for all of this."
"In eggs?" The flippancy was automatic, but deep down, Jim was thinking Jesus Christ,
Sandburg *was* God's gift, after all. The kid was easygoing and funny and useful and he cooked
and he was really taking this job seriously, this stuff about helping Jim with the senses.
Cookbooks and Discovery Channel specials and the unfamiliar but not unpleasant scent of him
that was beginning to permeate the whole loft aside, he wasn't disruptive at *all,* as roommates
went.
And that was what had him frustrated. Jim had expected...more. He'd expected that
Sandburg, who seemed to have answers and theories and solutions when no one on earth did,
would just fucking *do something* about Jim's life, which lately had been both hell *and* the
handbasket. Just strip the whole thing down and help him start rebuilding from the ground up.
"I'll lay them myself, man. Whatever it takes."
"Christ. *Don't,* all right? If that's my other option, I'll take the singing."
The sharing apparently over, Sandburg bounded back up, riveting his attention to cooking
again. "Well, you know what they say about music..." he said vaguely, kicking the refrigerator
door open with one heel while pulling glasses down from the cabinet.
"Soothes the savage beast," Jim agreed.
"I was actually thinking food of love."
"Sandburg, I hate to break this to you, but Def Leppard is not the food of love."
Sandburg tossed him a wickedly self-satisfied smile over his shoulder. "Just goes to show
how little you know about my undergrad years, man. And while we're on the subject, you don't
have to keep calling me *Sandburg,* just so you know. I mean, we're partners, I know, and you
have this whole buddy-cop movie reel in your head, all *Riggs* and *Murtaugh* and all of that,
Mulder, Scully, but I have to tell you, that just seems really weird to me, coming from anyone I
eat breakfast with. You Jim, me Blair, right?"
Jim didn't respond, and Sandburg didn't seem to notice, caught up as he was in quartering
and serving the frittata. Jim thought he was off the hook, but in the midst of pouring orange juice,
Blair glanced up at him, fixed him with those earnest eyes, and said, "Right? I mean friends.
Right?"
"Jesus, Sandburg. You wanna pick out my underwear while you're at it? Just relax."
"Jim, it's just "
"I *know* what it's just. Yes, all right? We're friends. Now keep your sticky fingers out
of my vocabulary."
It hit Jim out of nowhere, fork halfway to his mouth the mottled flush of Sandburg's
skin, the hitch and pick-up in his heartbeat, the frown that Jim had come to recognize as
Sandburg's *shit, I'm fucking up* expression, the way he was bristling like a porcupine with
nervous energy while his body kept pulling back in subtle ways, his eyes everywhere but on Jim
except during that brief bonding moment when he sat across the table.
Son of a bitch. Sandburg was attracted to him.
He was as sure of it as he'd ever been about anything; Jim was a relatively sophisticated,
well-traveled man, and even before the heightened senses, he'd been more than capable of picking
up the signs. Grown downright familiar with them, back when he was a little younger and had a
little more hair. Something about the way he was studying Sandburg must have closed the circuit
of recognition, because suddenly Blair groaned and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration,
*shit, I'm fucking up* turning into *shit, I'm such a fuck-up!* Sandburg rubbed his eyes, or hid
them, with the heels of his hands, and for a flickering second, Jim was very aware that he was only
wearing an old pair of CPD sweatpants. He hadn't been modest since childhood, but something
about Sandburg's embarrassment made Jim feel like he *should* feel exposed.
Carefully, Jim laid his fork back down and took a swig of orange juice. "Chief," he said,
as calmly as he could, his very best *everything's going to be fine; I'm a police officer* voice,
"you have really got to relax."
"This has *nothing* to do with your underwear, Jim." He looked slightly defiant now,
daring Jim to argue with him about it.
"I know."
He watched Sandburg change gears; the kid was obviously thrown totally for a loop by
the fight they weren't having. "I don't wanna be in your space."
He sighed. "Trust me; you're in my space. I knew you would be when I let you stay here.
It's *okay,* Sandburg."
He hesitated, clearly not sure whether to believe in the relative ease of all this.
"We're...good, then?"
"It's okay."
"I'm not going to...do anything freaky. Like, mess up the place or...or anything. I'm
totally cool. Everything."
"I'm not worried about it." And to prove how completely normal everything still was, Jim
turned his undivided attention back to eating breakfast. It was a pretty good omelette wannabe, if
a bit light on the cheese for Jim's tastes.
With slow care that Jim found pretty amusing, Blair sat down at the table, still keeping a
weather eye on Jim, presumably for any signs of incipient macho angst. Jim wondered if he
should be a little offended; what, no man had ever been interested in Jim before?
Strange how Jim could have spent eight whole days completely conscious all the time that
even when he couldn't see Sandburg, the kid was around somewhere and yet never until this
exact minute really wonder what he *did* when Jim couldn't see him. Beyond the sketchy details
of "teaching classes" and "research," he really didn't know anything about what Blair Sandburg
did in his natural habitat. This was, in all likelihood, just a start to the things that would surprise
Jim.
Jim Ellison, as a general rule, tried to avoid surprises.
He chewed his frittata meditatively. Traditional. Italian. Frittata. Gotcha, Sandburg. I
get it. Everybody out of the box. Time for something new *finally.*
"So...how is it?" Sandburg asked, when the suspense got to be too much.
"Meaningful," Jim answered, and Sandburg flipped him the bird, and Jim laughed.