Disclaimer: The Sentinel is a Pet Fly Production, no copyright infringement intended.Rating: NC-17 (for an explicit sex scene between consenting adults)
Author's Notes: A missing scene from the Sparrowhawk Sandburg Series. You don't really need to read this to know what happens next, the innuendo covers it, but, here it is, read at your own risk. And since something like this is traditional in slash-adult stories: Sentinels don't exist in our universe, STDs don't exist in theirs. Play safely. Because actions have unexpected consequences (as Jim and Beau are about to learn). Also, the Gaiman/Pratchett quote is from Good Omens.
Erogenous Zone
#5 in The Sparrowhawk Sandburg Series
by
Besterette
Besterette@aol.com
Blair was on the couch talking on the phone when Jim came in with the groceries. He glanced at Jim, said "Hey, he just walked in," then got up and traded Jim the phone for the grocery bags. "S'my sister." Blair carried the bags into the kitchen and started sorting through them.
Jim brightened. Blair's half sister, Sparrowhawk Rainbow Sandburg, who made people call her Beau—and who could blame her for that?—was his steady ladyfriend now, or as steady as her schedule as a travel writer would allow.
"Beau. So how's Santa Fe?"
"Wonderful. Especially since I'm headed for Vancouver next."
He leaned against the back of the couch. ""Vancouver? You, ah, planning a layover?" Blair cleared his throat noisily in the kitchen. Jim ignored him.
"Tuesday. Noon, three hours. Room 517 at the St. Regis."
Jim did some quick mental figuring. It was getting to be a running joke in Major Crimes, but he still had a few favors to collect.
"I'll be there. Love you, Beau."
"Love you, Jim."
He shut off the phone and returned the handset to the cradle. Then came into the kitchen, digging into one of the grocery bags. "I stopped at De Salvo's, got some of their sauce and some three cheese tortellini. That okay for supper?"
"Sure," Blair said shortly, turning to put away the oatmeal.
Jim eyed him. At least he wasn't getting The Look. That was why he and Beau usually met at a hotel. She'd been in town for two days and a night once, spent the night in Jim's bed. Blair had been out for the evening with the love of his life of that week and had come home just in time to see Beau stumble down the stairs in Jim's bathrobe, headed for the shower.
And that had made it real for Blair, even though he knew about them, even though at Mimsy's wedding he'd drunkenly given Jim permission to court his sister, as patriarch of their branch of the Sandburgs. And maybe as Shaman and Guide, offering his sister as Consort.
But that morning, that had brought it home for Blair, and he'd looked at Jim with the knowledge that Jim was fucking his sister in his eyes.
Jim couldn't blame him for it; Blair and Beau were close, and growing up moving around with their mother, big dumb jocks like him were the enemy, making the mistake of thinking Blair was an easy target and that Beau was just easy—hippie kids, outsiders.
And it didn't help that Karl Mueller, the last guy Beau had been fairly serious about, had played some kind of mind games on her that sounded damn close to emotional abuse. Jim still didn't have the whole story on that. Blair, of course, knew Jim's dating history. Lila. The failed marriage to Carolyn. The promising first dates that fizzled, the occasional pheromone-induced frenzy with some female sociopath. At least The Look wasn't "My best friend may be a genetic throwback to a pre-civilized breed of Man, but that doesn't mean I want my sister dating one." More like "Break her heart and they'll never find your body. I'm an anthropologist. I'll mummify you and hide you in a museum display."
That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew his track record. You had to enjoy the good times before they were gone, and at least you had some memories for after. Beau was trying to keep their commitment casual—"Until we part do we part" is what she had promised him—so maybe they wouldn't hurt each other too badly when he finally screwed things up.
Blair wandered back into the living room, muttering something about getting the TV Guide and checking what channel the movie he wanted to watch later was on, and Jim folded both of the grocery bags, put them in the cabinet under the sink and got out a saucepan to start dinner.
Tuesday, around noon, Jim casually went over to tap at the open door to Captain Banks' office. "Hey, Simon, I need to take a long lunch. Personal business."
His old friend knew full well what that meant, and smirked at him. "Mmhmm. If you can find someone to cover for you if Judge Grant comes through with that search warrant."
He nodded, turning to go.
"Give Miss Sandburg my regards."
He stopped to have a quick word with Rafe about covering for him, just in case. He doubted the warrant would go through, but Rafe was just sitting around catching up on paperwork anyway. And it wouldn't be dangerous, so Rafe would be okay backup for Blair. Blair had conveniently run down to Records so he wouldn't have to see Jim leave.
On his way to the elevator, Jim could hear Brown laughing at his partner. "Covering for Ellison again and you didn't even ask for a weekend shift trade?"
Rafe sounded smug. "Blair's sister must be passing through again. Haven't you noticed the pattern, H? Let Jim go get laid, he'll be mellow for the rest of the week."
"Kid, you're too young to remember Ellison before Hairboy started working with him, if you think the man needs mellowing now."
The St. Regis was one of the more elegant hotels in Cascade. Jim passed through the lobby, feeling a bit out of place in his tan chinos and black T-shirt. Then he caught a whiff of Beau's scent and the warm tingle of anticipation he felt flared into a more intense urgency. He took the elevator up to the fifth floor, found room 517 and knocked at the door. Beau opened it.
Jim stared. A bit shorter than her brother, Beau had warm brown eyes, a stubborn chin, and hair as dark as her brother's but less wavy, cut in a page-boy bob. The slightly stocky build was translated to voluptuous curves. Curves amply displayed by the jade green silk negligee that clung to her body like snakeskin. She smiled at him a bit shyly, posing self-consciously.
"Nice nightie," he purred, watching her light up.
She shrugged. "I was reading this women's magazine—don't laugh," she interrupted herself at his raised eyebrows, closing the door behind him. It was a nice room, pseudo-English Country House decor. The four-poster bed had a white eyelet lace coverlet and plenty of pillows. He sat on the edge of the bed and took his shoes and socks off. She came to sit beside him. "I was reading up on relationships, and it said guys like it when women dress up sexy, special for them." She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Do you like this, Jim?"
He reached over, gently stroked the nape of her neck, and kissed her slowly, softly, and drew back. "Mmmhmm. But if you want to dress up for me, I wouldn't mind seeing you in one of them bustiers," he teased.
She chuckled. "That's pronounced boosty-yay, not busty-er. But they shove your boobs up so it would make me look busty-er."
Jim peeked at the soft swells of her cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline. "Wow," he sighed. "Satin. A little lace. And a bow right about," he ducked his head to plant a small kiss on her breastbone, "here."
He smiled at her. She smiled back. "I guess I'll have to start shopping at Veronique's Attic."
They simply gazed at each other for a long moment, Jim listening to the steady beat of her heart, breathing in her scent. It fed some part of him that hungered. And then Beau pounced, pushing him down on the bed and straddling him, kissing him deeply, their tongues twining.
She pulled back, gazing down into his eyes. "I missed you," she announced breathlessly, with the usual faint undertone of puzzled wonderment. Before Jim, Beau had believed in loving and leaving 'em, living for the moment. She had kept her relationships casual, had a small circle of male friends she was intimate with, almost serial polygamy. She'd meet up with one in London or New York or Madrid, then move on without looking back or thinking about him until the next time chance brought them together.
Needing Jim, wanting him so badly, had terrified her. She'd fought it, wanting to believe it was some Sentinel/Guide biochemical bond, finally giving in and admitting to him and to herself that she was in love with him. Jim knew what that had cost her. The fact that she rearranged her schedule to pass through Cascade as often as possible to see him, because she missed him, was another way for her to say "I love you."
"I missed you, too."
They traded a lot of shallow, tender little kisses, like teenagers making out on the living room sofa, taking it slow and easy. Jim's hands reacquainted themselves with the contours of her body, tracing the shape of shoulder and hip. He kissed her again, and sighed. "I wish we had time to do something." She waggled her eyebrows at him and he made a face. "Something else. Go out."
A bit of the impishness faded. "A lot of guys would think this was the perfect relationship. Lot of sex, low maintenance."
"I'm not a lot of guys," he reminded her.
"No." Her eyes sparkled. "You're a romantic."
They kissed again, she squirmed atop him enticingly, getting comfortable. "Maybe you could write an article about camping in the Cascade National Forest," he suggested. "I could go with you, the two of us, long walks, mountain sunsets, a tent and one sleeping bag..."
Her lips quirked. "Sorry, handsome. I'm with Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett on this one: 'Almost the entire drive of human history has been an attempt to get as far away from Nature as possible.' There's probably a good reason for that."
Their kisses grew in fervor until eventually he gently but firmly put his hands on her hips and lifted her aside. She sat up to watch as he pulled off his shirt and got to his feet.
"Why do I get so crazy for you?" She sighed, as he folded his shirt neatly on the wing chair and unfastened his fly. He paused, looking at her, his eyes alight.
"Maybe it's the Sentinel/Guide thing," he teased. "You're my Consort, right? Maybe we aren't consorting enough."
She scooted back on the bed, fluffing the pillows behind her. "You're saying it's ancient instinct versus modern culture. I'm supposed to be trading nightly sexual favors in return for first pick of the kill and your protection, instead of passing through town three or four times a month for a recreational romp?" She leered at him while he took his pants off and folded them.
"Something like that."
She pursed her lips and considered it, then shook her head. "Nah. It's 'cause you're a hunk."
He deliberately flexed his muscles, rolling his shoulders, before walking back to the bed with a slow measured stride. The subtle spice of pheromones wove through the complex tapestry of her scent. He gave her a predatory smile as he inspected the way she lay awaiting him with approval. He took another deep breath, inhaling that heady perfume.
"God, you smell good. Freesia?"
"How do you know what freesia smells like? You're a guy."
"'Here Jim, smell this' are the four scariest words in the English language when they're coming from your brother with a cardboard box in his hands and the gleam of scientific inquiry in his eyes."
This was something else he loved about her. Before Beau, he'd thought that being fun in bed just meant being uninhibited. Sex was furtive and dirty, physical relief; or purer, passionate and intense. The teasing banter, the tickling and the pillowfights that were frequently part of their foreplay was something he'd never experienced before. They laughed a lot together.
He stretched out beside Beau and she came into his arms. They began to kiss, to caress and pet each other. He cupped her breasts gently, squeezing lightly, feeling her nipples come up under the thin silk. He ran his hands down her ribcage, left one hand low on her hip while the other one came up to rub a bare arm.
She sought out his old wounds, a kiss and sucking lick to each of the bullet wounds; her thumbnail rasped the length of the knife scar on his thigh. The muscles of his thighs clenched hopefully. Dark eyes sparkling, she fondled him teasingly through his briefs before bringing her fingertips up to sweep wide circles over his chest and stomach. He murmured with approval.
"Where do you have the Touch dial?" She asked curiously.
"Four." He nudged it up to five as she leaned in for another kiss. "Mmmmm..."
"One of these days I've got to let you crank Touch all the way up, see if I can make you come just by licking your nipples." She matched words with action.
Hoarsely, he gasped, "Your tests are a lot more fun."
She smirked at him and said, "I certainly hope so." She pushed gently, so he was lying flat on his back and she lay beside him with her head on his shoulder. She reached down and started stroking his stiffening cock through the thin cotton of his briefs. That felt so good he let his sense of touch go up another notch. He lay back contentedly, her heartbeat pounding in his ears, as her hand continued to work between his legs and her other hand traced teasing patterns on his chest. Awash in arousing sensations, he began to rock his hips in tiny upward thrusts, matching the rhythm of her questing hand. Their mouths met, parting only for breath.
He cried out sharply as she suddenly licked a broad swath across his throat. She stopped, looking at him questioningly. "Your tongue..." he panted. "Rough, soft... like a cat's tongue... I could feel taste buds..."
Mischievous brown eyes sparkled. She sat up, her fingers slipping under the waistband of his jockey shorts. He arched his back so she could pull them down, nodded eagerly when she checked for permission before diving forward.
"Uhnnnnnnggggghhhnnn..." He groaned desperately as that warm, rough, soft wetness lovingly engulfed him, the rose petal ring of lips moving up, down, almost overwhelming him. "Beau... no, I'll..." She released him after another tormenting lick. He sat up, kicking his shorts off, and reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, fumbling it open with trembling hands. He sheathed himself. Beau was squirming, pulling at the negligee so the skirt was rucked up around her waist. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Jim pounced, easing her back down, settling his weight carefully as he mounted her and they tongue-kissed.
"Juh-immm..." she gasped his name with a breathy little hiccup when he entered her.
And then they were moving and it was good, so good inside her, and the liquid slide of the silk trapped between their bodies, the soft pleasure-noises Beau was making under him, the warm rush of her breath caught his attention and he captured her mouth for another kiss, his hips bucking harder against hers, so good as his senses marked and claimed her as his, hearing her voice and her heartbeat; smelling the scent that announced who she was, that she had prepared herself for him by bathing and perfuming her skin, that she was aroused and ready; seeing her, the beloved face, goldstone eyes, the soft cloud of brown hair, a dull name for strands that were chocolate and cinnamon and cafe au lait, highlights burnt bright copper by the sun; tasting the salt of sweat on her skin; feeling that skin like padded velvet stretched over oak, lightly muscled but soft where a woman should be soft. Her hands were here, there, dancing across his back and it was good, so very good, how could she bear to get up and leave him after when it was this good, and there was molten fire filling his spine and pooling in his hips, so good...
Beau was still climaxing when she realized that there was something wrong with Jim. The rhythm of his pounding hips wasn't slowing, or picking up the pace, and the blue eyes she gazed up into were glazed and unfocussed—well, they always were at this point, but this was different. There was a blank emptiness in those clear blue eyes, a familiar one, and a horrifying suspicion dawned on her. Ominously, Jim's heavy breathing was the only sound he made. Not that he was the most loquacious lover she'd ever had, but there were grunts, groans, moans, panted encouragement and endearments, broken whimpers and animalistic shrieks of completion.
"Jim... this is impressive... didn't know you had a dial for it..." Hoping that she was wrong and he was just reciting Jags scores to himself.
No response. No reaction. "Jim? C'mon, babe, don't do this..." she moaned in disbelief. No response. No reaction.
Jim had zoned.
And she had the sudden epiphany that this was the purpose of Consorts, she should have been expecting it, this was why the sentinel needed a guide for a mate, what better lure, what better trap, than the act of making love? Not for the first time, she wished for a neurologist they could trust. What was going on between Jim's ears? She only had their observations and Jim's descriptions to go on. Jim was aware of what was going on around him, distantly, unable to respond or react, unable to connect with reality, unable to process the data from anything but what had so entranced him. Without conscious direction, the body continued to follow the last orders given, like walking out on the street into the path of oncoming traffic.
All Beau knew was that the few times she'd seen it, it frightened her. All the animation draining out of his face, the light leaving his eyes. Evolution in reverse, as the intelligence, the personality, everything that was Jim faded away, leaving empty, mindless meat behind. A little like death, in a way, and she was always unreasonably afraid that this time he wouldn't come back, that just because he always had, was no guarantee he always would, and despite Blair's desperate scramble for information, there was so much they didn't know about sentinels.
She shuddered as the aftershocks of his orgasm were transmitted to her body, and waited hopefully, but he continued thrusting mindlessly, not even slowing. "Neurotransmitters... you came but it isn't registering, like it never happened... like obsessive compulsives..." she told him, fragments of pop psychology drifting through her mind. Okay. She'd done this before, if not under quite the same circumstances. "Jim, listen to my voice..." She continued the same calm, coaxing refrain until her own body responded to the unceasing pounding a second time, squealing his name, and then tried it again.
It wasn't working. She probably wasn't hitting the Guide Voice frequency, since she couldn't quite catch her breath. She rubbed Jim's shoulders absently during his third or fourth climax—she'd lost count for both of them. "Come on, Jim, come back. If I have to make a lunge for the phone and call Blair in for backup, all three of us will be in therapy for the rest of our lives!"
No response, no reaction. The tragic absurdity of the situation struck her. It sounded like a bad 911 joke. My boyfriend is making love to me and I can't get him to stop; are you complaining or bragging? But it wasn't funny. Jim's breathing was noticeably more ragged, labored, and a dark little voice in the back of her head chimed in, sounding disconcertingly like her Aunt Adele, He is ten years older than you are, in a high-stress job, a stressful life, and he has a terrible diet... Given that Jim had zoned in bed with her and she was having some trouble bringing him out of it, it didn't seem impossible for him to keep plugging away until his heart stopped.
Jim would die in her arms. No. Not just because the very thought of Jim's death filled her with unspeakable grief, but to die like this, his death, his life, the shy wonder of what they were beginning to mean to each other, all tarnished forever by some cliched, vile, puerile joke? No. Her nails bit into his back. She took a deep breath, and raked them down to his flanks.
Between pleasure and pain he found his balance. She could see the light and life flood back into his eyes and with a startled shout of her name, one final orgasm crashed over him, and he collapsed bonelessly on top of her. She stroked his back, checking to see if she'd drawn blood, kissing his cheek and his chin and the bridge of his nose and muttering "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay" half hysterically.
"Wow," he panted, shifting to take his weight on his forearms. "Beau... that was... wow... I zoned. That's, that's never happened before," Jim sighed dreamily, licking the nape of her neck.
"I know. You'd still be there. And somebody would've called the Guiness people." She couldn't quite blame him for the tone of astonished self-satisfied contentment, his whole body had to be humming with afterglow. She pinched his left buttock to keep him from sliding back into dangerous solipsism. He was practically purring.
"Ooh. I'm thinking that this is something that needs experimentation, see if we can make it happen again."
She let out a snort. "Not bloody likely, blue-eyes."
The tone of her voice finally seemed to cut through the fluffy rainbow fog that surrounded him. "Did I hurt you?" He pulled out, sitting up and staring at her with the concentrated concern that signaled a sensory sweep.
Beau stretched. "No. Walking tomorrow is going to be interesting, for both of us. I just—I couldn't wake you, and I hate it when you do that." She quietly added, "And I was afraid you might end up having a heart attack."
"My heart's in great shape." He kissed her forehead and scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching for the tissues on the nightstand. He made a disgusted sound as he tossed the wad into the wastebasket, and grabbed a couple more. "The condom broke."
The condom broke. The condom broke. The implications of that unfolded and Jim whirled around to face her, eyes widening at the panicked increase of her heartbeat. She had to swallow and wet her lips before speaking. "Jim, I'm fertile." At his look of incomprehension, explained "Ovulating. We always use protection so I thought it would be okay." She stared at him, the bottom dropping out of her world as each second passed without him speaking. And I was always so careful about not following in Naomi's footsteps...
"You could be pregnant." He sounded as shocked as she was. He crawled back across the bed and pressed a flattened hand below her belly button.
"Jim?"
"Shhh. I'm trying to see if I can tell..." She lay very still and quiet as Jim listened, his fingertips stroking a map of her internal plumbing. He sat back, shaking his head. "No good. I don't even know what to look for."
"Microscopic levels, probably out of range." She took a deep breath. She didn't feel any different. Terrified and heartsick, not the warm and fuzzy maternal glow she would have expected. A baby. She'd always thought she wanted children, maybe, someday, in the same vague daydreaming way she'd always thought a red Mustang convertible and a beach house somewhere warm might be nice. She drew her knees up and rested her folded arms on them. A baby. Jim's baby.
Jim crossed his legs and pulled a pillow onto his lap, defensively. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head. "You didn't zone on purpose. It was an accident," she smiled wryly. "If I am pregnant I guess that makes it a family tradition." She watched Jim from under her eyelashes. At least he seemed as stunned as she was, not angry, or not angry at her.
"What do you want to do if you are?" he asked suddenly. "If you're pregnant?" He seemed to be tasting the word, trying it out.
"I—" She ran a hand over her face, closing her eyes. In her mind's eye saw a brown eyed curly-haired toddler reaching out to be picked up. "I want to keep it. If I am. I'm not getting any younger, and this might be my only chance at motherhood. If you don't... you don't have to have anything to do with it."
"No!" he said quickly. "I have a responsibility here." A corner of his mouth turned up, tentatively. "And this is my last shot at... fatherhood... if you are." He spoke the word like it was in a foreign language and he wasn't sure if he was pronouncing it correctly.
"We don't have to panic yet. I think it's two weeks before I can take one of those home tests and find out. I mean, the odds of one little mishap resulting in conception have got to be pretty high."
Jim raised his eyebrows at her. "One little mishap? How about six or seven? I didn't exactly notice when it broke, how about you?"
She felt herself blush, which annoyed her because blushing now was faintly ridiculous. "No, but, I'm thirty-two, dammit! Couples our age are trying to have babies for a couple of years, using these weird rituals that involve charts and thermometers and rutabagas and the phases of the moon..."
"Rutabagas?" Jim repeated, diverted.
She waved a dismissive hand. "Probably not rutabagas. There's some vegetable you're supposed to eat a lot of and it makes you have twins or something, I think I remember reading about it once. That's not important. What I'm saying is that while I could be pregnant, I'm probably not, and it'll be a while before we know. Why panic?"
"It's called planning," Jim said irritably. "We've got a lot of decisions to make if you are pregnant. There are legal questions, and I've got to restructure my investments to start a college fund, so there goes the cabin I was gonna build when I retired..."
Beau stared at him. Money and legal responsibility. Was that all he saw in a future with their child in it? "If you think it's going to be too much trouble, I told you..."
He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not complaining. But there are things we've got to talk about. I'm on the downhill side of forty. I wasn't expecting a kid."
"Neither was I," Beau reminded him. "And I might not be pregnant."
Jim looked at the pillow in his lap, and scratched at his right knee. "It's okay if you are." He looked up. "We, uh, we never talked about kids... but it's okay if you are."
"Oh, Jim," she said softly, and kissed him. They held each other, sitting on the bed. "I might not be, though."
"I know. I know you're scared as I am. But I'm not going to dump you over this," he snorted. "For one thing, your brother's getting to be too damn good on the firing range. If you're pregnant, we'll figure something out. And if you're not, you're not. I love you, I'll still love you."
Beau buried her face against his shoulder and sighed. "When did our lives get this weird?"
Jim grinned. "I don't know about you but for me it started in 1988 when the chopper went down."
She kissed him again, and pulled back reluctantly. "You have to shower and get back to work chasing bad guys, and I've got a plane to catch."
He bussed her on the cheek and got to his feet, heading for the bathroom. "Two weeks, huh? Until we know for sure?" he asked. She nodded. "Two weeks. We can do two weeks."
It kept hitting him at odd moments. He'd shave, and while looking into the mirror, consider the possibility. I may be a father. Scared the hell out of him. Especially after he did the math. A baby now. He'd be retired before the kid was out of college. He didn't know how to be a father. He didn't have the best example to learn from. And he sure as hell didn't know how to be a husband, Carolyn had assured him of that on her way out the door. He half-suspected that this relationship thing was working as well as it did because they weren't spending enough time together for Beau to really get to know what he was like under the veneer of Ellison charm, and when she did, she'd leave. Everybody did. Except her brother. Naomi had taught him forgiveness too well. Maybe Beau got the same lesson. Jim hoped so, he didn't think he'd be able to survive if she left him and took their son or daughter with her.
Two weeks. It was a long two weeks.
~ End ~
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Page last updated 8/15/03.