Author’s Note: This story in no way means any copyright infringement on characters owned by Pet Fly/Paramount. I just like to have a little non profit fun with the guys sometimes. Comments always welcome!
The sentinel climbed into his truck, slamming the door shut and relaxing back against the seat with a weary sigh that turned into a cough. His cold had grown progressively worse throughout the day and he couldn’t blame Simon for sending him home. And since he wasn’t on an active investigation, and relaxing at the loft was an infinitely more attractive proposition than doing paperwork at his desk, Jim didn’t fight him on it. He merely closed up his files with a sneeze of finality and grabbed his jacket on the way out.
As he started the truck and pulled out of the garage, Jim sighed again as his thoughts drifted back to his childhood, to an incident where he’d fallen ill in first grade. He hadn’t felt quite right when he’d left for school, but it really hit him hard midmorning and he gave up trying to pay attention and just put his head down on his desk and closed his eyes. His teacher sent him to the nurse’s office, and she called his mother who had come to get him. She’d taken him home and put him to bed, brushing his hair back gently with his hand and kissing his forehead as she tucked him in. Reassuring him with soft words as she coaxed medicine into him, rewarding him with his favorite treats to tempt his appetite. Bringing him sweet drinks and soda as she kept a close eye on his temperature, sponging him down with a cool cloth when he got too hot. And comforting him with her sweet smile and loving glances that made him feel warm and safe and secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be all right. It was one of his favorite memories, but the only problem was, it had never happened.
Grace Ellison was a businesswoman who shared the same relentless drive as her husband. Even more so, for at the time she was a rare woman in a field predominately run by men and she found she had to work three times as hard as her male colleagues just to be taken seriously. Early mornings and late nights kept her away from home, and she was determined not to let anything slow her down, especially nothing as maternal as her children. So having to leave the office in order to pick up her ailing son from school definitely did not make her happy. She dropped Jim off at the house, not even waiting to make sure he got inside before speeding off to make it to her “very important” lunch meeting. Sally met him at the door and fussed over him a bit, but her time was largely occupied with taking care of the large house and Stevie, who was then a rambunctious four year old. So Jim was mostly on his own, left to comfort himself as he huddled under his covers and stoically tried to ride out his illness.
Late that night he heard his parents arguing. It was nothing new to him, for lately it seemed like anytime they were together, which wasn’t all that often, they fought. But he heard his name bandied about in their raised voices, so he crept out of his room and positioned himself on the landing of the stairs where he could hear better as he peered down through the slats of the railing. Jim didn’t understand all of what they were yelling, but he got the gist that his mother was angry that she had to leave work to come and get him that morning and they were fighting about who’s job was more important. Which led into a new argument over who was going to have to take Jim to the doctor in the morning if it was warranted, with both sides insisting they were too busy with important meetings and deadlines they absolutely could not postpone.
Jim went back to his room, jumping into bed and pulling his pillow over his head to muffle the shouting. Closing his eyes, he began to fantasize that in the morning his mother would decide not to go to work and that she would stay home and take care of him. That she would be kind and gentle, like Mrs. Wallace down the street who had patched him up after he’d wrecked his bike in front of her house, cleaning his scrapes and drying his tears with hugs and cookies. And that for once he’d get to feel that he was important, too, and that his mother loved him as much as she loved her job.
Two months later, Grace Ellison moved out and filed for divorce. Their visits with her became sporadic and eventually stopped all together. William took her back to court, suing for child support since she had started refusing to take the boys, but he retracted the suit when she agreed to decline alimony payments. They went their separate ways, and when Jim was fifteen his mother moved to London without leaving an address or phone number. All he had to remember her by was one childish daydream, a happy memory that had existed solely in his mind.
It sustained him for awhile, comforting him even though he was well aware it had never really happened. But as he got older he began to scoff at his own fancy. Jim didn’t need a mother to “nurture” him. He’d turned out just as well as anyone else without it. Maybe even better. After all, his childhood had taught him to be tough. He learned to take care of himself, and not to rely on anyone else for anything. Jim Ellison was strong, and independent, and self reliant, and he didn’t need anybody for anything. Nor did he want anything from anybody.
But if that were really the case, then why didn’t he go on up to bed when he got home? Why did he plant himself on the couch where his roommate would be certain not to miss him when he came through the door? Why didn’t he stifle his coughing and sneezing and sniffling, instead of flaunting it? Why didn’t he push Blair’s hand away immediately, instead of letting it rest on his forehead for a second or two so he could see his temperature was slightly higher than it should have been? Why didn’t he insist he was all right, instead of saying the words in a hoarse, pathetic voice that refuted his claim? Why didn’t he refuse the mug of hot tea, instead of just rolling his eyes and sipping at it with a grudging acceptance? And why did that safe, warm feeling flood through him every time those concerned blue eyes met his gaze? Why, as Blair made him comfortable on the couch with a soft pillow from his bed upstairs and a box of Kleenex and the tv remote, giving his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze as he moved off to the kitchen to heat up some soup, was Jim left feeling secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be all right?
He told himself it was just easier to submit to Sandburg’s ministrations than to argue. Although he knew full well it was really easier to live in denial than to admit the truth. That sometimes he did get tired of always taking care of himself. Sometimes he didn’t feel tough and independent. Sometimes he couldn’t rely solely on himself when his strength and spirit were waning. And sometimes he just wanted a little comfort from somebody else. A little care and concern on his behalf, so that he could feel he was important in someone’s life. And the hardest truth for him to face: sometimes he just needed someone that he loved to love him back.
Sandburg brought him a bowl and told him to eat. Jim grumbled and complained but he took it, breathing in the aromatic steam wafting from the soup and finding that it cleared his head somewhat. He spooned a little up and blew on it to cool it, stealing a glance at his friend as he took a bite. Blair was watching him, giving him a slight grin that let him know his guide quite clearly saw through his sentinel’s posturing, but he was willing to play along so that Jim could save face, indulging his defensive gruffness because he did love him. Ellison pretended not to notice and fixed his eyes back on the bowl in his hands.
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into trying a little Niktabi root?” Sandburg asked him. “It really does work wonders on a cold. You’d feel a lot better, Jim, trust me.”
Ellison did trust him, and that was the problem. He wasn’t convinced the herb was the cure all his friend touted it to be, but he didn’t want to risk it. Being sick was no fun, but it wasn’t a bad price to pay for a little nurturing. And Jim simply wasn’t ready to end that prematurely, even if it meant feeling better.
“Forget it,” he muttered, setting his bowl aside and stretching out on the couch. “I told you I’m not taking any weird plants that aren’t FDA approved.”
“Fine, we’ll do it your way” Blair sighed as he rose from his chair and swept up the empty bowl. “Orange juice and aspirin it is. I’ll dig out the humidifier and set it up in the loft and I’ll make you a eucalyptus wrap when I come back down. Do you want some more tea?”
“No, I’m fine,” Ellison replied, deliberately not sounding very convincing.
“Maybe I’ll just make a little more anyway, in case you change your mind.”
Jim didn’t answer, apart from scrubbing his hands over his face in an outward gesture of weary annoyance that secretly hid his broad grin. It was a good feeling, this being loved. And it was one he gladly reciprocated a week later, when Sandburg came down with the same cold. Although the Niktabi root seemed to shorten its duration, there was still enough time for the sentinel to remind his guide that everyone needs a little nurturing sometimes. A truth that Blair gradually accepted, after a little obligatory defensive posturing which Jim fondly indulged. And then even after they were both healthy and had gone on with their lives, they found they each were left with a safe, warm feeling, secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be all right.
Finis