Contact
by Persephone

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Summary: Blair has a really bad day.

Notes: Unbeta'd, only just written because I simply don't have the time to let it wait. If you find something wrong with it, please let me know and I'll try to edit it into correctness. ETA: thanks to StarWatcher for correcting me!

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Considering Blair's life so far, it was unlikely that the worst moment of his life would be sitting in a deserted bus station, not wounded or in any physical pain. The only thing wrong with him was a dull headache and very blurry eyesight.

It was the contact lenses that really got to him, he admitted to himself. They were the first thing he'd bought with the money he won from the lawsuit against Sid Graham; he'd settled instead of taking it to court, if only because the last thing he and Jim needed was more publicity, but the sum was handsome enough. And so Blair finally took Jim's thick hints about people who continually squinted to heart and got his eyes examined.

He wasn't exactly thrilled to find out that he needed to wear glasses all the time now, but the contact lenses seemed a viable compromise. The idea of seeing well without continually looking like a complete dork was too attractive for Blair to ignore. And of course the first day of his second month at the Police Academy had seemed like the perfect occasion to break them out for the first time.

This meant that now his eyes were sore and he couldn't see worth a damn, with or without the contacts - even if he could take them off, which he couldn't, since he forgot to take the little carrying tank for them.

It also meant that he was taking the bus home, since driving was not an option. It was cold, it was damp, and the Cadet uniform were the least comfortable thing he'd ever worn in his life, which was saying something.

Cheer up, he told himself. At least your hands aren't tied.

Half-blindness notwithstanding, Blair could have tolerated the situation. The people at the Academy weren't particularly hostile, even if most of them got an awkward expression on their faces when Blair asked questions like "Is this seat taken?". Even the certain knowledge that, even if the bus came at this very moment, it would be close to an hour before he was home again didn't do much in the department of mental anguish.

But he was exhausted and worn out and fucking blind, and so not disposed to positive thinking. The most powerful cognitive action he could do, at the moment, was blink. Which he did as he saw the lights headed in his direction.

For a moment of furtive hope, he thought it was the bus. That notion was dismissed when he realized the sound was wrong. He was preparing to slump back into his seat when the car stopped nearby and honked.

Blair sat straight, his back settling in the sort of 'attention!' position his instructors had failed to get from him all day. He blinked furiously, trying to clear his eyes, but all he could see was a glaring wall of white light. He couldn't even tell what shape the car was.

Eventually, though, he could see a vague humanoid shape walking in his direction. It was a big form, Blair realized. Big enough to squash you to bits, he thought in an inanely cheerful manner. At least you could get some rest at the hospital.

With a touch of panic, Blair thought, I haven't even told Jim I'm taking the bus home today.

He scrabbled for his cell phone, which was in his bag. Somewhere in his bag. Probably. Eventually, he found the damn thing, and prodded the first few digits before the thing emitted an ear-wrenching sound and died. Blair bravely resisted the urge to pound the thing into the sidewalk. Instead, he turned his head and gave the approaching figure his friendliest smile.

"You can quit the Bambi eyes, Sandburg," said a blessedly familiar voice. "And did or did I not tell you to charge that thing yesterday?"

"You did, Jim," Blair said, almost dizzy with relief. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"My senses tingled. Now get in the truck before I change my mind and leave you here."

"Your senses do not tingle," Blair said, even as he fairly sprinted to the truck. "And you can't cling to ceilings with your bare hands, either."

"I can still dismember you with them hands, Junior." The roughness of the words was belied by the gentle touch of Jim's hand on Blair's shoulder. "Get."

"Getting," Blair said, and felt Jim's almost silent laughter spread through him with a warmth that was better than alcohol or central heating. All of the sudden, it didn't matter that it was ten PM and he wasn't home yet.

End

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