A/N: The first Sentinel fic I've written since watching the show. I hope it doesn't utterly suck, and that I don't get struck by lightning for missing the deadline.
"--And I hope your dick falls off and rots and you die, you two-timing bastard." A harsh 'click' sounded as Trish hung up. Blair winced and put the receiver down gingerly.
That went well. Not.
He honestly hadn't meant to ditch her. He just got, uh, caught in the moment. Distracted. Mislaid, even.
Having your cock in someone else's mouth, one of his inner voices chided, is not considered as mitigating circumstances. Fuck off, Blair told himself irritably. I've got enough to deal with as it as.
So few hours in a day, so many people to do. The voice was getting definitely sarcastic. Poor, mistreated you.
Blair got off the couch and leaned against the dining table, considering the contents of the fridge. And not, he thought sharply, the state of my love life. Dinner doesn't make itself, you know,
With this in mind, he opened the fridge, and almost tripped over his own backpack. How the hell did that get in here? He hurriedly picked the wretched thing up. Jim threatened he'd burn it if Blair forgot to put it in place again. Blair froze for a moment as he caught sight of the piece of paper that stuck out of one half-opened pocket.
"Lacy," he read, "my place, seven o'clock. Be there or die."
He didn't bother checking his clock. Wow, he thought weakly. Even you don't usually get death threats from two different people in one day. Must be some kind of record.
He was still moping when the door opened. Even though he heard the door opening, he still jumped when he felt a hand landing on his shoulder.
"Someone die?" Jim asked, in a light enough tone that Blair felt justified in scowling.
"Just my love life, man." He waved the little slip of paper in Jim's face. "I mean, it doesn't even matter what I do now. Either I don't grovel and she'll never want to see me again, or I do grovel and she'll still want nothing to do with me."
"Don't grovel," Jim said, with the shrug of unsympathetic bastards who didn't care if their roommates ever got laid again. "Spare yourself the humiliation."
"Yeah, but if I grovel, there's still a chance that she won't tell all her friends what a--" Blair flailed for a convenient term, and came out with, "two timing bastard I am." Hey, it's not as if Trish has copyrights on it. I should know.
Jim made a noncommittal sound and went to get himself a beer. Blair found himself half-hoping that they were out. Would serve him right. He sighed. His entire current dilemma was probably caused by negative karma from this sort of unkind thoughts.
His thoughts were apparently heedless, though, because here was Jim, leaning against the counter and gulping down a beer. Blair did a little gulping of him own.
Bad boy! he told himself, not bothering to be worried about the kind of associations his (obviously sick and twisted) mind had come up with. As if I'm not in enough trouble.
Jim gave him a look that was two small steps away from raising an eyebrow and inquiring, politely, if Blair was running short on table legs and suggesting to give him the address of a local furniture shop. Blair glared at him and announced, "I'm going to the bathroom."
As long as he was there, he reasoned, he might as well put the inappropriate thoughts out of his head by way of his hands and other, lower body parts.
The only way to resist temptation is to yield to it.
That, Blair reminded himself, is also the best way to get arrested and terribly, terribly embarrassed. Still, it wouldn't harm anyone if he just shucked of his pants, and gave himself a little, yeah, present for being such a good boy and not lusting after Jim. So even though he was sorely tempted to think of strong, long-fingered hands on his- no, he wasn't going to think of that, he was going to think of Trish's cute little pink panties, of getting his own hands in there, right, sweet--
He groaned silently and allowed himself a second to bask before cleaning up after himself.
This, he reminded himself, is what we call a mess. Which is exactly what we don't want our relationship with Jim to turn into. The fact that our libido has the attention span of a three year old on a sugar high is not, I repeat, not his fault.
When Blair got outside, he was greeted by the warm, welcoming scent of pizza.
"Mmm," he said, appreciatively. There were times when little words were of great impact. This was not, admittedly, one of those times, but he still had nothing more relevant to say.
Jim grunted, gave him a brief smile, and pushed him out of the path to the bathroom. Blair wasted no time in getting better acquainted with a fine specimen of bastardized Italian cuisine.
He was halfway through his third slice when Jim's enhanced sense of smell occurred to him, along with the fact that Jim was highly skilled at putting two and two together. Every now and then, he even managed to come up with results remotely approaching four.
He waited in dread-filled silence. Eventually, the bathroom door opened. Blair closed his eyes and anticipated retribution.
To his surprise - nay, shock - he felt something cold pressing against his cheek. He sneaked a peek.
"I'd like to introduce you to this thing I like to call 'spray'. It is your friend. Use it wisely."
Blair took a careful whiff. It was, indeed, pine-scented. He felt his cheeks growing warm.
But Jim had already turned away from him, munching a slice of pizza. "Yeah?"
Blair blushed in silence. "Nothing."
Jim smiled lazily, and Blair cursed inwardly. He had a feeling he would need to use the spray very soon.
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