Pictures of Sandburg
by Mab
I still can't believe that I let him talk me into this. Okay, so he needs a place to stay, but I cannot believe that I'm letting him stay here - him and his damn Barbary ape, which is probably going to be less trouble than Blair pleasepleaseplease Sandburg. I like my space the way it is, and that warehouse of his - well, I suppose it was tidy and comfortable enough by the standards of mid twenties academics who live in rat-infested warehouses, but I've got my own ways. Screw that, if he can't cope with the way I do things, then I guess that'll ensure that a week lasts exactly that.
He's out, looking for that damn animal. And I am not impressed by the mess that's been left behind. I start picking up, grateful that mostly Larry the Termidecorator has satisfied himself with just throwing stuff around. There're only a few breakages, and luckily I'm not a bric-a-brac type of guy. Nothing that can't be replaced - may not even be worthwhile trying for the insurance once you take the excess into account. I entertain myself with a brief fantasy of the clerk in the insurance office reading the claim. Yep, that would put some excitement into the day.
A hell of a lot of it is Sandburg's papers when I get down to business. Well, I'm just going to stack them and dump them on his bed. Let him figure out what order everything goes in. Looks like Larry had fun in the spare room as well. I can't see any of the floor, and I don't think that it was quite that bad before if only because the mighty researcher had most of the stuff in boxes. Trying to clear a pathway, I kick aside a pile of things, including a journal or album in a cloth slipcover that's been half pulled off. A couple of photos fall out. I ignore these things in the search for somewhere to put the pile of paper in my hands. Once that mission is accomplished I head back to the door, but not before stooping to pick up the photos.
Yeah, I'm curious. I'm a cop, a detective, and part of that involves being nosy. This guy is in my home, he's been asking all sorts of questions, and what do I know about him? The pictures are face down. I realise that they're polaroids, and I have a sneaking suspicion about what I'm going to see when I turn them over. I grin, a little embarrassed, but also amused. Sandburg is really going to have to learn about leaving evidence around. You never know when evil little monkeys are going to trash everything, and reveal your secrets.
I put the pictures of a nude Sandburg back inside the space where the slipcover goes over the original hardcover of the journal. It's not hard to figure out where they should go, as I can see the edge of another photo. No, I don't look at the other photo, and I don't read what's in the journal. Something falls into your lap, well, so be it, but I'm not up to invading his privacy that much.
And now, on with the cleanup.
I'm at a loose end, and when Sandburg says that he's off to Huntingdon Avenue market, and do I want to come, I decide, what the hell, why not? So we wander around for a morning. I let him set the pace, which for a short guy with not particularly long legs, is surprisingly fast. I wonder if anyone ever suggested that he should take Ritalin when he was younger, as he pings from stall to stall. It's cute, in an annoying sort of way.
The market is in a warehouse. There's a big parking lot, some of which is given over to hiring out spaces for people to sell stuff out of their cars. So of course, after we're done inside, the intrepid explorer wants to check out everybody's cast-offs and home made preserves outside.
He starts rifling through a box of cds, tapes and god help us, records, muttering his own personal music reviews under his breath. "Maybe, maybe, no way, I don't think so, hey cool," and like little Jack Horner with his plum, he waves a cd in the air. "Look, man," he declares, "a Who compilation. You'd know them."
I nod, to indicate that yes, I have just about heard of The Who, although I'm not necessarily flattered at his seeming assumption that an old guy like me must know them. I was at elementary school when they were in their heyday. I'm not surprised that he knows them, as he seems to have heard of just about everything on earth. He carries on. My comment isn't actually needed after all.
"One of my mother's friends was really into these guys. Barry, yeah that was his name. He was okay. Mom would go around to visit his girl friend, as often as not, and sometimes she'd drag me along. Barry was okay. He used to let me have the odd slurp of his beer, which Naomi would so not have appreciated. Shit, I must have been about twelve. Anyway, we'd sit and listen to his music and read comics while Mom and his girl put the world to rights. And this compilation has all my personal favourites of the time."
"And they would be..." and the mouth of the Pacific north-west is away again.
" Miles and Miles and Pinball Wizard of course, and Pictures of Lily, which is all about, you know," and he produces an enthusiastic, satyrish leer, "using visual aids to give yourself a helping hand."
"Chief, I hope that you don't mix metaphors like that professionally."
"Hey, like I said on some auspicious occasion, thesis speak, academic speak, I'm the pro, but today I'm just hanging loose and I refuse to waste my leisure hours on so-called correct English. Besides, I really related to that song once the hormones started buzzing."
I hold up my hand. "Whoa, Darwin. I do not need your recollections of your desperate adolescence."
He gives me a look of mock outrage. It's not as convincing as the satyr look. "Not so desperate as you might think, man."
He buys the cd and we head back to where his car is parked. He's walking in front of me in a bouncy, good Sandburgian mood, and I'm suddenly aware of just how he moves, striding out, the wind blowing his hair off his neck, and billowing up the back of his shirt, and - damn - am I checking out his ass? Yeah, definitely checking out Sandburg's ass, when the wind permits. It's a nice view.
After the Laura debacle I start paying a little more attention to people smells. I figure that with a little more awareness, maybe I won't get hit with a whammy like that again. Knowledge is power, even if knowledge can be a little gross sometimes. Pheromones; hormones, adrenaline in particular; all the lovely little bacteria that live in sweat that's been sitting around too long; I get intimate with all of it. I relearn all the smells I thought I knew - sex, fear, anxiety, tiredness. I think that I deduce that one of the guys at the gym is, at the least, bisexual, almost before he does.
I try not to smell too much of Sandburg. It's not as if he has a lot of privacy living here with a Sentinel, even after I stuck the doors up. So, I try not to play my own little personal game of detection with him. But damn, it's hard, because I like how Sandburg smells. Except when he comes home after some date, relaxed and pleased with himself as often as not. The smell of Sandburg the sexual being is one that I especially try not to dwell on. I think he's gone with men a couple of times, and I try not to dwell on that either.
He's my friend, I know that, but I'm his research subject too. He has enough pieces of me.
It has been the shittiest day imaginable. Not in any big way. No more than the usual run of murder, lying and office politics, but somehow it's been a concentrated, distilled essence of all the things that convince me that the sooner the human race self-destructs the better. I'm exhausted but wired as hell. I can't unload on Sandburg, which I suppose is just as well. He's helping out some guy at Rainier who can't take his evening tutorial, so it's just me and the foul mood. I wish he was here. He drives me nuts sometimes, but that's only sometimes.
The hell with it. Shower then jerk off, jerk off and then shower? Shower and jerk off? I decide to go with the second option, and settle down to business, just me and my hand. I drag out all my favourite little scenarios but it's no good. I'm too wired and I keep hanging on the brink. Then I have a hot-cold flash and, carefully, I get up and go to Sandburg's room. The journal is there in the bookcase, hiding in plain sight. I sit down on his bed and reach inside the pocket to pull the pictures out.
There are four of them. They must be a few years old. His hair isn't particularly long, but it's a mess as usual. In the first, he's sitting on a bed at a sort of three-quarters angle, knees drawn up with his hands clasped across them. It's almost demure, given the circumstances, and I wonder if that pose was Sandburg's idea or the idea of whoever was behind the camera. You can't see his dick but you can see the pale skin where the crease of buttock and thigh meets. He's wearing one of his sweeter smiles, but then he wouldn't keep these if they weren't a good memory.
The second is similar but he has a goofy expression on his face, caught at just the wrong moment. In the third he's standing, his back to the camera, but pivoting so that you can see his face. He looks annoyed. 'Hey, I wasn't ready here.' His ass is as decorative as you might think. The last one - shit. He's leaning up against the wall, hand on his dick, which doesn't need any help to point upwards. His head is back a little, showing the vulnerable throat. I take a good look, and then put the pictures away with hands that fumble a little.
The enclosed space of his bedroom is filled with his scent, and for one moment I'm tempted to stay and finish myself off right there, add my scent to the mix. Then I shake my head. It's just a little too close to stalking, to be in his room like this, and I head back to my own space. But it's as if he's come back with me. I can almost still smell him, and when I shut my eyes, he's lying on his stomach next to me, giving me that sweet smile. And instead of fondling myself, I'm running a hand over that beautiful ass, and that's all that I need to come.
As Sandburg would probably put it, I'm having a little trouble adjusting my image of myself. I'm not ashamed of wanting him, but I've never really imagined myself acting like John Belushi in 'Animal House', peering in the window of the sorority house. Damn funny scene in the movie, but not so funny when it's cast with me in the starring role. If I thought that he'd ever invaded my privacy like that I'd go ballistic. How the hell can I value something for myself and not give it to him? It's time to shut down on this crap.
I should have gone to drama school, because I think I could win awards for my acting over the next few weeks. It's all the same as usual with Sandburg and me. We catch the bad guys, I swat him over the head in a manly sort of a way and he eats his usual strange food. I don't go into his room again and I try really hard to not think about those polaroids. It's not as if I need them. The real thing is hanging around my apartment all the time, just being himself and driving me nuts.
Of course, the real thing is not naked, although he is occasionally wearing just a towel. The real thing is giving me what I call 'the look' when he thinks it'll get him his way, whether that's tests or making me eat what he regards as healthy food. That's when he's not being a complete smart-ass. He cossets me sometimes, which is irritating because there's nothing like being treated like an eight year old with a bad head cold to remind me that I'm not in control the way I should be. I'm still his research subject, as well as his friend. I'm pretty sure that if he slept with his research subject that it would probably skew his data or something, so I'm gonna be considerate and keep my ideas about just exactly what I would like to do him to myself. Yeah, I'm nearly as full of consideration as I am of shit.
I am his research subject. I'm his friend. Let's just remember those things.
He's been home a week and a half, and he's only using the cane when he knows that he has to hike across campus. I have court attendance coming up, and Simon and I have mutually agreed that this is a good time for some desk bound case review. A little physiotherapy and Sandburg's leg will soon be fine, and he'll be fit and well to jump off the next cliff that my idiocy leads him to.
He's an independent man, and he likes to do for himself. But I monitor things. When he's really tired, when that leg is throbbing, then I can help out a little, make him some tea and bring it to him, help him carry stuff for his lectures downstairs.
It felt good to point Quinn head first down that mine shaft. It's not very pc or forgiving, but I've never fooled myself that I'm a forgiving sort of man. Quinn nearly cost me my two closest friends, and if either of them had died, Quinn would have too, regardless of Simon's assurances about my self-control. Simon's a good man, and he's okay now. I don't have any problem accepting that he's back in his office, practically fumigating it with those very useful cigars, and all's right with the world.
Wish I could settle to the same balance with Sandburg. He had so many close calls on that little adventure, and even the ones I wasn't there to see keep featuring in nightmares. I've given up trying not to monitor his presence when he's nearby. I try not to smell him, it feels like the most invasive thing I can do around him, but I'm always listening out for him, which is just as bad. I listen to his breathing, his heartbeat, the little grunts and sighs he makes when his leg bothers him. I've heard him start jerking off, and I veer away, turn everything down. He was hurt because he wanted to help me, he doesn't need me perving on him, being some sort of voyeur.
Of course he doesn't. Which is why I'm in his room while he's out attending some informal faculty party for a visiting lecturer. It's not about sex. I'm not in here for kicks, this time at least. I just want to be in his room, among all his stuff and the smell of him, and remind myself that he really is alive and okay, and coming back here soon. He's okay. I like his room actually. It's not really that untidy, just very, very cluttered, but if you look you see this weird sort of organization to all of it.
On an impulse, I look for the journal. It's where it usually is, and I get out the photographs. It's not like there aren't other ones, public ones, but I just need to see these, see him naked, in a context where he's not laid out on a morgue slab, which is one of the more fun nightmares recently. And there's no excuse for what happens next, yes I'm tired, and stupidly emotional, and I flex the picture in my hand a little and the light flashes on the glossy paper in this really interesting way and I...
...I hear Sandburg's voice. "Hey, Jim, come back. You and I need to have a little talk, man." I'm sitting on his bed, and he's kneeling in front of me. I'm back, but I'm not lifting my head. I'm awash in the hot and cold prickle of absolute humiliation - how the hell am I going to explain this? There isn't an acceptable explanation. He takes the pictures out of my hand, and I take that as my cue to stand up and get the hell out. I'm heading for the door and he's blocking the way. I forget how quick he is sometimes, even with a sore leg. But perhaps he's got some motivation going right now.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I don't say anything, but I do find the courage to look at him properly. He can't hold a poker face to save himself, and I can see everything he's feeling. Shock, curiosity, embarrassment, anger, even a little amusement. I do him the courtesy of assuming that he finds the situation funny rather than me, but I'm not in the mood to be part of anybody's joke right now. And if he thinks that I can't shove him out of the way, then he is so wrong.
He pokes me in the chest. "Sit down, Jim."
I just look at him. It's my very best, 'do I look like I give a fuck' look, and as usual, it doesn't work on him.
"Uh uh, Jim. You don't get to make the great escape to your territory. If my room is good enough to be in while you go through my private stuff, it's good enough to be in while you tell me what you think you're up to."
So, I'm stuck on his turf, while I attempt to explain the unexplainable. I sit back down on his bed and look at the floor, while he goes for the 'district attorney, I'll stand if you don't mind' approach. I decide to go for straightforward, tell the truth and shame the devil. It doesn't have to be the whole truth. Maybe, just maybe, he won't think I'm a complete dork.
"I've had a few nightmares since Quinn." I look up, give him the 'I'm fine, I'm coping' smile. "It was a near run thing in places. I don't want to hang over you all the time, and this was just a way of reminding myself that you're okay." And that's all completely true, so please, Sandburg, just leave it there.
"And this explains you zoning on pictures of me in the nude, how?"
And the prosecutor asks a good question.
"I was zoning on the way the light flashed on the paper. Jeez, Chief, don't get too egocentric here." Yeah, gotta love this whole lying through your teeth while telling the truth thing.
I can feel him watching me, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that he's listening hard to all the stuff that I'm not saying. There's a lot of it, after all. He takes a deep breath, and sits next to me on the bed, puts his hand on the back of my neck. The heat I feel is not embarrassment.
"How long have you known about the pictures?"
"Since Larry trashed the loft. I found them when I was cleaning up. Look, there's no need to make a big deal about this. I'm sorry I went through your stuff, it won't happen again. Jesus, it's not as if you don't try to find out every little detail about me. You think I care if you've got some nekkid polaroids of yourself?" I should stand up and go, but his grip on my neck holds me. It's not tight, it's even unsure, but my legs won't get me up.
Sandburg's voice is low, a little husky.
"Have you looked at them between Larry and now?"
And there is no way I'm going to answer that. Although, under the law, it's often assumed that silence gives consent. Sandburg lets go of my neck, and I really feel the loss of that warmth and pressure. It feels naked and not in a good way. He stands up and pulls off his shoes and socks. I'm wondering what the hell he's up to and then he pulls off his sweater and his t-shirt, and holy shit, I know exactly what he's up to, and I just sit on the bed in complete shock and watch. He doesn't make a big performance of it; he might be just stripping for bed on his own, except that he's not.
He stands in front of me, naked except for the dressing on his leg. I'm sitting on his bed, fully clothed but exposed as hell, and he looks as tall as the ceiling. He's the naked one, but he's got all the pieces now, because I'm not saying "what the fuck do you think you're doing?" I'm not charging out of the room in outrage, I'm just looking at him. He looks back at me, nervous but challenging at the same time, not obviously excited, although I start to smell it on him. Then his face begins to change and I realise that if I don't do or say something - right now - he's going to think that he's made a shaming, dreadful mistake, and he doesn't deserve that.
I stand up, and he's smaller than me again, but brave. He is always so fucking brave, and I put my arms around him and kiss him. He kisses right back, and makes this happy, sexy little noise. I run my hands up and down the smooth skin of his back, cup his ass. More pleased noises, but no words, on account of the fact that our mouths haven't really separated here. It's difficult, but I pull away; only as a temporary measure.
"Sit down yourself, Chief. Take a load off."
He does that, perches on the end of his bed, and I start stripping off my own clothes. It's not exactly Chippendales stuff, but I guess that I put on a little show, going slow, making sure that he gets a good look at everything. He seems happy, and that's what counts. He's pushed himself onto the bed properly now, reclining on his side but leaning up on an arm. He reaches out a hand. "C'mere."
I lie next to him, both of us on our side. I push one arm under him, curl it over his back and start kissing him again. The other hand goes roaming - his hair, his nipples (which he likes, although there's a little spot in the small of his back which makes him squirm just as nicely), his hips and his dick (which he really likes). What I'd really like is him under me. It's a pretty basic feeling, and dumb - what, I think he's going to get up and kick me out? Now? But I don't know if I can be careful enough of his leg, so I pull him up on top of me instead. I just want all the live weight of him and then I gasp as I feel his dick move against my body, my dick, and he chuckles. "You like that, huh?" he asks, and repeats the movement, slower and smooth this time. His face is intent on mine, and I'd think that I was looking at Sandburg the researcher. But then I guess I am. I'm his research subject after all, but I honestly don't mind right now. He can study this as long as he likes.
So, we both begin to move, because, despite those weeks of fantasy, right now I'm too impatient for anything more sophisticated. I have him, and no way am I letting him go, I just thrust up against him, just like he thrusts against me. And far too soon, I think, I arch and gasp and finish, gripping him as hard as I can. The pleasure shocks wind down eventually, and I loosen my hold and look up at him, disconcerted and uneasy. If I was going to pick anyone here to have the hair trigger it wouldn't have been me, sentinel sense of touch or not. A quick mental review of the last ten minutes, let alone the last hour, or weeks, leads to the question of whether I know any bigger shit-heels than my self. "You okay?" I ask, pushing the tangle of hair off his face.
He grins. "I'm fine. I can manage without breathing as long as it's a short term thing." Damn. "Lighten up, Jim. I said I'm fine, although," and his voice deepens, "I'm planning on being even better pretty shortly." Then his expression tightens as he slicks himself against the mess on my belly. I can feel his arms tremble as he pushes himself on to climax, his face buried against my neck. He moans, "Hold me tight, Jim, god, hold me tight," and I do, I do hold him tight. It's the easiest thing in the world.
He comes against me with this small shuddery cry, and then he rolls to the side again, half on and half off me. I kiss his temple, and give the sweat there a little lick. Very soon, we're going to simply smell rank, but for now it's just the smell of him and me being sexual together, and it's good. Everything's good. Only one thing would make it better.
"Love you," he says. And there it is.
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