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This little ditty has never before seen the light of day. It was an experiment written several years back to see if I could find Blair's voice. I kind of drop you in the middle of things, but I figure you can keep up easily enough. There's no doubt a longer story here somewhere, if only I could get around to writing it. Gen, Rated PG-13 for Language, Snippet "Listen, man--I know my timing sucks. I know you've got enough to worry about without me begging for favors. But the thing is, Jim...I'm kinda running on fumes here. I don't know how much longer I can keep dragging your sorry ass all over creation. You know what I'm saying? And we need to keep moving, Jim. We have to. It's not safe here. If we're not careful, we're gonna get caught in the crossfire. Or worse. Which is why you've gotta come on back, man. Snap out of whatever the hell this is..." Sprawled and panting, back braced against a temporary wall, Blair Sandburg slung an arm around his sentinel, Jim Ellison, and let his whispered diatribe trail off for a moment into the atmosphere. He didn't know why he even bothered talking; it wasn't as if Jim had shown any signs of listening. Still, Blair himself found some comfort in the words. As long as he was holding up his side of their typical banter, he could pretend things weren't really as dire as they seemed. "I mean...it's practically Fugitive 101," he began again, his mouth near Jim's ear, his voice pitched so softly their pursuers would never hear it over the music blasting from the speakers nearby. "When unarmed and on the run from bad guys with serious firepower, one--or in this case, two--are more likely to escape with their skin if they are actually running." Tugging Jim more firmly to him, Blair glanced down at his friend. Same as before. Eyes open, nobody home. Yet it wasn't a zone, at least not in the way Blair customarily defined them. Jim hadn't gotten lost in a single sense; he had gotten sideswiped by ...what? Two, three? Could it have been more than that? Was his Sentinel physiology even now righting itself, rebuilding what had been damaged? Or had Jim been injured beyond repair? Gunfire erupted again, closer this time, seemingly overhead. Blair closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Time for them to move. "Oh, man. Forget that running crap. I gotta confess, Jim--right about now...I'm not so sure I could fake a respectable stroll." But they didn't have a choice. Not if they wanted to stay alive. So, bending his legs, Blair shifted slowly to his knees, his right arm wrapped securely around Jim. "Fuck!" he groaned as they gained their feet, Jim's weight resting almost entirely against his smaller frame. "Oh, fuck, Jim. Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck." Woozy with the change in position, Blair peered down his left side. It was soaked red, the massive blot appearing nearly black in the garish, pulsing lights. The stain spread now from his waist to just above his knee, drenching his shirt and jeans alike. "Jim, man, please...please wake up," Blair muttered, already lurching and weaving them both towards their next hiding place. Perhaps behind the concession stand there or on the other side of that curtain. "I'm not positive...but I think I may be bleeding to death." The End Back to Home Back to Stories |
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