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<snip>Positive feedback and / or constructive criticism always welcome. Disclaimers: Not mine. No money. Don't sue. Warnings: Death, but not of Jim or Blair. And a hair cut. The door burst inward, and they both staggered in, soot-stained, unshaven, clothes crisped and brown with blood: her blood, Naomi's. Sandburg entered first, in jeans and a formerly white tee. He'd had two or three other shirts on when they had left the loft nineteen hours ago, but he'd used them for bandages. As for the jacket--Jim couldn't remember when Blair had lost it. Jim shut the door and leaned back against it, slitting his eyes. After any other similarly long and harrowing day, he would have closed them, maybe rubbed his face, sighed, sniped about Sandburg's poor housekeeping. Right now, he didn't want to take his gaze off his partner, who even now half-tripped, caught himself on the table, and dropped gracelessly into a seat. Jim angled his head for a better look at Blair's eyes. Yep, still contracted to pinpoints . Shock. His cheeks had gone from deathly pale to red and puffy hours ago. Words popped out of Jim's mouth. "Chicken noodle soup?" Blair's head swung in Jim's direction. One shoulder lifted. //I'll take that as a definite maybe.// Jim went for the kitchen. He kept tabs on Sandburg, though, tracking his footsteps--shuffle to the little room (caroming off the doorjamb), a search through drawers, then faltering steps to the bathroom. Jim heard a swish of cloth and a catch of breath. He considered going to him, but before they'd left the hospital Blair had made it clear that he'd already received all the comfort he could accept for one day. Jim went upstairs for clean clothes, still listening as Sandburg returned to his room. His mind rattled with the minutia he would do his best to shield Blair from: grilling witnesses, filling out reports. Funeral arrangements. He'd just poured the soup when he heard a rattle of desk drawer, Sandburg's heartbeat and lungs laboring with anger, and then <snip> <snip> //Huh?// Soup bowls in hand, Jim strode into Blair's room. <snip> and Blair hurled another hank of hair onto the floor as he turned, body acknowledging Jim's appearance though his eyes remained distant and empty. He moved like he'd been kicked in the ribs, though no one had hurt him this time. Not directly. "Chief." Blair's mouth firmed. His voice was raw from overuse. "We have to find the bastards who did it." "We will." Blair's eyes finally looked away from whatever unattainable paradise they'd been contemplating, and for a moment, all of Blair Sandburg, B.A., M.A., ABD, observer, Guide, Shaman, bereaved son, stood there in the shambles of his room with three short brown tufts curling away from the left side of his head like sprung springs. For a moment, all of him was present, disheveled, reeking, and looking distinctly silly, if you ignored the naked pain he radiated, which Jim couldn't. "We'll find them, Chief." Some of the tension went out of the stiff shoulders; the hand with the scissors dropped to his side. Sandburg's face rippled, trembled. Then he seized another handful of hair and <snip> "Chief!" Blair's hands stopped halfway in the act of cutting the next handful. Jim meant to ask if Blair really wanted to do this right now -- and here he'd always thought he didn't like that wild curly mess. Instead (unable to look away from those shocky blue eyes) he said, "You're cutting it unevenly." What? said Blair's face, and, "Fuck you," said his mouth. His eyes said Naomi. <snip> Jim set the soup on Blair's desk, reached for the scissors, and easily pulled them from Blair's hand. He almost thought Sandburg was going to lean into him, but Blair straightened up again. "Sit." He visibly softened as he sat. Jim fetched the brush and comb. First, Jim touched the top of Blair's head, running his fingers through the tangles for the first and last time, stroking until the tremors subsided. Then he brushed out the tufts. Next, he ran the comb through them, clasping them between two fingers of his left hand, so that he could compare the ends. Evening them out would take some trimming. Blair shivered again. Jim waited. Finally, he raised the scissors. <snip> **the end ** The BlairHair Duology: |
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//grow//