Don't Forget to Wipe your Feet
 

*Wipe. Wipe.*

Calm down, Sandburg.  Calm down.

*Wipe. Wipe.*

I am calm, I am calm, I can do this.  Hey, I’ve been working with Jim for, what, nearly three years?  You’d think I’d get used to it.  A dead body here, a dead body there, hell, it was only an outline for god’s sake.

*Wipe. Wipe. Wipe.*

Why the hell won’t this stuff come off??

“Chief?  You ok?”

Blair tried a grin as his partner came up behind him.  “Who, me?  Fine, fine, never been better.”

“So, this is some new exercise?”

“Huh?”

Jim pointed downwards.  “You’ve been wiping your feet for the past seven minutes.  I think you just wore a hole in the mat.”

Blair followed his gaze.  “Oh, sorry.  Kinda had my mind on other things.”  Look at me.  I’m freaking over a pair of shoes for god’s sake.  “Guess Zoneouts aren’t your exclusive province, huh, big guy?” he patted his partner on the chest, did an odd little shuffle and ducked inside his room.  “I’m gonna grab a shower and change.  I feel a total grunge.”

Blair dunked his head under the shower.  He shivered, despite the hot spray.

They’re watching me.

He could feel those boots on the other side of the shower curtain, sitting there on the floor...waiting...

They’re only shoes.  Blair tried to visualise them in his mind.  Face the enemy.  Ratty laces, that little worn patch on the side from where the left one rubbed against the computer desk in his office, that brown colour, guaranteed to hide even the nastiest of dog turd stains...

He snickered, relaxing under the spray.  They were just boots, that’s all.   Plain lace-ups, with the crazy gripping pattern on the sole.  Maybe some dirt from trooping over half of Cascade, some ash from that crime scene, some burned and blackened fragments of human flesh, late reminders of a life blown out in a final agonising rush of fire...

Blair leaned against the side of the shower, trying to get his heartrate under control.  If it got any faster, his Blessed Protector would come pounding in like a giant gorilla, gun at the ready.  Yep, ol’ Naomi Sandburg’s boy has one hell of an imagination

Worse luck.

He closed his eyes, taking one deep breath after another.  A mistake.  He could smell the blackened ash on the soles of his boots with a Sentinel-like intensity, hear the echo of the dying screams, feel the warm wash from the exploding fireball...

There was a knock on the door.  “Chief?  You ok in there?  Your heart’s going right up.”

Blair clenched his hands by his sides.  “Uuuh, Jim? “ he managed in a strangled voice.  “I’m kinda busy in here...”

There was a startled silence, then Jim cleared his throat.  “Oh.  Oh, right.  I’ll just...see what’s on the TV, ok?”

“Yeah,”  Blair  closed his eyes as the other man beat a hast retreat.  Man, this is fucking weak... hurriedly, he rinsed off and grabbed a towel.

Avoiding the shoes in the corner, he dressed, then looked at himself in the mirror.  Forcing himself to assume a calm facade, he gingerly picked up the offending boots in two fingers and opened the door.

Jim was sprawled on the couch, his injured leg propped up on the coffee table.  He seemed oblivious to the anthropologist as he snuck behind him and dumped the boots in the bin.

“What’s up with the trash?” Jim quizzed.

Blair looked up guiltily. “What?”

“The shoes.  I thought they were your favourite boots?”

“Oh, yeah, they were, um, letting in water.  Must be a hole in the sole or something.  I got wet socks every time we hit a puddle.”  He barely caught himself from letting out a sigh of relief as Jim shrugged, accepting the explanation.

Taking another deep breath, the anthropologist puttered back to his room, socks whispering on the floor.  Paper grading sounded good right now.  He settled himself on his bed and reached for the pile.  Something to take his mind off those little black bits on his boots in the trash.

Suddenly he dropped his pen.

What about the places he had stepped? Blackened bits of once-human spread all over the Loft?

Oh god.  Blair jumped off his bed.  Oh man, it’s in my ROOM.  Grabbing a Tshirt from the pile of laundry on the floor, he frantically mopped from the door to his dresser to his desk - everywhere he had walked in the room.  Balling the Tshirt up in his hands, his eyes widened in horror and he tore out to dump that in the trash as well.

Another weird look from Jim, another lame excuse.

Heading back to his room, Blair stopped.  It was everywhere.  Lounge, bathroom, hall...  With a strangled whimper, he grabbed the broom and started running it up and down his walking path.

That got Jim’s attention.

“Sandburg, what the hell are you doing?”

Blair came down for another circuit.  “Oh, nothing Jim, just got a cleaning bug, the ol’ adrenaline’s pumping...” he headed for the kitchen again, pushing the broom ahead of him.

“You have a cleaning bug?” Jim automatically scanned his partner.  Heartrate up, breathing shallow - the kid was on the verge of a full blown panic attack.  Stiffly he levered himself off the couch, limping over to block his partner’s way.

Blair shot him a wild look and tried to circle around him with the broom.  Jim reached out and grabbed the appliance away, leaning it against the back of the couch.  “Sandburg...” he trailed off as he looked at his partner properly.  Blair was standing in the centre of the room, shoulders slumped, hands making small fluttering movements as his eyes darted wildly over the floor.  “Chief?”  Jim reached out and touched his Guide’s arm. “You ok?  Talk to me, what is it?”

Blair looked up at him, blue eyes wide, mouth moving silently, trying to form words.  Finally, one broke through.

“Dead.”

“Dead?”  Jim changed that single touch to a hold, rubbing his fingers comfortingly over the chilled skin.  Jesus. The kid is freezing. “Who’s dead, Blair?” he asked gently. “Who?”

“Marshall and Trout.” Blair swallowed and looked at the floor.  “They’re dead, man.  Flambe. And I - oh god, Jim, I stepped in it. On it.  On them.  It’s all over the Loft!” he lunged for the broom again.

Jim caught the panicked anthropologist and held him in his arms, trapped against his chest.  “Easy, Chief, take it easy,” he soothed.

“I can’t! " Blair twisted in his hold.  “Can’t you smell it man? It’s everywhere, ash and black and skin and..” he faded for a moment, hanging limp in his partner’s grasp.  “Oh man, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“No you’re not, Chief.” Jim cradled his partner closer, palms rubbing soothing patterns on his back.  “Take it easy.  Deep breaths, through your mouth - don’t use your nose.  That’s it, slow and easy...”  Feeling Blair relax in his hold, Jim eased him over to the couch and sat him down.  “Stay here.” He reached out and grabbed the broom.

Blair leaned over the couch, chin resting on the back, watching as Jim meticulously swept the Loft.  Working in a search pattern, the Sentinel carefully mounded his findings before putting them in the bin.  He moved into the bathroom, then Blair’s room, coming out a  few minutes later with a full dustpan.  He carefully shook the dustpan out into the trash, then wiped it with a paper towel, tossing that in the bin as well.

Finally, he gathered together a bucket and mop, carefully washing away any further remains.  Blair watched him during the entire procedure, waiting for a chuckle or a mocking glance.

None.

Finished mopping, Jim poured the water away, rinsed out the sink, then tied the bin bag shut.  With a reassuring tousle of his roommates curls, Jim walked downstairs and pushed the bag into the dumpster.

When he came back in, Blair was still sitting in the same position.  Almost as an afterthought, Jim picked up the mat and tossed it off the balcony, then moved to sit beside his Guide.

“Better?”

Blair took a deep breath and pushed his hair off his face.  “Not really.  Freaking out over a pair of boots.  I feel a total choad.”

Jim tousled his hair again, then slung an arm around his shoulders. “Not a choad.  Everyone has their breaking point.  Yours is just dead bodies.”

“You?” Blair whispered, yawning as the adrenaline rush faded, leaving him high and dry.

“My senses.” Jim shrugged.  “You helped me with them, I figure I can clean the Loft a little.”

Blair yawned again.  “Are they gone?” he asked sleepily.

Jim tightened his arm around his shoulders briefly. “Yeah, Chief.  All gone.”

“Nothing escapes Sentinel Eyes.” Blair murmured before sleep overtook him.

Pulling a cushion into his lap, Jim eased the sleeping anthropologist down onto it, one hand idly stroking the curls back.  “Not where you’re concerned, Chief,” he whispered.

All Content Copyright © 2001 Taleya Joinson
Last modified: November 12, 2010