Green is Keen, a Sentinel froth for the
holidays, by Glacis. Rated NC17 for sex and gratuitous use of candy, no
copyright infringement intended to Pet Fly, Henson Productions or whoever it is
that makes M&Ms. From a story idea by Sidra, inspired by Kermit, brought on by boogie-oogie-oogieing and eclairs.
Another Christmas. Another season of being assaulted at every turn by
Norman Rockwell portraits of American family units that didn't exist anymore,
and judging by his past, never had. Too many bright lights, the all
pervasive smell of pine scented aerosol sprays and enough cookies to choke a
horse, and carols played over and over and over in little tinny Muzak renditions that followed him everywhere he went. It
was enough to make him nuts even before his enhanced senses kicked in; now,
with everything in hyperdrive, he walked around with
a splitting headache for two months, and his mood made the Grinch
seem like post-visitation Scrooge.
And Sandburg wasn't helping.
There was a scraggly little excuse for a tree stuck in the corner of
the loft -- the kid had said something about Charlie Brown and feeling sorry
for the orphan, or some such nonsense. He'd been too busy trying to keep from
going deaf from the eightieth rendition of
Little Drummer Boy blaring from the speakers on the tree lot. There was a
menorah in the window, not that anyone would see it up on the third floor, but
the candles were doing their best. There were holly boughs draped all over the
place, which actually helped cut the gagging pine smell a little, so he
hadn't said much about that. And there was mistletoe in the doorway. Sandburg
had stopped on the way in last night, but Jim hadn't been paying any attention,
and plowed right into him, shoving him into the
living room. There were times when the total lack of personal space between
them could lead to accidents. He offered a mumbled apology, and Sandburg had
stared back at him, mute for once. He hadn't quite figured out what the big
blue eyes were telling him, and the kid had turned and wandered into his room
before he could.
Probably just as well. Some of his own thoughts on the subject of his
roommate lately could get him arrested. He might even have to arrest himself,
if he ever gave into impulse and went, er, primal on
the kid.
He stared back at his monitor, sighing without realizing it. A presence
made itself known in front of his desk and he glared up at Connor, who was
doing her best to look innocent and failing miserably.
"What." Not an interrogative. More a growl, indicative of his
absolute lack of interest in anything the other detective had to say. Megan
looked crushed for a millisecond, then grinned wickedly.
"Suppose I could say 'sweets for the sweet' but it looks more like
it should be 'greens for the Grinch.' Here, Jim, have
some candy! This should brighten your day!" She plopped a bowl down on the
desk, right in the middle of his paperwork, and hightailed
it back to her own desk. Jim stared at the bowl.
Green M&Ms. Someone had gone through the whole bowl and eaten
everything but the green ones. He stared at the little round chocolate candies
and wondered what the hell his coworkers were thinking about, and how come they
had time to sit on their butts and pick out the
yellow and blue and red ones and why on earth anyone would think he would want
to eat a half pound of green M&Ms and what they thought it would accomplish
if he did. In the background, he heard Brown whisper to Rafe,
"Well, s'posed to make you horny, and he sure
needs to relax -- maybe if he gets some he'll chill out a little!" Rafe stared back at him, shook his head, and muttered back,
"As if. Ellison ... chill ... doesn't quite work together, does it?"
He almost snorted, but didn't want them to know he could hear them. Old wives' tales. Candy was candy, dye was dye, and his
hormones didn't need any help, thank you very much. All he needed was time,
opportunity, padded cuffs, and several pints of hard liquor poured down his
Guide's throat. So much for an active fantasy life. He
shrugged, grabbed up a handful of candy, and crunched down on them, glaring in
Henry's general direction the whole time. Might as well make
the audience happy. Not that it really meant anything. And he, at least,
had work to do. With another muffled grumble, he bent his head to the
enthralling prospect of yet another ream of repeating himself in quadruplicate.
"cold, cold, cold, cold, gonna go on safari to
Walking like a constipated Charlie Chaplin impersonator, Blair tucked
his chin further into his red and white striped muffler, wrapped his arms more
firmly around himself, stuffed his hands as deeply into his armpits as three
shirts, a bright red vest with gold trim and a coat would allow, and promised
himself that next winter he was going to kidnap Jim Ellison and spend the
holidays in Hawai'i. For a bare instant, vivid mental
fantasies of rolling in the surf smooching and exchanging vows under swaying
palms warmed his blood, then he castigated himself for being a mush headed
moron and bounded stiffly into the elevator to head up to Major Crimes.
Even if he could find a way to persuade Jim to change the habits
of a lifetime and pork a dude, he couldn't see the guy ever going the sappy
romantic route. Not even True Love could change all the habits of nearly four
decades of lessons in sucking it up and holding
it in. And if what Carolyn had told him held water, and his own observations
indicated it would, then even if he could trip him and beat him to the floor
the best part would be the sex. Not the restaurants, not the declarations, and
certainly not any monkey suits.
Humming to himself, thanking his Mom for a thorough grounding in
Chanukah, Christmas, Yule, Kwanzaa, Ramadan and Saturnalia traditions and all
the folk -- and filk -- songs that went with them, he
wended his way through the maze of desks, tinsel, empty chocolate boxes,
diet soda cans and paper snowflakes to get to his partner's desk. Jim sat stone
still in his chair, one hand splayed across a scattering of papers, the other
clenching the rim of an empty bowl with a few flakes of green candy in the bot tom. For a moment, Blair feared that Jim had
zoned, but then those glazed ice eyes tracked over to him. He smiled weakly.
"Hey, Jim, you okay, man--"
Before he could finish the question, the statue came to life. In a
whirl of motion that only went unnoticed by the majority of the Major Crimes
team because the ones who weren't out doing the last of their holiday shopping
were in a sugar stupor, Ellison whisked around the edge of the desk, wrapped
one big paw around Blair's arm, and yanked him into the corridor, down the
hall, and into the stairwell.
"Jim? Jim? What the ... what's wrong, man? Whatcha doin',
Jim? Jim?? JIM!"
No intelligible words were coming from Detective Ellison or young
Sandburg by that point, because Jim had his mouth full, and Blair had his mind
blown. Among other things, all of which were centered around
Jim's enthusiastic attempts to suck Blair's ski n from his body.
Not that his body was complaining, exactly.
'Holy shit.' It was a
prayer, even if it was a silent one. He managed to peel his eyelids open and
unglue his head from the door, where he was gently pounding it in perfect time
to the pulling and swallowing going on down below. Risking a glance, knowing he
had finally gone over the edge and was hallucinating
his life away, Blair looked down just as Jim was going down.
God.
Or as close as he was ever going to get, anyway.
Long fingers reached out, pried his thighs apart, and curved around his
ass to hold him closer, and the last few remaining brain cells that were still
fighting for a logical explanation to the present insanity gave up the ghost.
He could and no doubt would analyze it later. Right now the only thing he could
do was hang on, attempt to stay standing, and try not to scream.
He failed.
He couldn't care less.
Simon plowed through the detritus that was his department two days
before Christmas and headed for the elevator. He had places to go, politicians
to verbally abuse, budgets to stretch. Of course, when he got to the
elevator, an old guy in overalls was slo-o-o-owly hanging an
out of order sign on the wall and prying open the button panel to play with the
wires. Grumping to himself about seven flights of stairs and never letting them
see ya sweat, he headed for the stairwell.
It was blocked.
About to really lose his temper, he put his shoulder down and prepared
to un-jam it. An instant before impact, he heard it.
A scream.
An agonized, bitten off, animal scream. Instinctively, he reached for
the handle again, all his protective police training yelling at him to Save The Victim. Then an older instinct made him stop and listen.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't agony. Sounded an awful lot
like ecstasy, actually. In fact ...
It sounded like Sandburg.
Raising one fist to hammer on the door and demand that the kid do his rabbitting elsewhere and on his own time, another sound hit
him.
Good God almighty. That sounded like ... Ellison.
Managing the almost impossible, Banks turned pale. He didn't want to
know. He just didn't want to know. Much too much information.
A long, low, lush moan interrupted his train of thought, and redirected
his attention to the door. He couldn't go in there. Couldn't do anything but
think of all the ways he'd like to kill them ... after they were done. Of
course, given the fact that Ellison knew fifty
ways to kill a guy with nothing more than a paper clip, he'd no doubt just end
up telling them to get a room, for god's sake.
As for now, the politicians could wait. He had a door to guard.
Rafe looked up from
his desk, wondering where Ellison had gone. He thought he'd heard Blair's voice
a little while ago. Wandering over to the other detective's desk, he noticed
that all the M&Ms were gone.
Grinning at the thought of the effects of a sugar rush like that on the
grumpy guy, he was distracted by an odd procession moving down the hall toward
the elevator. Simon led the little parade, looking like a vaguely green tinted
thundercloud. Blair followed in his trail, weaving a little on his feet, muffler hanging off to one side, hair
sticking out at odd angles, a huge grin on his face, and all his shirt tails
flopping over his jeans. He looked like Kermit the Frog in a bad wig after
getting run over by Miss Piggy. Jim brought up the rear,
walking so close behind Sandburg it looked like the little guy was using
him for a body brace. He had a loopy look on his face, a hand on each side of
Blair's hips, and he was walking funny. Not one of them was saying a word.
In perfect step, they moved past the maintenance man working on the
elevator. He started to protest, and they ignored him. Then Simon, with the
utmost dignity, hot-wired the elevator. As the doors were closing, Rafe could have sworn he saw Ellison, behind Banks' back,
turn Sandburg around and stick his tongue down the kid's throat, with both
hands wrapped around the kid's ass.
Eyes ping-ponging between the empty bowl that
had once held green M&Ms and the closed elevator doors, Rafe
shook his head, refusing to believe what he thought he'd just seen. Stalking
back to his desk, he applied himself to his own paperwork with a will.
Four hours later, he was finishing up the last of his files, when
Ellison sailed back into the bullpen, Sandburg bouncing in his wake like Tigger on speed. They settled down at the desk, talking
quietly, Jim tapping on the keyboard, Blair right beside him, pointing at this
piece of paper, shuffling that one. All was as normal as it ever got with those
two.
Well, maybe not. As he was walking back from dropping off a file in
Simon's office, he happened to glance over to the side. Both men looked very
relaxed. Sandburg had his hand in Ellison's lap, and Ellison had a smile on his
face.
He stopped dead, then cleared his throat.
Ellison still had the smile on his face. Only this time he had his hand in Sandburg's
lap. "Anything I can help you with, Rafe?"
Jim asked pleasantly. Rafe stared at him.
"Got any more of those green M&Ms?"
finis