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NOW SING WE, NOW REJOICE by Dreamweaver Rating: PG for some profanity, slight angst Characters:
Jim, Blair Plot Blurb: It’s Christmastime, and Blair ought to be happy – but something has caused a problem. Jim does his best to make things all right. Feedback: Please feed the feedback monster and provide encouragement to Dreamweaver!
**** “I’m
dreamin’ of a white Christmas….”
Bing Crosby’s mellow voice flowed from the truck’s radio
speakers, enveloping Cascade Police detective Jim Ellison in a wave of
nostalgia. He didn’t mind.
It was a week until Christmas, the day’s caseload had been
surprisingly light, and he was heading home to what he hoped would be a
relaxing evening decorating the loft with his roommate, partner and
Guide, grad student and anthropology teacher, Blair Sandburg.
Life was good. Blair,
as usual, had been bouncing with excitement for days, despite the
pressures of giving final exams, taking final exams, grading final exams
and term papers – all on top of working with Jim as much as possible
at the police station and about the city of “May
your days be merry and bright….”
Jim found himself humming along with the radio, and smiled to
himself. For a long time,
Christmas hadn’t been much of a cause to celebrate, but the past few
years had changed that. Having
Blair around made things chaotic at times, but seldom boring!
Ellison glanced at the clock on the dash.
Blair ought to be home already.
It’s his night to cook, but if he’s too tired, we can order
something in and finish decorating the tree.
Their 7-foot Douglas fir had been brought in and placed in
its stand the night before, and the lights strung, but the rest of the
decorations had had to wait. Blair’s
Volvo was parked in its usual spot; Jim pulled in behind it, grateful to
be home, and hurried into the building, foregoing the cranky elevator in
favor of taking the stairs. Might
as well do something to burn off the calories of the Christmas cookies
he was intending on eating shortly, after all!
But when he elevated his sense of hearing, automatically checking
for his roommate’s whereabouts and activities, the Sentinel paused
mid-step and frowned.
“Adeste
Fideles Okay,
Blair was singing Christmas carols – he’d been singing Christmas
carols or humming Christmas songs, or playing CD’s of Christmas music,
for two weeks already. But
usually he sang them quietly, melodiously.
At the moment, he was belting the Latin out at the top of his
lungs – defiantly, desperately. And
as Jim listened, still frowning, he heard Blair pause, and the distinct
sound of slurping gulps. A
feeling of disquiet made the detective hurry up the last flight of
steps. Now
Blair had switched songs. As
Jim put his key in the lock, the ordinarily-mellow baritone poured over
him. “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
Jim
opened the door and stepped in – and halted.
He’d been right about Blair making cookies – the kitchen was
a chaotic mess of flour and sugar and baking pans – and right about
those slurping noises. Bottles
of Heineken were lined up along the edge of the island – several empty
bottles, others full. As he
watched, Blair reached out and took a hefty swig from the nearest before
returning to his vocalizations and stirring. “Everybody knows a turkey—“
“Hey,
Chief.” “Jim!”
Blair whirled, breaking the song off with a squawk, and dropped
the bottle of vanilla extract he’d been holding – luckily, still
capped. Ellison
stood stock-still. There was
no missing the over-brightness of the blue eyes, or the hitches of
Blair’s breathing. The
unsteadiness caused by the several Heinekens – what, four?
On his fifth? How
long had Sandburg been gulping them down?
What wasn’t quite clear was whether it was anger or unhappiness
which was causing his Guide’s distress.
“I
– I didn’t hear you.” Sandburg
bent to pick up the bottle of vanilla. “I’m
not surprised,” Jim said dryly, and took off his coat.
“You trying to entertain everyone in the building?”
“No…no.”
Blair turned his back. “Sorry,
man.” “Not
a problem, Chief.” Jim
secured his gun and hung the holster on its accustomed hook, then walked
into the kitchen to stand behind his partner.
Without hesitation, he reached to put his hands on Blair’s
shoulders. “So tell me,
what is the problem…hmmm?” “Hey,
man, who said there was any problem?”
Sandburg jerked away from under the hands and began frantically
cracking eggs into a bowl. “Can’t
a guy sing…sing…Christmas carols…if he wants to?” “While
downing a bottle of beer with each verse?” Ellison asked mildly.
“I’ve nothing against you singing, you sound pretty decent,
all told. No Grammy awards,
of course, but….” He
picked up an as-yet-unopened Heineken for himself.
“It’s the way you’re singing that’s bothering me.
You sound like you’re attacking something – or someone.
Come on, Sandburg….Blair – what’s wrong?”
“Man,
you are – this is like, so unfair…between the senses and the
skills, I don’t have a chance, do I?”
With a sigh, Sandburg abandoned the cookie dough and flung
himself into a chair at the dining table, resting his cheek on one
upturned palm. To Jim’s
consternation, tears starred his Guide’s long lashes. Jim
took a seat across from him, twisting off the bottle cap and taking a
long swallow. “What
happened?” he asked again, very softly. “It’s
stupid – really,” his partner muttered.
“It’s something I shouldn’t have let get to me--" “—but
it did. Tell me,” Jim
urged. Blair
laughed bitterly. “I was
singing – quietly,” he added, “very quietly. To
myself. I was singing
Christmas songs when I was waiting in line at the bookstore.
They’re having a sale, and I wanted to pick up some more coffee
mugs at half price. They
seem to disappear around here—“ “That’s
because you leave them around half-full of dead coffee, until they grow
mold and then develop sentience, and I have to throw them out,”
Ellison inserted quietly, grinning a little.
Blair
grimaced instead of smiling as Jim had expected him to.
“Whatever….Anyway, I was humming and singing to myself.
I get hooked on the music they play in stores and malls, you
know? It gets stuck in your
head—“ He broke off,
seeing Jim’s long-suffering look, recognizing the ‘get to the point,
Sandburg’ expression. “Anyway,
one of the TA’s from the Soc-Psych department was in line ahead of me.
And she…” He
broke off, reddening, and Jim felt embarrassment rolling off him in
waves of heat. “Aw,
Jim, I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” Jim
shook his head. “I want to
know. Please.
It’s okay,” he soothed. “Don’t
worry. Just tell
me.” Blair
stared at the tabletop, not meeting his partner’s eyes.
“She said…’With a name like Sandburg, you shouldn’t be
singing Christmas songs. You
shouldn’t celebrate Christmas. You’re
desecrating and denigrating your heritage, and you’re being totally
culturally insensitive!’ And
then she got out of line and moved to the back, so she wouldn’t have
to stand next to me!” Blair
bent his head and laid his flushed face on his clenched fists.
Jim’s
face clouded with anger. “The
damned bitch!” he growled. How
dare someone say that to Blair?
No wonder he was so upset!
Okay, time for damage control!
“Chief, listen to me. Are
you listening?” His Guide
made a tiny sound of assent, and Jim could feel Blair’s heart rate and
breathing ease off to a more normal rhythm.
“You are, without doubt, the most culturally-sensitive
person I know, and that frigging stupid female pit viper didn’t have a
clue as to what she was talking about!” Blair
choked out a small laugh. “Pit
viper, huh? Well, that’s a
pretty fair assessment.” He
looked up across the table, gazing sadly into Jim’s eyes.
“Man, talk about a mood-killer!
All of a sudden, everything associated with Christmas
feels…tainted. I’m not
supposed to be allowed to celebrate.…Jim, I’m not even a practicing
Jew! It may be in my
heritage, but—“ He
stretched a hand to reach for another bottle of beer. Jim
caught his wrist. “Don’t,
Chief. Don’t.”
He kept the grip gentle, but didn’t relent until Blair settled
back in his chair. Only then
did he release his hold. “Don’t
let that bitch ruin the holidays for you.
She was wrong, dead wrong!”
He cocked his head consideringly.
“And so, what she said made you come home and sing Christmas
songs at the top of your lungs. And
– uh – hit the Heinekens?” Blair
sighed. “Yeah.
Defiance, I suppose. A
sort of ‘I can TOO sing Christmas carols!’ thing.”
“Then
let’s keep on defying, huh?” Jim
cast a hopeful look at the kitchen.
“Sing all the songs you want.
Decorate the tree. Wrap
the presents. Bake the
cookies.” “Bake
the – Oh God, make the DINNER!”
Blair stared wildly at his partner in dismay.
“Jim, I’m soooooo sorry, man!
I’ll get right on it!” He
leaped to his feet, only to have Jim grab his wrist once more.
“Whoa,
whoa, easy now. Settle
down, Junior. Dinner is an
easy fix; call out for pizza or Chinese, unless there are leftovers in
the fridge.” Jim rose
easily to his feet. “In
fact, I’ll call, while you see what you can do about the – uh –
condition of the kitchen.” Sandburg
slanted a guilty glance towards the ravaged kitchen.
“Jim, I’m really sorry—“ “Not
a problem, Sandburg.” In
the middle of picking up the phone to call, Jim halted the motion and
turned to wrap an arm about his partner’s shoulders.
“It’s okay, you know,” he said softly, “and you are
culturally sensitive, and you should celebrate any holiday you
feel like celebrating!” He
shook Blair gently. “And I
like to hear you sing. Just
not quite so loud that it rattles the windows, okay, Pavarotti?”
“’Kay.”
Sandburg managed a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sandburg.
C’mon now.” Another
gentle shake. “If you can
sing chants to any other culture’s deities – and I’ll bet that
moronic TA wouldn’t have a problem with that, by the way –
no reason you can’t sing Christmas carols, is there?”
“Guess
not,” Blair conceded, his smile a little more genuine now.
“So,
sing ‘em all. Latin,
German, French, whatever.” Jim
released him and returned to his phone call. “Okay
– but man, I want some company, here.
You gotta sing too,” the Guide said, smiling slightly at
Ellison’s expression of dismay. “No
thanks, I’m better at listening.” “Aw,
Jim….” “Cool
it, Sandburg, just get this catastrophe you call a kitchen under
control, hmm?” Jim punched
numbers into the phone and waited for it to be answered, watching as
Blair set about cleaning up the mess on the counters.
It looked like this evening was going to be spent not only
decorating the loft, but trying to repair his partner’s bruised psyche
and feelings, as well. *****
“Adeste
fidelis, Laeti triumphantes, Venite, venite in Bethlehem…”
Blair
was singing again, this time softly, sweetly, along with the CD player,
as he delicately eased fragile glass ornaments from their boxes and hung
them on the tree branches. Dinner
and Jim’s strict ‘no more beer, Sandburg!’ had restored his
emotional equilibrium to a degree; the kitchen was no longer a disaster
zone, and the loft was filled with the delectable aroma of baking
cookies. Jim,
standing on their short stepladder, waited for his roommate to hand him
some decorations for the upper branches, and found himself humming
along. Despite his avowal to
not join in the singing, he found it too inviting to resist.
Sandburg does a decent Latin pronunciation, he noted,
somehow not all that surprised. Blair
probably had decent pronunciation in any language he spoke.
“Jim?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ll
bet I know more Christmas songs than you do.”
There was the slightest hint of challenge in Sandburg’s voice,
and his ocean-blue eyes were twinkling.
“And
this is supposed to make me leap into some sort of competition, I take
it? Nice try, Darwin.
I freely admit it, you probably do.” Blair
touched ‘pause’ on the CD player, and stood beside the stepladder,
bouncing lightly in his toes. “Aw,
c’mon, it’ll be fun!” Jim
eyed him warily. He knew he
was going to give in; he could rarely refuse Blair’s coaxing, and
he’d already told himself he was going to work on making his partner
happier tonight anyway. “You
can’t start dragging in weird stuff from third-world countries that no
one’s ever heard of except you,” he warned. Sensing
victory, Blair held up his right hand, a gold bauble hanging from his
thumb. “I swear, nothing
not in English – well, a little Latin or German or French, okay, if
it’s a traditional carol?” “Within
reason,” Ellison conceded. “Discussion
over what’s allowed if the situation arises, right?
Challenges allowed. And
I get two votes to your one,” he added with a wicked smirk.
Blair
staggered back, clutching his hand dramatically to his chest and nearly
smashing the ornament he held. “Oh,
you wound me! and that’s
SO not fair, man!” “Watch
the histrionics with the decorations, Sandburg,” the Sentinel growled,
and descended the ladder to take the endangered glass ball away.
“Okay,” he went on, re-mounting the steps and positioning the
ornament precisely. “How
do we do it? Just name
names?” “Nah,
that’s too easy. You gotta
sing at least a little bit of it.”
Blair fastened a silver star to a branch and stepped back to
admire it. “Novelty songs
allowed?” he added hopefully. “Uh
– sure, I guess so.”
“Parodies?”
“Are
they clean?” “Spoilsport…okay,
okay, clean ones.” “You
start.” Jim came down the
ladder again and opened another box, this one containing little wooden
animal ornaments that Blair had purchased the year before.
Sandburg
thought a moment, and then cleared his throat.
“’Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht! Jim
nodded approval of this, and hastily cast his mind about for something
unusual. Aha!
“‘My sheep were grazing on a plain, when angels sang this
glad refrain,’” he offered. Blair
raised his eyebrows. “That’s
one I didn’t know,” he admitted, and received a triumphant grin in
reply. Half
an hour later, all the ornaments were on the tree, and the two men were
still going strong with their song contest.
They’d discovered that Blair knew more oddball ones, all the
novelty songs, whereas Jim had a vast repertoire of ‘regular’
Christmas songs and carols stored away in his memory.
By now, both were laughing so much they could hardly choke out
the words when they thought of them. “’I
want a hippopotamus for Christmas – only a hippopotamus will do!’”
Blair warbled now. Jim,
who had perched on top of the little ladder, nearly fell off.
“That’s not real!” he accused. “It
is so! I heard it on the
radio the other day!” “God,
the things people write songs about!”
Jim pondered a moment, searching his brain for another song.
It seemed he’d been stuck on sheep forever, dragging out
every shepherd carol he could think of.
Was it time to switch to the modern stuff?
Ahh…not quite yet! With
a wicked gleam in his ice-blue eyes, Jim began the first phrases of Do
You Hear What I Hear. “’Said
the night wind to the little lamb, do you see what I see?’”
Blair
stared, then howled with laughter. He
tried to sit on the arm of the sofa, missed, and landed hard on the
floor. Between laughing and
yelping with pain at the impact, he was nearly strangling.
“The…OW…the Sentinel…ow, damn, that hurts!…the C-carol
of the Sentinel!” he struggled to say, rubbing his posterior
ruefully. Jim
grinned evilly. “Your
turn,” he said, and climbed down the ladder to go into the kitchen for
more cookies. On the way
past Blair, he stopped to make sure his Guide was relatively unscathed.
“You okay there, Chief?”
He extended a hand and helped Blair to the couch. “Fine,
fine. My turn, my turn, my
turn.” Disregarding what
was very likely to become a sizeable bruise in a few hours, Blair
muttered frantically to himself, wracking his brain.
“Okay, this doesn’t have words, or at least I don’t know
the words—“ He tapped a
few beats on his thigh, then pursed his lips and began to whistle a
fairly creditable rendition of Pat-a-Pan.
Ellison
nodded acceptance, and handed him a couple of cookies.
He began stacking up the empty ornament boxes, preparing to take
them to the basement. “Your
turn, big guy.” Blair’s
tone was smug. “Unless you
can’t think of any more, that is.” “Hmmm.”
Jim frowned thoughtfully, then a sweet smile curved his lips.
“Christmastime is here, happiness and cheer,” he piped in
falsetto, trying his best to imitate children’s voices, and hoping his
partner wouldn’t demand more lyrics, because darned if he could
remember any more of the Charlie Brown Christmas music!
“Ouch
– my ears! You weren’t
cut out to sing soprano, Big Guy. Okay,
okay.” Suddenly, Sandburg
emitted a fiendish cackle of laughter.
He untied his ponytail, letting his curls flow free, draped
himself seductively across the back of the loveseat and fluttered his
eyelashes; then began crooning a wicked rendition of “Santa Baby.”
And he knew all the words!
Jim sat down abruptly on the floor, abandoning his boxes, and
laughed until he was afraid he might rupture something. “Do
I win yet?” Blair demanded
when he’d finished, and climbed off the loveseat. “NO!”
Jim had intended this game merely as something to put Blair in a
better frame of mind; now his competitive instincts were aroused.
“But Chief, you’ve gotta sing that at the department
Christmas party on Friday! I
mean it!” he added, as Blair shook his head, laughing and blushing.
Think, Ellison, think…got it.
“’Adoramus te, Christe, et benedicimus tibi, quia per
sanctam crucem tuam redemisti mundum,’” he intoned, pulling the
Latin from some deep recess in the back of his mind.
Blair
looked properly impressed. “That’s
pretty,” he commented sincerely. “Let’s
see…OH!” Impressed
transformed to triumphant. “I’ve
got a great one! ’The
boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bay and rosemary’,” he
trilled. “’And I pray
you, my masters, be merry, quot estis in convivio!’”
The
Sentinel was stunned. “The
BOAR’S head?” “It
was originally known as The Boar’s Head With Mustard,” Blair
informed him loftily. “It
was sung at Christmas feasts.” He
returned to singing – loudly. “’Caput
apri defero, Reddens laudes Dom-I-nooooooooooooo!’”
The last three syllables were caroled in a high tenor obbligato,
reminding Jim irresistibly of a certain wolfish Spirit Guide.
“That’s
IT. No. More. Beer.”
Ellison said sternly.
“Haven’t
had any since before dinner!” Blair
virtuously replied. He
didn’t mention that he’d dropped a slug of Kahlua into his
after-dinner coffee. Jim had
probably noticed anyway. “All
right, time out while I carry these downstairs.”
Jim picked up the ornament boxes and headed for the door.
The oven timer pinged, and he added, “better take those
cookies out of the oven, Chief.” By
the time Jim returned from the basement, he had several more songs in
mind – if he could only keep them there!
Every time he thought of one, Blair’s responses drove them out
of his head! He entered
their apartment, shut the door and took a deep breath.
“’Grandma got run over by a reindeer, comin’ home from our
house Christmas Eve….’” Blair,
sliding another pan of cookies into the oven, burst out laughing;
somehow that song seemed a very strange one for Jim Ellison to be
singing. Then, thinking
hard, he remembered another modern holiday tune and the gentle “Merry
Christmas, Darling,” rolled out. “Damn
pretty, Sandburg,” Jim commented, “but you haven’t beaten me just
yet!” He wracked his
brain, trying to recall what he’d thought of on his trip to the
basement. Oh yes, there
was no way Sandburg would know this one!
“Deck
us all with Boston Charlie, Walla Walla, Wash., an’ Kalamazoo.
Norah’s freezin’ on the trolley, Swaller dollar cauliflower,
ally’garoo.” He
cast a quick look at his Guide, who was standing in the kitchen with his
jaw dropped in shock, and continued:
“Don’t
we know archaic barrel, Lullabye, Lillyboy, Louisville, Lou!
Trolley Molly don’t love Harold, Boola boola Pensacola,
hullabaloo,” Jim finished triumphantly, and watched Blair sink to the
floor, stunned. “Do
I win?” the Sentinel inquired sweetly. “NO!”
Blair echoed Ellison’s earlier shout, although he was laughing
too hard to say more. “Where
did you GET that one, man?” “It’s
from an old comic strip,” Jim explained. “Incredible,
man…just incredible,” Sandburg marveled. Jim
walked over and hauled him to his feet.
“I’ll give you one more chance, Sandburg, otherwise I claim
victory.” “No,
no, no!” Blair babbled
through his giggles. “One
more, Jim, I’ve got one more.” And
then, when his laughter finally died, he leaned against the back of the
long couch and once again his voice soared:
“’Some
children see him lily white, The Baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white, With tresses soft and fair.
Some children see him bronzed and brown, The Lord of heav’n to
earth come down; Some children see Him bronzed and brown, With dark and
heavy hair.’” Remembering
where this whole thing had started, Jim felt his throat tighten.
Defiant to the end, that was Blair.
“Let’s
call it a draw, Chief,” he said gently, when the song was ended, and
wrapped an affectionate arm about his partner’s shoulders.
“I think we’ve made our point.
We both know a hell of a lot of Christmas songs – and we can
damn well sing ‘em whenever we want to.” Blair’s
eyes sparkled. “I’m down
with that,” he murmured huskily.
He yawned deeply. “Guess
I’m kinda…tired, though. Should
go to bed. Give me a couple
minutes…to put the cookies away,” he mumbled, opening the oven for
the last panful. Jim
didn’t bother with a verbal reply, he merely shoved his partner over a
foot or two and set about doing it himself.
Between them, they had the kitchen tidy in just a few minutes;
then Jim switched off most of the lights, gripped Blair’s shoulders in
warm hands, and swung him about. “Look,”
he invited softly. Blair’s
eyes widened appreciatively as he took in the glittering, glowing tree
in all its decorated glory. “Wow…we
do good work, Ellison!” he whispered. “We
do damn good work, Chief,” the Sentinel replied.
“And don’t you ever forget it.”
He tightened his grasp on Blair’s shoulder.
“You okay now? Better,
at least?” “Much
better.” Blair affirmed.
“Still kinda pissed at what happened, but…but it’s okay,
now. I know she was
wrong.” He wound an arm
about Ellison’s waist and leaned against him.
“Thanks to you. Thanks,
Jim. I owe ya.”
Jim
hugged him warmly, and chuckled. “I’ve
already got your debt payment figured out, Chief.
Just do that ‘Santa Baby’ number at Simon’s party, and
we’ll call it even.”
Fini
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Disclaimer: The Sentinel is the property of Pet Fly
Production and UPN. We've only borrowed the characters for a few
frolics in the sun. |
