Title & Summary -
Back to School - Sometimes it's the little things. Told from Blair's point of view; then Jim's.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

Note from the Authors: Takes place after TSbyBS.

Back to School
By Jael Lyn
August 2000

Back To School - Blair

I went to Wal-Mart today. The Volvo needed oil, we needed light bulbs and paper towels for the loft. Jim asked me to pickup a giant package of white socks. I needed shoes. Now that I'm paying students loans, bargains are my middle name.

I didn't get any of them.

Somewhere between the socks and looking for the light bulbs, I got lost. Not a big surprise. I never have been able to figure out that store, and you don't need to ask Jim about my sense of direction. So I'm going up and down aisles, trying to find my way out of the maze, pretty sure that the light bulbs are that-a-way, and I end up...

I end up in the school supplies. No big deal. Nope. Very BIG deal.

A little life lesson - don't have an epiphany in Wal-Mart. It qualifies as phenomenally bad timing.

Pens. Crayons. Filler paper. Spirals. Erasers. Folders. Legal pads.

Red pens that I used to mark papers. It's the red pens that make you a teacher, and that was pretty important to me. Spirals for hours and hours of class notes. Folders filled with articles for my research. Legal pads that I once used to write a dissertation. Erasers - well - some screw ups aren't so easy to remove, are they? I'm looking for the light bulbs and instead I find an entire life that I misplaced. A life I really loved.

I look at the really cool banner just over my head that reads "Back to School" and decide I don't care about the light bulbs anymore. The socks end up on the crayons. Maybe they'll mate and become interesting. The world needs yellow, pink and blue athletic socks in packages of twelve.

I blow past the nice retiree that's the greeter, dash past the doors and take big gulps of air. The Volvo is somewhere out there in that asphalt ocean, and I'm not ready to set sail. I plant myself on the bench they keep for the old people, where they can wait to be picked up.

I wish someone would pick me up.

As I sit there, waiting for my heart to stop beating outside my chest, I realize that my life isn't September to September anymore. For as long as I can really remember, the school calendar was the organizing principle of my life. No matter where Naomi took me, or how many times we moved, or whether the boyfriend was a jerk, September meant you got to start new all over again. It was the constant in my life. We never lived long enough anywhere for place to be important. Birthdays or holidays or relatives or friends, those happened at Naomi's whim, but September....September was as dependable as the rising sun.

Now September's just one of twelve. No ritual of beginning. No fresh start. No new crayons for Blair. How ironic. I pretty much sail through graduation and get ambushed by school supplies.

My cardiovascular system is no longer the percussion section of the 1812 Overture. I think I know where the Volvo is. I need to leave.

*****

"Hey, Chief! I put the lasagna in awhile ago. Did you get lost? You want a beer?"

I smile and make some noises. I watch my new organizing principle glide around the kitchen, puttering with our dinner. He's been home from work for awhile, so he's in bare feet and cutoffs. He hands me a beer and smiles. I should go make a salad.

I hold the cold, damp bottle and he turns back to the kitchen. Two steps and he spins around. I'm as skewered with those blue eyes as a bug on a pin.

"Sandburg? What's wrong?"

I went to Wal-Mart today.

Back to School - Jim

Sandburg went to Wal-Mart today.

He went by himself because I had to talk to Simon, and our illustrious Captain Banks was nowhere to be found at the time Blair took off. Never gave it a moment's thought. He teased me about the socks and gave me a goofy wave as the elevator doors shut. We'd wrapped up our last case, got paid, had two days off, and life was good.

I beat him home. While I was cooking dinner, I wondered what had happened. I expected the usual, or usual for Sandburg. Two flat tires on the Volvo simultaneously. Foreign terrorists at the gas station. Armored car robbery while he was at the ATM. Normal disasters.

Instead he comes home looking like the last raft left him on a desert island. He's got no oil, no light bulbs, no socks, and no sparkle in those blue eyes of his. Like his soul got sucked into a vortex in the middle of Cascade. Ambushed by school supplies, he says.

Once again I realize he's got the wrong guy for a roommate, partner and friend. He needs Einstein, not Ellison. Theoretical physics is about the right match for the Sandburg zone. Here the guy needs brilliant and instead he's stuck with me.

I don't get it. Well, that's not entirely true. I get that sometimes what he's given up overwhelms him. I understand that he misses university, and being a cop with me was a willing choice, but not a first choice. I may not be touchy-feely Mr. Emotionally Sensitive, but I'm not brain dead.

What I don't get is how Sandburg can get shot, ignored, threatened, kidnapped, nearly die - you name it - and bounce back like the Energizer Bunny. He's resourceful, courageous, and tough; beyond belief, quite frankly. Then some little thing steals away his soul, and I feel so damn guilty. When he suddenly lets the wounds show through, it's like someone blotted out the sun.

I turn off the oven and cover the lasagna. I know Sandburg well enough to realize that dinner is a lost cause. Things like meals and sleep just drop off his dance card when he's sad. We talk while I find some shoes. We hop in the truck, because that damn Volvo is a death trap, in the sense that it's going to frustrate me into an early grave. He's quiet when we pull into the parking lot, and he gives that look. The one that says you're crazy but I'm too tired to argue, and it's your truck. I persevere. Sometimes I know what I'm doing.

We go in through the Garden Center, because the greeter annoys me. We find the oil, and I get a filter, too, because Sandburg always forgets. Light bulbs. Paper towels. I buy a package of black athletic socks instead of white ones that I usually get. A little sacrifice, just so he knows I know. He laughs while I play catch with the package for a second, and I'm glad I don't have to actually say anything. At least out loud.

If I said something, I'd screw it up. I buy black socks and Sandburg understands what I'm trying to tell him.

He visits with the greeter when we leave. After all, he's been here twice today. For Sandburg, that's sufficient basis for a relationship and exchanging phone numbers. Sandburg may not have known his own father, but he was born with a gift to collect adoptive grandparents.

We eat re-warmed lasagna, have a beer and flake out in the living room. I model my new socks. Maybe they're not so bad. Blair laughs at me. We're supposed to be watching the game, but I'm watching the real Sandburg seep back into his body.

I took Sandburg to Wal-Mart today. He was worth the trip.