Edge of the knife (I: Blair)

by Demeter

EMAIL: Demeter

Those close calls in the past? I was mostly too inexperienced or too busy to let the gut-punch of fear hit me full force. It acted up later, in nightmares, but basicallly I can keep my cool in dangerous situation.

I'm close to losing it now.

Because those two goons here with me, who haven't yet touched me except for when they bound my hands above my head, love to taunt me with scenarios of when their boss will be here, a man who hates Jim's guts and thinks he has found a way to get back at him.

***

I breathe a sigh of relief when the gunfire ceases. Jim has made it here before Barclay did; I knew I could count on him. "It's not so bad," I want to say when he blanches slightly at the blood trailing down my arm, from where the rope cut into the skin.

The words stuck in my throat when he gently removes the rope and leans in to - what? Smell the blood? Then a warm wet sensation makes my skin crawl; Jim, eyes glazed over, licking the blood off my skin.

The fear is back in my gut. Breathing - impossible.

***

"I did what?!" The disbelieving look on his face hurts, so my retort is snarkier than I'd intended it to be..

"I didn't make that up, man. Weird doesn't even begin to cover it."

"I didn't say you made it up," he says irritably, shame-faced. "So what the hell does it mean?"

"If only I knew." I think I need to dig through older Burton references, see if I can find any mentions of blood rituals between Sentinels and Guides. Not sure if I want to go there really. I'd rather forget. Maybe it would be better that way.

***

We both try to repress best we can, because I haven't found any explanation. It gets us only so far, though. One evening, when we're making dinner together, the knife slips while I'm cutting the cucumbers.

It's only a small wound, but I back out of the kitchen slowly when Jim gets that same dazed look on his face. "Listen to me, man, you so don't want to do that."

He inhales deeply, hand reaching out for my hand. I jump. "Jim!"

"What's the matter with you, Chief?" he asks, shaking himself like someone having woken from a bad dream.

***

The nightmare is mine. I toss and turn, can't sleep, get up again and try the internet, but I don't find what I need. What is the sense of it all, and why did it start when it did? Can't imagine Jim being turned on by me bleeding - whoa, there's a thought as scary as it is ridiculous.

My heart keeps racing. Is this some weird way of bonding, some ancient instinct?

I am no one's property, but maybe the ancient Sentinels saw exactly that in their Guides.

Jim doesn't want to talk about it. I get tired of trying.

***

I'm still shivering head to toe. I've been careful, but this morning, I cut myself shaving. I hadn't remembered to lock the door, and he was in there with me a moment later. It was like a mock embrace, when he held my arms against my sides, licking the blood off my throat.

I could have used my knee in a place where it would have hurt, and maybe it would have broken the spell, but I knew, I wanted to believe that Jim wasn't to blame for it. That stoned look when he did it, shame and anger afterwards.

***

"Let's go over this once again. You said it's like a zone."

"Sandburg, I said I presume it's like a zone, because I don't remember going into it. Hell, you don't think I'm making a pass at you or something?"

I try to ignore the jibe. Can't he see I'm trying to help him? Jim is embarrassed, fine. I can relate to that. I takes getting used to when your best friend suddenly has the urge to taste you. Well, specifically - taste your blood.

Jim is turning a freaking vampire on me.

I am scared for him, and for me.

***

I've been thinking about telling someone, but quickly tossed the idea again. Even Simon or Megan wouldn't know how to deal with this curious phenomenon other than making Jim see a psychiatrist, and I don't want to think that there could be no other options anymore.

Meanwhile, I'm sleeping with the lights on. I can't really explain it, but the less Jim opens up about this, the more this tension rises between us. I'm worried there might be an escalation... but still, I have no idea what to do, in order to keep it from happening.

Or where to turn.

***

I should have built that safety net for me, because there is none, when he gently wakes me a few nights later. I can't see as well as he can in the dark, but the full moon illuminates my room enough so I'm aware of the knife he carries.

I bolt upright, brought up short by the restraints. Soft fabric, not like the rope the goons used. Reason to be grateful? I think not, frantically trying to stifle hysterical laughter.

"You can't deny me this," Jim says, staring into nothing. "It's not right."

Not right, I am with you, man.

***

It doesn't hurt anymore, at least not physically. The hot tears on my face are because of failure; because I should have done better, should have figured it out. Jim will be back to normal eventually, and when he finds out what he's done, it will kill him.

The blood is feeling warm on my arms. The fear and anguish finally recedes, and it doesn't matter they said their boss is going to kill me, because I'm warm and safe, protected.

"Thank you," he whispers. "It'll all be good."

Yes, I'm sure he's right about that. Time to let go.