Author: Daydreamer
Posted: January 10, 2003

Paper Kisses

"Sandburg?" he calls and I look up, expecting to see him with the book in his hand.

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

He's walking out of my room and he's got my box in his hands -- the box. The lid is off and I can see that he knows what's in there. My face flushes and I drop my eyes. I so do not want to go there. I stare at the box and it seems as if I've been unplugged from reality.

"Sandburg?" he asks and his voice is quiet, like he's afraid if he's loud it'll hurt me. What was in my face that clued him in?

"Uh, Jim," I say, straining for normal, "that's not the book you were supposed to get."

"No, it's not," he agrees as he steps closer and lifts one of the tissues out.

I can't help myself -- I reach out and touch his arm. "Please, put it back," I plead. Speaking has exhausted me and I am flooded with thoughts I would rather avoid.

He looks at me rather oddly, then holds it out. "Are they all like this?" he asks.

I nod miserably. I don't want to talk about this. He'll think I'm a wuss. He'll feel sorry for me and I'll be embarrassed and none of it will make any difference but Jim's got that look in his eyes -- the one that says he's going to get to the bottom of this little mystery.

"It's okay, Sandburg," he says softly, and he's put the precious scrap of tissue back in the box.

He's handing the box to me, and I'm so glad to have it back. I can't believe I still feel this way. Can't believe how important this still is.

His hand is on my shoulder now, squeezing gently in a comforting kind of way and I wonder how he knows I'm upset. My heart rate? Scent? The look on my face? What is it that my Sentinel sees when he looks at me?

He's still using that same quiet tone, the one he'd use with an injured child and I can't believe I've fallen apart to the point that he thinks I need that particular tone. I straighten my back, trying not to hunch over my box, and his hand moves from my shoulder up to my neck, still rubbing, still connected to me, and still telling me it's okay.

"Can you tell me about it, Chief?" he asks and I shrug.

Do I want to tell him? Am I ready to let someone know how pathetic I was? I look at the box, grasped tightly in my hands and amend my thought -- how pathetic I still am. "It's silly," I mutter, my hands gripping my prize, sudden exhaustion threatening to make speech impossible.

"I don't think so, Blair," he says. "I think it's important to you -- and I'd like to know."

I shrug. This is Jim. If I can't tell Jim, who can I tell? And he won't laugh at me -- not over this. There's been enough laughing. I'm lucky I still have the box -- lucky my treasures are mostly intact. It's just so -- embarrassing. And I don't want him to think badly of ...

"They're Naomi's," I say, forcing myself to look up and meet his eyes. There's nothing there but patience and compassion.

"I thought they might be," he says and then he goes silent and he just waits. His hand has stilled on my neck, but he hasn't let go. He's just standing there, waiting.

"She went away a lot," I say, and my voice is Sentinel- soft. It's easier if I don't have to hear the words, and I know Jim will hear them no matter how quiet I am.

He squeezes my neck gently, still waiting.

"She's beautiful, you know," I say, looking up at him again. He nods, agreeing with my assessment and I'm glad he can see it -- can see her beauty. "She always was -- beautiful, that is. And she loved me." I say this last part fiercely -- I don't want Jim to think she didn't love me. She was just -- different. She had different needs, a different way of looking at things. It didn't mean she didn't love me, 'cause she did. I know she did. I watch Jim to make sure he understands. I need to know that he knows she loved me.

"Of course she loved you, Chief," he agrees and he gives me a kind of one-sided hug. "What's not to love?"

I snort at that. That's Jim -- a little humor to lift the mood. He's got a way with that, letting you know that it's okay and he understands with nothing more than a touch and an off-hand remark.

I'm not comfortable with this next part. I want to make sure Jim knows she loved me. I don't want him to think badly of her. "She really did love me, Jim. She was just so ..." I struggle for the word, amazed that my vocabulary has gone AWOL when I need it so badly. I finally settle on making a fluttering motion with one hand. "She was almost like a rare bird -- she couldn't be caged." Aw -- there was my vocabulary, a little late but finally reporting in for duty. "And she had the plumage to boot," I add.

Jim waits, letting me tell this in my own way.

"She wore make-up," I explain, just in case he missed my brilliant plumage analogy. "Lipstick." I open the box and let him look again at the stack of lipstick covered toilet paper.

His hand reaches out and gently touches the top one.

"Oh, Chief," he says softly and there is such sadness in his voice.

I shrug again. "She loved me, Jim. And she did kiss me. I mean, I got lots of hugs and kisses and cuddles -- the whole works. You know how touchy-feely I am. I didn't pick it up off the street."

He gestures at the box again, a question in his movement.

"These are just from when -- she was leaving." I shrug. The vocabulary has taken off again and all I seem left with is the ability to lift my shoulders as if none of this matters.

"When she was leaving," Jim states. There's no question in his words, but I know he wants to ask.

"Yeah -- you know, if she was taking off and I was staying behind. For a couple of days or a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Leaving."

He nods and his hand is on my shoulder again, running from there down my arm and back again. He's moved to stand behind me instead of beside me, and I can't help but feel he doesn't want me to see his face.

"I used to go in the bathroom, after she did her makeup, and I'd get the paper she used to blot her lips. Paper kisses, I called them." I smile at the memory, but it's a sad smile. This is hard, telling this, talking about it, but not as hard as I thought it would be.

"There must be over a hundred in there, Chief," Jim says in wonder. "How many times did she leave you?"

"One hundred and seventeen. From the time I was four until I left for college at sixteen." I look down. "I don't remember before that." The box is still open and I look inside again. "But there's only ninety-two left. I -- lost some."

His hand is gone from my arm and the space it occupied feels suddenly cold. I turn in my chair to look up at him. His face is stricken, and he rubs his eyes with the hand that had stroked my arm.

"Aw, shit, Blair," he mumbles, "I'm sorry."

I'm at a loss for words again so I do what I've been doing so well, and I shrug. Shoulders up, shoulders down, little half tilt of the head and a quirk of the mouth and I'm hoping I've conveyed 'no big deal.'

Must have worked because the next words out of his mouth are, "It is a big deal. Who did you stay with? Were you okay?"

I've got one of the kisses out now, and I'm holding it to my cheek. I'm twenty-seven years old and my mother's paper kiss can still soothe me when I'm troubled. "It wasn't bad all the time," I whisper. His hand is on my shoulder again and I can feel the tension in him as he struggles with my words. I feel vaguely detached -- not quite sure what I'm saying or what I'm doing. Emotions I haven't felt in years, and things I haven't thought about suddenly seem to overwhelm me. I'm trying to detach with love and float above it all, but Jim's hand is on my shoulder, anchoring me to the ground.

"Blair!" he says and his voice is anything but soft this time. I wonder if I missed him saying something.

" 's all right, Jim," I murmur, the paper kiss still tucked against my cheek. I have to be careful when I do this -- my whiskers are rough and I don't want to risk tearing it. The twenty-five I've already lost to adults who didn't understand or kids who taunted me have depleted my treasure more than I can bear. I lift this one away carefully and then look at the paper in shock -- it's gotten wet. How did that happen?

Jim must see the confusion in my eyes because he takes it from me, handling my treasure carefully, almost reverently, and lays it in the box. He puts the lid back on and sets the box on the table. His hands come out and cup my face and he wipes my eyes with his thumbs and that is when I realize I'm crying and I have made my kiss get wet. Pulling me to my feet, he wraps his arms around me. I'm stiff at first, but then I relax into his chest and lean my weight against him. He's strong -- he can hold me. And I feel unaccountably tired all of a sudden. As if I've been digging in frozen ground and after years of labor, have finally broken through.

"C'mon, Chief," he says as he leads me to the couch. He sits and pulls me down next to him, keeping one arm around me. "We'll talk about the bad times later."

I'm surprised at his compassion and then I am surprised that I am surprised. Of course Jim would be compassionate. Of course he would be understanding. Of course he would be patient. He puts up a tough front, but there's a warm and caring man underneath and I am privileged to know him. I sigh and snuggle closer as he pulls the afghan down and wraps it around me. I

go to pull my feet up, to curl onto my side and he makes a quick sound. "Nuh-uh. No shoes on the sofa, Chief," and it makes me laugh. For a minute there, I was afraid I was losing my grip on reality, but leave it to Jim to help me sort things out.

I kick my shoes off and finally pull my feet up and Jim's hand is stroking my arm, running up and down and rubbing little circles when he stops. "Sleep," he murmurs, and my eyes close. I feel a kiss on my hair and it makes me smile. This is not one of the bad times, and I have real kisses now.

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