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Please note:  The copyright on The Sentinel and all it's characters is owned by Pet Fly Productions and Paramount.


by Juliet Benson

(Written: 10-28-99)

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Be glad.

Authors Notes: This is my first posting to this list, and my first Sentinel fan fic. Yay! :-) It's just a bit of fluff that popped into my head when I read the following:

The Web Ladies by Shiloh

BILSON: Back to the problem, gentlemen. So you think Garettt, or Blair that is, being hit by the getaway car would be enough to warrant a hug and make all these ladies on the Internet happy?

RICHARD: Sir, a misplaced hair on Garett’s head is enough to warrant a hug, according to these ladies. It's not much, but I thought it was good for a "foot in the door" type thing. :-)

More of a drabble than anything. My least favorite of my stories.

"I’ve had it!"

Jim, clad in his robe, looked up from his cup of coffee and newspaper toward the source of the cry, Blair’s room. "Had it with what, Chief?" he asked, calmly sipping his still-steaming cup.

Blair marched out of his room, face dark. "My hair!" he gestured toward it violently. Jim saw that it looked like… well, saying it looked like an afro was kind. Jim also noticed Blair was carrying a brush in one hand, and was coming dangerously close to knocking himself out with it.

"I’ve been working on it for the past ten minutes- TEN MINUTES!- and can’t get it to behave!" He stormed around a bit more, muttering to himself, then abruptly stopped, his back to Jim. He dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath. Turning around, he looked at Jim, tears in his eyes.

"I can’t take it anymore Jim," he whispered, voice shaky. "I- I’ve tried…"

"Whoa, Chief," alarmed, Jim rose to his feet. Blair raised his hands and stepped back.

"There’s nothing you can do this time Jim," he said, lower lip trembling.

"Blair," Jim felt at a loss. They had never faced this situation before; Jim had always thought Blair had complete control over his hair. He stood up carefully, not to startle the distraught anthropologist. Walking over to him, Jim cupped the upset face in his hands and tilted it up to meet his.

"You’ll always be my friend, Blair, no matter what your hair looks like," he said earnestly. Bright blue eyes blinked, and a shaky breath was exhaled. "You mean that Jim?" Blair asked, looking up trustingly.

Jim wrapped his arms around the smaller frame and rested his cheek on top of Blair’s head. "Always."


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