Disclaimers: He's not mine, neither is his boyfriend.
Notes: This idea wouldn't leave me alone. Sorry to inflict it on the innocent. My thanks to Post-Its and Aveda (tms), without whom...
Summary: Blair is annoyed
Warnings: This has not been edited. I have spell-checked it, naturally.
I'm sorry that the title is almost as long as the story. I hope this works...
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, to have a thankless
Incredible. Just fucking incredible. The man was a stone, that was the only answer. I'd sweated my nuts off to figure this out and what does Mr Incredible do?
Go on, guess.
He does nothing. No-thing. Thing-none. Doingness is off his agenda. So, he does nothing. Fucking nothing.
Right, like the next time his senses spike off the Richter scale, see if I care. See if *I* spend four hours of my not exactly valueless time schmoozing favours and batting my lashes at lab assistants and pen protected tech-heads just to find him a white noise generator.
If it weren't for the fact I'm a saint and martyr to the Sentinel cause, I'd take the damn thing back and let him suffer. Let him writhe - yeah, writhing is good, let him seethe and hurt and endure the torments of the damned, god-damned-stuck-up-tight-ass-mean-mouthed-stone-hearted...
I am calm. I am calm. I am - hungry.
Colour coded leftovers - please. Blue for a boy and pink for a girl? Mine are... hmmmmm, that used to be vegetable curry, now I think it could cure the common cold (not to mention remove stubborn stains from upholstery). Hah. Let's investigate Mr Incredible's stores.
Not too frosty. The man can't do much in the kitchen but what he does tends to be okay. He made this stew, what, five days ago? How come it's not black and hairy like my vegetable curry? Even the gods of food preservation hate me? Well, he made far too much of the stew, I've noticed that before, he always cooks for four or five, then makes this big song and dance about chilling the leftovers. Wouldn't *be* leftovers, man, I tell him all the time, if you didn't make so *much*.
He just looks over my left shoulder and shrugs.
Still, if he's that wasteful, I'm not going to nag the man - I just eat the stuff. Serves him right, he probably doesn't know, probably comes home nights hungry for his stew and, too-bad-so-sad, the cupboard is bare, Detective Hubbard.
Is it really disgusting to lick the container lid? Probably is. Too bad. So sad.
Still, he's not noticed so far - he's not kicked my butt about eating his stew, or that date'n'walnut thing he did, or that egg batter fluffy pancake mixture stuff. Probably doesn't notice I'm alive, let alone that I eat all his food. He can hear a couple rowing from the next country, but if I ask him to tell me what colour my eyes are, he's a blank.
Serves him right I eat his stew. He makes enough for seven anyway.
<<burp>> - Was that *me*? God, that stew is rich. No more - put that lid back on and put it back in the... oh... Still. He won't know. I'll tell him it all got black and hairy and I had to throw it away. Yeah. That works. There, washed and clean. He won't suspect a thing.
He should be home soon. Is it my turn to cook? I forget most of the time: my turn to cook, shop, clean, laundry. He 'reminds' me about my chores, you know, like a maid you don't quite trust? Yeah. He puts Post-It (tm) notes on the refrigerator door, even on the phone, my laptop screen: 'Pick Up Uniform at Cleaners'. 'Rotate Blair's Tyres'. 'Birthday Card for Simon'. 'Buy Blair's Fancy Soap'.
I check all the usual places but there's no note warning tonight.
Just as well - I'm in no mood to cook or shop or clean for that fat lazy assed... god, would it have killed him to say 'thanks chief'? Its like he takes me so for granted, I'm not even visible! I mean, this is meant to be a partnership, isn't it? Two of us, two of us together in this Sentinel boat? Seems we don't row in the same direction most of the time.
Well, if I'm not cooking or cleaning or 'borrowing' expensive pieces of high technology for marble faced, slate eyed, beautifully ungrateful cops, I'm going to shower and go to bed. Yeah. And I'll take all the hot water too.
Ooooooh, man, that is sooo nice. I *know* its childish to play with the bubbles - I know, I know.
Damn, that's strange - I could have sworn that - I mean, I thought the Aveda (tm) stuff was long gone (man, I practically inhale that stuff). I *was* going shopping to re-stock but that damn white noise generator took so long to track down I didn't have time... <<phe-tui>> - bubbles taste bad, even these bubbles.
I must have had another bottle of the stuff all the time...? I *know* I didn't buy anymore...
Fine: I'm glad I didn't waste my time getting stuff I already have.
<<sniff?>> Seems clean enough. No smells, no detergents? Yeah, pure as the driven. Even Mr Incredible's baby-smooth hide likes this stuff. Not that he ever thanks for me for finding 'soap' he can actually use, that he likes (and not incidentally brings out the sable in his sorry- ass hair, or makes his skin like cream over satin. Oh no). And not that he ever calls it anything other than 'Blair's Fancy Soap'. Like its something weird, like it costs him thousands of dollars to import from a tropical isle just to please me. Like pleasing me is important.
No: he just leaves Post-It notes on the phone saying 'Buy Blair's Fancy Soap'.
So, you know what? I'm going to stalk about the loft naked, with wet feet. Its my home as much as his, I can walk about my own living room naked if I want to, can't I?
Ebeneezer Ellison! I fucking *hate* that man - I mean, we are living in the Pacific Northwest, aren't we? Ever heard of heating, Ellison? Damn, I'm short but I'm not little and my *manly* charms are shrivelling in this arctic loft. Would it cost that much to turn up the heating? Would it?
I'm shivering. I am actually *shivering* - in this day and age. Right, that's it. This is *war*. Global warming or not... there! Mr Incredible's sweat shirt *and* pants... lets see him ignore me now.
You know, its humiliating to have to turn up the sleeves *and* the legs, like some kid wearing a grown-ups clothes. I'm not sensitive about my height, you know. Really. I'm not. If clothing manufacturers would only *realise* and make clothes that actually *fit* people...
Huh? Someone big and mean and nasty, standing over the couch and wanting an explanation of why I ate its food, used its hot water and am now sleeping in its favourite Cascade PD sweats.
"I was cold."
"You are the Sandburg who told me to turn the heating down, aren't you, something about global warming and the Kyoto Conference?"
"Yeah, that was me - but..."
"Just checking." And the big mean nasty picks me up and carries me to bed. "Are you getting fatter?"
I cannot believe this man - he is just... look up 'insensitive' in the dictionary and you'll find Jim's phone number and an instruction to 'just ask'.
I'm about to fall asleep but, being a noble Guide and all, I persevere to ask him: "That noise generator - it's okay? You're okay?"
Damn. That was a bit revealing.
Mr Incredible looks over my left shoulder and shrugs some - why does he *do* that? Why does him doing that make me feel - never mind.
"Oh," he looks guilty and I'm glad. "Yeah, its great, Chief, helps a lot, you know?" I nod, acknowledgement and acceptance, gracious and ready for... and? *And?* Is there a thank you in that marble heart? Is there? "I'm hungry, Chief, but you ate the stew, as usual, huh?" He's smiling - he's really fucking smiling, like he did something clever and noble. I don't believe this jerk, I really don't.
And then, get *this*, he only leans over and kisses me. No, it's true.
Incredible. What did I tell you? Fucking incredible.