In the jungles of Fandom . . .

The previous post is the beginning of the end for Jim. I meant to post this weeks ago, and apparently thought I already had, but basically, I'm leaving.

Not because of the game or anyone in it (which is the usual assumption, I think, when people leave a game), but because I'm going to be mindbogglingly overwhelmed with school work as I'm going into the last year of my BA. So Jim is going off, and Ivanova . . . hasn't been played in months, honestly.

It's been great playing with everyone, even if I haven't been around all that much. I'll probably see you around!

Since they'd all limped back to Milieux, Jim hadn't wanted to leave Lana's side for anything, let alone the little things like work, food, and sleep. Which is why he was in the kitchen of Lana's cottage, making breakfast, when his cellphone went off.

"Ell -"

"Where the hell have you been, Jim?"

"Not working for you, Simon, so why should you care?" Jim had a bad feeling about this.

"I called your apartment, I called that station you're working for, is it so hard to answer your damn messages?"

"Simon, what do you want? Don't say that you need my help."

"Fine. I don't need your help. The government needs your help."

"I'm hanging up now, Simon." Jim pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up. His Sentinel senses picked up Simon's next words anyway.

"It's Carasco."

Jim paused, his finger over the 'end call' button. He should press it. He really, really should.

"What about Carasco?" he asked with a sigh.

"He's active again. I could send in some of the other boys, but you know this guy. You're the only one I trust."

"I thought he was back in Chile."

"He is."

"What? No. Hell no, Simon, I'm not going all the way to South America to run down some drug lord Houdini just because you can't keep your hands on him! I'm out, Simon, I'm done with Major Crimes."

"Jim -"

"Don't give me the good-people-get-hurt speech, Simon, I don't care. I'm staying in Milieux, you can track down your own crime bosses without me."

"We need to get moving on this, Jim."

"Give me a day or two," Jim said grudgingly, and hung up.

Lana was going to kill him.

Jim? Was just about ready to kill someone. How many incompetent and barely competent airline employees had met his ire in the last eighteen hours, he had lost count around that blonde he had actually made cry. And then there was the lot attendant who had misplaced his truck.

The truck that swerved off the road - it couldn't be called 'parking' by any stretch of the imagination - outside Lana's cottage, the engine dying abruptly. He abandoned his bag in the truck and slammed right out, practically bolting for the house.

"Lana!"

Rubbing his eyes, Jim dropped the very last piece of paperwork on the desk and knocked back the very last dregs of his long-cold coffee. He stretched back, the chair threatening to spill him onto the floor in the middle of the bullpen and almost tripped Banks as he blustered by.

"Ellison! Watch what you're doing!"

"Sorry, Simon," Jim apologised absently, his head turning to follow the chief's progress. "Where are you going?"

"Front desk called, Taggart's back."

With a definite 'clunk' the front legs of Jim's chair hit the ground again and the detective himself was up and out of it the next second, grabbing his jacket from the hook and swiftly outpacing Banks to the door to meet the huffing and puffing Taggart as he exited the elevator.

"Taggart!" Jim beamed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to see you up and around. Back to work?"

"Yeah, I'm one hundred -"

"Good to hear!" He patted his friend's shoulder again and shoved right past into the elevator, making Taggart turn a bewildered circle.

"Jim, where are you . . ."

"Home!" Jim called as the elevator doors slid closed, already digging for his cellphone.

[[My computer's fixed! It's all shiiiiiny and Linuxy and fixed and back and mine and did I mention shiny?]]

Jim stood in Lana's tiny kitchen, trying to talk quietly into the cellphone so he wouldn't wake her up. His head was bowed and he looked almost relaxed, except for the way his fingers were curling around the edge of the counter like he was about to rip it up with his bare hands.

"You can't keep calling me back, Simon . . . alright, I know, it's my own fault for taking on too many cases . . . Taggert was shot again? I swear, the donuts are keeping him alive . . . I hate to leave her, Simon, I don't care what you think . . . and subject her to interrogation by Carolyn? Hardly. Alright. Alright. I'll talk to her. Okay. Okay. Yeah. Bye, Simon."

Jim sighed as he ended the call, tossing the phone on the counter and scrubbing a hand over his face.

My computer died.

Lights are on, harddrive isn't home (apparently).

I can't get my laptop fixed until I get home from university, which could be anywhere from 2-4 weeks from now. Needless to say, I will be living in the campus computer labs, as I still have three papers and a large final assignment to finish.

In a couple days I'll know how much I'll be around to tag. If it's too difficult, my pups will be taking another road trip. Sorry to leave everyone I was playing with hanging.

Jim had come over, armed with groceries and one of those old movies that Lana - okay, that they both liked. All the makings of a perfect night in for two. If Lana had actually been home, that was.

Jim was understandably not pleased about Lana not being home after this weekend. He let himself in, glancing around. She had been at work, so even if there were no signs of a struggle . . .

"Calm down," he ordered himself quietly, shaking his head. He'd give himself half an hour before he went to track her down. He was her boyfriend, not her security detail. He was still frowning to himself as he moved around the small kitchen, squaring things away.

[[For said vanished girlie.]]

On Tuesday, Jim had still be working hard, drowning in cases and paperwork.

On Thursday, things had mostly been wrapped up.

On Friday, he had been starting to get antsy.

On Saturday, he started for the airport, only to have Simon remind him that he got those basketball tickets for the night after, and all the guys were going, and Taggert was really looking forward to it, and one more day wasn't going to hurt.

On Sunday, the Jags lost.

On Monday, Jim finally, finally, finally rolled his truck in front of Lana's cottage, parked by the side of the road, and slid out of the cab. He hadn't stopped for flowers or anything, wanting only to get back so he could prove to her that he was, in fact, coming back and always would. He strode across the lawn and up to the door, refraining from hammering only by the mightiest effort. He didn't really want to get shot again, especially because he needed both arms to wrap around her.

Tired, freckly, and with my luggage still en route from Toronto. But I'm back! Miss me?

So, Thing A: I was in a couple threads before I left (with Dean, Tonks, and House, and I think that's it . . .), if you want to drop or continue, let me know.

Thing B: Pictures! I'm the one who looks like a bandito.

Thing C: I established Jim's leaving but I forgot to do the same for Ivanova except for a swift phone call to Tosh, so *fingerwiggle* she took off on her bike last Friday for some thrilling heroics.

Jim was like a ninja. Okay, a ninja still favouring one arm, but a ninja nonetheless. He had been torn when he woke up alone yesterday morning. In pain from sleeping on the couch, but with the very, very nice memory of falling asleep with Lana in his arms. Grumbly that she slipped out, but mollified by the note.

Jim was a conflicted ninja.

He set the bouquet of flowers - not all roses, not too large, not too small, but a decently-sized bouquet that hopefully wouldn't set him back a few days of progress - down on her doorstep and made for a hasty getaway.

Jim was worried. Well, kind of worried. Well, okay, a lot worried. Especially after Lana's breakdown in the park last night. He still hoped that dinner tonight would go off well . . . and he did want to see Doc Wilson and Phale again.

He moved around his kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder, putting the finishing touches on this and that. The lasagna was warming in the oven with the garlic bread, dessert was cooling in the fridge, salad was . . . well, room-temperaturing on the counter, spinach salad with mandarin orange dressing and toasted almond slivers, one of Jim's more "dinner party" type dishes.

Leave the man alone, he needs a hobby.

Now. For guests.

[[For Lana, Wilson, and Phale, and slowplayed per Phale-mun's request.]]

IC and OOC messages in the threads below.

Also, you can reach me at fandomcoddler[at]gmail.com or on AIM as nickilty.

This has been coming for a while.

School has been kicking my ass more than I thought it would, and with an actual social life my time for Fandom has been practically nil. As much I love playing them, Bo and Jim will be heading home now.

Jay and Silent Bob will be going up for adoption as soon as Gmail lets me send emails again.

Jude is going home for Thanksgiving this coming weekend and may or may not be coming back.

Jim had had Queen pounding through his head all day. You know the one. The one that the tyranny of Umbridge always reminded him of.

"I've got to break free, I've got to - break free . . ."

So it had never really stopped being his room, but he figured they should at least keep up appearances of following the rules. So he knocked.

[[For fake girlfriend, yes.]]

Jim had no idea if they'd end up breaking curfew or not. Not that he really cared. Among many, many other benefits, this whole heightened senses thing really helped with sneaking around and avoiding capture.

Besides, it was Lana's birthday.

So here he was with Romantic Picnic in Romantic Secluded Location of First Kiss, with Romantic Present in his pocket, his arm around Lana, and his hand teasingly over her eyes.

[[For the fake girlfriend, pretend this was up in a timely manner.]]

Jim managed to nudge the door open with his shoulder and one knee, his hands full of takeaway from Ching Tai and a stack of movies, all carefully balanced and, of course, on the verge of collapse. "Honey, I'm home!" he called out cheerfully, kicking off his shoes.

[[For ze girlfriend.]]

Jim, in this moment, loved his brother. Stephen was a giant flaming failure and Jim absolutely loved him for it. One badly dented company car from basketball showboating and Jim was again the golden child. His reward? A plane ticket back to Fandom five minutes from when he wanted it, and exactly nine words of praise from his father. He was practically bouncing down the third floor corridor now, not caring if he woke Lana up. He knew she wouldn't mind. The door to their room slammed open, his duffel bag hit the ground, and he spread his arms. "Honey, I'm hooooome!"

[[I'm back from vacation! Sunburnt but smiling.]]

The past couple days have been a bit rough for me (some of you know why, the rest of you can ask them), so I'm going to be taking the weekend off to recharge. Back to my usual post-work slowplay on Monday.

Also, in a couple of weeks I'll be heading off for vacation. I'll be gone from July 6th - 15th and arrangements will be made for all my boys.

Have a great weekend, guys!

Jim sat on the floor against the bed, bouncing a ball against the far wall with his left hand and catching it in his right. Football. Basketball. And best of all, no call from his dad in more than a month. Life was good for Jim.

Well, he was missing Blair a bit.

What? A guy can miss another guy.

[[For the girlfriend.]]

Did I miss a sign-up somewhere or is this a drop-in thing?