New
Arrivals
Author-Johanna C.A. Fally
Titles
Home Alone
Part Two
by Johanna C.A. Fally
See notes and disclaimers on part one.
DAY THREE
Naomi played the Sitar. He didn't even want to know where the instrument had come from, though he strongly suspected Mrs. Rabhadi from the Indian restaurant around the corner.
Sandburg lost his favorite pair of socks.
Simon was still pissed because of the 'harbor incident'.
Somebody thought it funny to deposit a blue matchbox car adorned with red water wings on his desk. -- It wasn't funny.
The paperwork had somehow doubled.
Jim suffered through it all in bitter silence, keeping a tight rein on his temper. He waded through heaps of forms and reports, occasionally snapping a pencil in two or grinding his teeth, but he – did – not – yell.
At the end of the day, he had a basket full of broken pencils and a headache, but he had not raised his voice. Not even once. His consideration, however, did not produce the desired results. Instead of feeling better, the detectives of Major Crimes were nervous wrecks, waiting for the inevitable explosion and getting jumpier with every minute. The bullpen was shrouded in an eerie silence, nobody wanting to be the straw to break the camel's back. Every time a phone rang or the door opened too abruptly, everyone jumped about a mile. Visitors were quickly disposed of, unnecessary talk banned to the break room.
Simon watched all of it from his office, chewing his unlit cigar and imbibing far too much coffee. He appreciated Jim's restraint, but the fact that his deathly silence was not met well by his co- workers could not be overlooked. They were no longer used to powder-keg Ellison, but eye-of- the-storm Ellison was even worse.
It had been bad enough when he hadn't been a Sentinel, but since his senses had come back online, he'd started to radiate a kind of primal power that made his presence even more dominant than it had been before. It was practically impossible to be in a room with Jim Ellison and not feel it. This Sentinel thing, Simon had come to learn, went far beyond the senses. Even Sandburg had once admitted to him that most probably they'd just scratched the surface so far. It was a sobering thought.
Although they didn't know just how special Jim Ellison was, the detectives of Major Crimes had become used to having the Sentinel at their side. They respected him a lot, trusted him even more, but unconsciously they'd also become very attuned to his moods. If the Sentinel was not well, neither was his tribe.
Which basically meant that if they wanted to live in peace, they needed Sandburg.
DAY FOUR
Someone was burning something in his loft.
The Sentinel woke up with a start, his nostrils flaring, his mind instinctively cataloguing the different scents in the smoke. Wood. Herbs. Something like mushrooms. Yuck.
Naomi. No. She can't...she wouldn't...oh, crap. He sighed. Well, at least she refrained from burning sage, too. Thank God for small blessings.
Summoning the energy to roll out of bed was getting more and more difficult every day. He hadn't been able to find even a measure of balance since his Guide had left, his senses slowly spinning out of control. Right now the even breaths and the slow beating of Naomi's heart made him edgy, and her scent, detectable even through the smoke, irritated him to no end.
He liked her, she was welcome in his loft, but still she wasn't Blair, and it was him who was bound to the Sentinel, not Naomi.
Jim recognized these thoughts as his instincts speaking, not his mind, and he fought them furiously. He was no primitive caveman, dammit. He was a modern, civilized man. He didn't hunt. He didn't claim a territory. He didn't even drink out of the toilet.
He was a cop, not a tribal watchman.
Of course, if Naomi didn't stop burning stuff in his loft, he was going to have to kill her and plead temporary insanity. No. Bad Sentinel. Sandburg would throw a fit. He liked his mother. So did Jim, usually. It was just that she was easier to deal with when Sandburg was there to keep an eye on her.
Okay, just another day in the life of a guide-less Sentinel. Get going, Ellison.
So he stood up, showered, brushed his teeth, shaved, dressed, drank the shake Naomi had prepared for him -- a yellow one this time -- and went down to wait for Simon, who'd promised to pick him up.
Simon was late, and since he had nothing better to do, he rescued his neighbor's cat from the tree it had climbed, knowing the stupid critter wouldn't be able to get down by itself and start screaming for help in the middle of the night. He just hoped nobody watched him. It was kind of embarrassing -- big bad Jim Ellison, savior of little fluffy kittens. Well, in fact 'little, fluffy kitten' probably wasn't the best description for the fat, mangy ex-tom whom he ended up plucking off a breaking twig.
He earned himself a few scratches and a mouthful of cat fur for his trouble, causing him to drop the ungrateful beast into the nearest dumpster. Experience showed that his furry arch enemy was more than capable of freeing himself from this kind of trap -- after devouring everything remotely edible he found in the trash, of course.
God, he hated that cat.
Turning around he found Simon standing beside his car, watching him with an unreadable expression. Obviously he'd seen Jim deal with the cat. Great. Now his boss thought he indulged in cruelty towards animals.
Simon didn't say a word, though, until they were halfway to the station. Then he glanced at Jim, who was staring fixedly out of the window, and asked carefully:
"Do I want to know what that was all about?"
Jim refused to look at him.
"I don't want to talk about it," he growled.
The day went downhill from there.
***
Simon accompanied Jim into the courtroom, refusing to leave his side even for the few hours it would take for him to testify. His growing paranoia was proved right when the defendant's wife stormed in with three hired thugs and tried to take everyone present hostage.
The Sentinel, however, who'd gotten a little bored sitting in the gallery and waiting to testify, had cast out his senses and heard her and her accomplices talk about their plan on their way to the courtroom. He promptly leaned over and informed Simon, who had half-expected some catastrophe or other to happen, so he didn't even blink. Ignoring the curious looks they got from the bailiffs, the two men quietly got up and took position right behind the entrance.
The judge was about to complain about the disruption to his courtroom and order them back to their seats when the door burst open and four heavily armed persons stormed in. The captain and his detective moved with the smooth efficiency born of many years of practice, taking on the unlucky perpetrators and disarming them before they knew what hit them. Only the woman managed to squeeze off a shot, the bullet tearing a hole into Jim's jacket and then burrowing itself into the judge's desk.
Simon, who at first thought his friend had been shot, turned an odd shade of gray, feeling his knees go weak. That had been too close for comfort.
The first thing he did after the chaos had been sorted out was dragging his protesting detective back to the safety of the Major Crimes bullpen, threatening him with severe bodily harm should he dare leave his desk again.
Jim was not happy.
He didn't look forward to explaining the bullet hole to Sandburg, and the prospect of having to come back and testify the next week didn't exactly lift his mood, either. He hated court dates as a rule.
***
Five hours of tension and terror later, Rafe finally couldn't stand it any longer. He stood up, his gaze fixed on Ellison, who was just going through his final set of pencils.
Jim hadn't taken well to being cooped up in the bullpen after the adrenaline rush in the courtroom. Simon was busy and had blatantly forbidden him to go down to the gym and work off some frustration alone, shuddering at the thought what could happen in a room full of potential weapons and no one to watch after the obviously jinxed Sentinel.
Brown noticed his partner's expression and turned an odd shade of gray.
"Don't do it," he whispered urgently, grabbing one impeccably ironed shirtsleeve and holding on for dear life. "That's suicide, man!"
"Somebody's got to do it, H," Rafe answered, his jaw set. "Since he won't do it on his own. Wish me luck."
He freed his shirt from his partner's death grip and walked over to Ellison's desk. Everyone in the room stopped doing whatever they were doing at the moment and watched him, saying a silent goodbye.
Even Rhonda, Captain Bank's secretary, was already composing his epitaph. He was a brave young man. Not too bright, but nice. I'm going to miss him.
Ellison didn't look up until Rafe was standing directly before him, but when he did, the cold measurement in his ice blue eyes made the younger man shiver. This was the old Ellison. The mean-tempered bastard everyone had been afraid of, and rightfully so. Rafe, who hadn't known Jim then, suddenly understood the man's reputation. So that's how he was before Sandburg, he realized. God, how did the kid do it? Hit him over the head or something?
"Yes, Rafe?" the detective asked, his voice like a razor hissing over stone.
Rafe swallowed nervously, then he slowly, very slowly, lifted his right hand. He held it in the air for a moment to make sure Ellison saw he was unarmed and intended no harm, then he said a quick prayer and leaned over the man's desk, grabbing the phone and holding the receiver out to him. Ellison didn't rip his arm off, which he saw as a good sign. Instead, these dangerous blue eyes fixed him with a cool glare.
"What?"
Rafe cleared his throat, wondering why he hadn't become a doctor, like his mother wanted him to. On the other hand, considering how much time Ellison and Sandburg spent in the hospital, maybe that wouldn't have been such a good idea, either. However, he had a mission, and he wasn't going to chicken out now.
"Call Sandburg," he ordered.
Well, it was intended as an order, but in fact it sounded much more like the desperate plea of a desperate man. Which, come to think of it, it was.
Ellison, however, completely misunderstood. His eyes widened in alarm, his body tensed, ready to fight, and his voice snapped like a whip, causing the younger man to jump in terror.
"What happened? What's wrong with Sandburg? -- Shit, no, it's Richter, right? That trip to Maui was nothing but a decoy, wasn't it?"
Rafe threw the receiver at the rising detective, buying himself a second or so when Ellison caught it reflexively.
"Nothing's wrong with him!" he yelled, knowing he had to talk loud and fast to penetrate the cloud of panic building in Jim's eyes. "He's just fine, in contrast to us! You're driving us crazy, man! We both know it won't get better until you've phoned Sandburg, so do it already! Give him our regards."
Ellison blinked.
"I didn't yell."
"You didn't have to. You're well capable of threatening everybody within a two mile radius with severe bodily harm without even opening your mouth! So would you please call Sandburg!!"
"I don't miss him," Ellison growled.
Rafe threw his hands up in frustration.
"No, of course you don't. None of us misses him. We barely notice he's not here. CALL HIM!!"
Jim still looked unconvinced, until Simon's door banged open and the captain poked his head into the bullpen, fixed his detective with a steely-eyed glare and bellowed:
"Ellison! Call Sandburg! That's an order!"
Everybody within hearing range nodded fervently, hoping that Ellison wouldn't dig his heels in and refuse to call out of pure stubbornness. For a moment it looked as if he would, but a low growl from Simon made him rethink his decision.
He spent the next two hours speaking with Chicago.
It was the most relaxed two hours the bullpen had seen all day.
DAY FIVE
"We need Sandburg."
Simon looked up from the report he'd been reading and stared at Brown with dawning dread.
"What happened now?"
"I'm never again going to give Jim a ride, that's what happened."
"Do I want to know?"
Henri closed the door and waited till his captain had motioned him to sit down before all but collapsing into a chair.
"How does he do it, sir?" he asked, and for a terrible moment Simon thought he had finally caught on to Ellison's sentinel-senses. His worry dissipated as soon as Brown went on, though. "We only stopped once, just because I had to collect my suit from the dry cleaner. Jim even stayed in the car." His pained gaze met Simon's. "I don't know how he even noticed these guys were robbing the jeweler next door."
Simon felt the sudden need for a cigar.
"Anybody get hurt?"
"Well, Jim punched one of the perp's lights out and kicked the other...uh...where it really hurts, but that's about all."
Thank you thank you thank you.
"Where's he now?"
"Still curled up in a fetal position crying, I suppose."
"I was talking about Jim."
"Oh. He's downstairs, booking the guys. Man, I haven't seen him this pissed since...oh, since yesterday." He looked at Simon pleadingly. "I know Sandburg's supposed to stay in Chicago until the day after tomorrow, but can't you call him back sooner? I'm not sure we can keep this up much longer."
Simon took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"I know. It's just..." The phone ringing interrupted him. Impatiently snagging the receiver he bellowed: "What?!?" His eyes darkened. "Yes, I'm Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade PD, why? -- This had better be important, Detective." He straightened suddenly, his posture becoming rigidly attentive. "Of course I know Blair Sandburg! He's one of my men. What the hell happened? -- Oh. -- Aha." He winced. "Shit. -- Yeah. -- Yeah, that sounds like Sandburg, all right."
Brown caught himself turning around to make sure Jim wasn't in the vicinity of the office. He had a bad feeling about this and Ellison seemed to have some weird sixth sense concerning the kid. A deep sigh brought his attention back to his captain.
"Yes, of course. No problem. -- I understand. -- Can you...? -- Yes, thank you very much. I really appreciate it. -- You, too. I owe you, Detective. -- Goodbye." He put the receiver back carefully, fixing Brown with an intensive stare. "That was a Detective Raymond Vecchio from the Chicago PD. He says there's been a hostage situation involving a couple of right wing terrorists, a Mountie, and an anthropologist. He wants somebody to come and collect said anthropologist, because, I quote: 'The kid attracts bad luck even worse than my partner!' He says he already tied up all the loose ends in Chicago, so Sandburg could go home at once, since the conference has been cancelled due to the hotel blowing up."
Brown flinched.
"Ouch. Jim's so not going to like this!"
"Speaking of Jim...shouldn't he be back by now?" Simon asked, belatedly noticing the conspicuous absence of his favorite detective. "He doesn't usually take so long, does he?"
He stopped, looked at Brown, and met the same growing terror in his gaze as he felt himself. As one they jumped up and raced out of the office.
***
An hour later, a very disgruntled Sentinel stood in front of his superior and listened to a litany of new rules the captain was laying down. Okay, fine, he had been involved in two violent situations in less than four hours, but it hadn't been his fault that the rookie detective had lost his grip on the psychotic suspect! And how had he been supposed to know the crazy was an ex-Navy SEAL?
"No more going down to records without backup? Come on, Simon!" he protested. "That was a one-time incident and I had the situation under control!"
Simon glared at him.
"Under control, yeah, sure. When I got there, this...Godzilla wannabe...had you in a headlock and was about to crush your larynx!"
"I got free, didn't I?"
"You rammed a freakin' pencil into his thigh and almost broke his spine! He's screaming for his lawyer even as we speak!"
Jim growled darkly.
"I should've snapped his neck."
"And how would we have explained that to IA? It's bad enough as it is!"
"It was self-defense!" Jim insisted angrily. "The guy was a Navy SEAL, for Chrissake! I couldn't afford to play around! And anyhow, why's everybody so excited about it? Nobody would've thought twice if I'd shot him!" He thought about it for a minute. "Of course, then he'd be dead instead of suing, so I guess you're right, I should've put a bullet into him."
"Jim..." Simon sighed, rubbed his temples, and relented. "Okay, forget it. You're right: If you hadn't been an Army Ranger, you'd be dead now. I don't think anybody can blame you for using your skills in a definitely life-threatening situation against an equally trained opponent."
"Then why the hell are you chewing me out?" Jim snapped in irritation. "The whole mess wasn't my fault! All I wanted was to book these stupid suckers and get back to my paperwork! Which, by the way, I swear has tripled since I've left yesterday evening!"
Simon grimaced. Obviously, Rhonda had taken him a little too literally when he'd said he wanted Jim so buried in work he didn't have a chance of getting himself into trouble. The woman really knew her bureaucracy.
"Listen, Jim, if everything goes as planned, you'll be back on the streets tomorrow."
That earned him a suspicious look.
"How come?"
Simon adopted his most innocent expression.
"Basically, because Sandburg's on his way back. -- You didn't think I'd partner up with you again anytime soon, did you?"
"I don't know why people keep telling me that," Jim mumbled, thinking of Brown's heartfelt oath never to ride with him again. "And what's that about Sandburg coming home early? He didn't mention it when I spoke to him this morning."
Simon indicated a chair.
"Why don't you sit down?"
Jim complied without protest, suspecting that there was a damn good reason why his captain wanted him seated safely. He didn't worry too much, though, since Simon didn't seem overly agitated. Whatever had gone down, it was over and Sandburg wasn't hurt. Otherwise, his friend wouldn't have been so cool about it.
"Okay, so what did he get himself into this time?"
"You're not gonna believe it. Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure I do."
Jim thought about it, then shook his head.
"We're talking about Sandburg here, Simon. I'm ready to believe just about anything."
"Point." Simon grabbed his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair. "You see, far as I can tell, everything started with Sandburg meeting this Mountie..."
"A Mountie? In Chicago?"
Simon grinned humorlessly.
"Oh, just wait. It gets even better..."
***
Three and a half hours later, Detective Jim Ellison and Captain Simon Banks were waiting in the arrival hall, trying to hide their increasing nervousness. So far everything seemed to have gone fine: Detective Vecchio had given Sandburg a ride to the airport and made sure the excited anthropologist boarded the plane without incident, the plane had lifted off on time, and as far as they knew it had made it safely to Cascade without any major crisis.
Knowing Sandburg, neither Jim nor Simon were able to relax, though. Like silent sentries they stood in the middle of the usual chaos of the airport, the air around them fairly humming with tension. Even the little groups of Jehova Witnesses strolling through the hall in search of victims gave them a wide berth.
Hoping to ease the tension a bit, Simon cleared his throat and tried to start some kind of conversation with Jim, which didn't prove easy.
"So, your report on the SEAL incident finished?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
They were quiet for a while, Simon watching Jim sharply for any sign that the other man was using his senses and fully prepared to smack him if he had the slightest suspicion he was. He would take no risk, not even with Sandburg so close.
"You do realize Sandburg's gonna kill us both when he hears about you zoning on the front axle of your truck, don't you? Not to mention of all the other things."
Jim's face remained impassive, but his jaw twitched.
"If he hears about it."
Simon felt his eyebrow rise.
"You won't tell him? What're you gonna do? Lie to him?"
Jim smiled ferally.
"Nah. I was thinking more in the lines of concentrating on the trouble he got himself into. And if he asks about my week, I'm gonna tell him all about Naomi's new recipe for tongue -- which is surprisingly good, by the way -- and about getting most of my paperwork done. No need to talk about unimportant details."
"Such as driving your truck into the harbor, almost getting shot while testifying in court, stopping a robbery in progress, going hand to hand against a psychopathic ex-Navy SEAL, and rescuing a big, fat, ex-tom from a tree?" Simon inquired, grinning evilly. "Do you honestly think he won't notice the absence of your truck, or the bullet hole in your jacket?"
Jim's glare would have melted a lesser being.
"At least I didn't get trapped in a rigged building with a Mountie, a wolf, and half a dozen terrorists!"
"Not yet."
"Not funny," Jim growled.
Simon sniffed.
"It wasn't supposed to be funny. I fully believe that you would've gotten into the same or a similar situation if you'd been there. Although I must admit that with you there, the hotel would probably have survived instead of getting blown to pieces." He thought about some of Jim's other cases and shuddered. "Then again, maybe not."
Jim started to protest, remembered the same events as Simon, and ground his teeth in frustration.
They were quiet again, checking their watches in regular intervals, and listening intently at each announcement made over the PA system. Sandburg's plane had already landed, it was only a question of time now until they had their friend safely back under their wings.
"Naomi still here?" Simon finally asked.
"I don't know. She was getting restless this morning, saying something about spiritual energy lines, a wandering heart, and an invitation to New Mexico." He shrugged. "You know her. She never stays long."
"Did you call to tell her about Sandburg coming home?"
"I tried, but she didn't pick up the phone."
"So you think she's gone already?"
Another shrug.
"Either that, or she's gone for a walk, or meditating, or burning something in my living room. You never know with Naomi."
"You know, sometimes the amount of patience you show with her amazes me. I mean, if anybody else would do the things she's done while she was here, you'd rip their head off. Well, except for Sandburg, of course. How come you never even complain about her?"
Jim looked at him in honest surprise.
"She's Sandburg's mother."
"Jim, she rearranges the furniture in your loft."
"She's allowed to."
"Why?"
Jim rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Because she's Sandburg's mother."
Simon suppressed a grin. He was quite sure Jim didn't realize that he used the term 'Sandburg's mother' like other people the expression 'family'. He couldn't help himself: he just had to do it again. Just once.
"She burns incense in your loft, Jim. She makes you drink weird stuff. What color was your breakfast today?"
Jim grimaced.
"Purple."
"See? Not even Sandburg himself can get you to swallow something like that. So why her?"
"Because," Jim snapped, "she's Sandburg's mother. And besides, I like her."
"Well, just as long as you don't ask her out," Sandburg threw in from behind.
Jim groaned.
"You know I wouldn't do that. I mean, she's your mom, for God's sake!"
"Then why d'you keep flirtin' with her?" his Guide challenged, grinning devilishly, because Jim still hadn't realized he was still waiting for his friend when Sandburg was already standing beside him.
"I don't flirt with her!" Jim insisted. "She flirts with me. Although I gotta admit she really is a looker. I mean, just look at her..."
"JIM!!"
Jim grinned.
"Hey, you asked, didn't you?" He stopped, finally registering whom he was talking to. "Chief?"
Sandburg blinked innocently.
"Yeah?"
Jim opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it, and glared at Simon, who was roaring with laughter.
"You're enjoying this!" he told his Guide accusingly.
Sandburg was laughing too hard to answer, but he nodded vehemently.
"Well, in this case, you can carry your own luggage," Jim told him and stalked off, followed closely by his still giggling Guide and captain.
***
Jim opened the door to the loft and entered, Sandburg's bag slung over his shoulder. He put down the bag and went to open the balcony doors. For a moment he stood and looked down at his city, just checking that everything was all right, his gaze following Simon's car until it disappeared behind a corner. The captain was heading home, to his bed and a little peace as he'd grumbled under his breath.
"Naomi?" Sandburg called from behind him.
Coming back inside, the Sentinel listened, then sniffed. No heartbeat, though the air still smelled like sandalwood and burnt mushrooms.
"She's gone, Chief," he said.
Sandburg sighed, but he was used to his mother's way of life and so he accepted her departure with an ease born of lifelong practice. Yawning, he went to the couch and sat down, only then noticing that he was facing the wall instead of the balcony.
"What the...? Did she rearrange the furniture again?" he groaned.
His friend turned around, nodding solemnly.
"Yep."
"Oh, man. Now we have to move everything back before we can go to bed."
Jim studied the black circles under his eyes and frowned.
"Forget it. We can do it tomorrow, after you had a full night's sleep."
But Sandburg was already up and busy trying to push the heavy couch back to its original place.
"Nah, I can't sleep when there's such a mess out here. Makes me nervous." Ignoring Jim's incredulous look he continued pushing and pulling the sofa across the floor. "You wouldn't believe what a shitty day I had," he huffed between shoves, grinning gratefully when Jim moved to his side and added his considerable strength.
"Really?" Jim asked, keeping his face carefully neutral. "What happened?"
"Well, everything started when I was barreled down by an arctic wolf in the middle of Chicago..."
***
With combined efforts, the loft was soon restored to its original state. The cool air cleared out the lingering smells of herbs and smoke. Sandburg unpacked his bags while Jim prepared a quick dinner, smiling to himself while he cut the leftover tongue. If anybody would've told him three years before that one day he'd quite literally eat tongue and like it, he wouldn't have believed them.
They ate in silence, Sandburg finally winding down from his adrenaline high and getting sleepy. After dinner Jim did the dishes, not allowing his friend to lift a finger. His Guide was too tired to really complain, so he just sat at the table, watching in drowsy contentment as the Sentinel cleaned the kitchen.
"And how was your week?" he asked.
Jim grimaced, thankful that his back was turned to his friend, so the ever vigilant eyes couldn't see his face.
"Quite boring," he claimed, shrugging dismissingly. "Simon kept me buried under a heap of paperwork. I barely got to see the light of day."
"No problems?"
There was a sliver of doubt in the musical voice that was busily kneading every remaining knot of tension from the Sentinel's being, every word cool balm on raw senses.
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Jim said. "How did the other participants of the seminar stomach the fact that their hotel was blown to Kingdom Come?"
Now it was Sandburg's turn to grimace.
"Not too well," he admitted. "You won't believe how hysterical such a bunch of academics can get just because of a little C4."
Jim closed his eyes.
"You've been hanging around me too long," he muttered. "That's no healthy attitude."
***
Since Jim was still feeling a little overprotective of his straying Guide, Sandburg got first dibs on the shower, a chance he didn't miss. He spent about half an hour in the bathroom, then padded to his own room, marveling at the lack of chaos he had left behind. He could have sworn the room had been a holy mess when he'd left. Obviously his partner had more influence on him than he'd thought. Now he cleaned and didn't even remember it.
Wondering vaguely if he should consult a doctor about these cleaning fits he knew nothing about, he sat down at the edge of his bed, fighting a yawn and his unruly hair. He was just about to lie down, when he heard the bathroom door click softly. He didn't hear Jim's footsteps, but he could somehow feel his Sentinel crossing the living room on his way to the stairs. Following an impulse he lifted his head and looked at the dark shadow silently moving past his door.
"Hey, Jim!" he called softly.
The shadow stopped, turning a little. It was so easy to imagine yellow cat-eyes looking at him from the darkness instead of his friend's blue orbs. This was the hour when his Sentinel was at his most primal, casting off the chains of his civilized life and for a brief period of time becoming the dark hunter he'd been born to be.
For the time between the turning off of the lights and Jim settling in bed, the Sentinel ruled the loft, casting a protective net with his senses and pacing through his lair to make sure all was well. Sandburg seldom spoke to him during this short period when the balance between Sentinel and modern man was precarious. He didn't want to disturb his protector's concentration.
Still, he didn't want to wait until the next day to ask his question, and after a moment of silence, Jim even answered to his tentative call.
"Yes?"
Blair looked up at the ancient warrior half-hidden in the shadows and smiled, not afraid in the least.
"Did you miss me?"
Jim somehow managed to snort elegantly.
"Of course not."
"Oh. Okay. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
He waited until he was fairly sure Jim had reached the stairs, then he cleared his throat gently.
"Say, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
His friend started to sound a little irritated. Sandburg wasn't deterred.
"How long was I gone?"
"One hundred and twenty one hours, twenty-five minutes, and about forty seconds. Why?"
Sandburg grinned to himself.
"Just checking. Sleep well."
He thought he heard a soft 'Now I will', but that could have been his imagination. Smiling happily, the Guide sank down on his bed and buried under his blankets. He was asleep before his Sentinel had even reached his own bed.
The End