New
Arrivals
Author-Rather
Titles
Weight of Darkness, Power of Light
Part One
by Rather
Summary: Spoilers for Sentinel Too, I & II, obviously, and I don't know what all else. No telling. The story picks up right where S2 left off. And then goes the direction I wish that things had gone. Rated PG-13 for language and a little roughing up of certain unfortunates.
Author's Note: It's a miracle this thing is here. If it weren't for my pal 'W'...I was 3/5 done with it about a year ago and Sybil my unfaithful companion crashed on me for the third time in three years. Unlike the previous two deaths, though, this time she gave no warning and therefore no time for me to save this dratted story. Sighhh. I was all ready to snivel for a while and forget about it, but my pal W coaxed me to rewrite/reconstruct it, word by painful word. Gads. It took forever. I CAN'T BELIEVE WE DID IT, W!!!! THANK YOU FOREVER!!!!! Anyway, this is THE TS story I had to write. It pretty much covers everything that made me crazy about TS, Too. I sure hope you like it. Or at least find it worth your time to read.
Feedback would be GREATLY appreciated. THANK YOU!!!!
Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters belong to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount and no copyright infringement is intended.
The group of four travelers trudged wearily through the busy airport, oblivious to the many people around them and unaffected by the high level of activity. They were in turn completely ignored, which was obviously their preference. Whereas the rest bustled, bright with the anticipation of either leaving or coming home, this group moved slowly, keeping close together, weighed down by both baggage and thought.
Gradually one of the four began to fall somewhat behind, first to the rear of the group, then several steps further back. No one seemed to notice. When they reached one of the main intersections, the figure finally slowed and stopped. The others continued for several more paces until the one in the lead stopped, head snapping up with far more alacrity than his state suggested was possible, as he looked around himself with a frown. When he spotted the figure behind the rest, he turned around, dropped the bag he carried, ignoring the startled exclamations from the others in the group, and hastened to the other man's side.
"Quit lagging, Sandburg," Jim mock-growled, then as his target failed to respond as expected, with a flashing finger or sharp retort, Jim dropped the teasing tone. "What's the matter?" he asked. "You need to stop for a minute? Take a breather?" and he winced involuntarily at the poor choice of words he had directed at a man who'd so recently drowned.
A sardonic smile flashed over Blair's face; there just long enough to let Jim know the faux pas hadn't slipped by unnoticed. "Nah," he said with calculated nonchalance, "this is my stop. Gonna grab a cab back to the motel."
"You don't have to. The truck's here, we can catch a shuttle right to it."
Blair started walking slowly, carefully, toward the nearby exit. "No thanks, I'll take a cab."
Jim followed him, confused. "What for, Sandburg?"
Blair shook his head and gave Jim a long sideways glance. "Man, I don't want to do this right now. I'm tired. I reek. I got to go where my stuff is, okay? And I don't want you making any side trips to drop me off - I'm sure you want to get back to the loft."
"Oh, geez, Sandburg. I'm sorry. I forgot that's where your stuff is. Look. It's no trouble, we can swing by the motel, get what you need, go back for the rest tomorrow."
Blair stared at him in disbelief, then blinked hard before deliberately tipping his head back, squinting up at a plane roaring over them. He was in no condition to debate this. He didn't want to discuss it. He didn't want to go get his stuff. He didn't want to fight about it. And he especially absolutely did not want to be with Jim right now. He wanted to go away, to sleep, to forget these last couple of weeks had ever happened, at least for the next twelve hours or so. There was some *massive* processing to do, and there was no way he was going to get it done crammed in Jim's spare room under the stairs, between edits about when he could flush the damned toilet. He was tired of it, all of it. Everything that had never bothered him about living with Jim was suddenly dragging across his psyche like a thousand tiny barbed hooks. He didn't want to have to think about whether he could use an incense stick without complications. He wanted to throw his clothes on the dam! ned floor, shave without immediately scouring the sink to spotless perfection, and leave the lid off the milk. He was tired of everything. Exhausted of it. "Nah, thanks anyway." He put an arm up for a cab.
"Sandburg, what's the problem? I'm tired, too, I just wanna get home."
"Good. You do that," Sandburg said quietly, firmly, as he opened the cab door and tossed his bag inside. "Go home, Jim. We'll talk tomorrow, maybe, but I'm warning you, I'm sleeping in."
"Wait!" Jim put a hand up just as the door was closing. "Sandburg, what the hell's the matter with you? Where are you going? I don't know where to find you."
*You know where to find me.* The old words hung between the two of them as loudly as if Sandburg had spoken them. But he didn't this time, did he? Sandburg looked up and the pain in his eyes stabbed at Jim. But Sandburg said nothing to him, turning instead to talk to the driver as the cab began to pull away.
Jim unconsciously took a couple of steps after him before Megan's hand on his arm stopped him short. "Don't worry. I have his phone number, room, everything. I'll write it down for you."
"Where in the hell does he think he's going?" Jim asked no one in particular, staring after the receding cab. Megan shook her head sympathetically. Bloody damned fool Yanks.
**********************
When he was thirteen, he'd been in a pretty bad skateboard crash. There had been an area the size of his hand on his calf where the skin had been scraped off, and he'd been paralyzed in fascinated horror, staring at the seemingly enormous wound, which was seeping, raw and dirty. He'd known he needed to clean and bandage it, but was unable to even consider touching it anywhere but the very edge where dry skin had crumpled like a metal barrier after a car hits it. The red wet middle was a no man's land.
He found himself in much the same situation now, all these years and layers of skin later, as he attempted to begin to contemplate his death and resurrection. The closer he approached, the more quickly and violently he shied away from it.
He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. His fingers traced the bruises on his chest. He pressed gently, and winced. He tried to take a full breath and winced again. Whose hands had done this? Megan's? Simon's? While he lay on the ground dead, someone was pushing on his chest. Someone else was breathing for him. He touched his lips. No doubt there had been folks standing around staring, too. Staring. At him. The dead guy.
He wanted to know who had done the CPR. Performed it, as they said about this sort of thing. Which was odd when you thought about it. Was it Simon? Jim? Henri? Did they use clinical dispassionate efficiency, calling cadence to each other and getting annoyed at his lack of response? Were they distracted by the thought that they'd have to go home and change, whoever'd dragged him out of the fountain and gotten soaked? Were they crying? He wanted to know the details, but didn't want to think about it in terms of personal impact.
If he just knew. He didn't like not knowing what the others did. Whoever the others were. He didn't even know who had shown up for his joyride into deep waters, and now he was jealous of their advantage, of their superior knowledge of such a pivotal, intimate moment of his life. He should have taken Megan up on her offer to stay at her place. She would have understood. She would have stayed up all night, hell, she would likely participate with him in an Aboriginal rebirthing ceremony that would have been appropriate, one that would have helped him make the reconnection back to this world; that did something to dispel the awful, shuddering sense of disconnectivity that soaked his soul. He felt like he was living in the third person. Observing. He couldn't remember if he was feeling things like he had before. He needed something to reset, to restart himself.
Something that got the image of smelly, breath-snatchingly cold water and slippery, algae-coated concrete out of his head. Alex Barnes had accomplished what David Lash had not and there was the added complication of him still being around afterwards; he had to try to sort out the mess and re-establish the sense in his life.
Except he knew he'd had his restart when wolf and panther had crashed into one another. Merged.
He felt himself breathing too quickly and closed his eyes tightly and rolled, curling into a ball around his pillow. This was too much. He could not, should not be alone right now. He needed Jim as desperately as he'd ever needed any single other person in his life. Jim. Who couldn't take that trip with him right now. Who'd ignored Blair's outstretched hand. Who had literally *run* to Alex when the bitch who murdered Blair had crooked *her* finger at him. They'd been *kissing*, Jesus *Christ*.
Oh, yeah. Visions with her, Jim could pursue, follow, was goddamned *compelled* to explore. Visions with Blair - even one they had *shared*, how much more *frigging* cosmically important could you even *get*, were to be avoided. Like a big honking nasty open wound. Business begun when his heart started beating again that would never now be finished because he would be damned if it was his turn to beg anymore.
He rolled over the other way, desperate, frantic to chase these thoughts away. Way, way too big and scary a wound. No touching. Don't even look. Don't think about it.
Don't think about it.
Don't.
Defeated, he slept.
**********************
Sleeping in turned out to be ten o'clock. Blair was unsurprised that it took no longer than that for Jim to have tracked him down and begun calling. Paperwork waited for no man to recover from jet lag, much less near death experiences. Did he need a lift to the station so they could work on their statements? He sighed and hugged his pillow forlornly, bidding it a sad farewell. He could do this. He could get up, go down there, do a couple hours. Then he could come back here and sleep till tomorrow. He could do this.
He took a long sip from the tepid stuff melted in the ice bucket, then got up and staggered miserably to the bathroom.
**********************
Being stared at surreptitiously when he was at the station was certainly nothing new for him. In fact, it was pretty commonplace considering the number of brow-raising scrapes he'd survived since he'd met Jim. Sometimes it bugged him, sometimes not. He'd been known to turn around and march up to gossipers and join right in with their conversation, or glide right on by in pretended oblivion, usually simply depending on how pressed for time he was. Today was an ignoring day, but not because he didn't hear the snatches of conversation, not because he couldn't feel the stares or wanted to return the smiles; but because he had to stay focused. He could feel his limited energy already begin to flag. He was both startled and alarmed at himself; being able to push past physical irritants like weariness and illness was ingrained, but this time was different.
He felt another flush of fever and swiped impatiently at his forehead. He didn't want Jim fussing over him. All he was asking was for a couple of lousy hours of concentration, and then his body could do whatever it wanted. He tried to calculate again how many antibiotic doses he had missed. It was mighty damned tough to stay on a schedule when you were on your knees in the jungle with your arms tied behind your back. He had blown it, big time, in the following doctor's orders category.
They had warned him this was a biggie. That the deep breathing exercises and the forced coughing would be extremely unpleasant in the aftermath of CPR and its accompanying cracked ribs, but if whatever opportunistic bugs that had floated into the receptive womb of his lungs with that water weren't encouraged to leave again, he'd be sorry as hell if he didn't.
And had he followed instructions? Had he kept up with the meds and mandatory rest and breathing therapy? He smiled grimly, and then grabbed himself in an anticipatory, supportive hug as the urge to cough seized him. Long moments later he wiped the involuntary tears of pain from his eyes and slowly straightened back upright. Oh, yeah. He was moving all too swiftly into the 'hell to pay' zone. He had just enough time and energy left to do this report, fake everyone out on his recovery, and get back to bed.
He pushed the elevator button several times in frustration. Going down there after Jim had to be in the top five dumbest things he'd ever done. He agreed with his strong impulse to follow Jim. He did. He just knew now that it was a stupid idea and he shouldn't have done it. He knew there was pride mixed into his decision, hubris, even, anger at being left behind, but sincere good intentions as well. Which of course paved the roads pointing straight down as everyone knew. He shook his head in irritation at his self-flagilative one-track mind and started working on preparing the chipper face he needed for the next while.
Joel swept him up in a hug that lifted him to his tip toes, the tears in his eyes belying the scolding the older man was delivering for drowning, for worrying him so, for leaving town like an idiot. He blushed in pleasure, avoided making eye contact with Jim as he sank into a chair and started working on the damned report.
As his police productions went, this was by far the sparsest he'd written outside of a finals week. He perused it a couple more times, just to make sure it would do, then got up to collect it from the printer. He glanced through it briefly before stapling it, unhappily noted two minor grammatical errors that he reluctantly decided not to fool with, then went back to save the final edit and close the program. He felt hot and cold and sick. He started heading for the exit with a vague, all-inclusive wave and goodbye.
"Hey, Sandburg," called Jim, "Gimme another twenty minutes and I'll be done. We'll get some takeout Thai, how 'bout?"
Blair didn't even turn around, knowing Jim could hear him perfectly. "I got to get back to bed, man. I'll see you around."
He was reaching for the elevator button when a hand clasped his shoulder. He started violently and shook it off as he whirled around and banged into the wall, arms raised defensively. "Whoa, shit Sandburg. Sorry. Sorry." Jim's face loomed in his, worried and upset. "I can't do anything right lately, damn it. Are you okay?"
*Of course not, you big stupid lunkhead*, Blair wanted to yell but didn't. Instead, he nodded, breathing through the jolt to his ribs and the adrenaline charged rush he knew he would pay for in mere minutes. Nodding made him dizzy and even more nauseous. His legs started to tremble and he knew it would spread. What the hell was the matter with him? What was up with all this anger? Was the anger making him sicker or was the sickness manipulating his emotions?
Jim was holding him by the arm now, guiding him into the break room, into a chair. He was too shaky to resist; but pissed as hell that he couldn't. He propped his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. Jim was muttering as he clinked coins into the machine. Joel's voice rumbled, joined in moments by Rafe's. He needed to lift his head, reassure them. He couldn't do it. "Here," Joel said, "drink some juice, Blair. Did you eat breakfast? I bet you didn't. And I bet your blood sugar is sagging like a pair of worn out socks."
He wrapped both hands around the bottle and lifted it carefully to his lips. It tasted fantastic, exquisite. Joel was right. He sipped more. "Thanks, guys," he said with a wan smile. "I'll be okay in a couple of minutes. I'm just going to hang out in here for a bit. Thanks." He hoped they'd catch the hint and leave him alone, and unsurprisingly, they did; a few more comments and pats on his arm and he was alone with his drink. He drank it down and sat quietly, feeling himself perk up like a plant that needed watering. He tugged a bakery box toward himself and broke off pieces of the banana nut muffin that was inevitably left for last. He was almost ready to push himself to his feet and leave when Jim came back in.
"Why don't you bring the rest of that? You can finish it in the truck on our way to lunch. And don't turn me down, you'll sleep better on a full stomach."
Blair shook his head. "No thanks. But I appreciate it. 'Nother time."
Jim cocked his head and squinted at him, trying to gauge his mood. "Come on, Sandburg. Enough with the pissy wife routine."
It was such a Jim thing to say, and so absolutely, utterly ill chosen. He halted. "Jim. No. No lunch. No loft. No more. No more anything."
Something indefinable began to leach out of Jim's face. "Oh, come on. I know we haven't had the best couple of weeks, but you would be the first to say we need to work on getting past it."
Sandburg shook his head. "Actually, no. What I'm saying is that I'm done. You've wanted your life back, you got it. You wanted to be able to control...things. You can. You made it pretty clear you don't want me in your space anymore. Message received. I'm not coming back to the loft. I'm through hounding you, man, tagging along. No more. I can't do it anymore. You've fought me every step till now, I can't carry us both in this relationship anymore."
"So you're just gonna abandon me." Jim's face was hardening, taking on that bleak granite hard ass expression Blair hated to see anyone put on Jim's face, would have sworn he would have torn out his own heart and stomped on it before ever causing it himself. Jim's Alone Again face. "What about your...research?"
"Screw it."
"Don't make any rash decisions, Chief. We've got too much invested in this. You're sick. When you get better, well, we'll have a rational conversation. But this, I'm gonna act like it never happened. You aren't yourself."
"Whatever," Blair answered, and started to push to his feet.
"Oh, hey, wait a minute. Almost forgot. Here's your mail," Jim said, pulling a handful of envelopes out from under his arm.
Sandburg settled back again and reached over to accept it, murmured, "Thanks," and both were silent for a few minutes as Blair perused his mail and Jim munched on what was left of Blair's muffin. Jim stopped chewing and looked over in alarm when he felt, as much as heard, Sandburg's heart rate take a startling leap. He glanced at the envelope. Rainier. Blair finished scanning the letter, and then started shaking his head. "No, no, oh, no. God no. *Damn* it!" he blurted, and dropping the letter, clenched his hands in his hair, knees to his elbows.
Jim was up and beside him in a moment. "What's wrong, Chief?"
Blair shook his head. Hair obscured his face, his shoulders were hunched. Jim felt completely shut out. "I *knew* this would happen. I *knew* it."
Jim waited as long as he could, then prodded him again. "Talk to me, please? What happened? Who's the letter from?"
Sandburg finally shuddered all over and looked up. His eyes were dull. "My dissertation committee." He started to laugh, a hollow noise with no humor in it. "Guess what, man, you're safe. Forever. Even if I still wanted to, there won't ever be a paper about you."
"What? Why?"
"Be*cause*, Jim." Both men seemed a little startled at the touch of venom in Blair's voice. Sandburg closed his eyes a moment, getting himself back under control.
"Jim, there was a big reason I asked, I *trusted* you not to read that introductory chapter. I mean, you're a research subject. The topic. And the project wasn't finished yet, there were more tests to run, months worth of data to still include. Anyway, when you read that chapter, you tainted the results, blew out the whole study. See, it could be said that you affected the outcome of the tests because you'd read the chapter. So the whole thing became worthless."
"No it's not - "
"Of course it is, for the purposes of scientific value and for publication!" interrupted Blair. "Jim, I was obligated, as an ethical researcher, to inform my committee that the subject of my study, and that's you, even though you hate being called that, I had to tell them that you'd read the chapter. And they had every right, then, actually an obligation, to tell me the study was blown. And that's what they've done."
"They can't -"
"Of course they can, Jim. And they did. God! I *asked* you not to read that thing, they didn't have any *choice*. As soon as I informed them, there was really nothing else they could do. Damn it." He buried his head in his hands again.
"Then why the hell did you tell them?" He knew that was a stupid question as soon as he asked it, would have pulled it back in if he could.
Blair raised his head in shock, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "I - I," his mouth clamped shut. His jaw clenched and worked for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was thick, stunned. "I can't believe you'd ask that, Jim. How could you *ever* think that? I...thought you knew me a little better than that." He dropped his head again quickly, but not before Jim saw his eyes fill with tears.
Jim felt his own eyes sting. "Blair - I don't know why I asked that. I *do* know better."
"No you don't," came the miserable reply. "I'm just the goofy guy with all the hair who trashed the bathroom and ate the weird foods and that's all I'll ever be to you, isn't it?"
Jim stood. "Of course not, Sandburg. You're the man who saved my life. First and foremost. I'd be dead or insane a long time ago, and I remember that every day."
Sandburg was stonily silent.
"Come on. I'll talk to the committee. We'll fix it. I'll explain things to them."
Sandburg laughed again, the one with the creepy edge that made Jim uneasy. "*Fix* it? You'll *talk* to the committee? Oh, that's rich, Jim. Nice thought, but there is absolutely nothing you could possibly say or do to change their minds. It's over."
He repeated it, heavily. "It's over," he said, more to himself. "Years of work. All that data, useless."
"I'm sorry," Jim said sincerely, as he sank into the seat next to Blair. "I didn't know this would happen. I swear I wouldn't have read it if I'd known."
"You know what the worst part is to me, Jim? Not losing the paper. Not losing all the work I - *we* put into it. The worst part is that I've been doing this thing as fast as I could. Trying to get published. Not for fame. Not for glory, or a position. And not to hurt you, God knows." He paused to catch his breath and lowered his voice to a whisper. "But I was trying to get it done, because I know, I *know* as sure as we're sitting here that there are other sentinels out there, lost, scared, hurting, dying. Needing help so badly, and not having any idea what's wrong. And this paper could have gotten the word out to them, maybe. That's what I live with every day, Jim. That's what's killing me."
Jim was silent. They both knew it was the truth. "Blair - " he didn't know what to say.
"Jim," came Blair's choked voice, "please. Go. Just go."
He went.
And after awhile, Blair left, too, wondering if he would ever come back here, knowing Jim was probably tracking him and not able to do a damned thing about it.
He made it down to the garage, and hesitated. He had $12 in his wallet, a good bit more than that in his checking account, but he didn't want to be careless, either. Didn't want to touch his savings. Where did that leave him? The University Clinic, thank God for the place. Destination set, he put the car in gear.
**********************
"Who's next, Molly?" Dr. Clark absently asked, her mind more than half on a report she'd read that morning about a late-season flu that was taking aim at campuses uncomfortably close to hers.
Molly's eyes sparkled with excitement. "You'll never guess."
"God," Dr. Clark immediately groaned. "Not again. I told you, it's not my turn for any more frat boys with their friggin' STDs for the rest of the week. Get somebody else."
"No, no, no," Molly said hastily. "Remember that teaching fellow who almost drowned in Hargrove Fountain last week? It's him. But he doesn't sound very good, and I don't think he's been taking his meds. He just got back from South America or somewhere, believe it or not. He's sick as a dog, the poor thing."
"Cool," said Dr. Clark, her interest instantly piqued.
Examination complete, Dr. Clark folded her arms and stared at her patient, waiting for him to meet her eyes. She made sure her glare was her good one. "What?" he asked, startled, when he did eventually look up.
"Are we quite through?"
"Um, I...don't. No? Yes? With the exam you mean?"
"No. I mean, are we through be-bopping out of the country? Are we through not taking our medicine? Are we through trying to kill ourselves? Because if not, I'm certainly not going to waste my time and experience and medicine, do you *know* how much it irritates me when my patients don't do what I tell them to do?"
The poor kid was sitting there, eyes wide, obviously uncertain whether he was supposed to shake his head or nod it.
"Never mind," she snapped, "just remember. I'm your doctor now, and the shenanigans are over. You'll stay here till that IV bag runs out, and I've given you your next dose of meds. Then you can go home, go to bed, and stay there until you come back in three days," and his eyes darted to the three fingers she emphatically thrust in the air. "And you better be back here when I tell you to, son. If you think I'm scary now, you wait till I have to come hunt you down. It won't be pretty."
Then she smiled brilliantly. "Do we understand each other?"
He nodded glumly. "You used to be in the military, didn't you?"
She snorted. "Not likely, bright eyes. Now lie down before I have to knock you out." But her tough words were betrayed by her gentle manner in easing him back on the cot, drawing up the blanket.
"Thank you," he said soberly.
"Get better," she ordered.
Outside, she plucked the file from Molly's hand. "I'll cover whatever his insurance doesn't," she said. "And you know those samples I've been hoarding?"
"Now's the time?" asked Molly.
Dr. Clark nodded. Molly settled into stride beside her. "I thought you weren't doing this anymore."
Dr. Clark shrugged. "Did you *see* him? For Pete's sake. It's all I can do not to take him home with me."
Molly sighed dramatically. "Yeahhh..."
"Molly?"
"Yes, Dr. Clark?"
"Shut up."
"Yes, Dr. Clark."
**********************
"Hello? What is it, Ellison? No, I haven't seen Sandburg in the last couple of days. That's your purview, not mine. Not my fault you two are having a spat."
A heavy sigh. "No, yes, I do realize this is more serious than that. Have you tried going to talk - Won't even let you in the door, hmm? And does this surprise you in any way? Because you did treat him like shit, Jim. I think it's understandable that he's pissed at you. No. And I don't care what kind of dump he's in; I'm not his father. Or his partner."
"What do you mean he *sounds* sick? What the hell have you been doing, Jim? Stalking him? Stop right there. I don't want to know. No I will *not* go over there and check on him. My evening is booked. With my own business, that's what. No. No. I am not getting in the middle - "
"I can drive my own car over there, thank you, if I was going. Which I'm not. I'm *not*. He'll be fine."
A long silence. Simon ground his jaw in frustration. "So he doesn't have the best track record for taking care of himself. I still -"
Another heavy sigh. "All right then, goddamn it. I'm going. Yes right now! Now leave me alone!" Simon punched the end button and glared at the phone, sorely missing the days when you could slam the receiver down in people's ears.
He stomped angrily around his house, muttering to himself, vile threats against Jim and Blair and dire predictions about what would happen if he did get involved with this. The front door slammed closed. Thirty seconds later, it banged open again. Simon hadn't slowed his harangue one jot as he unlocked his drawer, yanked out his service weapon, and slammed out the front door again. The house was quiet.
**********************
The knock on the door came again, more insistently. Sandburg groaned softly and rolled over, trying to ignore it. He was so thoroughly and equally depressed and sick that he could hardly remember to breathe. He was paid up through day after tomorrow, he didn't give a crap if the place was burning down around him, and if it was Jim, he could go screw himself sideways.
But he bolted upright when he heard Simon's impatient voice, and hastily pulled the sheet from the bed around himself as he stumbled to the door. He flung it open.
"Simon? What? Is Jim okay?"
Simon put his hands up in a reassuring manner. "No, Sandburg. Everything's fine." He didn't wait for an invitation, but stepped into the room, frowning.
Sandburg watched him for a moment, then grabbed simultaneously for his sheet and his sides as he doubled over, coughing. He staggered over to the bed, and collapsed onto it, never feeling Simon taking hold and guiding him to it.
When he was finished coughing, he gasped for breath, teeth gritted against the pain in his ribs. The fever was back. Great.
"Sandburg," Simon said in a slightly awed voice, "you look like absolute crap."
He squinted up at him blearily. "Thanks. Hadn't noticed." He absently tracked Simon as he prowled around the room, tsking and shaking his head in seeming disbelief.
"Sorry. I wasn't expecting company." He was infinitely weary, and had to get rid of Simon quickly. "You know, this isn't actually a really good time..."
Simon came to a halt by the side of the bed, and with no apparent feeling of restraint, began to pick up and examine the bottles on the table. "At least you're taking real medicine. I thought you didn't like this stuff. Where are your roots and berries?"
Sandburg restlessly shifted on the bed. "I looked, you know, in the boxes. But I couldn't find everything, and, you know, this place didn't exactly come with a kitchen and stuff. It has to be prepared right. And I didn't know if it's all there, what Jim did when he packed it..." his voice trailed off into more coughing.
Simon followed his vague gesture, and sure enough, over on the far side of the room, several of the boxes had been pulled open, and there were several strange jars and bags of a dubious nature on the table near them. Simon felt himself flush with a sudden realization. Until this very moment, he'd supposed that a certain percentage of Sandburg's championing of natural remedies had been for flash, that when push came to shove he'd reach for the Tylenol as quickly as the next man. But when he saw the suspended attempt Sandburg had made, ill and alone with no audience to play to, he felt ashamed. Like he had underestimated the other man, not taken him seriously or given him the credit he deserved. And he didn't like the feeling it gave him, not at all. And he felt his estimation of Sandburg rise appreciably.
Sandburg lay in the bed, oblivious to anything but that he wanted Banks out of there. He was acutely conscious that he had just answered the door in his boxers, and he doubted very much that had done anything to augment the respect from the man who was nominally his boss at times that he so desperately craved.
"Sandburg, why don't you come stay with me a few days until you're back on your feet?"
"Ah, thanks Simon. No."
"I mean it."
"Did Jim send you? Jim sent you. No thanks."
"Contrary to what occasionally Jim, and now apparently you think, I don't take marching orders from Jim Ellison or anyone else, Sandburg. You would do well to remember that."
Sandburg pushed the sheet down far enough to see him with an unobstructed view. "Sorry, man. No insult intended. I do appreciate it, but I'm still gonna pass. All my stuff is here. I feel like crap. I just need to sleep and be left alone."
Simon picked up the half bottle of water and the soup mix sitting on the desk, and held them out to Sandburg. "And I suppose this is what you've been eating?"
Sandburg shrugged. "Not hungry. All I need are some fluids, and I *got* that."
"You're coming with me."
"I'm not."
"Sandburg, I am Jim Ellison's boss. I am the head of Major Crimes. I am the father of a teenage son. Do you know what all this means? It means I am the alpha male of all alpha males. There are days, not infrequently, mind you, that I believe I could kick the ass of anyone on the planet, and still have time for lunch. I am certainly not the least bit intimidated by you. Now you can get your ass up out of that bed and come with me willingly, or I can pick you up and dump you in the trunk of my car. And I guarantee no one will even attempt to stop me. But you are coming to stay with me until I tell you differently. Do we understand each other?"
Apparently, they did.
**********************
His leg was killing him. He'd been shot, he remembered, now he was battling the infection that had set in, hitting his body as hard as the bullet had. He'd been delirious then, he was delirious now.
Simon was there. This wasn't the hospital. And he hadn't been shot, he'd drowned. In the fountain. Because of Alex. And Jim was...there was no more Jim.
But then the blurriness mixed it all up again and he couldn't remember what happened.
"Simon," he said, "don't let them cut my leg off, man. It's not that bad, is it?"
"No, Blair," and he watched Simon move a chair closer to the bed and sit in it. "Your leg is fine."
"Are you sure? I had a friend, you know. In the Peace Corps. He was in a bad accident, messed up his knee and broke his leg. They airlifted him out, too, but it was too late. His leg was gone."
"Your leg is fine, Blair. I won't let them cut it off."
"Thanks," he sighed, and sat up for the juice Simon offered him. When finished, he reached out carefully, gripped Simon's arm. "You got to take care of Jim for me. I can't be there anymore, and you have no idea the stuff out there that can *kill* him. No lie. But he needs someone he can trust and I know he trusts you. You got to read my research so you know what to do. Megan can help, too, maybe she can go out in the field with him."
Simon shook his head slowly. "We can't do what you do, Sandburg. Jim needs *you*."
Blair swallowed hard. "Jim doesn't want to need me. He hates being a sentinel. He...doesn't trust me." Tears welled at the awful admission. "I love him like a brother, I swear. I would never have published without his consent. But he hates the work, hated the paper, he read the opening chapter, you know, so the whole damned thing is moot anyway. But that doesn't matter because he doesn't trust me. Man, I would cut off my right arm with a *spoon* before I hurt him - but I have. I've been so angry, I've treated him so bad - I blew up at him at the station, wouldn't return his calls..." and his throat closed up and he couldn't force out another word.
He rolled over and faced the wall and willed Simon away. He fell asleep quickly, never hearing the murmur of voices in the living room as Simon talked long into the night, helping Jim come to terms with what he had overheard. As night bled into morning, it brought a healing and purpose to Jim, a new understanding for Blair, rather than an end, as he pledged to form a slow, new relationship, based not on apparently mutually exclusive needs, but rather friendship and respect.
**********************
His lungs were feeling cloggy again, and his throat was sore from coughing. It had been a long day. He'd felt sweaty and grimy, and lonely. Simon was at work, of course, and now it was late and dark. He was tired of being sick. He'd been out of bed only a couple of times, making the bathroom/kitchen loop, taking his fresh drink back with him each time. He eyed the mostly empty glasses. Simon wouldn't want to pick up after him and Blair didn't blame him. He needed to be a better guest. He would tidy up tomorrow, he vowed. If he could.
He woke when someone settled into the chair beside the bed, backlit by the light from outside. "Hey, Jim," he said softly.
A hand reached out and smoothed some of the mess his hair had become away from his face. "Hey. How was your day?"
He leaned into the touch unconsciously. "Good. Slept a lot." He coughed, as always flipping the blanket up to cover his face and keep from spewing nastiness Jim's way. When he resurfaced, Jim was gone. He panted for breath a little and closed his eyes.
Jim wasn't gone long. Blair thought he heard water slosh, and he was right. Jim was putting something on the floor. A vaporizer, as it turned out. "This should help," he said, and then he was back in the chair, gently but insistently urging him to sit up. The Gatorade was sweet, cool and delicious. He drank the whole glass with no prompting. "We'll have dinner in a bit," Jim promised. He began wiping Blair down with the cloth he'd brought, bringing cool comfort to his face, arms, and chest. It felt great. "Thanks, man. What are those?"
"Baby wipes, actually. Don't worry, they're hypoallergenic. The pharmacist said I ought to give them a try." The wiping continued.
"Could you do me a favor?"
"Probably. What?"
"Could you go through my mail and pick out the bills? Some of them are probably about due. My checkbook's in my backpack. Would you mind getting them kind of organized and stuff? Get them ready?"
"Sure. I can do that. How about the University? Anything I need to do there?"
"Thanks a bunch, buddy. Nah. We're still on break, thank goodness. Wasn't hard getting out of the stuff I had; some funding went bust and a study got rescheduled. Plenty of warm bodies around looking for something to do, in other words. So tell me about your day?"
Jim settled back in his chair, easily ignoring the smell of sickness and sweat and medicine, trying to tell the story the way Blair would, with humor and detail and irony. He thought he did a great job, although his audience fell asleep before he'd even gotten to the midmorning arrest on the steps of the courthouse and the uninvited TV cameras that had caused such discomfiture in Henri he'd nearly forgotten to read the perp his rights.
Then, after a silent but thorough appraisal of his sleeping friend, he got up and rejoined Simon in the kitchen. He took the collection of used glasses with him.
**********************
All told, it took a good three weeks to get the kid back on his feet. And it had been very much a group project. At first, Joel and Rafe and Megan and all the rest had mainly come by with food or flowers or magazines and only stayed long enough to be polite. Blair had been so sick at first they hadn't wanted to linger; he simply felt too bad for company.
Jim was another story. He'd been there every day like a hound dog that had found the food bag in the garage. He fussed over Blair like nobody Simon had ever seen. Blair told him Jim couldn't help it; that there was little to do but let him dither. Simon didn't mind, frankly. He was happy to put the kid up, and certainly didn't mind Jim on his couch on the bad nights or even taking Jim's offer more than once to go have a decent night's sleep over at his place. Being in the same house with someone who coughed all night was not the most pleasant experience.
And Jim never came empty handed. Always some treat to try to coax Blair to eat, or an audio book from the library, or gossip from the station.
Simon was pleased to see the relationship between the two of them starting to mend.
A few nights later, Simon sat at his kitchen table, late. He wasn't sleepy but was reading by the light over his stove, revising a report he would deliver to the Chief next week. He shook his head. Jim's numbers had come down, just a few notches. They were still better than anyone else's in the unit, but still enough of a drop that Jim would be extremely upset. He tapped his pen on the table as he absently watched Sandburg make himself a cup of tea and rummage around the kitchen, finally settling at the table across from Simon.
Simon could tell from his expression that he wasn't eating because he was hungry, but because of his commitment to regain his health. His theory was confirmed when Sandburg didn't take a bite of either the apple or the muffin, instead he sat, sipping the tea and idly playing with a bit of the muffin he'd pinched off.
Simon determinedly turned his attention back to the report, choosing not to make any comment whatever. The silence didn't last long; a soft exclamation came from across the table. Simon looked over the top of his glasses at Sandburg, who quickly colored. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to peek at your report there, but geez. Jim's gonna freak."
Simon had forgotten Blair could read upside down as easily as most folks read right side up. And of course it was too much to expect the insatiably curious scientist to keep his eyes on his side of the table. He decided to dismiss it with a noncommittal grunt and started to work again.
When he glanced up next, Sandburg had dropped even the pretense of eating. He was rolling the same bit around in his fingers absently, biting his lip as he stared off into space. Simon sighed internally, reached out and tapped Blair's hand with his pen. Sandburg blinked and looked at him inquiringly.
"Jim will get over it. And maybe..."
"What?"
Simon selected his words with care. "Maybe it won't hurt him to see what a difference you make. My eyes have certainly been opened. We both took you for granted, labored under the false assumption that you were not...as essential as you obviously are."
Blair dipped his head, but before his hair could fall forward to conceal his features, Simon spotted the flush on the too-thin face. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright but infinitely sad, weary. Resigned. "I can't come back, Simon."
Simon shook his head. "I wasn't asking you to."
Blair continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but...I can't." He pushed back his hair and wrapped his arms tightly around himself and leaned forward as if in pain. "All Jim has ever asked is for control. How to be rid of them. How to be normal. How to get his life back. How to suppress them. I could never get him to celebrate his gift, to want to use them just for the joy of it. Ever. Did you know that? I was the one that pushed him, made him develop them. I can't do it anymore. Ever. I feel like I'm the parent of a brilliant musical prodigy who hates to play the piano. At some point you have to stop pushing."
"I don't believe a single word you're saying, Blair. You and Jim are close, more than some sort of whatever weirdness you think it is. You never have, never could force Jim to do anything that he didn't want to do. And he's proud of his abilities whether he admits it or not."
Blair shook his head. "I never did anything *else*, Simon. I came on too hard, too fast, too pushy. I saved him and he never got over it. He saw me as a greedy opportunist and maybe I guess I was. But at least I have enough character to be honest, to let him go. Don't get me wrong, though. I'm not cutting him off. He ever needs me I'm there, forever. I hope we'll always be friends, too. But his freedom is what he really wants. To be a regular guy. Always. That's all. So if you were hoping my being here was some sort of vehicle to build a rapprochement or something, to put us back together, I have to tell you it's not gonna happen."
Simon wanted him to shut up. He wanted to tell him that wasn't what he was hoping for at all, but that would have been a lie. "Sandburg, for God's sake. Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" Blair swiped at his eyes. "What I think is that I'm up the shit creek of all time, Simon. I'm in an impossible position. My research with Jim is blown. I can't ever publish a study that features him, which solves a dilemma we had because he never honestly wanted me to. I admit it's a relief, like there's a boulder off my shoulders. It totally changes the dynamics of our relationship, too. I expect we'll end up in a much better place than we were before. But I can't ignore the fact that we can attest beyond all doubt to something that doesn't officially exist. Before? Bigfoot, UFOs, Sentinels. But we've seen, with our own eyes, not one but two of them. Living. Breathing. Not fiction, not tabloid speculation, the real deal. And apparently they're not even all that uncommon. I can't forget or pretend I don't know about this, because I also know there's an absolute one-hundred percent reality that there are more Jims, more," he swallowed, a sudden upright line ap! pearing between his brows as he frowned, "more Alexs out there. And I'm one of the only people in the world who knows enough about them to help them, apparently. I *have* to help them. But it's killing me to think it's going to be a year or more at least, probably more like two or three that will be lost while I try to find another sentinel, do all the research over again. It can't be rushed. I-" he started coughing.
"You're not well enough for this. You know that."
"I do know that." His breathing was heavy. "I feel so rotten I don't even want to think about it. But I can't think about anything else. Every day is a day of suffering for somebody just like Jim."
*Or Alex*, Simon thought but wisely did not say.
"Or Alex," Blair added like he'd read Simon's mind, the line back between his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths, let them out slowly. "Damnedest messed up part of all this whole thing is how I can't forget her. Can't stop wondering. Maybe she's just in a really deep zone. Maybe I could pull her out of it. Is it ethical for me not to try? I don't want to get within a thousand miles of her. But I dream about her waking up. Getting hives from her clothes, from her sheets. Screaming in pain from the noise they don't know she hears. Is it right to let her suffer if I know better, if I can help her? Or has she blown her chance and has my responsibility shifted to those others we don't know about yet? I *know* I have an obligation, but which carries more weight, the known or unknown quantity? Either way, my work is more than cut out for me."
Not waiting for a reply, Blair pushed his chair back and left. As he did, he lifted his joyless eyes to Simon's just long enough for Simon to see the grim resolve. If it killed him, he would do whatever he could. As the sound of Sandburg's coughing followed him from the room and down the hall, Simon stared at the forgotten snack. Well. Someone needed to make sure it *didn't* kill him, then. And he knew just the man for the job.
**********************