"Damn it, Sandburg, concentrate!"
Ok, I knew yelling at myself was not helping but I needed some sound to break the oppressive silence in the loft. I was sitting at the kitchen table, weak morning sun filtering in through the tall windows but bringing no warmth. I was alone, had actually been alone for hours, I guess. Jim had made arrangements last night for Joel to run him over to the station early this morning. I had protested with as much energy as I could muster, offering to take him myself, but Jim just patted my cheek, smiled a genuine, but tired smile, and said, "No problem, Chief. Come get me at the station and we'll catch some lunch." Next thing I knew it was morning and I was facing the nothingness my life had become.
I struggled against self-pity and again drew the blank sheet of paper toward me. The pencil was still clutched in my hand, as if the pressure I placed on it would extend to something coherent. The coffee in the mug next to me had long since grown cold, although once in a while I lifted it to my lips in reflex. It was two days after the end of everything and I was attempting to organize the remnants of my life—a life ripped apart with suddenness that left me hollow and spent.
I started to feel a little relieved that my roommate (was that all he was now?) had caught that early ride before I had to face him. There was no hiding from Sentinel eyes. I think I had written a whole chapter on that theme alone. Wait, don't go there. Damn, too late. Despite the kind words Jim had extended to me at the hospital I knew everything was irrevocably changed. Closing my eyes now, I still treasured those words, storing them in my heart to be brought out later. There would be time to mourn but it would have to wait while I tidied up the loose ends here. I realized that the renouncing of my dissertation was only half the job, the easier half, actually. Now I was just praying for the courage to complete the task and walk away from the Sentinel, my Sentinel, forever.
Open your eyes, take a deep breath, and get on with it, Sandburg. Ok, try opening them again. That breath was a little more like a sob but we're getting there. Resolutely, I pulled the paper closer to me and wrote at the top in bold letters—TO DO.
The elevator doors opened and I shuffled out, still trying to get used to that stupid cane. The pain was manageable with the dial turned down, but the stiffness of the supporting muscles, coupled with the bandages, made for slow going. I hated being dependent on the cane but I also recognized my need for it. The wound wasn't bad, just annoying when there was so much to do. Approaching the front door to the loft I glanced at my watch and realized it was 10:30 and I was hungrier than hell. I had told Sandburg to pick me up at the station (rescue me from more paperwork to tell the truth) so he wouldn't be expecting me to show up at home. But he was my reason for asking Taggert to run me back to the loft. I paused, key in my hand, and tried to formulate a greeting that wouldn't come out sounding like "Hey, I'm worried about you, let's talk right now." I had seen the Volvo parked downstairs. It bugged me because I knew Blair really had nowhere else to be today.
My eyes slammed shut. Wait for it . . . bam! There it was, the clenching in my gut, the dry swallows, the dull ache in the middle of my chest. The emotions held me captive at my own damn door. The more time that had passed since that mockery of a press conference the more I felt the enormity of Blair's sacrifice blossoming inside my head. I had only been able to communicate a fraction of what I wanted to convey to Sandburg in the hospital—the kid would barely look at me and I could barely look away from him. I had put as much conviction into my voice as I could, but as usual words failed me and I could see he wanted, hell—deserved—more. But a hospital lobby was not the place and there was still a job to do. Maybe I thought by bringing him back into work mode he would see we could regain some normalcy and, God love him, he stepped right into it.
So then there was that jerk Bartley, then Zeller and then no more Zeller. God, what a mess the bullpen was. Thankfully, except for a few minor injuries, we survived intact. No harm came to my partner, and I just added one more scar to the collection. All this followed by the inevitable—a quick trip to the hospital ("Yes, I know it's a gunshot wound and no I'm not staying—Sandburg, quit laughing and give me a hand here"), back to the loft for some shut eye, back to the station early next morning; reports, IA investigators, statements, more reports. Telephone conferences with Simon who was feeling well enough to go ballistic when told one of his jazz figurines had taken a hit—after I assured him for the tenth time that everyone else was ok. And through it all, his own trauma temporarily pushed aside, my partner: a constant, steadying presence. Sometimes close, especially when the leg made itself known. Sometimes across the room talking quietly to Rafe, who had also taken that trip to the hospital and looked ready to drop at any time. It wasn't until late last night that we made it back to the loft so now my control over the pain in my leg was slipping. Sandburg tried again to convince me that he could drive me to the station in the morning instead of Joel, but frankly, the kid needed some down time. Those big, blue eyes were starting to look a little shell-shocked at that point, so we just packed it in and went to bed. I don't remember hitting the pillow.
Standing at the front door, I extended my hearing for the heartbeat that steadied my world—and heard nothing. My mind flashed on the Volvo still parked downstairs and I felt a little twist of not quite panic. I shoved in the key, turned the lock and pushed the door open. Quick assessment—no one home, but no signs of anything wrong. Stepping in and closing the door I scanned the room, noting Blair's backpack leaning against a leg of the kitchen table. The chair next to it was partially turned out as if someone had just risen from it. There was a sheet of paper and pencil on top. All in all it looked like someone had just left. The someone I really needed to talk to.
I walked toward the table slowly, thinking hard. Where could Blair walk to—and why? Obviously deep thought makes me clumsy, because the next thing I knew I had kicked the table with my bad leg and the damn pain dial had spun out of control. I hobbled over to the recently vacated chair and sat down hard. The muscles in my jaw complained as I clenched them, closing my eyes to concentrate on reducing the pain. Instinctively I conjured Sandburg's voice, using it to ground me as I had countless times over the years. Frankly, I would have preferred the real thing to my imagination, but slowly the discomfort eased and my breathing evened out. My slightly unfocussed gaze fell on the paper in front of me. I recognized Blair's handwriting. Got it, kid left a note. I leaned forward and picked the sheet up.
No, wait, not a note. A list. A damned "to do" list like a suburban mother running errands on a Saturday. Well, detective, here's a clue to your partner's whereabouts.
1. Call Naomi
Blair's mom had run to the safety of a friend's house after the Zeller shooting to "center" herself—or to get away from me. Whatever.
2. Call Dave.
Whoever the hell that was. A small check mark had been made to the left of the numeral.
3. Return books to library.
Ouch. I winced in sympathy, knowing any trip back to campus would be tough for Sandburg. Another check.
4. Ck net for blue book on V.
Did I interpret that right? Why did he need to get a price on the Volvo? Check.
Off to the side of this entry was a dollar amount, about what I figured the Volvo would go for. Underneath was another amount, one I recognized as the rent Blair paid me. I'm a good detective—I instantly grasped the concept here—Blair was selling his car to make rent.
Damn it.
There was another figure below the rent number. My eyes followed a straight line from it back to the next item on the list.
5. Call airline. Check.
Oh, God.
A terrible picture was beginning to emerge here as I scanned more of the list.
6. Get boxes from Natale's.
That little deli around the corner where we sometimes pick up sandwiches on the way to stakeouts.
7. Call Remo re storage.
8. Clean out office.
9. Get stuff from station.
10. Turn in ob pass.
11. Find passport.
Ok, my first response was the patented Ellison reaction—I was mightily pissed. When was he going to tell me he was leaving, over tacos at lunch today? ("Hey, Jim, did you hear about Griffey's catch last night and oh, by the way, I'm leaving the country?") How could he make a decision like that without talking to me first?
But as quickly as the anger flared, it died. I had exercised that particular muscle too often in the past few days and I was tired of being mad all the time. There was no time for that bullshit anymore; my future was being played out on the paper in front of me and I had better damn well figure out a way to correct this situation . . . before I lost everything after all.
With a suddenness that left me a little lightheaded, I grabbed the cane and stood up. After another steadying breath I turned away from the table and headed towards the doors leading to Sandburg's room. Logically, I knew he still lived here but I needed to connect to the reality. One of the doors stood open and I leaned inside, glancing around, inhaling deeply, pulling in Blair's essence to calm my agitation. There were no boxes, no piles of clothes, no suitcases indicating imminent flight. Satisfied, I backed out and limped back to the table and the offending list.
Think, Ellison. Sandburg's flight instinct had kicked in, obviously. Understandable, I had to admit, but not allowable. Even in the depths of my own anger over this situation, even as my own bitterness had seeped into every confrontation between us since the release of the dissertation, I had experienced fear. I have been dreading something like this since I first realized that Sandburg was indispensable to me. My God, our relationship had survived gun battles, poisonings—hell, even death—but it was Sandburg's success that was about to bring it to an end. See, I've always known Blair would succeed—the kid is goddamn brilliant. But I had always wanted more time to prepare. To come to grips with the fact that the very triumph I wanted for him would come at a very high price to myself. Selfish bastard that I am, I wanted to keep Blair's intelligence and compassion as my own little secret weapon against the world. If—no, when—that world discovered Blair Sandburg, he wouldn't be mine anymore. Can't get any more territorial than that, but I'm told it's genetic.
As for that high price? Done. Paid in full. Cost? One lifetime of work and one set of tear-filled blue eyes caught on videotape forever. Didn't cost me a dime.
No.
No way.
No fucking way.
I felt seized by a single, righteous purpose. Blair Sandburg and I had come too far together to let outside circumstances dictate the course of our friendship anymore. I knew, as sure as my own eyes were blue, that I needed Sandburg in my life. And I was prepared to fight Simon, the Commissioner, and Blair himself before I would let him go. And of the three, my partner would probably be the hardest to convince.
Grabbing the pencil, I decided to do a little editing to the list. Before I could get started, the phone rang. I leaned back and snagged it.
"Ellison."
"Uh, yeah, is Blair around? This is Dave."
"No, not here," I said flatly. Dave was on the list and part of the plan to take my partner away. He was not a friend.
"Ok, hey, do you know if he decided on a price for the Volvo?"
Bingo.
"Sorry, he changed his mind"—or he will—"Volvo's not for sale anymore."
"No way, man, he told me he needed the money! He decided to keep it? No way!"
"Don't know what to tell ya. Sorry." Like hell I was.
"Yeah, ok man, thanks."
I turned the phone off with a smile. Taking the pencil, I drew several, satisfyingly thick lines through items two and four.
My trip to Natale's took longer than expected so I hoofed it up the stairs after stacking the empty boxes in the basement. Jim was supposed to call me when he was free to go to lunch and it was almost noon now. But talking with Gino Natale, the elderly proprietor of the deli, had been a balm to my nerves. He never watched the news, never read the paper, didn't own a computer. He was oblivious to my current notoriety, but curiously concerned on my need for empty boxes. I told him the truth, that I had books to store. No need for him to know I was also storing all my hopes and plans with them.
As I hit the third floor landing my heart did a little flip-flop. God, I did not want to leave the loft. I unlocked the front door and turned my thoughts to my next major crisis: telling Jim I was leaving.
Phrasing was everything. If I positioned my argument just so, I knew he would see it my way. Actually, I didn't believe it would take much persuasion on my part. After being on the receiving end of Jim's ire the past few days I was half convinced he'd offer to pack my stuff himself. But the other, hopeful part of me remembered how he had looked at me in the hospital, with what I perceived was a mixture of sadness and affection. Maybe Jim would put up a fight out of reflex, ask me to stay. I couldn't, of course, but it would be nice to be asked.
So, over lunch would be good, right? Maybe talk a little baseball, how Simon was doing, the Jags' pick in the draft. Nonchalant, casual, two friends hanging together—right. My heart'll be racing, my palms will be sweating—dead giveaway to the human lie detector. Ellison was not dense. A little insensitive sometimes, but not dense.
I walked over to the table and glanced at the phone—no blinking light, no message. I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and sat down, ready to tackle the next item on my list. Staying focussed on this litany of chores kept me from obsessing over the powerful loss still ahead. I'm really not a list-maker but somewhere there had to be order. It certainly wasn't inside my head.
Strange. The paper facing me was not my neat little list. It was a mess. Crossed out, squiggled on, little notes all over the place. Somewhere under there was my original writing, but now it was barely discernible. Did I do this in some stressed-out fugue state? Wouldn't surprise me, but still . . .
I picked the paper up with trembling fingers. This was too weird. Without comprehending what I was reading, I began to notice that the odd notes in the margins were in Jim's hand. But he was at the station, right? I looked around frantically—definitely not down here. No creaking from the bedroom upstairs, no running water from the bathroom. Still, something was off. I glanced around—and then I saw it. My coffee cup was now on the kitchen counter, rinsed out, upside down on a dishtowel.
Jim had been here.
Jim had read the list.
Oh, Jesus.
I waited impatiently outside Simon's hospital room. Through the closed door I could hear him talking to Daryl, admonishing, comforting, teasing. While not begrudging their time together, I wished they would wrap it up. I was a man on mission with not a lot of time to complete it.
On the way to the hospital I stretched my sore leg across the back seat of the cab and turned my options over in my head. When Sandburg returned home he would see what I had done to his stupid list. I smiled a little, contemplating the loop-de-loops that brain of his would turn upon realizing I was hip to his plans. But all that aside, they were his plans and they included leaving. I had to find something to make him choose to stay.
I had no doubt he wanted to. Recent events aside, Blair Sandburg wanted this life, of that I was positive. And he had practically said so himself, finding academia a little too boring after partnering a cop around for four years. But something inside me said he was born to this life. At my side, serving, protecting and yes, guiding. He was a natural investigator with a strong hold on his humanity—the best kind of cop. I hadn't lied to him when I told him he was the best cop I had ever seen—and I was sorry I had just come to realize it myself. The kid was so easy for me to take for granted and I really hated the side of me that did. The thought of being partnered with any one else was now abhorrent to me and the first person that needed to hear that was Sandburg. But I could not offer what I didn't have, and that was why I was here to see Simon.
The door opened and Daryl came out, waving at his dad on the way. I backed up and waited until he noticed me.
"Hey, Jim, how ya doing?" He smiled a smile free of worry—Simon must really be doing ok.
"Good, Daryl, good." I jerked my head towards Simon's room. "He back to his grumpy ways yet?"
"Oh, man, you better believe it. Practically bit the doctor's head off when his cigars were confiscated." Daryl glanced at his watch. "Oh, man, I gotta run. Mom is picking me up in front in five. See ya Jim." He loped toward the elevator as I rapped Simon's door.
A very angry-sounding Simon barked out, "Enter!"
"Hey, Simon."
"Hey yourself, Detective. 'Bout time you showed up." Yes, Simon was up to fighting speed. Most of the medical monitors were gone, leaving one IV drip in the crook of his arm. A small stack of departmental files sat on his lap, along with a cell phone and the remote for the TV.
I yanked a chair closer to where he lay propped up in the hospital bed and sat down, lacing my fingers over my chest. I gave him a superior smile. "I, Captain, have been working. You, on the other hand, have been goldbricking. When do you get sprung?"
Banks sighed. "Not soon enough, damn it. No one listens when I tell them I'm ok to go home. How does Sandburg do it?"
I lost my smile. "Too much practice, sir."
There was a little silence as we both contemplated the regularity of my partner's hospital visits. I broke it with a little laugh. "Actually, Simon, you might consider treating the nurses the way you treat your detectives. They may release you sooner than you think."
His dark eyes lit up. "You know, Jim, if I'm cantankerous enough they may just do that. I hear Connor's getting out today."
"Man, that's great. We'll get you outta here and then we can put this whole thing behind us."
Serious again, Simon narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. "Ok, Ellison, let's talk about that. I saw the news. They ran a clip of Sandburg's press conference. What the hell is going on?"
I ran a hand over my hair. I had kept the "Sentinel" part of the last few days away from Simon, knowing that having Major Crimes shot to hell was enough on his plate. But now it was time for plain dealing. I took a deep breath and told him everything that had happened since he and Connor had been shot. He listened impassively until I told him practically verbatim what Blair had said at the press conference. Then, there was a flash of emotion I didn't quite recognize. Sorrow? Pride? Amazingly, my voice remained steady and when I finished there was another little silence.
Then Simon cleared his throat. "My God, Jim."
I nodded. "I know, Simon." I shifted in the chair. "Actually, that's why I'm here. And, of course, to see how you were doing."
Simon sputtered out an irritated chuckle. "Cut the crap, Detective. I didn't make captain without learning something about the human condition. What condition is your condition in?" The words were flippant but I recognized not only the caring in them but also the unspoken inquiry.
"My 'condition' is about to become critical. Sandburg has gone noble on me and decided I would be better off without him."
Instead of giving me the sarcastic reply I expected, Simon answered, "Do you think you would be?"
I was flabbergasted. Of all people, Simon should know what Sandburg meant to me. My jaw dropped open and I stared at him. "What the hell do you mean by that?" I stood up and pushed the chair to the wall with the back of my legs. The pain in my leg was negligible compared to the agitation I was feeling. I started to pace, feeling the captain's eyes follow me. Now, pacing with a cane is not an easy thing but the adrenaline was really flowing. The question was absurd and I needed to make Simon understand before I told him my decision. I felt the emotions welling up inside of me, threatening to consume me, so I stopped, took a breath, pulled the chair back and sat down. The hole in my leg was really beginning to annoy me.
The whole time I was going through my little exercise Simon had remained silent. When I looked him in the eye again, he quirked an eyebrow at me and said, "Ok, dumb question. But Jim, you know his pass is going to be revoked. I'll bet the paperwork is sitting on my desk right now, waiting for my signature. And a few days ago you acted like you couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. Now I don't know how you two have been getting along since then but I see real mixed signals here. And if I'm confused I can't imagine what the kid is feeling. You want to clear this up for me here?"
Leaning forward in the chair, I rested my forearms on my knees and clasped my hands tightly around the neck of the cane. "Ok, Simon, here it is in a nutshell. I finally got it through my head I can't give up these senses. I also find I can't be a cop without Sandburg. If we don't figure out a way to keep him on the job, I'll resign. He wants to go to Timbuktu, I'll get my shots. He decides to study how many angels dance on the head of a pin, I'll hold the magnifying glass. I'd rather stay here and be a cop but what I want isn't important anymore. Clear enough?" Although I said it with a little smile I could see Simon could tell I was dead serious.
I watched him closely. This man, this friend, held my future in his hands but I trusted him. Poor guy had been witness to some pretty strange shit over these years and had stood by me, stood by us, through all of it. Looking in his eyes I saw the Captain warring with the Friend and I patiently waited for the outcome of the battle. No need to tell him I needed both—he knew.
"Jim," he said slowly, measuring his words, "you sure about this?" He held up a hand, blocking my attempt at a quick, decisive reply. "No, wait. I know that's how you feel right this minute. You're deep in guilt mode now that the threat has passed. Sandburg's managed to save your ass again and maybe you're feeling a little guilty, too, about having your life back. At the cost of your partner's future, I might add."
I could feel the blood darken my face as I started to get pissed. These were tough words Simon was bringing down on me and I did not want to hear them. But he was relentless.
"So now, you're thinking maybe things will go back to normal. Find a loophole to allow Sandburg to work with you. Hell, now that he's unemployed he'll have more time to spend doing your reports. Can't make the rent but you can cut him some slack there, right?" His eyes behind his glasses were hard. I could hear his heart rate increase with his anger. I think Simon's toleration of this Sentinel thing had finally been exceeded. "That dissertation of his was always going to be a stumbling block and now—poof!—it's gone and life can go on, right?"
"No, dammit, Simon, that's not it at all! You've got it all wrong!" I sat back in the chair, staring at him. He glared right back and suddenly I got it. Bastard was playing devil's advocate, testing me. I didn't have time for this. All right, then, Simon, here you go. Leaning on the cane, I stood up, reached into my back pocket and pulled out my badge. I tossed it onto the table beside his bed and looked him straight in the eyes. "I'll turn my weapon in to the desk sergeant when I get back to the station. It's been a real pleasure working with you, sir." I extended my hand to him.
He didn't take it, instead crossing his arms with stubborn placidity. "Save it, Jim. Before I go to bat for this thing I want to make damn sure the two of you don't screw it up. Your lack of communication skills and Sandburg's tendency towards martyrdom have come close to destroying you both before. What makes this time any different? Maybe the two of you should just cut your losses and call it good."
My hand dropped limply to my side. I knew what he was alluding to and, as usual, my heart twisted at the memory. The horror of the fountain was the single most painful episode of my life, more devastating than the crash in Peru, more heartbreaking than any loss I had ever experienced. Strangely enough, the recollection now brought a renewed strength to my determination. I rested both my hands on the cane, causing me to lean forward a little.
"That's just it, Captain. This Sentinel thing is hard for both of us. Sometimes I think it's so big I'll never get around it. You know Sandburg feels the same way. God, he admits often enough he's making it up as he goes along. Sometimes it's too big and we do screw it up. But we have to do it together. Call it a Sentinel thing, or a friend thing, it doesn't matter anymore." I straightened up. "It just is."
"You willing to keep exposing him to the risks of the job?" God, Simon, you are really playing hardball now.
I licked suddenly dry lips. "No, you know I'm not. Jesus, I'd give my right arm to keep him safe. But I can do my damndest to protect him. Just like he does for me."
"And if Sandburg just says screw you and takes off anyway?"
I faltered. I had no words to describe that particular hell.
Simon uncrossed his arms and looked at the ceiling with a sigh. Then he slowly reached over and grabbed my badge and tossed it back to me. "All right, Detective. Let's start making some phone calls."
I was toast. Totally toast. No more prevaricating—Jim wouldn't mess around now. He's gonna want to know everything.
I was sitting on the couch, looking out the windows but not seeing anything. After realizing Jim had seen the list, and therefore my intentions, I had dropped it like a snake and moved away. My curiosity about what he had written paled in comparison to my confusion. I had this image of Jim in my head, no doubt fueled by his attitude lately, that what I did with my life was not terribly important to him. Oh, I knew he wanted me safe and stuff, and if one those ubiquitous bad guys had broken into the loft and kidnapped me again he would move heaven and earth to find me, but that was just Jim. Sentinel to the great city and all that. But I think my status as number one citizen of the Blessed Protectorate had taken a major dive. So, logically, even finding my dumb list shouldn't have been more than a tiny blip on Ellison radar. But, from what little I had actually comprehended of the hatchet job he had done to my attempt at order, he was taking over. There were lines and notes and squiggles, all indicative of a mind at work. He hadn't been shy about it. In fact, there was something almost proprietary about the way he just overwrote my plans.
My head really started having an argument with my heart, an organ I had been trying to ignore since I had decided to leave. When the phone rang, I jumped off the couch and damn near started hyperventilating. Staring at the phone would not make it shut up. I know, I've tried before. It took me so long to gather up my courage to answer it the machine kicked in and started playing the message Jim and I had recorded together—guess he'll have to change that, I thought distractedly. Then I heard what I had alternately been hoping for and dreading.
"Look, Chief, I know you're there. Pick up the damn phone."
Oh man, there was no denying that tone. I grabbed the phone and cleared my throat. "Hey, Jim."
"Listen, I'm at the hospital and I'm starved. Take the truck. I left the keys on my nightstand."
Huh? Lunch was on? I was torn between relief and thinking he was one cold-hearted bastard. "Ok, Jim, see you in about fifteen?"
"Ok—and Blair? Bring the list." Click. Nope. Not cold-hearted. The great Ellison determination had kicked in. He was going to fight me on this. My mind was made up, wasn't it? It's not like he could talk me out of it, right? So why did I feel a little thrill of exhilaration?
I grabbed the list, folding it into quarters as I ran up the stairs to Jim's room. Keys were right where he said, of course. Tucking the square of paper into the pocket of my flannel shirt, I rushed back down the stairs and out the door.
Ten minutes later I pulled into the wide, curving driveway that went past the hospital's main entrance. Jim was leaning against a support near the curb, head tilted back, eyes closed, enjoying the sun on his face. He looked tired. I pulled up next to him, reaching out to unlock the passenger door. He cautiously slid in, favoring the leg. Not a word from him. After he got settled, cane between his knees, I made a vague wave with my hands. "Where to, Jim?"
He shrugged. "Let's head to the park. I'm in the mood for a dog and I don't wanna waste the sun." Sandburgian interpretation: he wanted lots of airspace for yelling.
As I drove toward the park, silence filled the cab of the truck. Me and nature, we abhor a vacuum.
"How's Simon?"
"Doing good. Be out in a few more days."
"Cool. And Megan?"
"Out today."
More silence. Jim wasn't exactly radiating good will here but he had yet to rip my head off either. So, brave heart that I am, I decided to send out a conversational feeler.
"Jim, I really think we should—"
"Save it, Sandburg. Go around and park in the back lot." Ok, so much for a preemptive strike.
Dutifully, I followed his instructions and soon we were seated on a park bench with a great view of the marina, tucked way off the jogger's path. Well, he sat and I perched, my right knee bobbing nervously. Yep, there they were: trip hammer heartbeat, sweaty palms—right on schedule. Jim stretched out his long legs with a sigh. This was his show. We both knew it. I waited.
Jesus, the kid was acting like I was about to condemn him to twenty years hard labor. He knew every nuance of my behavior, except when it came to reading how I felt about him. Granted, lately he had been getting mixed signals from me, just like Simon had noted, but I was going to fix that right here. Right now.
"You bring that list?"
He started at the sound of my voice. "Yeah, right here." He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. He moved as if to give it to me but I shook my head.
"No, you hold on to it. What's the first thing on it?"
"Call Naomi."
"Did you?"
He blinked. This was obviously not going the way he expected. I think he expected yelling.
"Uh, couldn't find the number. I think I left it at the station."
"Ok, what's next?"
"Call Dave."
"Anything else?"
"Well, it's crossed out. I didn't do that, you did."
"Right. Taggert dropped me off home about 10:30. Dave called back about ten minutes later." Blair looked at me, expecting me to explain why I had fairly obliterated Dave's name off the list. Be careful here, Ellison. Slow and steady wins the race.
When I didn't say anything, Blair prompted me. This was a conversational minefield for him as he tried to figure out exactly what I knew. "Dave say anything about the Volvo?"
I leaned the cane on the armrest of the bench and crossed my arms over my chest. "He's not interested in buying the car anymore." And damn if the kid didn't look crushed. I felt a little stab of guilt but ignored it. Sandburg would understand soon enough. "What's next?"
"Return books to library, which I did this morning." He sounded a little defensive here. That was good, because I don't want a martyr for a partner. On the other hand, time to lay a little brickwork for my ultimate goal—making Sandburg know down to his toes that we were once and future partners—one way or another.
I turned a little towards him and uncrossed my arms. "Yeah, about that. Listen, Chief, you gotta go back to Rainier, you let me know and I'll go with you. No need for you to face that alone, you got that?"
Boy, did he. His eyes were huge in his face as he looked at me, paper forgotten in his hands as he digested the implications of what I had just said. And bum leg aside, I meant it. People can be really shitty when they perceive they've been betrayed and I wanted to protect him from that as much as possible. Since I had my own degree in the turning-on-Blair department, I considered myself an expert in detecting that behavior in anyone who cut across the path of my Guide.
Sandburg cleared his throat, still clearly affected by my words. "Jim, that's really nice of you and all but it's no big deal. I still have a lot of friends there. It's not so bad." Liar.
I waved my hand. "Whatever. Just let me know the next time you need to run over there, ok? What's next?" I knew full well what was next on the list. The prelims were over, time for the main event.
"I, uh, wanted to check the Internet to see what I could get for my car. You made a line through that one, too. I'm kinda wondering why, Jim. See, here's the deal . . ." Here it comes, Ellison. Stay sharp. "You know I got fired, right? That means no income. No more grants, nothing. I can't afford to pay insurance on the car as it is, not to mention I'm late with the rent. Again. So, I figured since I won't be going to my office anymore I could just dump the car now and get the rent caught up. Cascade has a pretty good bus system for the U." He was watching to see if I bought it. I looked back at him without expression. Then he threw me a curveball. "I was also told yesterday that I couldn't come back to Major Crimes except to pick up my stuff. They told me to turn in my observer pass by the end of the week."
Oh, damn it. I had been hoping to argue that he needed the car to get to the station, figuring until Simon could get back and straighten things out we could ignore any kind of revocation. But some paper-pushing higher-up had decided to help things along, probably to avoid any embarrassment to the department. They would have to have been damn sneaky about it too, doing it when I was distracted sometime yesterday. And I wasn't the only one. Had any of my fellow detectives in Major Crimes known that Blair's pass had been revoked I would have heard about it. I made a little note in my head to find out just who had done that little deed and discuss it with them later. Off the record, of course.
"Sorry, Chief, I didn't expect that. We'll figure something out later. Next item?"
There went his heartrate. "Call airline."
"What did I write?"
He looked at the paper and then at me. And then he smiled. "You wrote 'where are we going.'"
I nodded sagely. "So, I hope it's someplace with a beach. Wanna work on my tan."
Sandburg gave a surprised snort of laughter. "You are so full of it, Ellison." He smoothed the paper over his knee, a nervous gesture. I had no insight into this one and I held my breath for his answer. "Mexico," he finally said, very softly.
I frowned. "Don't need a passport for Mexico."
Another little smile. "Hey, you're skipping ahead. No, not for Mexico, but maybe someplace after. I just don't know."
"Well, how long we gonna be gone? I'm on administrative and medical leave for while. Let me clear up a few things at the station and we're out of here."
Suddenly, like a balloon popping, Blair tired of the game. I could see it in the lines around his eyes as they met and held mine. '"No, Jim, no more. You know what I'm trying to do here and for the life of me I can't figure out why you're trying to stop me. It's time to move on with your life."
My life, not his. Oh, Chief, don't you get it? My life is with you, you idiot.
Sandburg pushed on. "I mean, it's not like you haven't made it clear you don't trust me, right? Couple a days ago you thought I had totally sold you out!" His voice was rising. Come on, buddy, let it out. God knows I deserve it. "Why should I even want to stay, you know? You get scared, you treat me like crap. I don't need this anymore! I don't want it!" He jumped to his feet and stood with his back to me, breathing hard.
"You're right, I was scared."
"Oh, yeah, the old fear-based response kicked in. Well, I wrote the goddamned book on your responses. Sure, I understand them, but it doesn't change the fact that it hurts. That I hurt, Jim," he finished softly.
My gut twisted. "Blair, do you know what I'm really afraid of?"
He took a calming breath and turned back to me, hands on his hips. "Sure. Discovery. Loss of privacy. Lab rat. Being labeled a freak."
I shook my head, turning my gaze out to the water. This was the part he absolutely had to understand. My mouth went dry with the enormity of the risk I was taking, knowing if I didn't get this right it was over. I looked up at him with a small smile. "Yeah, I used to be scared of all that. God knows how much I've hated being treated like a circus act for the last few days. Still wasn't my worst fear, though."
He sat down back next to me, staring resolutely ahead. I kept my eyes on his profile, waiting.
"Ok, I'll bite, what are you most afraid of?"
"That." I pointed at the list still clutched in his hand.
He turned towards me, a questioning frown marring his forehead.
"You leaving."
He wasn't expecting that. He jerked back as though burned, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Funny way of showing it, Jim. I mean, more often than not, you're pushing me away."
"I know." I let the statement stand, knowing only the purest honesty between us would be allowed.
There was a pause while he considered this. I waited, content to watch the expressions dance across his face. Then I realized I wasn't seeing what I so desperately needed to see. Pushing away my panic, I said, "Look, Chief, that's it. There's no hidden agenda here. You stay, I'm good. You go," I faltered, anguished at the thought, "I don't know. It all falls apart."
The frown deepened. "When did all this happen? I mean, this is news to me, man."
"I know, me too. I think it was that damn press conference. All of a sudden, I just knew. Everything we've been through, everything we've talked about—suddenly I got it. And I was free." I shrugged helplessly, words failing me yet again. It wasn't working and a huge, dark chasm was opening at my feet.
He turned towards me on the bench, knee bent and left arm coming to rest along the back. I took the change of body language as a slim ray of hope. It was extinguished with his next words as he tried to justify his decision to leave.
"I think the sudden absence of the threat has kinda overbalanced you here. You've had a lot to deal with this week and you're just reacting to it. You'll be ok." He didn't believe it and neither did I, but he will still hell-bent on the notion that I would be better off without him. He continued, leaning forward in his effort to convince me he was doing the right thing. "Look, I've been in contact with some colleagues who have asked me to visit their site. Some consulting will earn me a little money, then I thought I would just travel around, you know? Haven't done that in a while." His eyes looked beseechingly into mine, trying to convince me of something he didn't even believe himself. There was no hiding the reluctance in his voice, in his eyes, and I rejoiced in it. My instincts on this were dead on.
I canted my head a little to the right, as if considering his plan. "Sandburg, let me ask you something. Did you write anything fraudulent or untrue in your thesis? Anything at all?"
I already knew the answer but I needed him to follow the path I had set for him. He replied with swift, unstudied vehemence. "No! No way! God, you know I would never—"
I interrupted him. "And you still believe Sentinels exist and that I am the living incarnation of one?"
His eyes narrowed, beginning to see where I was going. "That hasn't changed, Jim. You are a Sentinel, you know that."
I nodded. "Ok, do you still believe in the necessity of a Guide? That a Guide protects and empowers the Sentinel?"
He was getting more and more suspicious. "A Sentinel needs a Guide, yes. I proved that in my thesis."
"A Guide, Chief? Anyone will do?"
"Look, Jim—"
"Just answer the question, Sandburg."
He lowered his head, chestnut curls obscuring his face while he fought against the truth of his reply. I heard a deep breath fill his lungs and then he looked up, the brief, internal battle over. The clarity in his gaze told me he too was choosing honesty. I was almost home free.
"'A Sentinel and a Guide share a bond that transcends friendship. They are knotted together through need and choice; they can no more deny this relationship then they can the rising of the sun.' Chapter seven, about the third paragraph, I think." He looked almost apologetic. "Sorry, I can be a little dramatic at times."
Well, that just blew me away. He was quoting his own work and it was cementing my argument. Suddenly, I grew frustrated. If he believed all this, why was he putting us through these hoops? But this was Blair Sandburg I was dealing with here. Knowing all this had not stopped him from reaching the conclusion I was still better off without him. The frustration faded and was replaced with a determination to forever eradicate his doubts about his place in this Sentinel's world.
I leaned forward and clasped the wrist of his arm that dangled from the back of the bench. Feeling the blood pulse through the fragile veins I almost felt dizzy with the need for connection. "Then explain why you are denying me the right to have my Guide of need and choice at my side. Why are you punishing me?"
He tried pulling his captured wrist away from me but I held fast. His right hand was still clutching the paper and he stared at it as if he had forgotten it was there. I shook his wrist a little to make him look at me again. Finally, he answered. "I'm not trying to punish you. I . . . I just don't think I'm an asset here. I've lost access to research, I can't help you on the job, hell, I can't even buy groceries at this point. You rarely zone out anymore and you've learned so much I know you can prevent most of them. Besides, there's a roomful of detectives that may have finally put two and two together and come up with one Sentinel." He mustered up a wry smile. "Joel's practically been a believer since that Ventriss thing. They'll think over the past few years and they'll figure it out on their own. And Simon, well, he's practically been a Guide-in-training for months. I know he'll watch out for you." He winced a little and I realized my hold on him had grown tighter through his little speech. I loosened my grip but did not let go. He was warming to the topic now, right hand flailing the paper around as he mounted his final argument. "Besides, this should be great for you, right? Having the loft back to yourself, a partner who can back you up, all the things you've missed with me hanging around. I mean, we're still friends and stuff and I'll stay in touch and . . . and visit, right?"
Calm down, Ellison. This was nothing more than I expected but it was painful to hear his assessment of his importance. "Ok, let me get this straight. You're telling me that despite the genetic imperative I can get along without my Guide. You think I'll be glad to have my privacy again, get back to that great guy I was before you showed up." I gave his wrist another little shake. "That's all bullshit, Chief, and you know it. You and I both know that only you can guide me. And as for having the loft back—Jesus, Sandburg, take a look around that place sometime! It went from being my loft to our home a long time ago. I can't imagine it any other way now. Ask me sometime what I've done with all the rent you've paid me over the years." Time to put it on the line. "But here's what I want to know, and don't even bother lying to me. What do you want?"
Oh, the vulnerability in those eyes. I fought the urge to just chain him to the support beam in the loft 'til he came to his senses. My protective, possessive instincts were screaming at me to do just that, but my heart told me to wait. He had to come to me freely or not at all. It's the only way this would work.
Sandburg turned his gaze out towards the marina, effectively shadowing the emotions in his face. A soft, warm breeze caught at his hair and he closed his eyes. I held my breath and without really knowing what I was doing I moved my hand down his wrist and clasped his hand, pulling them together down on the bench between us. He turned and looked at our joined hands and then up at me. There were tears in his eyes.
"I want to stay."
And then there were tears in my eyes too. My hand tightened on his. I had to clear my throat before any sound would come out. "Well, that's an incredible coincidence because that's exactly what I want. Listen, Chief, I don't know what's gonna happen next. Things may get a little weird here for a while but they won't change this." I pulled up our entwined hands to eye level, a physical covenant. "This is just you and me. Sentinel, job, all that crap is just so much window dressing. You getting me here?"
A transcendent smile lit his face. "I gotcha." Yeah, Chief, you certainly do.
"Good. Help me up."
He stood up and shoved the list haphazardly into his back pocket. Reaching down he grabbed my hand and leveraged me onto my feet. Instead of letting him go when I was steady I pulled him into my arms and damn near howled in triumph when his arms went around me in return. Finally, I let him go and he handed me my cane. We stood side by side for a minute, then I laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now that we've got that settled, let's go find the hotdog stand. All this emotional crap makes me hungry."
I am a tower of Jell-O. All my carefully conceived arguments were lost to the power of Sentinel stubbornness. I had thought I was doing the right thing and was shot down before I had really started. The idea that Jim was steadfast in his desire to keep me at his side warmed me more than I can say.
Two days after our talk in the park we were still dealing with the aftermath of the previous week. Some funny things had happened along the way. Funny strange, not funny ha-ha.
Several of these incidents took place in my soon-to-be-vacated office. True to his word, Jim had accompanied me every time I ventured on campus. Yesterday was my official packing day. Jim, still attached to that cane, was put on inventory duty. He plopped down on the floor behind my desk with a list of stuff that had to be categorized and accounted for. Sitting on the floor made it easier for him to stretch out in the limited space, but also made him invisible to anyone who stopped by. Strangely enough, I had quite a few visitors. Some curious, some genuinely sad to see me leave and some just spiteful. There was the time Dave stopped by. He was one of the nice ones. We chatted awkwardly for a few minutes—people really did not know what to say to me—and then he mentioned he was sorry I had changed my mind about the Volvo. Before I could question him on that—Jim said Dave had changed his mind—I heard a crash behind the desk. I quickly skirted around to see Jim trying to pick up the shards of the Mayan pottery he had just dropped. He looked at me apologetically.
"I hope this was one of your props and not one of the real ones, Chief." Kneeling, I swallowed and looked closer at the shards.
"It's one of the fake ones," I said thankfully. Last thing I needed right now was explaining the loss of a priceless artifact. "Let me grab the broom."
Dave poked his head over the desk. "Hey, Blair, I gotta run. Take care of that car for me, ok?" I stood up and shook his hand.
"You bet, Dave. Thanks again." As he left I turned my attention to my partner. He was still gingerly picking up the shattered pottery. I grabbed the broom from the janitor's closet and started sweeping around him, handing him a sheaf of paper to scoop up the little pieces while I swept. When the chore was done, I sat down in the desk chair next to him and crossed my arms.
He looked up at me with innocent eyes. "What?"
"Explain to me how Mr. Covert Ops with the hair-trigger reflexes can drop a piece of pottery from about two feet and manage to bust it into a million pieces."
Was that relief in his eyes? "Leg cramp. Kinda took me by surprise."
Sounded vaguely plausible. I let it go.
Another weird thing happened a few hours later, although in retrospect maybe not so weird. Maybe just more Sentinel-type stuff. We were about done for the day and Jim was still on the floor, describing the dinner he had decided I owed him for the time he had put in. What had started out as a nice meal of angel hair pasta and Caesar salad had segued into a six-course feast of gargantuan proportions. He was waxing lyrical about the chocolate soufflé he expected—sorry, big guy, we don't have the right pan—when Chancellor Edwards sauntered in. I was sitting at my desk, tossing stuff from the drawers into the box on top, chuckling at Jim's descriptions. He stopped when I stiffened in my chair, and it didn't take any stretch of his senses to recognize my distress.
I slowly stood up. Chances were this was going to be unpleasant. "Chancellor Edwards," I said noncommittally.
She walked towards me, her eyes taking in the bare shelves, the boxes and open file cabinet drawers. Finally she looked at me and I was taken aback by the animosity in her eyes. She had been on my case since Brad Ventriss' family had withdrawn funding from the University. Like it was my fault the whole family was a basket of rotten apples?
She gave me a patently false smile. "Mr. Sandburg. Just thought I would stop by and make sure that nothing belonging to the University inadvertently made its way into your possession."
I gaped at her. Did she just accuse me of planning to rip off the University? She continued. "Some of these things are very valuable and I wanted to assure you that the Anthropology department would make a very thorough assessment of the inventory." Oh, my God, that's exactly was she was doing.
My mind could not formulate a cohesive sentence. As I stood there staring at her I felt a displacement of air and heard the squeak of rubber soles on the linoleum. I didn't need to turn around to know Jim was coming to his feet behind me. My focus was on the woman in front of me. If I hadn't been so upset by her accusations what followed next would have been comical.
I watched her take in Jim slowly rising from the floor like an avenging god. Her eyes traveled upwards with appreciation—Jim, you still got it, man—until she reached his eyes. Her expression changed from one of primal enjoyment to one of primal fear. Silence reigned in the office for a few seconds. Finally, she shifted her gaze from Jim to me.
"Uh, please leave your inventory with the department secretary," she looked fearfully at Jim then back to me, "and your keys with security." With that she turned and practically ran from the room.
I turned to look at my partner. He gazed back at me with a wide-eyed half-smile. "So, getting back to dinner . . ."
But the funniest, strangest thing happened today. I walked in to the bullpen a disgraced Police Observer and left a soon-to-be official—and paid—member of the Major Crimes squad. But that's not the funny, strange part. That belongs to the fact that I felt like this was meant to be, that I was finally where I belonged. I do have major misgivings about firearms training and as for the hair thing . . . well, we'll see if I can't get around that one, too. But I will do both, and more, to stay at my Sentinel's side. Locking eyes with him across the room, the sounds of the bullpen fading away, I saw all the affirmation I required.
And as for that dumb list? It's carefully folded it and saved in the pages of my journal. Some days I take it out, smoothing out the creases with tender hands. A few days had passed before I looked at it again after the park, cleaning out my pockets prior to doing the laundry. Jim had erased number seven completely, so I never did talk to Remo. There was a very evil looking happy face next to the part about turning in my observer's pass—a small reminder of Jim's twisted sense of humor. And my favorite little addition: number twelve. Wish I had seen it sooner.
12. Talk to my partner.
It was heavily underlined.
Followed by: To Do List, Too by Veronica.
My first fanfiction was a labor of love, a story that wrote itself without a lot of help from me. This was my first step in redeeming Jim, a character I believed had been made way too cold by the PTB.
Feedback: email.