After the Siege
by JoAnn Stuart
Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters are copyright Pet Fly Productions, UPN, and Paramount. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.
Spoilers: Switchman and Siege.
Author's Notes: Thank you to Lisa for the beta. Originally posted in Cascade Library.
Detective James Ellison opened the door to his apartment and paused on the threshold, unconsciously extending his senses of sight, hearing and smell to sweep the loft before stepping inside. With a nearly imperceptible nod, he entered the loft and shut the door behind him. Save perhaps a slightly stale odor due to the windows being closed all day, everything appeared to be the same as when he had left earlier this morning. Truth be told, his apartment was so Spartan and bare that anything different or out of place would be readily noticeable, even without enhanced senses.
Jim winced as he shrugged out of his jacket, all the joints and muscles in his left arm protesting the movement. Earlier in the afternoon, the detective had dangled handcuffed off the runner of an airborne helicopter for several long minutes, supporting not only his own weight, but also that of terrorist Garrett Kincaid. Rotating his shoulder and massaging the muscles of his forearm, he again concluded that his decision to decline a visit to the hospital seemed to have been correct. He hurt, but not in a bad pain sort of way. The muscles felt more like the day after a hard session in the weight room - tired, achy, starting to stiffen up - but not the sharp, burning pain that would indicate a serious injury. Nothing a hot shower and a couple of aspirin wouldn't fix.
After placing his holster into a drawer on the kitchen island and draping his jacket over a chair, he crossed the few steps to his ancient refrigerator, opened the door and surveyed the offerings within. Although he knew he should eat, never having collected his Wonderburger lunch from his ex-wife, Carolyn, none of the contents in the neatly aligned Tupperware containers appealed to him. Reaching in for a beer, he told himself he'd order in Chinese a bit later. Right now, just needed to unwind. Stand down. Kick back. Decompress. What was the term Sandburg used? Oh. Process.
The detective grabbed his jacket from the chair back before making his way out to the balcony that overlooked the city of Cascade. Despite the flurries earlier in the day, the weather was not too chilly for him. In fact, he preferred the cold. It seemed to clear his mind and sharpen his wits. Pulling up a chair and popping the cap on the beer, he settled down, feet propped atop the old door that served as table, while he let the muted sounds of the city drift over him and the brisk air sweep the day's mental and emotional litter from his head.
His eyes casually tracked the progress of a flock of waterfowl crossing the cloud-laden sky, the sight telling him that winter's grip must almost be at an end, if the birds were already returning. Spring marked the end of hibernation, a season of new beginnings. These past several days had certainly sounded him a wake-up call of sorts, and not just due to the reappearance of his senses, apparently dormant since his time in Peru a few years back. There was no early indication that this year would be any different than the one preceding it. While initially the march of days ambled along in their usual routine, recent events had really taken a walk on the wild side. The crime rate in Cascade was suddenly soaring, criminals and psychos flocking to the city like never before. Perhaps this acceleration had something to do with the approaching new millennium madness.
Jim had rarely experienced this much back-to-back action since his Army Ranger days. Most police work tended to be rather mundane: tracking down leads, questioning suspects, putting together the pieces of the puzzle left behind by the criminal. Interesting and challenging work - and he was damned good at it, too - but as a rule, not so often shoot-`em-up exciting. Unless you called being buried in an avalanche of paperwork exciting. True, he had to admit he got a real rush out of the more physically active aspects of his profession. Equally true that filling out the paperwork after some of the more adrenaline pumping activities, say a high-speed chase, for instance, made him feel just like the poor working stiff in that old commercial. The one whose desk was shoved down the hall by a mountain of paper.
He took another pull on the beer, then chuckled to himself, recalling the expression on Sandburg's face as the young man asked him whether this was a typical day for him or not. God, it was fun to twit this kid. Next time Blair asked him what one of the young lovelies was saying about him, he'd tell him she said she'd never date anyone who's hair was prettier than her own. Not that he found Sandburg's hair pretty or anything. In fact, he had overheard someone making just that remark.
Sandburg. Now there was an enigma. At first glance, the long-haired, grunge-attired, fast-talking kid seemed like a big, harmless, albeit overly exuberant, teddy bear. An overgrown sixties-throwback teddy bear at that. Blair Sandburg carried a certain kind of guileless innocence about him that was belied by an extremely fine and agile mind. Jim gave him full marks for creativity, ingenuity and cool-headedness. For an untrained civilian, Sandburg had done remarkably well. Perhaps not a teddy bear after all. More like a sehlat. The Vulcan Mr. Spock's teddy bear. With fangs.
Jim shuddered a little and shook his head. Where had that bizarre notion come from? He must still be really pumped from the day's adventure. Simon, or someone else higher up in the brass, would probably require him and all the others to endure a thoroughly tedious debriefing. Probably tomorrow. Rolling the now empty beer bottle in his hands, Jim wondered about Sandburg's frame of mind. Even though the young man looked fine and assured Jim that he felt fine, Sandburg was not a cop and had recently experienced two fairly traumatic events that would have sent most rookies calling for their mama. Over the span of a week, the anthropologist had been terrorized and held at gunpoint. Twice. Taken hostage. Twice. For someone with no military or police training, that had to be messing with his head. This hands-on stuff was probably much, much more than the observer bargained for.
Maybe he should check up on the kid. Kid. Jim smiled to himself. Actually, less than a decade separated the two men, but somehow Sandburg seemed to come from a much younger generation. Perhaps it had more to do with their respective cultural backgrounds than with actual birth dates. The detective's upbringing bespoke the conservative right, a place for everything, and everything in its place, law, order and self-discipline. The freewheeling anthropologist radiated an aura of sign-waving, hippie-punk antiestablishment that struck Jim as being very young. Almost adolescent. Irresponsible. No. Not irresponsible or juvenile. But un-responsible. Unfettered by external societal expectations and conventions. Yet Blair seemed an honorable man, strong in his convictions, with a finely honed internal sense of right and wrong, of justice and fairness, of duty and honor.
Jim's stomach growled and he glanced at his watch, noting that the five o'clock hour had just passed. Rubbing his chin and gazing once again at the thin smudge on the horizon where the grey of the sky met the grey of the sea, he considered giving the young grad student a call. Trouble was, he never did get Blair's home phone number, or even know where he lived, for that matter. The only meetings they'd had thus far had been at the university or in other public places.
When they left the precinct earlier that afternoon, Sandburg had said he needed to go back to the university to finish up a bit of work. Maybe he was still there, immersed in some project or another. Decision made, the detective pulled his long legs down from the table and headed inside. He had no need to find the card in his wallet; he had the extension memorized already.
After tossing the empty into the rubbish, Jim picked up the phone, but hesitated before dialing. What was he going to say? 'Hi, Sandburg. I just wanted to know how you're doing?' And then Sandburg would say something like 'I'm okay, man,' even though he probably wasn't. Guys just didn't chat on the phone about their feelings; especially to another guy they barely knew. A better idea would be to tell Sandburg he wanted to talk about the Sentinel thing. Some interesting things had indeed happened with his senses this afternoon and Jim knew Blair would jump at that. During the course of the conversation, he could find out how the younger man was dealing with the fallout from recent events. Better still, he'd spring for dinner, too. Food always loosened people up, made them more inclined to talk. Jim felt sure that money was tight with the grad student, if his wardrobe were any indication. Besides, it was the least he could do. This man had saved his bacon. Twice. First with the garbage truck and then with the way he conned the pilot into turning the helicopter back to police headquarters.
The ringing of the phone interrupted Blair Sandburg's frenetic pacing of his small basement office at the university. Not that there was a lot of room to pace in the space that also housed the artifacts of the anthropology department. The cramped, minuscule room actually served to make bouncing of the walls that much easier.
He pounced on the phone, started to speak, cleared his throat, then finally said, "Hello?"
"Sandburg. It's Ellison."
"Jim! How are you, man? What's up?"
"Listen, I just wanted to talk to you about... the Sentinel thing. Unless you have other plans for tonight?"
"No! No, I don't have anything going on. I'm good for tonight."
"Okay, then I'll meet you at your office." Jim figured a restaurant would be too public for the discussion he wanted to have. "Did you have dinner yet?"
"Um, no. Not yet."
"Chinese sound okay?"
"Uh, yeah. That'd be great."
"See you in about half an hour."
"Okay, man. Great. Great."
Blair hung up the phone, scrubbed his hands across his face, then held his trembling hands out in front of him. This really was so not great. He really didn't want to see Jim right now; he really didn't want to see anyone right now. The events of the past few days had caught up with him big time and nothing in his bag of tricks seemed to be helping at present. He tried his Kundalini breathing. And nearly hyperventilated. He tried meditating. And couldn't focus for more than three seconds before nightmare images flashed across the screen provided by his closed eyes. He tried losing himself in the Yanomamo music. And his headache grew worse. He tried to study. And reread the same page fifty times without understanding anything. He would have gone outside to run around, but it was too damned cold. He was reduced to pacing back and forth within his tiny office, having no desire to go home to his cavernous, frigid, isolated warehouse in a not-so-good section of town with only some genetically mutated rodents of unusual size for company. Where was The Dread Pirate Roberts when you really needed him? The young grad student wanted to stay where there were a lot of people around. Just in case he, you know, needed to yell for help or something.
Hugging his arms against his body, he glanced around the crowded space he called his office. Spying a hair tie poking out from underneath the book he gave up on reading earlier, he snatched it up and quickly pulled his hair back off his neck. Hands akimbo, he surveyed the desk. If Jim were bringing Chinese, he'd better clear the decks or he'd be picking off bits of rice and chop suey from his important papers for the next week.
The simple task consumed his energy and allowed Blair to focus on something outside his own roiling thoughts. Running his hand over the surface of the desk once it was finally clear of the multitudinous piles of papers and other debris, Blair noted the griminess and decided it needed a quick wipe down. The little bit of dirt didn't bother him particularly - he'd eaten in far less sanitary conditions on various anthropological expeditions - but given what he'd seen of Jim Ellison thus far, he figured it would bug the tall cop. Tall Sentinel, he mentally amended with a small smile. The man was as fastidious as a cat.
As Jim drove his Land Rover over to Rainier University, he pondered the instant connection he shared with this young stranger. While by no means a hermit - he enjoyed a night of poker and beer with the boys as much as the next fellow - Jim preferred to keep his professional and private lives separate. Compartmentalized. Neatly contained. And he truly cherished his personal space. Maybe that was why the marriage with Carolyn didn't pan out.
He worked without a partner not so much because he was unsociable, as many incorrectly presumed, but because he had no desire to have to rely on another person. To be responsible for another person on such an intimate level. Ultimately, he could only be responsible for himself. Losing people under his command in Peru and losing Jack Pendergrast, his first and only partner, had taught him this lesson well. So many variables couldn't be controlled. It was best not to become too deeply attached to anyone, for there were no guarantees as to how long that person would be around.
Yet he had formed some kind of bond with this Blair Sandburg almost immediately. Sure, at first he had been royally pissed at the man's blatant lying - and a little in awe as well. You either had to admire the stones on a man who'd knowingly lie straight to a big cop's face; that, or assume that the man is nuts. And then Sandburg had the nerve to make that crack about Ellison being some kind of Neanderthal throwback. But, the grad student hadn't blinked, even when the detective threw him up against the wall and growled at him in his best enraged cop impression. It may have been indicative of Jim's desperation that he even listened to the rest of Sandburg's weird theories, although they made a certain amount of sense, rather than to just leave immediately. Somehow, when the young graduate student talked, the detective wanted to listen.
What clinched it, though, was the young man's almost unconscious willingness to put his own life on the line for Jim. How could you not trust someone making a sacrifice like that? Trust. The detective noted with surprise that he trusted Sandburg. Trust, that fragile, yet sacred covenant, an oath Jim neither frivolously gave nor lightly received. That must be why he was so willing to suspend his normal suspicious judgment and do the things Sandburg told him to do, with only a token argument. It all came down to trust.
Ah, this Sentinel thing. He couldn't control it on his own. Yet. But simply knowing that he wasn't losing his mind after all, that this was something he could command made a world of difference. Sure, he needed the young grad student to be his partner of sorts, at least until he either learned to master these heightened senses, which he had to admit came in pretty handy today, or, barring that, got rid of the damned things once more. Somehow he'd managed to turn them off before. He should be able to do it again. Either way, he wouldn't need to depend on a partner any more.
He shifted uneasily in his seat and glanced in all the rear-view mirrors, the notion of not working with Sandburg leaving him strangely unsettled. Odd how Sandburg seemed to be some sort of ballast for him. Kind of like yin and yang.
Jim shook his head again, as if to clear it of these decidedly weird musings. He reached out and turned on the radio, effectively derailing the uncomfortable train of thoughts on which his mind traveled.
Just as the anthropologist reached the door to his office, a dripping wad of wet paper towels in hand, the detective emerged from the stairwell, laden with a cardboard box lid bearing several white take-out cartons and two tall Styrofoam cups.
Blair spoke first. "Hi, Jim. Good timing. I was just going to wipe up the desk top." The younger man gestured with the sodden mass in his hand.
Jim nodded by way of greeting, noting the tight, brittle smile and the underlying note of distress in the other man's voice that replaced the anthropologist's normally open and enthusiastic mien. Blair seemed to be dancing on the edge between controlled fear and panic. Any doubt the detective may have harbored about the advisability of meeting here tonight vanished, and he smiled, hoping to appear as non-threatening as possible. "You mean you cleared your desk? Is there any floor space left in your office?"
"Very funny. As a matter of fact, we're going to use the piles of stuff for chairs," replied Blair, holding the door open for Jim.
Jim quirked an eyebrow at the comment, but made no reply, spotting an empty chair pulled up on the visitor's side of the desk. He stepped to the side to allow the younger man to make short work of cleaning the grubby Formica surface.
"That's better." Blair surveyed his cleaning job, tossed the soiled paper towels into the rubbish, then extended his hands to take the box top from Jim. "Thanks for bringing dinner."
"No problem," replied Jim, moving past Blair to set the box down himself.
Blair hesitated a second, then helped the older man remove the many items. "So, what's in all these containers?"
"Rice. Egg drop soup. Chicken cashew. Beef broccoli with cake noodles. Shrimp with vegetables. Crispy gau gee." The detective named the dishes as he opened several of the boxes. "That's green tea," he added, pointing to the cups. "I didn't know if you wanted forks or chopsticks, so I got both."
"Smells great, man!" Blair said appreciatively, the rumble from his stomach concurring with his words. "Chopsticks are fine," he added, slipping the paper wrapper off one pair, snapping them apart, and rubbing the sticks back and forth in his palms to remove any stray splinters.
Jim nodded, reaching for the other set of chopsticks. "Didn't you eat lunch?" The words no sooner left his mouth than he wondered why he would be concerned over this younger man's eating habits. After all, Blair was an adult and had obviously been able to fend for himself for the past twenty-six years. It was ludicrous for Jim to be worried about him like this. The detective shook his head slightly. What was it about Sandburg that invoked both possessiveness and protectiveness in him? He didn't think he wanted to know.
"Uh, no, actually. The last thing I had was that double latte this morning. We were kind of tied up at lunchtime..." Blair grinned at the unintentional pun., "... and afterwards I was too jazzed to eat."
"About today..."
"Listen," Blair interrupted abruptly. "Do you want to eat or talk now?"
Jim scrutinized the young man for a second, then decided to cut him some slack. "Let's eat."
Silence filled the room for the next several minutes, save for a few random comments on the delicious quality of the food. When Blair seemed to slow down, Jim deemed it time to initiate the conversation. He figured he'd talk about his experiences with his senses first, allowing the combination of a full belly and innocuous conversation to lower Sandburg's defenses.
"You going to eat that?" Jim pointed at the nearly empty chicken container with his chopsticks.
"No." Blair patted his stomach. "I've had plenty." He regarded his dinner companion for a heartbeat, then belatedly remembering his manners, he added, "Thanks. You didn't have to do this."
Jim shrugged. "Like I said. No problem." The detective fished the last bit of chicken out of the container, then re-closed the lid. He performed the same honors with the remaining cartons, laid his chopsticks aside, and wiped his mouth.
"About today..."
"What about it?" Blair asked warily, tensing imperceptibly at the question.
Almost like a hound, Jim sensed Blair's discomfort, and he decided to pursue the elusive quarry instead of tossing out the bone of conversation he originally had in mind. "When you were asking if Simon freaked, were you freaked?"
"What do you mean? Why would I be freaked over him knowing you're a Sentinel? You know I think it's way cool."
"That's not what I meant."
As if acquiescing the failure of his small diversionary tactic, Blair responded, "Okay, I think I know what you meant. I'm not freaked. I've been in life-threatening situations before."
"Like what? Being overcome by clutter?" Jim's gesture encompassed the messy state of the small room.
Blair laughed. "No, man. Anthropologists sometimes run into hostile indigenous people in the course of fieldwork. One time when I was in Papua New Guinea, we were observing an initiation ceremony. One of the elders from the visiting tribe decided he didn't like our presence for some reason, that outsiders would spiritually contaminate the ritual, that we were essentially evil, and it got pretty, uh, intense for a while." He waved his hand in dismissal. "You said you had something interesting going on with your senses today. What was happening?"
"Uh, yeah." Jim replied, somewhat nonplussed at losing control of the conversational ball so quickly. "They just worked. It almost felt normal. Effortless... What are you doing, Sandburg?"
Blair set a small tape recorder on the table and popped a tape inside. "Taking notes."
"I thought we already went through this. No taping."
"You said no videotaping. This is audio."
"No," said Jim, reaching over to the recorder and popping the tape back out. "No electronic record. You take your field notes the old fashioned way. By hand."
"Ah, come on... No one does it that way any more. Thomas Edison's invention of the cylinder phonograph at the end of the nineteenth century totally changed the way anthropologists documented and preserved..."
The detective's voice overrode the anthropologist's. "It didn't change you, Dr. Livingston. Furthermore, you better be keeping your notes in a secure place. One of my conditions is that you that you promise to protect my identity."
"I will! I will! Okay. Look. I am putting the tape recorder away and I am getting out my notebook. Happy?"
Jim nodded grudgingly, an expression of distaste flying across his features. "As I was saying, it all felt right today. From the first whiff of blood..."
This time Blair broke into the conversation. "Jim, man, I am really sorry about jumping to conclusions like that this morning. If I hadn't, you would have found the body and Kincaid might not have..."
"Chief, you didn't know. Like you mentioned the other day, we don't know the upper and lower limits of my senses yet. For all we know, I could have been smelling the blood from your cut. I smelled some pretty amazing things today. But, I think it probably was the blood in the trunk this morning."
Blair nodded soberly.
"When we were down on the street, when Simon first arrived, I could hear Kincaid and his men talking. The windows weren't blown out yet. I had to be at least 200 yards away."
"That's awesome, man! I've got lots of ideas for tests to establish your baseline. How far away you can hear. How low a decibel you can detect. What pitches you can distinguish. What..."
Jim grimaced and raised a hand to halt the flow of words. "Do you want to hear this or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure. You talk. I listen." Blair poised his pen studiously above the notebook and looked intently at Jim.
"Right now I'll settle for better control. When we first went into the sewer, the stink was almost overwhelming for me, but Simon hardly noticed it. I almost lost it. Once I acclimated, it was better. On the other hand, I could smell after-shave through a closed door. Now, that was definitely useful. But almost being incapacitated by the odor of sewage - that can't happen. I've got to be able to turn it on and off when I want to."
Blair took a breath and opened his mouth, but Jim held him off again.
"I was using all my senses today. Except taste, I guess. I could feel the residual heat on a door that was welded shut. I saw things. I smelled things. I heard things - I think it's my strongest sense. I heard conversations in closed rooms. The helicopter coming in. The cocking of a gun..." Jim paused, lost in thought.
"That's pretty amazing, man." Blair said softly.
"Yeah." Jim shook himself from his reverie and pinned Blair with a sharp gaze. "You've had some pretty amazing experiences yourself. First the Switchman and now Kincaid. You've been on the business end of a gun twice since you met me."
"It's no big deal." Blair shrugged and busily began scribbling something in his notebook.
"C'mon, Chief." Jim plucked the pen from Sandburg's fingers, causing the young man to look up at him in surprise.
"You know you can't lie to me. I'm an organic crime lab." Actually, the detective did not yet possess enough finesse to hone in on the specific physiological indicators of lying, although that would certainly be a worthwhile skill to acquire. Instead, he relied on years of experience in reading the body language of various criminals, rather than his heightened senses, to inform him of the young anthropologist's probable state of being.
Furthermore, although Blair might have a piece of paper saying he had a degree in psychology, Jim earned his in the school of life, experience being a most excellent teacher. But, if the anthropologist believed the Sentinel could sense bull at twenty paces, the detective was not about to disabuse him of the notion... "You said it yourself. So, cut the crap. How are you dealing with all this?"
Blair leaned back in his chair, unconsciously putting more space between him and the detective. "Lie is like so way harsh, man. I prefer the word obfuscate."
The detective folded his arms across his chest and gazed askance at the young anthropologist, who flushed slightly under the scrutiny, but maintained eye contact nonetheless. "Seems to me there's no difference. It's still not the truth."
"A lie is a total untruth. An obfuscation is merely a redirection of the truth."
"It's a misdirection. You lied to me when we first met."
"Okay. I lied about being Dr. McKay..."
"McCoy," Jim interrupted, wondering how Blair yet again so deftly turned the conversation away from the initial question. The verbose grad student danced better than did Simon when dealing with the Mayor's office.
"Yeah, whatever." Blair waved a hand in dismissal, as if that detail were unimportant. "The point is, I told the truth about me, the anthropologist. If I had just walked in there as Blair Sandburg, you wouldn't have given me the time of day. But, a little redirection from Dr. McCoy, man, that's all it took."
"Okay, Chief. Back to my original question. How are you doing?"
"Man, you are obsessive."
"I prefer to think of it as relentless in the pursuit of truth, justice and the American way."
A smile appeared and vanished just as quickly as Blair exhaled, running a hand over his hair, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an avenue of escape. "How am I doing? I'll be okay."
"Blair. Look at me."
Blair offered a watery grin as he met Jim's eyes, holding his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off further encroachments into his personal territory. "I'm good. I'm good. I just need time to process..."
"I'm sure you will be okay," Jim interrupted again. "And I'm sure you are aware that we have debriefing procedures in place for dealing with stressful events, like hostage situations." The tall detective leaned forward, palms on the desk. "Consider me your personal debriefing team. Unless you'd rather see the precinct shrink." The detective didn't know if he really could force the graduate student to see the precinct shrink or not; but if the threat got the young man to talk, so much the better.
"Oh. Well. Since you put it that way." Blair lifted his cup and took another gulp of the now cold tea, grimacing at the taste. "Yuck."
Jim sat back, arms once again folded across his chest, silently watching the young man pick at the Styrofoam on the rim of the cup.
Suddenly Blair looked back up. "Is this how you get criminals to confess? Fix 'em with that icy glare?" He grinned. "Works pretty good."
Still the detective made no verbal response, his only indication that he heard the grad student's comment a gentle softening of his features as a ghost of a smile brushed his lips and formed tiny crinkles about his eyes.
Blair exhaled again. "Yeah. Okay. Like you said, I've had way too many people waving a gun in my face lately. I'm really not into guns, or the NRA or any of that stuff. We're not living in the wild, wild West anymore, most people aren't going to be confronted by a rabid bear or something, and the collective good of society outweighs the individual's right to bear arms."
Jim remained silent, recognizing that Blair was approaching the issue at an angle, albeit a very oblique and obscure angle.
The anthropologist continued babbling. "In fact, I think the right to bear arms is comparatively disadvantageous now. I don't think today's socio-economic and political situation is at all what the framers of the constitution envisioned. Help is just a 911 call away. You look at countries like Canada, Japan or Singapore. They don't have the right to bear arms, and it's relatively safe to walk the streets at night. People just don't need guns these days. Do you know how many children are accidentally shot every day?"
Blair paused for breath, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Did you know Veronica almost got it away from me?"
An expression of surprise crossed Jim's face as the young man's monologue drew to a halt, and he leaned forward again, placing his forearms on the desk. "No. I didn't realize that. When did it happen?"
"When you were so focused on listening for the bomb. I glanced at you over my shoulder..."
The detective interrupted tersely, "Never take your eyes off the perp, Sandburg."
"Yeah, I figured that out. Anyway, I glanced at you over my shoulder and Veronica grabbed the gun. I was yelling for you. Didn't you hear me?"
Jim shook his head slowly in disbelief. He had much less control than he thought.
"I guess it was sort of like a zone out. You were blocking out all the other sounds of the people on the bus so you could hear the bomb. We've got to work on helping you filter without blocking. I have some ideas for tests..."
The older man held out his hand. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Chief. Later. What happened after Veronica grabbed the gun?"
"Oh. Well, we struggled for a while - the gun went off, you know - then I... I decked her. You knew that part." Blair ran a hand over his hair again. "I have never hit a woman in my entire life. My mom would definitely contribute to the negative energy in the universe if she knew," he added with a hollow laugh.
"You can't think of her as a woman. Veronica, I mean. She was a criminal planning to blow up a bus full of..."
"I know that!" Blair interrupted this time. "And I don't really have a problem with it. I'd do it all again. Well, I wouldn't look away if I had it to do over."
"What about Kincaid?"
"What about him?"
"You shoved him out of the helicopter."
Blair swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, I did. He'd already killed I don't know how many people and as far as I knew, he just killed everyone in the squad room. He ordered the massacre of everyone there. Do you know what he said? He said, 'This is war. There are no prisoners..."
"There are no witnesses." Jim finished the sentence. "I heard."
Blair nodded once.
"He declared war, Chief. He set up the ground rules. He was probably going to kill you. He was definitely going to kill me."
"I know. I know. It's just that I never thought I'd be in a position of having to take someone's life. My mom... she's a pacifist, with a capital P. I thought I was, too. It's kind of a shock to find out that I'm capable of more violence than I believed possible, you know?"
"You want out?"
"What? No! No way, man! I've waited my entire life to find someone like you." Blair grinned. "You know what I mean."
Jim smiled and offered a limp wrist. "I do."
Blair laughed and batted the older man's hand away.
Sobering again, Jim said, "I think we should get you some weapons training."
"No way." Blair was adamant. "I don't want to be packing."
"If you're going to ride with me, chances are very high you're going to have to use a firearm from time to time. We're two for two already. You need to know how to handle one properly."
"Okay, I can see learning how to shoot," the young anthropologist conceded. "But, I don't want to carry."
"It's for your protection. And, mine."
"Hey, I'm strictly an observer. Strictly. Simon made that abundantly clear this afternoon."
"You're right. You're not a cop. But you are my partner."
Blair hesitated a beat before responding with a small smile. "You... you really mean that?"
"Yeah. But don't let it go to your head. I think you should carry a weapon. I may need the backup."
"I can back you up, but I don't need a gun. I took out two of Kincaid's men without one."
"You got lucky."
"True, but I got the job done without one, just the same. In fact, if I had one, I'd probably be dead."
"Right. That's why you need training."
"But, I'm an observer."
"Why did Kincaid think you were a cop, then?"
"Uh... I told him I was."
"Impersonating a cop? That doesn't sound like an obfuscation, Sandburg," growled Jim.
Blair hastened to explain his reasons. "Yeah, but if he thought some snot-nosed civilian took out two of his men by accident, he wouldn't have respected that. In fact, it would have been humiliating for him, considering how scared I was. I would have been toast. But a cop - he could deal with that."
"I think you did fine, Blair. I'd be worried if you weren't scared."
"You mean that?"
"Yeah. A healthy fear can keep you from making stupid mistakes. As long as you don't let it control you, stop you from taking action."
"Were you scared?"
"Hell, yes. But the adrenaline gives you an edge. Sharpens your reflexes."
"Well, how do you... uh... afterwards..."
"Process?" he asked, deliberately using Sandburg's word.
"Yeah."
The detective shrugged. "There's lots of different ways to let it go. Debriefing. Exercise. Vacation. But, stay away from booze and drugs. I've seen too many careers go down the tubes because of that."
"I don't do stuff like that. Contrary to appearances." Blair grinned, knowing that his long hair and hippie attire made him a prime suspect as a druggie. "I don't even use over-the-counter chemicals. I'm into nature's medicine cabinet."
Jim regarded the young anthropologist, using his normal senses to assess the man's condition. Blair appeared much more calm than when the detective had first arrived. Gone were some of the lines of tension that had earlier etched the younger man's face. Even his shoulders appeared more relaxed; in fact, given the way Blair was now yawning, Jim guessed that his new partner was just about ready to fall asleep.
"You ready to call it a night?" Jim asked, as he started to gather up the empty containers and napkins from their meal.
"Yeah, I'm wiped," Blair responded as he stretched his hands above his head, the vertebra in his neck popping and crackling with the movement. "Ah... That feels good."
Jim grinned. "How about wiping up this table?"
"Oh, hey, man. You don't have to do that. I can get it. It's the least I can do, since you brought the food and all." Blair moved to help clear the remains of the dinner from the desktop.
"Where are you parked?" asked Jim, as he shrugged into his jacket.
"In one of the far lots. Grad students only get B-lot privileges. Faculty get the A-lots. Where did you park?" asked Blair as he locked up his basement office.
"Out front. The sign said it was unrestricted after five."
"Oh, so you checked this time? Thought maybe I'd have to give you a ride to the impound," smirked Blair, easily dodging the cuff Jim sent his way.
"Come on. I'll drop you off at your car."
"Thanks." Blair shivered as they stepped out into the chill night air. "Brrr. It's cold."
"What, this? It's pleasantly cool."
"There must be something wrong with your senses, man. It's cold!"
The detective sat in his Rover and waited for the young graduate student to start up his old Corvair. Once Blair appeared to be safely on his way, Jim started up his vehicle as well, deciding to follow his new partner home, partly because Blair seemed so tired and partly so he'd know where Blair lived. Maybe this was going to work out after all. Sandburg seemed to take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Maybe, just maybe, this young man was strong enough to survive being Jim's friend.
~ End ~