Disclaimer: I have no claim whatsoever to these characters.

Rated a soft PG for language. Gen.

The Sentinel

by Helen W.

Soon after 'The Debt'...

Thunderstorms weren't common in Cascade, but they weren't exactly unheard of.

So why, Jim wondered, had this one woken him up? At - what was it? 2:13 a.m.?

Now, 2:14 a.m.

Now, 2:15.

Was it a particularly intense storm? No, not by midwestern standards at least; the rumbles were over a minute apart, and coming from a distance.

Was it coming closer?

2:16.

Yes, the time between flash and rumble was decreasing, but Jim sensed that the main cell would pass at least a mile to the south.

Nothing to be concerned about.

2:17. 2:18.

This was ridiculous, Jim thought, as he swung his legs off the side of the bed.

This storm was nothing at all like that storm at Grandma Ellison's, when she'd lived in the condo overlooking Tampa Bay. Stevie had carried on so loudly he'd gotten Grandma's dogs going, but Jim had found it fascinating. He'd stayed out on the balcony for as long as his father had let him; then, through crashes so loud the china had shaken, he'd sat glued to the balcony's sliding glass door.

This storm, Jim reflected as he went down the stairs and into the kitchen, was nothing like that.

Nothing like the storm that came with his first tornado warning, either.

Ft. Knox. Had he been nineteen or twenty that summer? When the sirens had started, he and the other ROTC cadets had been led to the mess hall basement, but he'd managed to lag behind in a stairwell nook with a ground-level window facing west. He'd stayed there, watching the lightning as the sky turned green, only joining his comrades after that old sergeant major had hunted him down.

God, that felt like a lifetime ago.

Jim walked through the kitchen into the living room; but that wasn't where he wanted to be.

Maybe he was reacting to the kid in his den. Blair'd grown up in Cascade, Jim was pretty sure; maybe he wasn't used to real thunderstorms.

The rumbles were becoming cracks, now, and the lightning was illuminating the entire place. The rain was really coming down now, too.

Maybe he should just check to make sure the kid's windows were closed.

Jim opened the door slowly. Didn't want to wake his guest up if he was managing to sleep through this.

"Jim?" Blair sat up and looked at him. "Need something?"

"Um, just checking your window."

"Closed it when I heard the weather report on the news."

"Well, um, that's good. Don't want any water damage."

"Sure, man, I understand," said Blair.

And Jim knew he should leave, but instead he stepped further into the room.

"Is the thunder messing up your hearing?" Blair asked.

"No, it's fine," said Jim. Damn, the kid knew something was up. He should leave now before this became some sort of Q and A about his senses.

But instead he said, "Some storm, eh?"

The next flash of lightning showed Blair's shrug clearly. "I've done field work in Borneo, man. This is nothing."

"Yeah," said Jim, "there's nothing like a storm in the jungle, is there?"

They'd been impressive in Peru. He'd had his own shelter, as most of the single men had, but during the worst storms, he'd been invited into Incacha's sisters' more sturdy thatched-roof hut. But it had felt so close in there, and more often than not, especially at night, he'd stood just outside, getting soaked to the bone but not caring. It had just seemed like the right thing to do.

"They stay with you," said Blair, and for a moment Jim didn't know what he was talking about.

Jungle storms! "Yeah, they do."

"So… The windows are fine, you're fine… Jim, what're you doing in here?"

Jim didn't have an answer.

"Well," said Blair, waving in the general direction of the desk chair, "how about you have a seat?"

"Yeah," said Jim. "I can do that." Then, "Mind if I just look out the window here?"

"No problem," said Blair, and Jim pulled the small chair over to the window.

"It's still outside outside?" Blair asked.

"Yeah, still there," said Jim.

"Okay then," said Blair. "Wake me if there's any change."

"Will do," said Jim.

* * * THE END * * *

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