Broken Soldiers

by fyre

G.I. Blair vs Cobra? Does Jim ever get to eat his pancakes? Better yet, does *Detective* Jim get a bloody CLUE! Sequel to CASUALTIES OF WAR and COVERT OPERATIONS AU Slight Crossover

BROKEN SOLDIERS
by fyresong

REVISED: 12/7/2000

FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com

TEASER: G.I. Blair vs Cobra? Does Jim ever get to eat his pancakes? Better yet, does
*Detective* Jim get a bloody CLUE?! Sequel to CASUALTIES OF WAR and COVERT
OPERATIONS

ARCHIVE: Guide Posts, Cascade Library. Everyone else please ask.

TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Post Sentinel Too part 2. Alternate Universe Part 3 of a longer
series. Crossover: Stargate SG-1 (but Sentinel not Stargate is my focus people so no worries!)

RATING: PG-13 More swearing. Some mention/hint of torture.

DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story
are mine in any way. Pet Fly, Paramount, and UPN own these guys. StarGate SG-1 and its
characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double
Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. Some of the dialogue is pulled straight from the TV
show for the sake of continuity and is thus logically NOT mine. No money is being made off this
story. Please ask author before reproducing or posing anywhere else.

SPECIAL THANKS TO: Everyone in the SenFan universe for writing to let me know just how
welcome I am here and how much they wanted this story to continue (especially the Pester Queen
herself, Lila and her pointy sticks.) Detailed comments about what you guys liked helped me write
this one.

NOTES: I'm dyslexic so any grammar or spelling mistakes that got by I humbly apologize for.
Either that or they are intentional for sake of higher semantic meaning, syntax be hanged! grin
Set Post Sentinel Too part 2. I mixed in Murder 101 for good measure. This is also taking place
after StarGate SG-1's Shades of Grey during third season.

***

Someone was shaking him.

"Jim? You awake?" a rough voice asked.

There was a warm hand on his shoulder. The voice was familiar, but it wasn't the one he wanted
to hear, the one who had whispered to him as he fell asleep. He smelled . . . cigars?

"Hmm? Simon?" he murmured, twitching and finding himself tucked into a plush seat. He forced
his eyes to open.

Sure enough, his captain was staring down at him, worry evident in those dark brown eyes despite
the gruff, perfunctory tone. "We've landed. You want to help me here, detective?" the larger
man asked as he tugged away the blanket and tackled the seatbelt.

"Sure, sure," Jim agreed, slightly lost. *Where was Sandburg?* he wondered absently as he tried
and failed to stand while the plane was still moving smoothly across the runway. "Whoa!" he
exclaimed. "That stuff knocked me for a loop."

Helping now by propping him up, Simon got his detective vertical. "Sandburg said you'd sleep it
off. Nothing worse than some dizziness and some nausea."

"That's--" Ellison broke off to yawn, "--good. B'for I forget, thanks for finding me."

Simon had an odd, unreadable look on his face. If he didn't know better, Jim would think it
was . . . *embarrassment? Weird!*

"The drugs are messing with your head. I told you before detective, I had nothing to do with it.
It was Sandburg's rescue, top to bottom. I don't know how he did it, or where he got the stuff,
but Jim, he was acting like . . . " Banks trailed off, at a loss of how to finish the thought with any
sort of coherency that wouldn't have him sounding, well, like *Blair.*

Jim blinked at this, and thought back fuzzily to the base he'd been dragged through, the guards,
the airmen. "Sandburg?!" he echoed in amazement, louder that he expected. The others from
Major Crimes-- he'd just noticed them in the back part of the cabin --looked at him. Megan was
still shooting him dirty looks, the others seemed to be in various stated of exhaustion and shock.

"Yes, Ellison. *Sandburg.*" Simon confirmed snidely as he helped the Sentinel on with his
jacket. "Who happens to know a lot more than any of us give him credit for. I called him up to
tell him you were missing after you didn't show up to work. He already knew; he already knew
who, how, and why. *He* found you," the Captain pointed out in irritation, but whether he was
angry at Jim for doubting his partner or his own disbelief, Simon wasn't sure. *Hell, you've
doubted the kid's-- MAN'S ability since day one.* "We invited ourselves along for the rescue
mission."

"You're serious," Jim said with surprise.

"Of course I'm serious!" Simon roared and then quickly tampered down on his anger. He was
more angry at himself than Ellison. One look at the thin figure of the anthropologist who seemed
to be burning up on the inside was enough to shake even the most steady of men. "Are you
having trouble with your . . . uh . . . senses? Look around for God's sake!" Simon ordered,
taking his hand off of Ellison's elbow long enough to wave around at the crates and equipment
scattered about.

It didn't take years in the Army to recognize the stuff. "W-what the hell?" Jim breathed, trying to
put the pieces together in his mind as he sank back in his seat. *Sandburg is responsible for all
this?*

("Lieutenant? Good job."

"Coming from you sir, I think that actually may mean something."

"Smart ass punk. Go on. Get out of here before you're caught."

"Sir, yes, sir.")

That's what the colonel had said, to *his* partner.

Lieutenant.

("You gonna make it out okay kid?" )

Blair Sandburg?

("It was Sandburg's rescue, top to bottom.")

Good job.

Blair . . . *Jacobs?*

Lieutenant.

("Look around for God's sake!")

Good *job?*

"Fuck!" Jim hissed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

"My point exactly," Simon muttered in agreement as he gathered his own coat and belongings.

The plane's intercom crackled even as the aircraft taxied to a halt. The voice Jim had been
looking for now filled the cabin. "Hello, this is your Captain speaking. We've landed, and as far
as I can tell there are no tanks, machine guns, and squads of Uncle Sam's finest waiting to greet us
with open arms, not to mention tear gas, and imminent threats of death. On behalf of my
impeccably dressed co-pilot, thank you for flying Sandburg/Rafe Air; please don't trip on your
way out."

Joel and Henri chuckled as they heard the announcement. Simon glanced over his men, and
woman before staring out a window, but addressing his remarks to Jim. "He's been like that since
I called him. He's . . . not right. He's not *Blair,*" Simon added glaring down at his detective as
if it was Jim's fault.

Which it *was.*

But that didn't stop the instinctive rush at self-defense and rationalization. "Why do you think I
called Mark?" Ellison asked indignantly.

"You called him and then you let the kid- fuck, the *man* leave?" Banks countered pulling out a
cigar from his coat pocket.

Flustered, Jim sought frantically for the right words to *explain, dammit! Blair would
understand. Blair did understand,* Jim counseled himself. *He understood when we talked over
the phone.* "I have-I have no right to tell him what to do."

Bitting harshly on the cigar, Simon brought his lighter to the tip. "I'm not asking you to tell him
what to do," he replied harshly. "Pull yourself together or the miracle at the fountain won't be
worth shit," he hissed.

The words hit Jim like a slap in the face. He pulled back physically, and paled. He looked up at
the sound of his friend coming out of the cockpit, and Blair's appearance untainted by sedatives
was shocking.

Short hair, butchered curls, left his eyes twice as large in the angular, stubbled face. A smudge of
dirt highlighted one cheekbone. Stained fatigues hung on a too thin frame, all wiry muscle and
jutting bones. It was painful to see. It was painful to *hear.* The lungs strained audibly even to
those without Sentinel hearing, and Sandburg's pallor spoke of low grade fever and exhaustion,
eyes glassily bright. He'd been keeping bronchitis away since Mexico with medication; this rescue
had obviously taxed what precious little reserves Sandburg had left. It made the Sentinel want to
grab his Guide and wrap him up in blankets and sit on him until he held still and slept. It made the
Sentinel want to scold and yell and curse his friend for being *careless, and damn stupid! How
could you let yourself get like this? You said you were taking your medication and sleeping!
Dammit Sandburg!*

It made Jim want to crawl off somewhere and cry because *it's all my fault!*

Blair smiled seeing his Sentinel awake, but it wasn't a Sandburg Special, only a pale imitation of
an everyday grin. "Hey, you're awake," the anthropologist lately turned commando said hoarsely.

"Chief." It was the only word that would come out, in a shocked low voice. It had only been,
what? a week since he'd last seen his friend and Blair looked closer to death than he had in the
hospital.

"Everyone ready to go?" Blair called.

A chorus of ragged, tired yells came from the rear of the cabin.

Henri peered out of a window. "Uh where are we? This doesn't look like Cascade."

"San Diego. I've got to return the plane here since we're done with it, that was the
arrang--" The words broke off, a coughing fit robbing Blair of words, of breath. The cops as a
whole seemed to hold their breath along with their former unofficial member, unable to breathe
until he did. Rafe, held him upright and Jim had no doubt that each and every one of them
matched Brian's pale, anxious worry. "Scuse me," Blair continued, gasping. "Arrangement."

Arrangement. A previous arrangement. To return the plane to *San Diego.*

*But he said he was coming home!* part of Jim wailed in confusion. *He said!*

"You okay Sandy?" Megan asked in a small voice.

"Sure," he said, waving it off with one hand, nodding his thanks at Rafe before pulling away.
"You guys'll stay at the house tonight. I've got tickets for all of you for tomorrow afternoon."

"Sounds just fine," Joel said, stretching. "Man, I could use some sack time."

There was a sudden pounding on the door causing everyone to jump. Ellison cursed himself for
not hearing the intruder approach.

"Hey Jacobs," a voice called from outside. "You in there?"

Blair took two steps to his right and yanked the door open, holding out his hand to help the
visitor in. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here."

The petite Asian woman looked over the aircraft with a proprietorial eye. "She do okay?"

"Yep. Thanks Jubi," Blair said with a grin. "I know it was short notice--"

"No problem. I owed *you* remember?" she replied with a wink and a gentle brush to the
anthropologist's shoulder. Going over to the nearest opened crate, she began to carefully but
swiftly repack the equipment. "Cars are waitin' dude. Go home and sleep, you look like you need
it."

"Thanks man." Reaching out automatically to help Jim back to his feet, beating Simon to the
punch, Blair led the way out of the plane. "C'mon, grab you stuff guys, it's a half hour drive to
Carlsbad."

***

Jim awoke this time to the sound of waves, the smell of sea salt. He stretched underneath the
covers and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling.

He barely remembered the half hour drive on the interstate to Carlsbad. Blair had been there, he
remembered that. Blair had gotten him something to drink, some aspirin, rubbed antibacterial
cream on his raw wrists and ankles all the while murmuring steadily, a constant low rhythm like
his heart, like the sea.

Jim hadn't slept this well since before he'd been shot at the convenience store.

Turning his head, he stared out of the floor to ceiling windows and porch doors that wrapped
around the three bedroom beach house. The sky was just beginning to lighten, sea gulls began to
cry. It was morning.

Testing the dials, he eased his hearing up and stretched out to check on the occupants of the
house. Megan was asleep next door, tossing and turning, a restless sleeper. In the other room
Simon lay snoring, oblivious to the world. Reaching for what the echoes of breathing told his
senses was the living room (who would have thought Sandburg's bat trick could be so useful?) he
heard/felt Joel on the sofa, and Rafe and Henri on the floor in sleeping bags. Henri seemed to be
dreaming about penguins.

*Ooookay! More than I wanted to know,* Jim thought with a grin, which faded when he realized
that Blair's heartbeat was missing, Blair wasn't here.

Sitting up quickly, ignoring the dizziness and pushing the blankets to the floor, Ellison stood.
Staring anxiously around the room as if that would magically make Sandburg appear, Jim noticed
the chair beside his bed and the indentation of a person on the fabric. He ran his hand over the
chair and felt the residual heat clinging to it. Whoever had been sitting there, (and his sense of
smell told him it had been Blair) had either left his vigil very recently or slept there the whole
night.

Sending his hearing spiraling out of the house, slightly uncomfortable doing it without Sandburg
there to steady him, anchor his hearing so he didn't get lost in the pounding surf, he searched . . .

There! Down near the water. Opening his eyes he grabbed his robe that someone had
considerately brought with them from Cascade and left at the foot of his bed, and heading towards
the porch door, he pushed it open, and barefoot, dressed only in sweats and the robe he walked
down the beach to find his friend.

Sandburg sat, arms loosely around his knees, watching the beat of the waves on the sand, short
hair barely stirring in the wind.

Slowly, as to not aggravate the remaining dizziness, Jim approached and dropped down beside
Blair, mimicking his pose.

"Morning," Sandburg offered, eyes never leaving the wheeling birds, the ocean.

"Good morning Chief," Jim replied, trying to stare at the water and not at his drastically altered
Guide. "It's a nice place," he said vaguely. *Hardly a great conversation opener Ellison! Can we
be any more obvious?*

"Shouldn't you--" Blair broke off to hack up what sounded like his entire left lung. Jim had to
restrain himself from doing obsessively unhelpful things like ordering his partner to breathe or
pounding him on the back. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" Blair asked at last.

Jim scowled at that. "Shouldn't you?" he shot back.

Blair finally turned to look at him, a wry grin touching his lips. "Okay, so we'll both ignore our
screaming bodies together."

Grumbling internally at that the detective rummaged through his mind, trying to figure out how to
bring up his multitudinous questions and worries without sounding parental and overbearing or
agitating his sick, stubborn friend. "You're not staying with a friend," he said finally. It was the
only nonthreatening statement he could come up with at the moment. Blair had said he was
staying with friends, and that had alleviated the protective side of the Sentinel, but now he found
his partner alone. Blair hadn't told him the truth, had obfuscated for what the little idiot probably
believed was the "greater good."

"No I'm not," Blair agreed, not the least bit perturbed that his Sentinel caught him lying. "This
place belongs to a friend of mine named Mark Lanceton. Maybe you know him, he's an Army
shrink."

Jim blinked in surprise. "You know Mark?" he asked in astonishment. For all Blair's acceptance
at the Police Station he'd never had any illusions that he and Sandburg moved in the same circles.
They came from different worlds. At least that's what Jim thought.

("Lieutenant? Good job.")

"His kid brother was with me in Peru," Jim explained, hoping that opening up himself would get
Sandburg talking.

Blair snorted. "If you start signing "It's a Small World" I will be forced to hit you."

Jim found himself smiling despite the lack of reaction he wanted. *Okay, that didn't work.* "He
didn't mention you when I called him at the airport," Jim continued.

Blair shot him a measured glance and Ellison inwardly winced. He remembered the first time he'd
offered Sandburg the opportunity to see the department shrink, it was after Lash. Blair had flat
out refused. Subsequent conversations had led to an uneasy truce on the subject; Ellison wouldn't
interfere with his partner's mental health treatment if any, though he was free to hint at it until the
cows came home, not that Blair ever listened.


("I've been in and out of therapy since I got out of my pampers.")

("Anxiety and panic attacks are a normal state of being for me.")

Jim had just admitted he'd broken their agreement. Surprisingly, Blair didn't say a word, even
after Ellison had called him on his own obfuscations. *All right, all right! I get it, Darwin. I
don't get uptight about that, you let this issue drop.*

The anthropologist looked back at the ocean. "You probably referred to me as Sandburg the
whole time though."

"Instead of Jacobs?" Okay, that was an outright declaration of verbal warfare between them,
Ellison having the first sneak attack on Issues Not To Be Touched With a 1000 Foot Pole. Jim
braced himself for a counterattack.

But Blair only nodded, the emotionless calm unbreachable. It chilled Jim to the bone. "Instead of
Jacobs," he agreed as he stood up and dusted sand off his cargo pants. "I'm gonna make pancakes
for the guys. What do you wanna eat?" he asked, helping Jim to his feet when the larger man
swayed precariously.

"What? I don't get pancakes?" Jim asked indignantly, letting the subject slide, *for the moment,*
he thought.

"You get oatmeal." Blair raised one warning finger when the detective opened his mouth to
protest. "The last time a sedative effected you so deeply you couldn't keep anything down,
remember?" Sandburg turned and headed back to the house, Jim following.

Jim sulked. He knew it looked somewhat ridiculous on an ex-ranger, but Carolyn always thought
it was adorable. "I'd rather have pancakes," he said hopefully.

Blair entered the living room, stepping over the bodies of Rafe and H., and into the kitchen. "Am
I Guide to a Sentinel or seven year old?"

Ellison followed and found Simon already communing with the coffee machine, Sandburg pulling
eggs and milk out of the fridge.

"Morning," the police captain grunted.

"Morning Simon," Blair called from inside the pantry cupboard.

"Morning sir," Jim said as he eased himself down at the kitchen table, watching the rest of Major
Crimes awaken and stumble from living room to one of the two bathrooms not currently occupied
by Megan.

"Umm Hair- uh Blair?" Henri's voice called from the hallway.

"Yeah Brown?" The student replied cracking egg after egg in the bowl.

H. stuck his head around the kitchen doorway. "You know that your speaker phone has been
savaged right?"

"Oh." Blair blinked and put down the bowl and went to see what Brown was talking about.
Catching sight of the mess on the floor by the occupied bathroom, he nodded. His curls still lay
carpeting the rub, the scissors impaled in the speaker phone. "Yeah. I knew that," he assured the
detective before returning to his cooking, ignoring Rafe and H.'s worried glances. "Don't throw
the hair out. We'll put it on the beach and leave it for the birds to use in their nests."

Megan came out of the other bathroom in a cloud of steam, toweling her hair. "My dad used to
say that when my hair was cut."

"Naomi did too. You want chocolate chips in your pancakes?"

"They get chocolate chip pancakes?" Ellison protested indignantly.

"Whining is unbecoming a detective James. Have some with your oatmeal," Blair responded
placing the bowl before his friend, along with the milk, brown and white sugar, banana, raisins,
honey, and cream it would take to get the Sentinel to eat the mush. "Hey Joel."

"Morning Blair," the former bomb squad captain greeted him, patting him on the shoulder and
leaning in to smell the cooking. "Those smell great."

Simon, whose watching of the percolator had finally paid off, inhaled the rich aroma of gourmet
coffee and rejoined the land of the verbal. "So our flight leaves around 11 a.m. right?"

"Uh-huh," Sandburg said as he expertly flipped his creations, and Henri came in and took a seat.

Simon took an experimental sip and sighed in contentment. "Thanks for the tickets Sandburg. I'll
make sure the department reimburses you for all of them. And . . . uh, for the supplies as well."

"No need for that. Got 'em on loan so to speak. You want one or two Brian?" Blair asked as
Rafe joined the table, and he began serving.

"Two please." Rafe slathered the lot with whipped cream and took a bite. "Mmmmm."

Jim looked up from his oatmeal and growled. "Oh, rub it in."

"How're you feeling Jim?" Simon asked.

"Better. Really, really better," he hinted aloud as the pancakes passed by, but it was in vain; his
plate was still pancakeless.

Blair snorted his disbelief, and didn't fall for the pouting.

Tucking in, Joel swallowed and asked "So when will you guys be heading back to Cascade?"

There was a sudden, complete moment of silence around the table. Joel looked up and realized
his mistake. He'd been so used to talking about Ellison and Sandburg as if they were one entity,
one person with one set of plans and goals. He'd forgotten it wasn't like that anymore.

Blair took his own seat and answered causally, breaking the tension. "Well my defense date isn't
for a week yet. I was planning to stick around here until then."

Jim forced himself to try some of the mush and agreed. "Sounds good."

"Well Jim, you're on paid sick leave until then," Simon concluded in true managerial fashion,
always having the last word, closing the uncomfortable subject. *No need to get indigestion over
breakfast.*

"Hey Sandburg." Brown piped up, his pancakes all but inhaled moments before. "You think I
could have a copy of your diss? I wanna see what you did with all those interviews and statistics
and stuff."

Blair took a sip of milk before teasing "You sure you're not just looking for the chapter devoted
to your heroic deeds so you can impress Sharleen?"

"No, I feel that knowing more about my personal collective subjectivity would enhance my
working relationship with my compatriots."

Snickers broke out around the table. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone use the word
subjectivity except Sandy." Megan said with a laugh.

"You are so full of it," Rafe said.

"Maybe," H. allowed.

"Simon's got a copy," Blair finally relented with a grin. "If you want, you can copy his."

"Feel free to detective," Banks said. "I'm thinking of making it required reading. It was really . . .
insightful Sandburg. You did a good job." The words came out as if every single one had been a
struggle. Blair appreciated the compliment for what it was worth: a lot. He gave Simon a
wonderful, shy grin of thanks. Banks wasn't one for spontaneous declarations of good will
without a damn good reason.

Simon looked away feeling guilty.

("I mean, I'm the first one to admit Sandburg has his faults . . .")

("Look, I know the kid helps you with this Sentinel thing, but he is not one of us. Maybe it's time
you should think about cutting him loose.")

*He makes me pancakes and I have to force a damn "good job." Shit!*

"I'd like to see it too," Joel announced.

"Me too," agreed Megan.

Rafe leaned over to Blair. "Once you get your doctorate we've got to throw you a party."

"A biiig one!" H. elaborated, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

A chorus of agreement sounded around the table.

"All right, lets not leave this place a mess," Simon grumped, looking at his watch. *Enough of
the emotional crap. We have a plane to catch.* "Rafe you soap, H. your rinse, Megan you dry.
Joel clear the table."

"And what about you sir?" Blair asked innocently as he started on his fruit salad.

"I'm going to go out and enjoy the view, rest, relax, smoke, and try to slow down my heart from
yet another wild ride through the Sandburg Zone!" Simon growled. "You have a problem with
that *Lieutenant*?"

"No Simon."

"Lieutenant?" Joel whispered to Megan as he handed her a plate, but loud enough for Jim, who'd
been watching the whole proceedings, feeling slightly guilty, slightly left out.

"I'll tell you later," the Inspector whispered.

*I've got no reason to feel guilty,* Ellison reminded himself. *Blair chose to change his
dissertation to help me. I didn't force him. I wasn't even looking forward to anyone else
knowing about my abilities. But then why do I feel like a kid who's birthday had just been
forgotten?*

"Jim, you finished?"

Ellison looked up abruptly from his empty bowl. "Uh . . . yeah Joel. Thanks."

***

The mass exodus of Major Crimes back to Cascade was a frantic affair of yelling, and rushing
back and forth between the car, the bathroom, and the house. *I feel like a den mother,* Simon
thought chewing on his lit cigar with a sigh. He looked up from where he sat on the porch swing
as Jim joined him, facing the driveway, the ocean at their backs.

"The kid looks like hell Ellison," Simon said without preamble. "Do something about it
detective."

*Why don't you do something about it, Captain?* a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He swallowed hard. Maybe this wasn't entirely Ellison's fault.

("It's not him I'm worried about,")

Well he damn well should worry about Sandburg. *He may just be an observer, or a former
observer, but didn't he drop everything and come looking for you and Daryl in Peru? Help
bridge the gap between you and your son? Save your life a few times? Crack cases? Fix your
computer? Do research unpaid for Major Crimes?*

It was definitely time to do something about that. Banks was a man who paid his debts, and he
owed a large one to the anthropologist inside the beach house.

"Yes sir," Jim replied, the good solider that he was.

Banks stood and glared at his best detective, making sure he got the message that this was an
order and he expected results by the time they were back in Cascade. "See you back at work
then." The captain turned and began organizing his troops. "All right then! Get your asses in
gear lady and gentlemen. We're on a schedule here!"

With a few waves and hasty goodbyes, the car drove off leaving Jim and Blair alone at the beach
house.

Sandburg came to lean against the doorframe. "Looks like it's just you and me."

Ellison nodded. "Looks like."

"Time to change those bandages," he said, opening the door behind him and leading the way back
into the sunlit living room. Jim sat on the comfortable couch, Blair pulling out fresh bandages and
ointment, a bowl of lukewarm water, and a soft cloth. Unwrapping the bandages around the
wrists, seeing the area inflamed from the rough material of the restrains, Blair peered at his friend.
"You feeling okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"You don't mind being here do you?" Blair asked abruptly. "I can drive you to the airport
y'know."

"No, here is fine Chief," Jim assured him as he carefully washed the wounds and spread
antibacterial cream on them. "Mark let you stay here before?" Jim queried, his eyes glued to
Sandburg's hands as they continued their ministrations.

Blair shrugged. "Some years ago he let Jack drag me out here for a couple of weeks. Get my
head together, process, stuff like that. It's a good place to do it. It's not the mountains but it's
good." The anthropologist shifted to his knees down on the floor and began checking the
abrasions on the detective's ankles.

"Jack . . . Jack O'Neill the guy at the base? That Jack?" Jim asked as nonchalantly as he could. He
was trying not to be jealous. Really.

("Lieutenant? Good job.")

But that Jack guy just rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn't sure why yet, but for some reason
Ellison felt as if they were in silent competition with each other.

"Yep." Blair must have noticed the slightly angry look on the detective's face and misread it as
pain because he asked "That hurt?"

Jim shook his head, wanting to stay on topic. *Sandburg was always trying to change the
subject.* "Who you know from time spend in the military, *lieutenant?*" he pressed, and then
immediately felt sorry he did when the student's eyes snapped up to meet his, blue eyes dark with
a brief flash of irritation before it was gone.

"Something like that," Blair allowed in a bland, blank tone, sitting back, job complete. "Better?"

"Are you going to tell me?" he asked, coming straight to the point. He wanted to know the
details so he could know more about his partner's life. His knowledge was woefully lacking.

*Oh be honest! You want to know just who this O'Neill guy is and exactly what he was to Blair.*

"About what?" the anthropologist asked, slightly confused.

Frustrated, Ellison snapped. "Don't play games with me Sandburg. About how you knew where
to find me, how you know Mark and this Jack O'Neill. When you learned to fly a plane when you
hate heights. I think I deserve to know."

Those blue eyes turned arctic in an instant, the face hard, the voice rough and low. "You do
huh?" A laugh that wasn't a laugh, a harsh sound that sounded more like a sob escaped Sandburg's
lips as he got to his feet. "This from the man who conveniently forgot to mention he had a brother
and a father alive and living in Cascade? This from the man who never tells me when he zones or
need--" Blair broke off, amending his words quickly. "could possibly want my help until the last
possible second and then blames me for not coming up with answers quick enough? The man
who calls a shrink from a airport phone booth for me, but forgets to mention it to me after I've
told him a dozen times I don't LIKE spilling my guts to psychologists? That's rich man. You
deserve to know. Ha!"

The slamming of the patio door shook the house. Jim followed his partner with his hearing, but
Sandburg wasn't mumbling under his breath. There was an eerie silence that surrounded him as
he disappeared into the sand.

Ellison cursed himself silently. He had a bad habit of trying to use interrogation tactics on Blair if
he didn't get the immediate answers he wanted. Looking back now, those overbearing aggressive
moves made Ellison wince. *I mean what sort of a friend am I? I don't treat Simon that way. I
didn't treat Jack Pendergrast that way either. I never treated Army buddies like that or
co-workers. When did it become routine to treat Sandburg like that?*

("Listen, you neo-hippie witch doctor punk, I could slap you right now with larceny and false
impersonation and you are heading real quick into harassing a police officer, and what's more your
behavior is giving me probable cause to shake this place down from top to bottom for narcotics!")

("Why didn't you tell me this?")

("What the hell did you do? What the hell did you do?")

("Would you just forget it? I am not going to be some human lab rat for you to prod and probe
every time something goes wrong. You got that?"

"I'm just trying to help. ")

("We never got off of it. We just took a brief detour to the Sandburg zone.")

("Well, Chief, I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know if I can get past this. To me, it
was a real breach of trust and that struck really deep with me.")

("I got to have a partner I can trust. Have you ever stopped to think what good all this research is
doing anyway?")

*Deserve to know? God, how badly can I screw up? I don't deserve a damn thing.*

***

*Deserve to know? Deserve to know?!* Blair fumed as he strode angrily along the dunes.

*Fuck you, James Ellison! Deserve to know! You bastard!*

He sat down heavily and panted for a good minute, trying to do what Naomi said and just "let it
go, let it go."

But that was just plain stupid! Let it go? Like hell he would! He would stay angry until he damn
well felt like it. He'd kept his cool remarkably well when he'd been accused in the bullpen, his
apology thrown back in his face; no sense getting defensive on Ellison's turf he figured. He'd kept
it together in the hospital room when Jim had finally come in to see him and made those lousy
jokes when all he wanted to do was hit the man, scream and yell at him, curl up under the bed and
sob like a baby. And then Jim had admitted that he too had seen the wolf and the jaguar, that
perfect moment at death. It was the most peaceful and beautiful experience Blair had ever had.
*Much better than the tunnel of light stuff.* And then . . . and then . . .

("Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you.")

*Don't know? You don't know if you're ready? What about me? Like I have a fucking choice
about this?*

He wanted to kill Jim right there. Sit up and take the oxygen tube and wrap it around his friend's
neck. The urge to do it so strong, and he knew from experience if he gave into it that's just what
would happen. For one horrible instant he had felt such hatred for him, he nearly had a heart
attack. Anger, rage, feelings he hadn't had since the Army welled up inside him from a place he
had all but destroyed, controlled. How could how could he not be ready? How could he not at
least try and help? Why did Jim always have to leave him, leave the burden all upon his shoulders
and then blame him when he faltered under the load? Didn't he deserve some help? Weren't they
partners, even if Jim never admitted it in public except that first time as a joke to Joel? Didn't he
validate some concern? And not James Ellison's patented Are-You-Okay?-Pull-Yourself-
Together-Chief speech, that was about as helpful as a pair of swimming trunks in a snow storm.

*God, would it be too much to ask for just something?* he wondered, staring up at the cloudless
sky. *I'm gonna leave that something entirely up to you, I'm not even going to specify, because
I'm breathing and that's gift enough. But there's--* Blair swallowed back the growing lump hin
his throat. *but there's no point in coming back for Jim when Jim doesn't want me as partner,
friend, roommate, Guide. Coming back for me is one thing. But if I did it for Jim, which I have
a sneaking suspicion I did just that, which upon recent reflection was a fucking stupid thing to do
since he could care less, what the hell should I do now?! I'm not dedicating my life to that
asshole! No way in hell!*

If dying didn't change things between them, Blair wasn't sticking around. Not for the roller
coaster ride, not for the academic merry-go-round, not for the Sentinel stuff, the tiny cramped
bedroom under the stairs, house rules, endless paperwork and stakeouts he did on his free time,
and a partner who didn't want to be a partner, a Sentinel who didn't want to be a Sentinel, a man
who despised him and treated him like shit.

Blair Jacob Sandburg was many things, but he was nobody's whipping boy. Naomi could go on
and on about peace and pacificism, but then she didn't know her baby boy had joined the U.S.
Army to pay for his masters while she was off globetrotting and communing with trees or saving
frogs or whatever the hell she'd been doing.

He had tried to be accommodating and compromising with Jim these last few years. He'd tried to
be understanding of Jim's upbringing, his struggles, his old pains and traumas, his difficulties and
fears accepting his senses. He'd been grateful for his friend, (whether Jim considered him that or
not). The police work actually took the edge off the boiling anger and fear that sometimes
bubbled up, the adrenaline kick helping him to sleep without dreams at night and avoid panic
attacks that still came. As long as he refrained from picking up a gun and repeating the horrible
bloody events that had followed the first and last time he'd picked up a weapon with the intent to
actually fire it, police work was wonderful. It was like practicing anthropology on current events.
It gave him something to focus his mind on so he didn't end up running in mental circles when his
classes inevitably failed to challenge him. He had stuck around at the loft because it seemed easier
than moving, and Jim didn't complain, at least not seriously about him. At least that was what
he'd thought, before Alex.

Alex.

Blair rubbed the back of his head ruefully. As pistol whippings went, it was minor. He'd had
worse during his service time. Blair pushed up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and yanked off the
woven bands he wore around his wrists. They had been a gift from one of the tribes he'd visited
after he was discharged. He fingered the nearly invisible white scars that circled his wrists and
thought back to the red marks around Jim's.

He'd known once he had met Brackett that he couldn't, *couldn't* publish his work on Sentinels
with Jim as his subject, couldn't risk any of what happened to him under different circumstances to
happen to Ellison.

Alex had been a God-sent.

Alex who had no long terms of staying in Cascade, who hadn't minded at all that the results of the
tests would be written up. Now he knew that was because Alex Barns wasn't her name and she
had no plans for keeping him alive.

So much for his life's work.

The search for his Holy Grail had kept him sane, kept him from self-destructing after Iraq.
Resisting the temptation to drink or drug himself into oblivion, he had buried himself alive in
books, his grave a library. He haunted the archives at night, he took up meditation, ate healthy,
avoided his mother in case Naomi's self-centered, slightly flaky haze might lift and the ill-used
maternal instinct would rear up, pounce, and ask uncomfortable questions he had no intention of
ever answering. Blair moved back to the one place in America least like a desert and attempted to
put down roots.

*I guess people like me don't deserve a home,* he thought ruefully, remembering boxes, boxes
filled only with his belongings piled in the living room of the loft. *Or family and friends who can
stand to be with me,* he thought back to Simon's visit after he'd risen from the dead. The captain
had come asking for his observer pass and then left just as abruptly, disappearing with Jim to
Mexico. If it hadn't been for Megan . . .

But what did he do to help in Mexico? Absolutely nothing. He had no answers for Jim, and Jim
could see only Alex.

("Wait! Jim, don't shoot, man. It's only us.")

("I couldn't use the gun. I couldn't even point it at her, as if...as if something held me back.)

It was enough to make one question the reason they were still breathing.

*Well there is all that lovely water out there. Wouldn't hurt much to finish what was started,* he
thought idly, running the sand through his fingers.

Blair shook himself. Enough of the pity party. He was planning on either remaining calm or
staying angry. No way in hell was he giving into Jim and his own demons by letting depression
take hold.

He'd fight this. He'd fight Jim if he had to.

He wouldn't go back to before, before the fountain, before he'd taken his life back after Iraq.

He refused to be a victim, Blessed Protector be damned.

***

Blair was out for the rest of the day wandering the surf, sitting on the sand. Silent. Jim felt like
an intruder, unwanted, out of place. The house was comfortable, filled with books on a variety of
subjects, but none held his interest. He stood staring, chained to the patio, unable to venture forth
after his friend. Despite was Simon had said, Jim was beginning to see that he had no right to
Sandburg, had no hold on or over him. Blair had his own life, his own history, and now his own
future away from Cascade, away from Major Crimes, away from the loft, away from James
Ellison.

Because that was what he'd said he'd wanted.

He ate dinner and tried to watch some television, but he couldn't focus on the characters in the
dumb sitcom because his hearing was tuned so intently to his partner. He thought about waiting
up, but then decided it would be better if he went to his own room.

He turned off the lights, and half an hour later the door opened and he heard Blair rummaging
around for a bottle of water. There was the rattling sound of pills in a bottle and then the
student's soft footfalls to the bathroom and then his room. And suddenly the house was silent . . .

Until two hours later when it was broken by hoarse choking cries from Sandburg's room.

If it was the loft, he'd listen in, and if Blair didn't calm down on his own, he'd go and shake the
younger man awake, make sure he was really out of the dream and then head back up to his own
bed. Blair had been taking care of himself for a long time, he didn't need a bedtime story. But
now, guilt over how he treated his friend, and Alex weighing him down, Jim scrambled out of bed
to his partner's temporary room and gently shook him awake.

"Sandburg, Chief!" he hissed. "Wake up, Blair."

"Wha-?"

Blair sat up, eyes wide, pulse all over the map, holding his side as if he had a cramp. "You awake
Sandburg?"

"Yeah," he said, gulping in great gasps of air. "I'm 'wake. Go back to sleep Jim."

Instead Ellison settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed and stared intently at his
Guide. Now was the time to apologize, to tell Sandburg what a jerk he'd been, to say the words
he should have said after the fountain.

"What?" Blair asked when it became obvious that Jim wasn't leaving. "Something up with your
senses?"

"I thought you might want someone to talk to," Jim began awkwardly. He'd never done this
before, not even when Carolyn had a nightmare. When you had bad dreams you bit your lip,
stopped whimpering and acted like a man, as his father would say. Jim had taken the advice to
heart. Perhaps was now the time to change that. "You never talk to any therapist," he continued,
plunging in headfirst into the wide and weird world of attempting to comfort his distraught
partner. "For someone so in touch with his feelings you've avoided psychologists like they were
plague carriers. Lash, Galileo, Quinn, Kincaid . . . you never talk about anything important to
you! I thought maybe you would like to."

There! That wasn't so hard. He'd offered and he'd explained his reasons. His Guide should be
feeling much better now.

Blair looked at him like he'd suddenly sprouted another eyeball in the center of his forehead.
"Nothing happened Jim. It was just a nightmare. There's nothing wrong. Get over it already,
okay?" He yanked on the blankets and tried to tuck himself back in.

"Nothing wrong?" Jim protested. He had finally accepted that he needed to talk with his Guide,
go over, process what had happened, and Blair wanted to *sleep?* How could Blair say that
when he looked the way he did? "You cut your hair. You impaled the phone with the scissors.
You're staying in a beach house but refuse to do anything but stare at the water. You knew I was
kidnaped before Simon told you, broke into a military base, and was prepared to go in guns
blazing if you couldn't get me out." He leaned in closer to his partner so that Blair could see his
expression and know he wasn't angry but worried, and continued. "This isn't you, Blair. I think
maybe the mental stress of the past few weeks is affecting you more than you realize."

Blair sputtered for a moment and then with an audible sound, snapped his jaw shut. "Well that
just goes to show how well you know me James Ellison. Now lemme sleep."

"Was it about Alex?" Jim asked softly, wanting to face this now. He was sick of waiting, letting
the guilt eat at him.

Sandburg sat up, face incredulous. "What?"

"Was the nightmare about Alex? Simple yes or no answer, you can handle that."

"Get out," Blair snapped.

Jim shook his head. Finally a response. All this silence, this emotionless Sandburg had irritated
him, scared him. Now Blair was beginning to talk. *I mean, wasn't it Sandburg who always
insisted that it was better never to go to sleep angry?* They needed to talk about this. Sandburg
was right. They couldn't just ignore this and sweep it under the rug. Besides, his Guide's physical
condition wasn't improving and the Sentinel was demanding action. "I don't think so."

"Get out!" he hissed.

"No."

"What, you can tell me to get out of your life, your home, your workplace but I can't tell you to
get out of my room in the middle of the night in a house where you are a guest?!" Blair spat,
shoving Jim off the bed. "Gotta love the double standard there *buddy.*"

Jim stood up, face pale, hands clenched in fists. That had hurt, not the shove, that wasn't bad at
all, but the words . . .

("I just need a little space. I feel like the walls are closing in.")

("I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to analyze it. I just need you out of here by the time I
get back. ")

And what had he offered Blair when the kid had woken up? Jokes. Lame jokes.

He swallowed hard, clenching his jaw tight, fighting the burning in his eyes, the sudden
immeasurable weight on his chest. It was one thing to carry it around, it was another for his
Guide, his best friend, to call him on it.

*But isn't this what you wanted? To face this head-on, not dance around the subject? Didn't
you want a response from Blair?*

*I don't want Blair to hate me!*

*Blair doesn't usual act like this when I make a mistake! He always forgives me, he always
sticks around.* Jim had originally thought he wouldn't, had been surprised when he did. Now the
kid seemed ready to abandon him.

*HA! Abandon you? You idiot! You fucking moron! You abandoned HIM, remember?! You've
become everyone in your life you hated and was hurt by! Jerk!*

"Sandburg- Blair I didn't mean--" he began in a choked voice remembering, remembering the
damming words, his Guide standing in the middle of the loft, the middle of his home, finding his
belongings packed as Jim literally walked out on him.

But Blair was on a roll. "You want space? Can't have anyone around? Some time off alone? I
owe you rent, right? You say that and the subjects closed, right?" he yelled. "Well maybe for you!
Maybe that's all the time it takes you to come to terms with what you did, what happened, but us
damaged, mentally stressed folk need a little longer to put it all in neatly labeled boxes far, faaar
away in our subconscious. That type of work requires sleep Ellison, so get the fuck out of my
room."

With that Blair dove back under the covers and turned his back on his friend.

***

Breakfast began in the silence of the morning. Blair was making pancakes again. Jim said he was
sorry. Blair's heart rate didn't so much as twitch. Jim repeated himself. Nothing.

Losing his patience, Ellison snarled "Dammit Sandburg, would you answer me or at least look at
me when I'm trying to apologize?"

"Apologize? For what?" Sandburg asked, looking up from the batter.

"For WHAT?" Jim roared. "I threw you out, ignored you, stuck my gun in your face, told you to
leave, that I didn't need you, that I didn't trust you--"

"You don't," Blair said cooly.

"I DO!" Jim yelled in return.

Blair laughed, a humorless sound. *God help me,* Ellison growled *If he doesn't start laughing
and acting the way he usually does I'm going to hurt someone.*

"So the first words out of your mouth when I said I turned in my diss was NOT a howl of
betrayal?" Sandburg pointed out as he grabbed the frying pan out of the cupboard. "I remember
something along the lines of WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR DEAL?"

Jim looked away, embarrassed. "I was . . . surprised," he said at last.

Blair snorted. "You were afraid. You don't trust me to lick a stamp." He turned to look at the
Sentinel whose jaw was even now clenching in anger. "What? Can't admit it?" he taunted.
"C'mon Jim. You can say it. It's just three little words."

"Fuck you Sandburg, why does this always have to turn into some new age group therapy, love
everyone kind of conversation?"

Brandishing the pan, eyes narrowing, Blair glared at the detective. "Do I look like I want to hug
you Jim?"

The Sentinel eyed his partner carefully. "You look like you want to slug me," he admitted.

"And if you're not careful that is exactly what I'm going to do. Now sit down and eat your
pancakes."

Jim took his seat as Blair went to work at the stove. "Today I get pancakes? You want to slug
me and I get pancakes?"

"I get kidnaped you make pancakes. You get kidnaped, I make pancakes." The batter hissed in
the pan. "Notice the uniformity of standards between us with this equation," Blair pointed out in
a dark tone.

Jim grimaced and took a sip of his coffee. "I miss the subtle Sandburg, the one that talked in
circles."

"The one you would tune out at will," Blair countered.

"The one that let me eat in peace," Jim retorted.

Blair slammed the spatula down on the counter. "Well I'm sorry Jim, but he drowned and didn't
bother to come back. He found it way too tiring trying to pound sense into your head and
decided death was preferable."

Before Blair could say another word he found himself slammed up against the pantry cupboard
door, a furious Jim Ellison in his face. "Don't . . .Joke . . . About . . . That!" he hissed.

"Jim--"

"EVER!" roared the Sentinel.

Blair looked away, trying, trying to keep those crazy, stupid, pointless tears from his eyes.
"So . . ." he spat. "We're back at the beginning again, huh, Ellison? Think you can try and be
slightly more considerate this time around?"

Jim dropped his partner and moved back a few steps. "What do you want from me Sandburg,
huh? An apology?! Fine! I apologize!"

Blair braced himself against the door, trying to keep from falling over. He felt as if he'd just run a
marathon. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you since you, the spirit realm, and the universe at
large have made it abundantly clear that this is in fact *my* fault." His voice turned pensive.
"You know it wasn't so bad as life threatening situations go. I've been in worse. No apology
man. There's no point. You don't mean it, you can't change. If dying doesn't impact you there's
little else I can do except Stay Dead," he snapped.

"DON'T SAY THAT! Dammit Sandburg," Jim snarled. "I screwed up everything. I'm
apologizing for every stupid thoughtless word I said. I'm apologizing for getting you killed, for
nearly getting you killed in Mexico, running off with Alex, for ignoring my dreams, for throwing
you out. I'm fucking SORRY, okay?! I DO mean it!" He ran a hand over his face in helpless
frustration. He couldn't convince Blair, not anymore, not after what he'd done. Blair wouldn't
forgive, he'd never forget, never trust again. And that hurt almost as much as Blair leaving, Blair
dying. He'd almost begun to believe he had carte blanche with Blair. *You shit, Ellison! You
think that give you the right to treat him as you do?* The voice in his head whispered angrily.
His conscious was no Jiminey Cricket, that was for sure. "Those things I said, I-I don't know
where they came from."

"They came from you," Blair explained calmly. "It's how you feel." He turned and looked out at
the ocean, avoiding Jim's searching eyes. "Y'know, waiting for you in that office before . . .Alex
came . . ." He changed tracts abruptly, voice going somewhat cheerful. "Well, lets just say this is
actually better than I hoped for. I saw your side of things, saw what damage I could cause, my
work has already caused. I mean, our partnership could have ended in that fountain; now at least
I get to say good-bye, help you out of that military base, make sure all my junk is out of your
house, your life is back in order, work is good, and surprise, surprise!" Blair spread his arms as if
to announce his presence to the world. "I'm still around if you decide to suddenly need me for
anything."

Jim couldn't have been more stunned if someone had poleaxed him. "You're-you're leaving?" he
whispered, horrified, terrified.

*No! Nonononono!*

"No," Blair said with a frustrated sigh. "I came back for you. Are you listening? Pay attention
here James," he said sharply. "I'm not going anywhere. You'll know where I live, you'll know my
number. I'll even try and stay in Cascade if it is humanly possible, but I doubt it. You'll call when
you need me: 1-800-4GUIDES and I'm there. No tests, no loud music, all the hot water, and
space you want, man. Hell, if you feel I'm not trustworthy without some contract we can hire
some lawyer, or I should say *I* can hire some lawyer and work that out too, since you don't
really *need* me," he said with bitter sarcasm.

Jim shook his head, regaining his sanity. This was marginally better than Blair leaving but
still . . ."This is absolute bullshit."

Blair shrugged. "It's what you want."

"Like hell!"

Blair walked over to his friend and poked him in the chest. "When the shit hits the fan this is
you,-- Detective James Ellison, Sentinel --this is how you act. Fear-based responses. Not that
that's bad, but when have you ever believed me," he turned away throwing his hands up in the air,
in a nonverbal plea for divine intervention. He turned and faced Jim again. "I told you when we
met I would help you. I keep my word. Until the day I die, either tomorrow or 50 years from
now, you have only to call. I promised you that. I'm not adding to your abandonment issues.
*I'm* not leaving *you.* *You* left *me.*" He ran his hand through his shorn hair. "This is the
best solution I can come up with. If you have some better idea, I'm willing to hear you out."

Without a moment's hesitation James replied. "Stay."

"Jim, I just *told* you I'm not--"

"Stay with me, at the loft," he clarified, trying not to sound desperate, but he was, *he was!*
Desperate to keep Blair in his life, Blair the Guide, Blair the researcher, Blair the roommate, Blair
his *best friend,* who understood weird Sentinel shit as Simon called it, in ways no one, not his
ex-wife, his Army buddies, his coworkers, his captain, his family ever could.

"How is that going to prevent future disasters?" Sandburg asked archly. "Every time we go at
one another your city suffers remember? I refuse to cause something like that again. That nerve
gas could have killed thousands. We were acting like idiots and Alex nearly got away with mass
murder! That and personally I refuse to put up with your treatment of me for another second. I've
had it up to here," Blair raised his hand to a level above his head. "I've taken everything I could.
If I wanted hell I would have stayed dead."

"Dammit Sandburg! STOP SAYING THAT!" Jim had to fight the urge to slam his Guide up
against a hard surface, the urge to shake his Guide silly. "I'm sick of hearing you try to blame
yourself when it was me," Jim insisted.

Blair held his hand to his head, pretending to recall something difficult and far distant in his
memory. "I seem to recall another conversation not too long ago when exactly the opposite was
said, when taking the blame wasn't enough. Which one should I believe Jim? Huh?" he demanded
bitterly. "Whose word should I take, Jim's or Jim's? Hmm, tricky choice there. I think I'll go with
the one that was said in honesty, not one that stems out of a misguided sense of guilt and
obligation since I got you out of the base my work got you into in the first place," he spat.

"You don't know that."

"Actually I do. My master's thesis along with Brackett led to your kidnaping. Hence the blame
falls on me. But don't worry Jim," Blair said with a laugh, turning off the stove before the smell
of burnt pancake could fill the house. "I'll take it like a man."

Jim ran over Blair's proposal in his mind. Blair had said he'd do anything to get past this, and this
was what he'd come up with, a solution he thought would serve both of them. *No way Chief.
No fucking way.*

"Jim? Anything to add? You're very good at this," Sandburg said as he scraped the burnt mess
into the garbage disposal.

"At what?"

"Honest scathing comments about Blair Sandburg. Feel free to jump in," he said in a mock
cheerful voice as he ran the water and flipped the switch, filling the kitchen with the grinding
noise for several awful moments.

Jim shook his head and crossed his arms on his chest. "I am not joining you in this insanity. This
is stupid. You usually aren't this stupid. I think its the meds." Jim cocked his head and stared
intently at his Guide. "Maybe a fever."

"Jim--" Blair protested as the larger man grabbed his elbow and steered him over to his room.
*Shit!* the Sentinel cursed. The heat was radiating from his Guide's body and Blair was making
pancakes.

"You're lying down until you start making sense," he told the student, a no-nonsense, ordering
tone taking over. He'd held back taking care of Sandburg when the kid was too stupid to do it
himself and look what happened! Just look! He was thinking up crazy theories again. The
Sentinel shook his head at the thought of foolish Guides.

"You mean until I agree with you," Sandburg countered hotly.

Ellison snorted as he pushed open the bedroom door. "When have we ever agreed?"

"We agreed that Megan's coat deserved to be taken out and shot to be put out of its freakish
misery."

"I mean important stuff Chief," Jim reminded him with a glare as he sat Blair on the edge of the
bed.
.
"That *was* important," Blair muttered under his breath. A firm hand pressed against his chest,
aggravating the cracked ribs for a moment before the hypersensitive touch softened and moved to
his shoulder instead.

"Lie down," Jim ordered.

"Jim-!"

"Lie down Guide," the Sentinel snarled.

"Fuck that!" Sandburg yelled, pushing back, suddenly alive with anger. "Now you remember I'm
your Guide?" He punctuated his question with another shove. "Now your willing to think about
it? Admit that I'm that important? That I'm relevant?" he cried, voice dripping with rancor and
bitterness. "When you want me to do something you want?" He stood, his whole body shaking in
fury. "And if I don't do what you want, what Jim? You'll pull out your handy dandy crossbow
and kill me?!"

Jim staggered backward, stunned. He felt as if he'd been just clocked by a two by four. Blair
knew. Oh dear God, Blair *knew!*

*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*

"You think I don't know?!" Blair roared, moving forward, causing Ellison to stumble back under
the force of his anger. "You think I don't see the jaguar wandering through the loft? I'm you
Shaman!" he screamed his defiance at the world, reaching quickly under his shirt and pulling his
hand away blood stained, dripping. James gapped, mind unable to comprehend, the smell of
blood assailing his senses.

*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*

"We walk more than one world!" Blair reached up lighting quick and smeared the horrible blood
on the side of Ellison's face and chin. Jim was inexplicably reminded of the face paint he'd worn in
the jungle, how Incacha would paint him every morning until he felt more naked without paint
than without clothes. But the blood burned, was still warm and smelling of Blair, Blair who
*knew!*

*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*

"You may not be ready to head into the water but I was thrown kicking and screaming into it,
literally and figuratively without any help, without *anyone!*" Blair sobbed, but no tears left
those blue eyes. "Where the hell were you? Where the hell was ANYONE?! I don't have a
fucking clue what being a Shaman means, but I'm it. A blood gift," he said with another horrible
parody of a laugh staring down at his stained hands. "My job to protect you and I'm doing my
damned best here, even though you've made it very clear that you don't want me, don't need me
anything but gone from your life and your work! You probably would have been much happier if
I'd stayed dead since you needed me gone so badly!"

"No-" Jim choked out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even stand. *Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*
"No, that's not tru--"

"Liar!" Blair raised his clenched fists to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm so fucking
close to losing it here, you have no idea how close. After the fountain, in Sierra Verde, when you
yelled at me about the diss, in the hospital room when you stayed for what? Five minutes? I
wanted to kill you!" he hissed. "I almost killed someone at the base the wolf was so strong."

The eyes snapped open, wild and feral. "If you ever treat me like that again I *will* kill you
James Ellison, do you understand me? I'll KILL you!"

"Yes. Yes!" Jim agreed nodding his head frantically as he took another step backward and hit the
doorway and crumpled to the floor, stunned, marked, overwhelmed.

Blair *knew!*

Blair looked down at him, eyes filled with misery. "You had no right," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know, I'm sorry" he whispered back.

*Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!*

"I'd do anything for you, did *everything* for you," Blair said, voice breaking, eyes bewildered
asking *why? why?*

*Just like the wolf*

"You kept me sane," Jim admitted desperately. *Too late, too late,* a voice whispered inside.
*Blair knows.* "You kept me alive." *But I didn't keep you sane, you alive.*

Blair closed his eyes and shook his head, and he looked to Jim like he did in the garage, in the
garage with his gun in his hand. He had been standing atop of the car protecting the world and
James Ellison from Golden Fire people, wanting to trust, but so afraid. "Why?" he asked, he
sobbed as he too collapsed into a gasping heap by the bed.

"I was a-afraid," Jim confessed, Jim who hadn't been to confession in years because Sandburg
was his Confessor, his Sacred Confidant. Sandburg who had all the answers or who would
devote his precious time to finding them just for James Ellison.

Those eyes snapped open, older, younger than they should be, both at the same time. "Don't be
afraid of me Enqueri," he said softly. "Don't you ever be afraid of me."

And it was Incacha's voice, and Incacha's words from so long ago and they were coming from
Blair.

And then Blair was up and moving, Blair who should be in bed because he had a fever, because
he'd drowned, because he was *bleeding dammit!* But Blair was headed outside, to the ocean,
to spend another day surrounded by impenetrable silence. "Blair- wait!" Jim scrambled to his
feet. "I can't do this without you," he called after him. "I was wrong!"

Blair's escaping figure froze. He turned around slowly, frank shock on his face. "Huh," he
breathed. "Well whattya know?" he whispered staring at the ground before looking up and
meeting Jim's eyes. "Hell just froze over."

***

Jim wanted to go after Sandburg. He was ill, his Guide needed to rest. But once again he found
himself seemingly chained to the house, unable to step off the porch.

Unable to stop what sounded almost like an animal whine from escaping his lips, he turned and
marched to the bathroom, throwing on the light and wrenching open the faucet.

He stared at the bloodstain that now decorated his face, impossibly marked it. He reached up with
one hand and touched the blood that burned his skin like nothing he'd ever felt.

("Sandburg! Sandburg! Come on. Come on, guys. Come on. Sandburg! Let's get an ambulance
here!"

"I don't hear a heartbeat. Do you? Do you hear a heartbeat? Jim! Jim!"

"No, nothing.")

He pushed the fountain out of his mind. He remembered instead the hunt through the jungle,
bathed in an eerie blue glow of dreams, of visions, the crossbow in his hands.

("Come on. Get his airway open. All right, here we go. All right, let's go. One, two, three...
four... "

"Come on, Chief."

"Four, five... All right, clear. Let's go again. One, two three, four."

"Breathe, damn it!")

And then, near the stone temple he saw the animal, the wolf, wandering through the underbrush,
guarding the perimeter.

("Four. "

"Give us room, guys. Check his pulse."

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Come on, Sandburg.
Come on. Come on, Chief. Come on. Come on, come on.")

And without thinking about it, without thinking about his actions, his words, his attitude, he
raised the weapon, aimed and fired.

The wolf whimpered as it fell.

("I'm sorry, guys."

"Oh, Sandy... ")

He'd put away his crossbow feeling the grim satisfaction of taking out his enemy, his prey. He
walked over to check on the wolf to make sure it was dead.

("What do you mean, "sorry"? Wait. This isn't over. Come on, Sandburg. Come on!"

"Jim. "

"Come on, come on. Come on, Sandburg. Come on, damn it!"

"Jim, he's gone. Let him go. He's gone."

"Come on, Sandburg.")

He leaned over to look at the animal which blinked up at him from where it lay motionless on the
ground. And then . . .and then it was Blair.

("Jim!"

"No! No! He's alive!

"He's gone!"

"No!"

"Come on! Stop it!"

"Let it go, baby."

"Let it go, let it go."

"No... oh, God, no.")

And Blair was laying there, naked, dying, dead.

Murdered.

("Don't you go! No! He's alive!"

"He's gone!"

"Oh, God, no.")
Jim looked away from the mirror and stuck his hands under the stream of water watching the sink
fill with pink stained liquid, and then splashed a handful over his face.

*Like Lady Macbeth,* he though painfully remembering the bloody play, *the spot won't come
out.*

("He's gone. Gone!")

***

Blair didn't come in until after the lights were off and Jim was in bed. Figuring that was what his
partner would do, at the first sign of dusk the detective turned in, lying in bed, listening to his
friend swallow some pills, eat an apple and then pad off to his own room.

Jim laid awake a long time.

An incredible sense of deja vu hit the detective the next morning when he woke and headed into
the kitchen.

Blair stood at the stove, batter in a bowl, frying pan on the burner. "Pancakes?" Jim asked, slightly
surprised.

"Pancakes, take three." Blair clarified with a grin aimed at the stove. The anthropologist was
humming to himself slightly, hands shaking with fatigue. It was all Jim could do not to drag Blair
back to bed and feed him broth and antibiotics until he was well.

But he had no *right. Not now that Blair knew.*

"Blair?" he asked tentatively.

"Uh yeah?" the student answered just as cautiously.

*Calm, logic. You won't get him to rest and heal if you never stop pushing each other's
buttons.* "I thought a lot about what you said, about your solution to the problem Chief."

"Aaaaand you agree?" Sandburg asked shooting him a covert glance as he poured irregular
shaped chocolate chip pancakes.

"No, I still think its bullshit," Jim said easily "but I think I figured out what is going on." Ellison
leaned on the counter across from Sandburg, staring at his partner where his friend would not.

"Enlighten me."

"You think there is a problem that needs your stupid solution, I don't see one. That's why it's
bullshit," Jim explained.

Now Blair looked up. "You don't see any problem," he repeated, not an iota of emotion in his
words.

"Well, there is what I did," Jim clarified slightly uncomfortable with the piercing gaze now that he
finally had it fixed where it belonged, on him. "Throwing you out and--and stuff. The things I
said. That was my fau--" Blair opened his mouth to protest and Jim straightened up, voice harsh
like his drill sergeant, the one had to have been a demon from hell. "Shut-up and listen Sandburg,
It WAS my fault. You can't blame it on Sentinel instincts or whatever territorial theory you have
currently. I was an asshole, a jerk, a hypocrite. You didn't know she was a criminal, and you did
try to tell me after I stuck my gun in your face, not once but twice. I had no right to accuse you
of betrayal." There, he'd said it, and just like always he felt lightened, clean, whole. There was a
damn good reason why he went to Blair and not to a priest. In a softer voice he added, "I killed
you."

Sandburg scratched his head, squinting in puzzlement as his mind turned over what Jim just said.
"Ummm . . . no, Alex killed me. I remember that very clearly, believe me, in full technicolor and
sound no less. Double feature nightly. You just sort of weren't around to stop her, which was my
fault since I should have told you about her." Now came the familiar Sandburg pacing and Jim
wanted to cheer and jump up and down at the sight of it, the sight of Blair being Blair, but he had
to focus now, focus on what his best friend was saying. "I mean what sort of Guide goes out and
helps another Sentinel? That's why it's good that this happened. Now I figured it all out, see?
You partner with Megan and you have a partner you can trust, who won't loose her grip on the
big picture when some other opportunity comes around. Focused, properly trained, dependent,
trustworthy."

Jim shook his head. When did Sandburg get so mixed up about things? For a moment the wished
he could peer into his friend's mind and see where the basis was for all of Sandburg's wild leaps
into insanity, so that he could find the right words and fix this. He didn't have any proof but he
had the feeling that the thing with Alex was just the tip of the iceberg, as if all the hateful venom
he'd spat at his friend in those days were things Blair had been expecting, inevitably waiting to
hear for the past three years.*Well not anymore. No more blood, Sandburg. No more blood.*
"We're not going to agree on this are we?" he asked idly.

"If you weren't so stubborn you'd see I'm right. I apologized in the bullpen, admitted I was
wrong. Fat lot of good it did me," Sandburg muttered, flipping the first pancake expertly.

"You're not wro--" Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. "This is a waste of time."

Sandburg nodded. "I'm glad you see that."

"You think you're at fault, I think I'm at fault . . ."

Blair licked some of the batter off the spoon. "I think your crazy."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Well you're a damn fool Sandburg."

"Moron."

"Loud-mouth."

"Neat-freak," Blair challenged plunking down a dripping batter spoon an inch from Jim's hands set
on the counter top.

Very solemnly Jim took the spoon in hand and reached out and smeared batter on Sandburg's t-
shirt.

Equally serious Blair took the bowl in his hands, reached out and dumped the lot on Ellison's
head.

Or at least he tried to. With a yelp, Jim pulled back, batter dribbling cold and sticky down his
collar. Growling, he grabbed a handful and threw it back at Blair.

Dodging gracefully, the anthropologist, with spatula in hand, laughter evident, flipped the half
cooked pancake at Jim's face.

It all went downhill from there.

Several sticky, furious minutes later, laughter still echoing in the disaster that was the kitchen
Blair sat slumped against the refrigerator, Jim opposite him against the oven.

Merriment gave way to coughing and then choking as Blair leaned to the side so far that his
forehead touched the splattered linoleum

Scrambling to his feet, cursing himself for ten times a fool, Jim leaned over his partner, hands
fluttering helplessly as Sandburg fought for air. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Jim whispered anxiously.

Blair weakly waved one hand, trying to indicate that he was okay. "'S'okay--" Another deep
hacking sound escaped. "'S'okay Jim."

Jim shook his head in refusal. "No it isn't," he said hoarsely as Blair sat up again, hand pressed
against his side. "You won't come home. You kept saying you were coming back to Cascade, but
not home. And then you didn't want your observer pass anymore," Jim continued, voice
becoming strident with fear. "Or-or to teach at Rainier, and then you didn't even want to write
about me. You're not . . . *you* anymore."

The student's eyes flew open. "That was to protect you so we could each get on with our lives!"
Blair cried.

"You always protect me! It's driving me nuts! You don't even think about yourself," Jim replied,
running his hands through his hair, smearing batter everywhere. "You came for me," he insisted
feverently.

Blair hung his head. "It was my work that got you there."

"It was your work that helped me become who I am, that gave me my life back."

Sandburg met Jim's eyes for a moment before he looked hurriedly away, not willing to face what
he saw lurking there, not willing to believe it could be real. "Got into trouble; you had to rescue
me again," he said in a low voice, shamed by his own helplessness.

Jim knew instinctively that it was the fountain on his Guide's mind. He closed his eyes, wondering
if he'd ever be able to think about the incident and not feel as if someone had physically reached
down his throat and ripped out his internal organs. "I was too late. You came back all on your
own. And *you* rescued *me*," Jim tried to reassure him.

Blair rubbed his eyes suddenly exhausted. "What do you want me to do, huh?" he demanded
quietly. "I can't do this anymore James."

"Come home," Jim pleaded without hesitation.

Silently Blair got to his feet, Jim reaching out to steady him. The anthropologist looked around
the gooey kitchen and offered his friend a smile. "So much for pancakes. C'mon Jim, help me
find the mop. What?" he asked when Jim suddenly started laughing.

Jim shook his head and just laughed.

***

It felt as if a connection between them had somehow been rebuilt, there for the taking, for
traveling, for communicating. Not active but there. No longer compelled to remain on the porch
Jim followed after his friend who sat once again engrossed by the changing tide of the afternoon.

Jim stood beside his friend who sat barefoot, arms loose around his bent knees, this time sitting on
a blanket he had taken with him. The weather was unusually warm even for Carlsbad which
assuaged the Sentinel that his Guide couldn't catch a chill-- that and Blair's regular ingestion of his
meds. The Sentinel contemplated the ocean, allowing his senses to fly forth and see and smell and
hear and feel, confident that with his Guide near no harm would come to him. Pulling back after a
few minutes, Jim began to speak again. He was becoming slightly more at ease at starting
conversations, not the arguments and accusations that were so much of the staple of his initiation
at the loft. It was a weird feeling; he found himself remembering tactics Sandburg had used to
make points and get Jim to talk and now turned them on their head to use for his partner. *If
Simon were here, I'd bet he'd say I sound just like Blair.*

But a real Sentinel knew that only Blair sounded like Blair.

"When you pass your defense . . ." Jim opened, disturbing the silence between them. "What are
you going to do then?"

Sandburg shrugged. "Dunno. I could teach somewhere, but I doubt Chancellor Edwards is going
to give me a glowing reference," he said with a bitter smile. "I could go on expeditions or just
work on research and publishing. The sub-culture thing was actually a very interesting topic," he
admitted sounding rather surprised. Jim wasn't. He'd overheard people talking at the university
when he'd gone over to Sandburg's office. Blair was one of the most prolific and well read and
well-liked writers. His style was said to be friendly, open and understandable. Jim kept reminding
himself that he should sit down and read some of Blair's work but never found the time. The one
time he had he'd only skimmed the chapter he stolen, too angry by the content to care for the
intelligence and brilliance of the writing. "I've already had some people talk to me about
continuing it," Sandburg continued. "I was thinking about getting some funding to do a follow up
on military subcultures."

Now there was a path that Ellison hadn't suspected. "Wouldn't- uh . . . wouldn't that be kind of
unobjective since you've been in the military Chief?" he asked uneasily.

He really didn't want Sandburg involved with the military again, especially after the recent rescue
mission.

("Lieutenant? Good job.")

It was about safety, Jim told himself firmly. It had nothing to do with a certain colonel who
complimented his partner so easily, who spoke with such familiarity and caring, who Blair
responded to in kind. Absolutely nothing.

Blair snorted. "Like it wasn't objective writing about you and being your Guide and Shaman, not
to mention living with you? Sacrificing career goals to become friends?" A weak chuckle
escaped onto the warm breeze. "I threw objectivity and anthropology right out the window from
the get go, planing to go native and stay native, and didn't care because I was so . . . happy," he
murmured in a wistful tone, like an adult remembering a favorite Christmas as a child, long ago
lost. Blair looked up at Jim suddenly, mood changing like quicksilver once again. "Would you
believe I actually considered going to the Academy this summer?" He laughed, not noticing Jim's
stunned expression. "What a hoot! It's okay to go native in anthropology as long as you can in the
end, pull back, be objective, return to your place in life to write it all up. I was your partner from
the second time we met," Here Blair's smile faded and he turned back to the ocean abruptly, as if
he'd just caught himself doing something he swore he'd never do again. "At least *I* thought so,"
he whispered so soft even Jim had to strain to hear.

"You were, *are.*" Jim insisted quickly.

Blair offered Jim a tolerant smile, the kind that laughs at you and says "yeah, right!" really loud
even if you aren't a Sentinel.

"I believe that's known as a Freudian slip," Sandburg pointed out.

"I thought you hated therapists," Jim countered.

"I do. Well, sort of," he amended.

"But you borrow Mark's house?" Jim asked, arching his eyebrow incredulously as he dropped
down beside Blair. "You minor in psychology?"

"The therapists I knew growing up that every school principle I ever had dragged me to see at one
point in time, no matter where we moved, were all exactly the same. They told me what my
problems were. They told me how wrong I was, how I should focus more on studies, how I
should push to finish early, how I should focus on math and science, and then the next school
English and history. They told me to push harder to succeed, be competitive. They told me to go
back to my age appropriate group so that I could mature socially. They told me how wrong my
upbringing was, how damaged I must be from Naomi's wanderings and a constant stream of
strange men entering and leaving my life. If I wanted to base my life on what other people said
and thought about me I would have walked up to whatever big dumb ox of a football player made
it his point to make my life miserable and listened to him talk for a while. It's why I minored in
psychology so I knew all their tricks," Blair finished smugly, nodding his head as if his plan was
foolproof, protected him from those individuals who haunted his upbringing.

It was perhaps the longest explanation of Sandburg's life Pre-Jim that Blair had ever uttered in the
presence of his friend; the most honest, the most painfully telling thing the detective ever heard.

"Big dumb ox?" he repeated. "Nice stereotype there Sandburg."

"What? And you, Mr. Quarterback, you never went out of your way to pick on other people in
school?" Blair asked pointedly.

Slightly irritated at being lumped in the same group as the jocks that made Blair's life miserable,
Jim snapped out "Actually I didn't."

Sandburg blinked in surprise, face losing its own wary look for that of genuine pleasure. "That's
good to know," he admitted softly. "Believe me, when I started working with you I had some
serious doubts about whether this wasn't some horrible flashback from my high school years. The
football player demanding my homework, slamming me up against the lockers. Though judging by
recent events I guess not all of them were unfounded."

"You never told me that," Jim replied, slightly shocked. *God, is that what Blair has been
thinking this whole time about me?* "You never told me anything about that," he said, angry at
being left in the dark for so long about his friend. Did Sandburg really think about that, compare
him to those bastards he'd known as a child? *Is that how I've been treating him?* he thought,
horrified. "It's like you have this whole other life at Rainier--"

"Had," Blair corrected absently.

"--and I don't know anyone or anything you do there. And then you were thinking all these things
about me, you, us, and you never said anything. And then this Army stuff . . . its like you're
another person."

"You never asked," Blair responded simply. "I didn't think you cared."

*Didn't think I cared? I care!* But his recent memory and behavior disproved that statement.
Hurt, but not willing to show it Jim clenched his jaw tight letting anger bleed into his tone. "I
thought this was about friendship."

"I said that," Sandburg reminded him sharply. "You didn't say a word man. Do you have any idea
how awkward it was saying that, admitting to you that it was beyond just research, the deal?"
Blair asked suddenly angry himself. "You could have thrown it back in my face. Hell you *did!*
"Lets keep it academic" remember? You wanted a human encyclopedia and research book that
you could pull out when you needed it. A secretary. What was I supposed to think?" he
demanded.

Jim shifted uncomfortably as the words struck home. "I don't do feelings very well Sandburg," he
growled.

"Ahhh!" Blair said sarcastically as he stood and dusted off his pants and shook the blanket. "You
have a problem with something and the world must adapt to fit you. How considerate."

Jim sighed in exasperation. "I'm beginning to realize that about myself." He looked up at Blair,
scowling. "You know Sandburg, you're an asshole."

Blair snorted. "Better than being a doormat man. I look at it this way," he continued, pulling his
friend to his feet before walking along the beach, his Sentinel at his side an eerie reminder of their
walk along the beach in Mexico. "This diss is done, you have control, your job is going good, and
I'm out of your hair and your home and still alive."

"If things are that easy why did you come find me?" Jim queried snidely.

"Because I'm your Guide," Blair answered promptly. "I'm Wolf as well. I refuse to see myself as a
person in parts. I'm all those things at once;" he said waving his hands for emphasis. "Scientist,
anthropologist, former observer, roommate, lieutenant, and teacher, Shaman, Guide, wolf, friend.
I, *we*" he corrected pointedly, "walk two worlds. I'm not going to divide myself into little bits
like you do. Regardless of how we do or don't get along, our relationship has certain guidelines.
You didn't want me in your life anymore and still you came to check on me at Rainier to find out
what Alex had done."

Fury rising again, Jim pulled his partner around to face him. "So the only reason you came back
for me is because I came and found you?"

Blair shook his head in frustration. "You're thinking of this as one-upmanship and it gets twisted
around. This is the way things *are,* no obligations, it just is. That's why the diss thing had to be
cleared up. That's why it is good you told me how you felt about me, now we can be Sentinel and
Guide without all the angst and the blowups where other people get hurt. See?"

"This is your damn solution again."

"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it," Sandburg said with a chuckle.

"I like my solution better," Jim said staunchly.

"Unfortunately, your mind being replaced by serviceable aliens aside James, I don't think your
personality is going to change," the anthropologist retorted tartly. "It sounds like a bad marriage.
I try and change you, you try and change me, when what we should have done is just learned to
work with who we are, but kept our distance."

"And you being only a phone call away is just the way to do it," the detective stated mockingly,
crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yep," Blair said with a nod.

"Well judging by the trial run we've had, my phone bill is going to be astronomical, you might just
dye your hair blue the next time we talk, the loft will become a barren eyesore again, I'll never find
the mop, and unless I somehow start listening to my dreams like you do, I'm never going to know
when you're in trouble to come down and help, be your Sentinel. I see flaws, lots and lots of
flaws," Jim announced smugly.

"Okay, so it's not perfect," he allowed, hands on his hips. "But coming back to the loft isn't
perfect either. I'm only ever going to be a guest, at most a tenant," before Jim could interrupt,
Blair pushed forward. "I can't work at the station as an observer any more. If I want to do
anything in my field associated with a university in Cascade I've got to go begging and crawling
on my hands and knees before that bitch Edwards. That, and the next time you decide to show
me how much you don't trust me, God only knows where I'll end up."


The two men stared at each other, refusing to back down from their beliefs. They might have
stayed there staring forever if Jim hadn't spoke.

"What we need," Jim said deliberately "is a third solution."

Blair thought about this for a long moment before nodding, much to the detective's relief. "Got
any ideas?"

"Give me a minute here, Chief."

Blair bounced once on his toes. It was a weak, half-hearted bounce, not anything like his usual
wattage but Jim took it as a sign. "Could you think while you make dinner?" Sandburg asked.

"Sure."

***

Jim was pulling the ground beef out of the fridge when he stood up suddenly. "What if . . .?"

Blair turned from where he stood cutting lettuce for the salad. "What if what?"

"Nothing Chief. Nothing."

***

"How about if we-- uh . . . no."

"The potatoes are boiling over," Blair pointed out helpfully.

***

"Uh . . ."

Blair looked up from his plate. "Uh, what?"

"Nah, won't work," Jim muttered, taking another savage bite of meatloaf.

"Well I'm glad you're giving this some thought."

***

A strong hand shook him awake. Blinking, Blair raised his head.

"Chief? You awake?" Jim's dark hovering shape asked.

"Yes Jim?" he replied somewhat muzzily.

"Couldn't we . . ." Jim whispered. "I don't know Chief, just try again?"

Suddenly completely awake Blair sat up. "Try again? It's . . ." he squinted at the alarm clock
trying to make out the numbers without his glasses. "One a.m. and that's your idea? Your third
solution? It sounds just like your solution! Are you crazy or do you think *I* am to do this all
over again?"

The large shadowy shape shrugged. "Well, things are different now. Now we know."

Blair's eyes adjusted to the dark and he was able to make out Jim's expression by moonlight.
"And knowing is half the battle Jim?" he asked incredulously. "You're quoting G.I. Joe at one
fucking a.m. in the morning? I've got to be dreaming," he told himself aloud, flopping back on the
bed and covering his face with a pillow "Next we'll have Lash entering my room dressed as
Cobra."

Jim pulled the pillow out of his hands. "No Chief, it actually makes sense."

"Uh-huh."

The detective sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Think about this with your amazing
brain for a second."

"Amazing huh?" Sandburg repeated, amused.

"Just think will you?" Jim demanded in exasperation. "If we go into this without the dissertation,
without time limits, without one person being for one goal and-and the other being for . . . um,
something else. If we don't divide ourselves into parts, separate Sentinel from detective, from
friend . . .If we go in conscious of what happened . . ." he trailed of expectantly, waiting for Blair
to fill in the blanks.

"What? We'll make better choices? Behave like considerate human beings? Bot stop making
insanely stupid choices and mistakes? Apologize more quickly? Think before we speak and act?
Take time to talk? You're advocating talking? You seriously think this will work?!"

Pulling himself up stiffly, Jim said "Well, we've been talking for the past day and it hasn't killed
me." *Wounded me, yes.* he admitted silently to himself. *But no more than I've deserved.*

"Though it was a close thing with that batter," Blair teased, sitting up again. Jim reached out and
gently cuffed his partner. Blair smiled and the words were out before he could stop them. "I've
missed that." He froze and then swallowed hard. He hadn't meant to say that, to admit that to
Jim. It would give Ellison the advantage, and *dammit he wasn't crawling back to the man to
have this shit happen all over again!* But his mouth seemed to have been disconnected from his
brain. "I've missed you." Blair said in a soft hesitant voice. "But I'm not going to do this again
James, not if, *if* I'm dead last on your list, when you treat perps better than you treat me, when
every damn person at the PD gets more consideration than I do. I can't. I won't. Not for
anything, the Sentinel/Guide thing be damned. Incacha's gift be damned."

Jim blinked. *God, that sounded like a confession. Forgive me father for I have sinned, I've
killed people, broken every commandment, broken my best friend . . . He no longer cares about
what he spent his whole life searching for. He's reached his limit, Ellison. He'll go no further
with this, not at this price, not for you.*

*You've demanded and taken too much. He has nothing left to give you.*

The Sentinel reached out and gently, hesitantly laid one hand on the back of his Guide's neck,
pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. Blair shuddered under his hand as if the touch
shocked him like static electricity.

"I'm sorry Blair. For-for not saying the right words. I'm so sorry."

"I know, I'm sorry too," he replied with a quick nod, before looking and pulling away, deeply
uncomfortable with the gesture where just several weeks ago he would have grinned at Jim
wholly and without reserve.

"Can we-can we start over?" Jim asked, practically begged not caring a whit for his pride. This
was Blair, and Blair didn't judge people on their "being a man." "Do things differently? Please,
Chief. One . . " he swallowed hard. "One last try."

"Maybe," he said quietly. "I think so,"

The detective nodded several times, anxiously glad he'd gotten some sort of agreement out of his
best friend. "That's good, maybe is good, thinking so is good," he agreed quickly.

Blair laughed. "God Jim, we're totally screwed man." The laughter had a desperate, hysterical
edge to it and before Jim could stop him Blair had pushed past him to stand before the glass door
in his room leading out to the deck. He pressed clenched fists to his temples and forced the
laughter to stop. "I don't think I can ever go through this again Jim."

"Chief, it won't, *I* won't! Not ever again. Please--" Jim said desperately, deeply afraid. Blair,
his Blair was falling apart before his eyes and there seemed nothing he could say or do to make it
better. Nothing he did helped. He'd failed as a friend, as a Sentinel, as *what did Blair call
him after Lash? Blessed Protector?* --he'd failed as that too; he failed as partner and roommate.
He'd failed as a human being. In every conceivable way he'd crushed this man, and now staring at
the pieces Jim could only mourn.

Tucking his arms around his frail body, hugging himself tightly, Blair continued in a matter-of-fact
voice. "The first time I came here I was losing it. Post traumatic stress, paranoia, flashbacks,
panic attacks, nightmares, all that crap. The thing I have with heights and guns, that *comes*
from somewhere man, I'm not a spineless goober," Blair said with a fond grin. Jim winced,
remembering when he'd called Blair that, along with other unflattering names. More jokes.
"After Iraq . . ." there was a hitch in his voice, and Jim could only listen in stunned silence as his
friend continued. "I signed out of that hospital as soon as I could walk, and ran as far as I could,
as fast as I could until Jack found me and dragged me here. He was just as messed up as me,
really. Two totally fucked up people hanging on to each other for dear life, trying like hell not to
drown." He leaned his head against the glass, tapping one fist against the window pane in a slow
rhythm. "I celebrated my 20th birthday here. It was a year early but he let me get drunk anyway.
He said, he said anyone that could put up w-with what happened and n-not break deserved a
drink," he barely forced out. "And here I am again," he finished with a whisper.

"Is the water still nice?"

Blair whirled around at Jim's near inaudible question, eyes wide with disbelief. *He couldn't have
just said I'm hearing things!*

But Jim just sat there, silently waiting for an answer. *Oh God, please let this be true. If he says
this and then changes his mind I will die, I will kill him and then I'll die. God please let this be
my something.* "Not really," he whispered back with a self-decrepitating smile as he hugged his
arms tighter around his torso. "It never has been," he admitted hoarsely.

James shook his head. "I don't care," he said simply.

And Blair lost it, because he couldn't believe, couldn't believe that this was happening, that Jim
wasn't just leaving him here to deal with this like he always had, as he did in every single dream
since the very beginning. It was unbelievable, something out of a pipedream. And with a sound
somewhere between a sob and a laugh, heart breaking, Blair sagged down against the door until
he sat huddled on the floor, eyes wet with unshed tears.

*Now I can ask, now.*

"Then help me, please," he begged brokenly easing his arms from around his chest revealing to
Jim the blood staining his white undershirt. "It hurts."

Jim was down on his knees before him, hands hovering over the wound, the crossbow bolt still
impaled between his Guide's ribs, face as pale as the moon, frantic. "Oh God, Chief . . .!"

("I, *we* walk more than one world!")

Risking everything, Blair reached out and took Jim's hand in his and brought it to the bolt.
"Please," he pleaded. If Jim didn't mean this, taking the bolt out would kill him, he knew it down
in his soul

Nodding once, sharply, Jim wrapped his hand around the weapon, trying to still the shaking of his
limb so that he wouldn't hurt his Guide more than he had to.

With one swift motion he tore the thin piece of wood from his Guide's heart.

Blair howled like the wolf he was, a keening sound of anguish that caused all of Jim's senses to
spike: hearing, smell, touch, sight, *God, even taste!*

Dropping the bolt, and clapping his hands over his ears, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for
the noise to stop. When it finally did, Jim leaned over his partner, frantic with worry.

"Chief! Blair!" he called.

*Oh God, oh please, not again!* But there was a heartbeat, even though Sandburg's eyes were
closed. *Thank you, God. Thank you.* He pulled up the undershirt and stared at the body
wound. He couldn't see any more fresh blood, that had to be good, right? "Blair!" he tried again,
gently shaking his friend, who stubbornly remained oblivious to the world. Deciding it was a lost
cause he moved Blair back onto the bed and then rushed to the bathroom to get a washcloth.
Gently cleaning the wound he decided not to bandage it, for some reason it no longer bled, but
dragged the undershirt off his Guide and tucked the limp, too thin body under the covers.

Sitting down on the floor beside the bed, arms resting on the mattress, in one fist the physical
evidence of their betrayal, he remained that way the rest of the night, quietly and contentedly
watching Blair breathe.

***

Blair blinked once and stretched minutely under the covers before turning and fixing his eyes on
his partner as if he'd known that Jim would be there waiting. "Morning."

"How are you feeling?" Jim asked.

Typical Sandburg-- ignoring the question he sat up and stretched cautiously, before looking down
at his chest and running his fingertips over the healed scar above his heart. "You want breakfast?"

"Pancakes, Chief?" Jim queried with a raised eyebrow as both of them stood.

Blair smiled slightly. "I figure we'll get it right eventually."

*Eventually. Well wasn't that their motto in life?* Jim thought with an inward smile. "With
chocolate chips? And cream?" There was no denying the hopeful tone in Ellison's voice. Blair
walked towards the window to gaze out at the ocean; Jim's good humor vanishing as he noticed
for the first time the thin white lines that marred the skin of his Guide's back and stomach, wrists
and inner elbows.

He hadn't expected Blair of all people to wear the marks of torture on his body. Jim had seen
what techniques could be used to create those types of scars during his Black Ops days. He didn't
want to think of Blair in such circumstance. He had enough nightmares over simple things
concerning Blair: driving, riding along with him, walking.

He was surprised that after three years he could still be so clueless. For someone with such liberal
ideas, Blair had always had a surprising degree of body shyness, all those undershirts and flannel
shirts. *I guess it was more than just the cold that prompted those layers,* Jim realized feeling
somewhat sick, no longer really in the mood for pancakes, but if his Guide was making them for
him . . .

Blair snorted. "If we have any cream left."

A low growl turned Jim's attention to the foot of the bed. There, in all his lazy glory, sprawled
the black jaguar looking like he'd just drank a bowl of cream himself. *We better have some left,*
Jim thought felling slightly comforted now that the jaguar was here, appetite returning. *We're
hungry.*

Blair pulled on Jim's discarded robe from the floor and tied it loosely around his middle before
heading for the door, taking a short detour to scritch the cat's ears absently.

Jim watched in bemused shock. *Well, he did say he could see the panther,* he reminded himself.
The spirit animal rolled over and began to purr and kneed the covers.

Ellison scowled at the creature. "Don't get any ideas," he warned it as he saw the inches long
obsidian claws prepare to puncture the comforter. "We are not going to mess this up, you hear
me?" he asked sharply grabbing the creatures muzzle and staring into the golden eyes, showing it
the bloody crossbow bolt as evidence. "This is too important. This is the most important thing.
The most important thing."

The cat snarled and then with dignity hopped off the bed and vanished.

It was a beginning, Jim decided.

***

Jim headed out into the kitchen but Blair wasn't there. Quickly slipping on a denim shirt, he half
buttoned the thing before running out onto the beach after his friend.

Blair stood facing the ocean, hands clasped in fists, spine straight as a rod. Ellison slowed down
and stood behind his friend, just to the left when Sandburg used to stand behind him.

*Well there's an image to ponder for our work relationship,* He thought with a wince *Carolyn
would be proud.* His ex-wife was always asking him to talk about their relationship, how it made
him feel, what it reminded him of, what deeper connections he saw. Jim used to think it was
crazy. With Sandburg though, crazy had a whole new meaning, a new, higher threshold to cross
before Jim drew the line.

"I thought you were going to make breakfast Chief." The detective said teasingly. The mood
was thick; he didn't want Blair to worry when he wasn't feeling well. When Sandburg worried, he
took care of himself even less than usual.

"What do we do now?" Blair asked abruptly, voice tight, body tight.

"What? Like right now?"

"Yeah." Blair turned to look at him. "What do you think?"

Jim ran one hand through his hair. "Well . . . honestly?" At Sandburg's nod he continued. "*I*
think we should go inside and have breakfast, and then you should take your pills and go back to
sleep. That cold, bronchitis thing is hanging on for too long," He reached out and grasped the
younger man by the shoulders, cocking his head and listening intently. "It might be pneumonia,"
he said, clenching his jaw. "I'll have to call a doctor to come check, but I think--"

"Whoa!" Blair raised his hands to halt the flow of uncharacteristic words. "That's not what I
meant."

"Long term really isn't on my mind right now," Jim admitted. "Need to get you well first."

"And then?" Blair pressed, eyes narrowing as if waiting for something, waiting for him to pull the
rug out from under his feet no doubt, Ellison realized sadly. *How bad are things that he doesn't
even trust me? I was the one going on and on about trust, but I never noticed how lacking I was
in the trustworthy department, the reliable department, the not-abandon-and-destroy-my-friends
department.*

The detective took a deep breath. "And then *we* decide what *we* want to do." Blair let
himself slowly be led away from the waves that so captured his attention. This fixation with water
was starting to scare the Sentinel. *Don't want Blair to get any ideas that he should have stayed
dead, stayed drowned. Uh-uh, no fucking way!*

"I've gotta defend my dissertation in a couple of days."

"Then you should rest."

Blair looked up at Ellison suddenly, halting their progress. "What about you? Shouldn't you go
back to work?"

"Work? Who needs work?"

Sandburg pulled away and stared at the taller man. "Who are you and what have you done with
James Ellison? Be warned, I will withhold pancakes to get the answers I want."

"Remember those serviceable aliens Chief?" the detective asked lightly. "The ones who would
replace my brain?"

"Yeeeess," Blair said slowly.

The Sentinel grinned. "Serviceable spirit guides."

The anthropologist sighed and continued walking. "This doesn't magically fix everything, and I
haven't actually agreed to anything."

"I know," Ellison said gently. "I'm . . . glad it doesn't."

"You are?" Blair asked incredulously.

Ellison pushed open the door. "Because this time around I'll get to know you. This time I'm
researching *you.*"

"Oh really?" he asked archly.

"Uh-huh," Jim nodded pulling out the frying pan and handing it to his friend. "The Shaman, a
monograph by James Joseph Ellison. I think it has a nice ring to it."

"What about tests? I'm not doing any tests," Blair said shaking his head dramatically. "No way.
Not me."

"No tests," Jim said in all innocence. "Just think of me as an observer."

What about objectivity? Control subjects?" Blair pressed, easily falling into their verbal sparring
as he mixed batter.

"Objectivity isn't all it's cracked up to be," the detective said with a shrug as he pulled in the
blender and began mixing the sludge his partner liked for breakfast. "Going native sounds
interesting."

Blair turned around, suddenly serious. "In my world?"

"In *our* world," Jim corrected. "Deep water isn't so bad alone."

"No, it's not," Blair agreed quietly, remembering Jim's fear of being out in water too far from
land. He'd felt anxious, disconnected. It took all his concentration to remain focused. Jim *was*
trying.

*But for how long will this last?* Blair thought, deeply afraid.

Jim nudged him in the shoulder. "C'mon kid, you owe me pancakes."

"I do?"

"Uh-huh. Courtship rituals y'know," the detective reminded him.

***

They were eating out on the wrap-around deck; Jim was finally *eating* the promised pancakes,
Blair some fruit salad and an aalge shake.

The anthropologist looked down at his food and smiled to himself. Courtship rituals. Jim had
prepared his shake while he had made the pancakes. They had moved around the unfamiliar
kitchen just as they used to do around the loft on the good days. It was a funny feeling he
decided, watching Ellison try, desperately try to make amends. It made him feel important.

*No, important isn't the word. Maybe, wanted?* That sounded closer. Wanted. What an odd
sensation. It was definitely something new. Oh, he knew Naomi wanted him otherwise he
wouldn't have been born or she wouldn't have eventually come back weeks, sometimes months
late after leaving with a friend for the evening or the weekend. The house all to himself, Blair had
learned early on how to be independent. Sometimes people watched him. Mostly his guardians
were off getting drunk, partying, protesting, in jail because they were protesting, off having sex,
debating theoretical issues. There wasn't really much watching, let alone active *wanting*
involved. Not like with Jim.

Ellison watched him. There was no such thing as privacy in a Sentinel's home, but Jim was
actually very considerate in that area, they'd never had troubles there surprisingly. But now,
maybe, James watched him because he cared? That was a nice thought, Blair decided tentatively
as he bit down on a piece of strawberry. And maybe Ellison wanted him around, maybe he was
really sorry for what he had done with Alex, hell, the last three years off and on. Maybe they
could start over.

Maybe.

No way was he jumping right back into things on the *possibility* that sincere words might equal
sincere deeds. Naomi had taught him by example that lesson.

("Honey, I'm just going out for the night, there's plenty of food in the fridge. Tomorrow we'll go
to the zoo. How does that sound?")

("I promise if you just hang in there and graduate this year from high school I'll make sure you'll
get into a good university. 14 years old and a college student! I'm so proud!")

("Oh don't worry about your book! I can pick it up tomorrow and you can use it on you report
baby. Just leave it to me.")

("Blair, your lunch money will be on the table in the morning.")

("I promise Blair, that we'll stay long enough for you to finish the school year. No taking off this
time.")

Naomi meant well. She always meant well, but usually there was no money, no book, no steady
school, no trip to the zoo, and he had to wait two years before he'd finally just decided to cut the
apron strings and take care of his own education and his own life, his mother's wishes and
wheeling words be damned.

Naomi hadn't talked to him for four years after he'd insisted at last on putting down tentative roots
and starting at Rainier.

And now Jim had his own set of words, of promises. James Ellison, man of action.

It was seriously freaking him out. Now he understood what they guys at Major Crimes meant
when they said that the Sandburg Zone was weird.

"Ahhh!" Jim murmured in near ecstasy breaking his train of thought.

Ellison turned his taste dial waaaay up and his hearing rose a notch as well. Blair was breathing
funny and it wasn't just the post-fountain-Lazarus stuff that was causing it. "Hey," he said
abruptly.

Blair's head jerked up, eyes wide like a deer's caught in headlights, or maybe a wolf . . .

"Deep thoughts, Chief?" Jim reached out and grabbed the whipped cream can and after shaking it,
squirted a ton of white confectionary on Blair's fruit.

Blair looked down and scowled at the artificial white cloud of cream that now sat nobly on his
food. "You have completely ruined the whole point behind eating fruit for breakfast, you know."
He picked up his fork, however and dug in with more relish.

"You need to eat more Sandburg," Jim put in. "You're getting so thin I could bench press you."

Blair snorted into the cream. "Hardly an achievement. You could bench press me before."

"True," Jim said smugly. Blair shot him a dirty look that bordered on teasing. Jim's expression
turned slightly serious. "I want you to know, we don't have to push this. I don't want to rush
you."

Sandburg burst out laughing. "Man, this sounds like some sort of romantic comedy. One of
those chick flicks. If someone came over and heard that they would be thinking all sorts of things
about us."

Jim shook his head and growled in mock anger. "Sandburg . . ." he said warningly.

"Sorry, sorry," Blair said chucking. "Enough with the analogies and innuendos."

"Just for the record, I want to say I have no romantic intentions on your person Sandburg," Jim
announced solemnly, causing Blair to chuckle, stabbing a piece of his breakfast with a fork. "That
is one part of your life I don't want anything to do with. I've seen you in the morning and I pity
the woman that marries you."

"Well not all of us can be morning people." Blair smiled.

"You have been lately."

The student shrugged staring ut at the ocean, missing Jim's worried look. "Things are different
lately."

"I just--" Jim broke off, working the words over in his mind. "I just don't want you getting
yourself all tangled up in that twisty mind of yours. You'll get yourself into a panic over nothing.
You're not well enough to do that."

"Well enough?" Blair asked. "Why? What are you senses picking up?"

Unfortunately his hearing went up another notch almost automatically at those words, and he
heard the approach of a person on foot. Swallowing, Jim said "Think we got company, Chief."

Blair looked up, curious "Yeah?"

ding dong

Blair stood up at the sound of the doorbell and then glanced back down at Jim, patience wearing
thin, his eyes yelling *Who? Who?* "Just one person," Jim said cautiously. He knew who it was.

*Get a grip Ellison. The man has every right to see Blair. He helped Sandburg, he cares about
him, that's gotta be worth something. Don't be a territorial prick!*

Quickly rounding the corner of the house, Blair yelled in surprise. "Jack!"

The colonel looked up from the front window he'd been peering in."Blair," he greeted with a
smile, coming over to hug the man. "Hey, how are ya kid? For crying out loud, Jacobs, have
you been eating?" He shook the kid slightly by the shoulders. "I thought you said you had
someone to look out for yo--" Looking over Blair's shoulder O'Neill caught sight of Detective
Ellison and his tone became cautious. "Oh. Uh . . . I sort of figured you might be here," he
explained sheepishly.

"You here officially?" Jim asked idly as Blair looked back and forth between the two men, wary.
Blair stilled inside. He wouldn't let Jack be hurt, no matter what Jim wanted. He and O'Neill
shared too much. Jack knew him inside and out. Four months in prison can do that to you. But
he couldn't let Jim be taken, Jim was his best friend, even after all that had happened. He felt torn.

O'Neill glanced sharply at Blair. *Man the kid was losing it, major panic attack ahead. Shit!
Shouldn't this Ellison be doing something? We can't fight about this now, Blair hardly looks
stable.* "Do I look official Detective?" Jack replied in his most open friendly tone, spreading his
arms and revealing his jeans, black shirt, leather bomber jacket identical to Sandburg's, and black
baseball cap. *What does Jacob see in this guy? Sheesh! He's arctic! The original Iceman.*

Ellison stared at the man, conflicting emotions warring within him, but in the end it came down to
one simple lesson he learned over the past few days. Blair had his own life that he *chose* to
share with others. Jack O'Neill had helped Blair, cared for him before Jim had even met him.
Blair considered Jack a friend. And didn't he want to know just who Blair's friends were? Not to
tell him what to do, but to know more about his partner? Didn't he want to treat Blair with the
same respect he gave Simon and Joel and all the people at work? Didn't Sandburg *deserve*
that?

That and Blair looked ready to hyperventilate.

"No," the detective finally said. "And it's Jim," he added reaching out to shake the other man's
hand.

"Jack," the airman offered, infinitely glad the man had some sense. "Are those pancakes I smell
Blair?" he wondered with a gleam in his eyes as the three of them headed towards the table.

"Get your own," Jim growled half heartedly causing Blair to chuckle, relief evident on his face,
leaving him shaky as the three of them took their seats and Jack helped himself to breakfast.

"Don't mind him, he never learned to share," Blair commented as he sipped his sludge-like drink.

"Fuck you Sandburg," Jim retorted good-naturedly.

Wiping his mouth on a napkin, Blair turned to his old comrade in arms. "So did you come all the
way from Colorado Springs and the exciting world of *radio telemetry research,*" Blair
delivered that particular military line of bullshit with only a twinkle in his eye. "to mooch food or
what?"

"I wish," Jack moaned theatrically as he inhaled the aroma of the coffee. Suddenly serious he
laced his fingers around the mug and stared intently at the two of them. "We need your help."

the end

To Be Continued.

More to come. I promise. Might be a while because I'm having to send my computer through the
mail while I move/fly to my new residence, but I am working on it! Promise. Feedback makes
me big and strong! a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com Detailed feedback about what you liked in this
monster will help me write an even better story! Hopefully dialogue and characters were okay, I
agonized long and hard over some of the scenes and would be interested to know what worked.
:) And does anyone want to know what the MC gang is doing at this time? Write and let me
know, I might have a story just about their trip back to Cascade.