"Jim, I want to go home. I want to go back to the loft. Can I?"
Ellison nodded. "The doctor said he would check on you after you woke up."
"That's not what I'm asking." Sandburg's steady gaze refused to let Ellison turn away.
"If he says you can, I'll go and get the truck."
"Jim?"
The entreaty was soft enough to slip between Ellison's defenses, and the detective crossed the few steps to where Sandburg lay and carefully sat down on the opposite side of the bed from Banks. One hand reached out to rest alongside the anthropologist's cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little dense right now. I know I need to say this." Tired blue eyes sought out tired blue eyes. "Come back, Chief. Please."
A faint smile and fainter nod was the only response, but it was enough.
The moment passed. "Good. I'll let the doctor know you're awake and then we'll see what we can do about springing you from here," Ellison said, standing and leaving the room.
Sandburg yawned, moving his hand to cover his mouth. "Sorry, Simon. Still sleepy, I guess."
"Rest, kid."
Sandburg's eyes closed, then opened a moment later. "What's it like there? Have you seen it?"
"What? The loft?"
"Yeah."
"The furniture and everything is where it should be. The Major Crimes Moving Company put it all back yesterday."
"Thank them for me, okay?" Sandburg gave a little laugh. "I bet Jim spent all night rearranging everything."
"He was under orders not to touch it, but I can imagine he moved a few things."
"Yeah...what about my stuff at the motel?"
"Rafe and Megan packed it all up and took it to the loft."
"Did they pay Bob?"
"Who?" Banks asked.
"The motel manager. He let me stay there free. Maybe I can ask Jim to stop by there on the way home...or not. Bob would probably kill him," Sandburg said, reconsidering.
Banks studied the pale features, noting the slight tremble in Sandburg's hand as he pushed his hair back. There seemed to be something wrong with the kid's eyes. He kept blinking and looking around the room, as though he was having trouble focusing. "Are your eyes okay?"
"What? Sure. Yes. Why do you ask?" tumbled out of the young man's mouth.
"Just wondering. You look like you have a headache or something."
"Geez, Simon, I have bandages wrapped around my skull and I have a concussion. I think I'm entitled to a headache, don't you?"
"It's well within your rights," he said, knowing something else was wrong. Trouble was, he didn't know how far he could push Sandburg to get him to talk. The kid wasn't a cop. Not a cop. Not a cop. Not a cop. So why was he sitting here on his lunch hour? Because Blair Sandburg was family. And, God help them, these two had a way to go yet before this mess was over. If they weren't together on it, it was going to rip them apart and there was no way they'd ever get back together again.
"What's wrong?" Sandburg asked quietly.
"Hmm?"
"You're staring at me, Simon. What's wrong?"
"Are you going to be okay? With Jim, I mean."
Sandburg leaned his head back and exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I think so. I can't quite put into words how I feel. Like I've been torn in half somehow."
"That's basically what Jim has told me."
"Yeah?" Sandburg smiled, sadly, staring at the closed door. "I miss him." He looked back at the captain. "I mean, I feel disconnected from him. He's there, but something's not right. I feel his friendship, his concern, and I return it, but there was something deeper before and now it's...broken, I guess is the word. I think I did it. I broke the connection. Or maybe Alex did. Jim thinks he did. Maybe we all did. There's just so much riding on this, Simon. We've got to figure it out. This might sound utterly pathetic, but we have no choice but to mend what went wrong. This Sentinel thing...it's too important to let go. Jim's too important for me to walk away from."
"Maybe. But you're important, too, Blair. Remember that."
"Thanks," Sandburg said, with a tired smile. "I appreciate that. I do." His voice dropped, as he stared back at the door to his hospital room. "I think Jim and I.... we're connected somehow, as Sentinel and Guide. It's like we've forgotten how to be that. Simon, I've just got to figure out how to do this. I've tried juggling all the things in my life and it doesn't work; everything came crashing down around me. So now I've got to find another way of handling it. I guess we both do."
"If you need to talk to someone..."
"Thanks, Simon. You've already listened, and I appreciate that."
Banks stood as the doctor entered, Ellison trailing after him, his face stony, not meeting either man's eyes. "So did you catch all that?" he asked as he passed the Sentinel.
"Enough of it," Ellison answered, letting the door close between them.
"Good," Banks muttered as he headed down the hall.
* * *
2:00 p.m.
Ellison waited until Blair ate lunch and fell back asleep before collecting the stuffed bear, calling a cab, and heading back to the loft to get the truck.
The connection was broken, Sandburg had said. Ellison stared out the window of the cab, clutching the paper bag with the bear, trying to make sense of everything he had heard his partner say. The connection was broken. That's what it felt like. Like he was pouring all his love and affection and caring and hurting into a big funnel and somehow it was only trickling into Sandburg, whereas before it would have been instantly absorbed by his Guide. The other half of his soul. Blair had said it so well. Had he known Jim would be listening? It seemed that Simon had known.
He closed his eyes, trying to breathe carefully and let his pounding heart calm down. He had never wanted anything so badly in all his life, as to have their relationship restored. Healed. Desire was not enough. He wanted this enough. Blair wanted it. But the connection wasn't working right. It would no longer be enough just to be friends. To share an apartment. To work together. Not when they both knew that there had once been something more.
The other half of my soul.
The cab driver's sharp call brought him back to his surroundings, and he quickly paid the man and got out. He let himself into the apartment, glancing around to make sure everything was in order for Sandburg's homecoming, if the doctor could be convinced. There was food in the fridge. The heat was on. Someone had even rehooked the television, cable, and stereo.
Sandburg's room was fine. The sheets on the bed were still clean since he had slept on top of the covers. Ellison put the bear back on the bed where he had found it, knowing he could blame its presence on the Major Crime Moving Company, as Simon called them.
Clothes. He gathered Sandburg's laundry and went downstairs, moving his own clothes from the washer to the dryer, and putting in a mixed load of sweats, T-shirts, and underwear. He debated staying at the loft long enough for this load to be done and moved to the dryer, but the thought of medical staff trying unsuccessfully to wake Sandburg up was enough to change his mind.
It took some sifting through Sandburg's things to find a sweater and pair of jeans that looked clean enough to wear. He folded them into a plastic bag along with socks, sneakers, underwear, and a corduroy jacket. Ten minutes after entering the loft, he shut the front door and hurried down to the truck.
He dropped the bag of clothes beside him on the front bench and started the pickup's engine, listening to it idle until it had warmed up long enough for him to pull out into traffic.
Sandburg's coming back. Sandburg's coming back. It repeated in his head like a mantra. Sandburg's coming back.
Why?
Because...
That was harder. He wasn't sure why the young man was willing to return to the loft.
Why do I want him back?
Because...
Because I need him in my life.
Because I'm a selfish bastard. You were right, Simon.
I'll do my best, Sandburg. I promise you, I'll do my best.
* * *
7:30 p.m.
He kept his eyes closed in the truck. What his eyes were seeing -- the jungle overlaid with shadowy buildings -- was just too weird. It made him feel like he was tearing through the woods at high speed, branches and trees whipping by him, faster than he could focus on them. By the time they got to the loft, his stomach was churning and even when Jim came around to the passenger side and helped him out, he still kept his eyes closed, allowing his partner to lead him into the building.
It was a relief to be coming home from the hospital and he wondered briefly what Jim had said to the doctor. Regardless, he was home. I'm home. It'll all be better, once I'm home, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips until the memory of his last moments in the loft resurfaced: Jim standing at the balcony, unreachable, as distant from him as that first meeting in his basement office when the cop had thrown him up against the wall, like some demented version of a Terminator. Blair remembered seeing the empty rooms of the loft when he had walked in with Megan, the truth finally hitting him that he had been totally shut out from Jim's life. No longer needed, no longer wanted, no longer of any importance to the Sentinel whatsoever. His heart had hurt, cramping in his chest, making it difficult to breathe, to think. He had never felt so alone in his life. And he was no stranger to being abandoned.
With a familiar creak, the elevator arrived, the door opened, and they stepped into it, the door sliding shut after them. As if the Sentinel knew what was going through his mind, he felt himself being pulled closer to Ellison, arms wrapping around him securely. "Almost there, Chief."
"Yeah." He fought the instinctive urge to pull away. With a shock, he realized he still didn't trust Jim. Not really. There was something within him that was bracing itself, getting ready for the inevitable moment when he would be kicked out again.
There was a desperation in Ellison's grip, but there was something else, too.
Your life enfolding mine.
The words of the old psalm whispered through his thoughts. The instinct apparently worked two ways. Another deeper urging called him to relax into the safety of his Sentinel's care.
'Your life enfolding mine.' What does that mean, huh? Can you explain it to me? Could someone explain it to me?
"Hey." Jim's voice rumbled around him.
Blair slowly opened his eyes, just a crack, enough to see that he could see the elevator superimposed on the jungle. "Yeah?"
"Hanging in there?"
"Yeah. I'm just a little worn out."
"How's your head feel?"
"Better since they took the bandages off. It doesn't pull my hair now."
"Good. I'm glad you're coming back," Ellison said simply, calmly. As though that made everything all right.
Blair stole another peek, heartened by how the detective appeared. Determined. Relieved. Chin up, back straight. Now if only I shared your confidence that everything will be okay.
There was no doubt in his mind that Jim wanted him to come back. But he had also wanted him to leave.
And Alex was still out there somewhere.
Would it all happen again in a week? A month? A year?
Would he find himself on the street again because yet another Sentinel dared enter Jim's turf?
He shivered and the arms around him tightened possessively. The comfort became strangling. And suddenly explainable. He's never going to let me out of his sight now. I freakin' died on him! How is he going to handle this? How am I going to handle this?
Blair heard the elevator door open again and, feeling a sudden need to be independent, he pushed away from Jim, eyes wide open, trying to walk to the apartment door by himself. He knew the hallway. He could do it. He didn't need to hang on to Jim to negotiate the few steps from the elevator to the door. He'd be okay once he got into the loft.
Two steps away from his partner and the walls disappeared, leaving behind a thick jungle tangle of trees and branches. The hallway was gone -- no superimposed images. I can do this. He snapped his eyes shut, pulling up the memory of the hallway, and he promptly walked into the wall.
Jim's hand on his arm flared his temper and he yanked his arm away, insisting on moving by himself, but he tripped on something and fell into the dense underbrush that felt like some boxes. Getting to his feet was difficult, but he managed it, only to fall again when his sight showed the jungle floor and reality held another box. He ended up throwing himself against a tree and shutting his eyes tight against the sight of Tribal-Jim kneeling down beside him, his face showing the shared pain.
"Fuck," he whispered into the smoothness of the wall that looked like a tree. His hand felt the cool, painted surface beneath his fingers and palm. "This got old real fast."
Jim's hand rested gently on his shoulder for a moment. "Let's go inside," he said, when Blair's breathing steadied, and he hoisted him upward and eased him sideways through the unseen maze and into the loft.
Blair opened his eyes, but the jungle remained. From where he stood, he could see Jim walking around the clearing, moving things around -- things that blurred when he tried to focus on them. The counter, he decided was to his right. The table, straight ahead. But he was too frightened to move. It was still the jungle! Nothing had changed. "I can't see anything properly. No Cascade," he said, his eyes wide as he tried to force the proper images to his vision. "Just Peru stuff. Not even the mirror reflection thing."
"Take it slow," Jim said softly, turning around to look at him. "Why don't you lie down and rest, and I'll see about dinner?"
Like it was that easy.
This was so wrong. No way. This wasn't right.
Headache growing by the second, Blair could feel his heart thumping, his bruised sternum aching with each pounding beat. He was so tired, feeling the lightheaded dizziness that spelled out exhaustion. His hands were shaking, but it was from more than fatigue. "I don't understand. This isn't fair," he whispered. "I thought-- I thought I'd be able to see properly in the loft. And I can't. I can't." He could hear the faint edge of hysteria in his voice -- and really didn't care. Damn it, he was scared. As in 'out of his mind.'
"We can't do anything about it at the moment. Just rest first, Chief."
Blair stood shivering in the entranceway, hands covering his face, words pouring out of his mouth, unstoppable. "I can't. I told you. I want this to stop. Jim, what can I do to fix this? I need it to stop. I can't do this. Help me out here. Can't you do anything about this? Can you summon that dream guy or something? I just want it all to be normal."
He heard Jim shut the fridge door and approach him. "I have an idea." Strong fingers gripped his upper arms.
"Yeah? That's great, man, because I'm all out of them. What is it?" He was led to the living room, the carpet beneath his feet. A tug brought him down to the couch to sit beside his partner, feeling Jim's arm go around his shoulders.
"Just keep your eyes closed for a minute and rest." Jim sounded so sure about what he was saying that Blair tried to comply, concentrating on his breathing. "Don't fight me, Chief."
"I'm not," he said, deliberately opening his eyes and glaring at his partner. "I was just trying to see on my own, without having to rely on you all the --"
The jungle disappeared into darkness. Absolute, total, inky, jet-black darkness.
"Oh, shit, Jim. Oh, man. Okay, okay. I get it. Whoever you are -- I'm here, okay? I'm beside him. See me here? See? I'm sitting beside him." He moved against the Sentinel, the side of his face against Jim's chest, one arm snaking around his back, the other wrapping around his waist. "Please, don't do this. Stop this."
"What is it?" Jim's voice came by his ear. "What's wrong? Chief?"
"Fuck!" The word exploded from his mouth, anger mixed with terror. "What's wrong? I can't see!" His eyes blinked back the tears, fighting to break through the blackness that had descended on him. "I can't see anything. Nothing. Come on, please let me see. Please let me see." He felt himself being held tightly and gave in to the panic he had kept back for two days. "Oh, God, please don't do this. Le
t me see."
Tears ran like rivers down his cheeks as he tried to stifle the quiet, suffocating sobs and cling to his ebbing control. "Not fair. I'm just so damned tired, Jim. I thought it was over, so what's happened now? What am I doing wrong? Huh? Can you tell me?"
Jim said nothing, but silently held him and let himself be held onto. The terror came in surf-crashing waves; Blair would just be able to catch his breath, when another wave would crash into him, uprooting his composure, threatening to tear him away from Jim and let him sink in the cold, icy unknown beyond the warmth of those arms.
The phone rang in the background and, if anything, the brief interruption of time and space was more disorienting and terrifying than the darkness itself. Jim ignored the ringing and it went to the answering machine. Something about Blair's car at the university lot.
"The Volvo..." Blair gasped, when he had the air to do so, his mind scrambling to figure out what to do.
"We'll have it towed here. That's not important right now." Jim didn't move. Didn't let go of him.
"Doesn't matter. Can't drive...anyway..." Blair opened his eyes when he thought he had regained some control, but still saw only darkness through his tears. "No!" he cried out, involuntarily. "No! Please. Please, whoever is doing this to me...Please, make it stop." There was a horrible sound from his mouth, a desperate cry of pain that frightened him. "Stop it! Stop it!"
Jim drew him closer yet, and with a terrible cry, Blair buried his face in the man's shoulder, hands clinging to his shirt, sobbing into the fabric. But these were no longer the quiet sobs of before. It was as if his entire being was forced into each one, tearing through his chest and his soul, screaming from his diaphragm and his lungs and his throat. Fear and terror of the darkness possessed him until he totally exhausted himself and let the darkness claim him, spiraling through the night to collapse into the gentle earth around him.
* * *
Water was lapping around him.
Warm and comforting, it seeped into his pores and gradually unknotted his stomach muscles and eased his breathing. He passed from one level of consciousness to another, hardly aware of his journey, where he was now or how he had arrived there.
A Different Way of Seeing Page 3
