And Dream that I am Home Again

by Lois RH Balzer

  And walked away from it. Pieces of the wreckage still clung to him, he was burned by the fire, but he had walked away from it, alive.

  Blair leaned to his right, resting the side of his head on Jim's unmoving shoulder. "Jim?" he called softly, his hand lightly covering the sentinel's clenched grip on the chopsticks. "Hey, Jim . . ."

  * * *

  .

  Conscious thought had slipped away, time was blurred, his tongue and palate tingling with sensations. Sweetness. Saltiness. Sourness. Bitterness. Combining and separating. Nothing was clear. Time was illusive.

  What was that? A noise. A voice.

  He heard it, calling him from the depths of the verdant jungle toward . . . something.

  A whisper below his hearing range, teasing his mind. What was that?

  His mouth opened slightly, feeling the air sweep across his tongue and throat as he inhaled, the slightly warmer breath of air as he exhaled. There had been a taste that had demanded his attention . . . but that had faded now into the ordinary, gone with the exhaled air from his lungs. He swallowed and sniffed the air, catching the familiar scent.

  A hushed voice pierced his empty thoughts, too distant, too low for him to make out the words, but he knew the speaker was Sandburg. He felt triumphant at his discovery and turned from where he was drifting and fastened on the faraway speaker. Nothing. No further sounds, except those of the jungle. He turned again and listened, intently this time.

  "Jim?"

  He heard it now, soft and whispered, yet clear and ringing, demanding his complete attention.

  "Hey, Jim. Come back, okay?"

  And he did, the full blast of sounds returning in the wake of his guide's soft words. With taste had come sound, and with sound came touch: his guide's hand on his, the table beneath his forearms, the chopsticks in his hand. The slight rhythmatic breeze from the overhead fans in the restaurant. He realized suddenly that his eyes were open.

  A blink, he could see, and the sentinel was back completely -- taste, scent, hearing, touch, and sight. All demanding his attention, feeding him too much information--

  "Dial it back," Sandburg breathed.

  Such a familiar suggestion, but one he could do, and the pressure in his temples lessened. His mouth felt numb.

  Taste. He had zoned on taste.

  " . . . file the report by Friday. Will Howard have statements prepared for us to issue to the media?" Simon Banks was mid conversation, his voice slightly strained as though his casual words were forced.

  "Should be ready later this evening. He said he's faxing it directly to the SIU office in San Francisco," Nash Bridges said, his hand wrapped around a cup of green tea, the gentle scent pungent in the air, now that Ellison had picked it out.

  "Great. I can imagine what's waiting for us when we get back," Banks groaned. "The media coverage worked for us when we needed it to flush out Jurgen's group, and now I suspect it will work against us for the next week or two." Simon looked directly at him then and smiled reassuringly. "Glad you're back," he said, his hand casually covering his mouth, his words only loud enough for Jim's ears. "We're leaving as soon as you have time to recover."

  Ellison nodded at the firm directive, glanced toward his partner, then looked around the table, but no one other than Sandburg and Simon were paying attention to his lapse. Lapses. Ellison sighed heavily, the air escaping from his nostrils like a pissed-off cat. He hated the thought that he had zoned, and two of those times he had faded out from focusing on the black bean sauce. It wasn't that remarkable. Right now he couldn't concentrate on what was being said at his table and still block out the forty other conversations happening simultaneously around him.

  "You okay?"

  He turned at Sandburg's quiet question. "Yeah," he whispered back, shrugging. "Sorry."

  "What's wrong?"

  He couldn't tell him, not in a crowded restaurant. He needed to be home. He needed to have Sandburg at home, safe. Contained. I feel like I'm not quite here, Chief. I'm somewhere else. With you, though, but somewhere other than here. He found a smile and offered it as gift to his guide. He could feel Sandburg's slightly elevated pulse vibrating along the hand that rested now on his forearm, the gentle warmth in his touch a welcome reminder of life. Ellison released his chopsticks, watching idly as they dropped, clattering on the table surface.

  "Jim?" Sandburg seemed startled at the sound and moved his hand, touching Ellison's chopsticks fleetingly as if to pick them up, then he ended up sitting, slightly hunched, his hands covering his face. Ellison shifted to his left, draping one arm along the back of Sandburg's chair, his fingertips lightly touching his guide's back, immediately picking up the tremors that the young man was trying to hide. The hammering heartbeat. The catch in his breathing.

  No. Come on, Chief. Don't . . .

  Sandburg looked up at him, reddened eyes pooling with unshed tears, trying so damn hard to hold it all together.

  It wasn't fair. Ellison grit his teeth, his hand moving upward to rest on his partner's shoulder. You should be safe now. He closed his eyes, reaching . . . feeling . . . something . . . touch his guide's spirit. Embrace his heart.

  Sandburg gasped, his face once again hidden in his hands. But his frantic breathing slowed down, the tremors died. With a ragged sigh, Sandburg sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders, and looked over at him, this time with a gentle smile smoothing the tension on his face, but there was also a look of puzzled astonishment in his eyes.

  Ellison smiled broadly, his emotions soaring past the building headache. He felt great, energized. He settled again in his chair, reaching for the green tea, his fingers wrapping around the warm glass. Then it all caught up to him, and for a moment, he thought he was going to keel right over as a wave of dizziness threatened him. He waited it out, relieved he wasn't expected to participate in the conversation around him. Simon was doing a great job of keeping appearances normal. After a few minutes, he heard Sandburg politely ask a question of the group, but Ellison could hold onto neither the question nor the answer. There was a comfort, though, in hearing that voice participating in an ordinary conversation, regardless of what was said. Sandburg liked these people. Sandburg wanted to eat out, and then go home. And it was time to go home now.

  Right on cue, Banks looked at his watch. "We need to get going. We have a long ride left tonight and Sandburg here looks ready to drop."

  And Ellison looks like he's zoning again, Jim thought ruefully. Thanks for not pointing out the obvious, Simon.

  "I've been meaning to ask, how far is it from Seattle to Cascade?" Nash pushed his empty plate aside and rested his arm along the back of Evan Cortez's chair. The young detective sat between Nash and Harvey, just as Sandburg was safely seated between Simon and him.

  Possessive lot, aren't we? Then, maybe we have good reason.

  "Cascade is less than two hours, at speed limit. Half that if you drive like Jim," Sandburg said, grinning across the table. Evan Cortez looked up and smiled, as though they were sharing a joke.

  "It's about an hour and a half, when I drive," Banks said, fishing out his wallet. "Which I'm going to. Ellison, you look like you need a nice long nap."

  "I'm fine, sir--" he tried, but his voice was rough, and he gave up.

  "Uh, Jim, let him drive, okay?" Sandburg said, softly, not meeting his eyes.

  "No choice. Ah has spoken," Banks added, leaning forward and giving Ellison a firm look. "I'm going to go pay our bill at the front, then I'll bring the truck around."

  Ellison nodded, rubbing his forehead. "Thanks, sir." Truth be told, he didn't want to drive.

  "Jim?" So quietly spoken. So many questions in that one word.

  He nodded again, his hand moving to rest on the back of Sandburg's chair. If they weren't in a damned restaurant, he would have wrapped his arms around his guide, just to reassure him that everything was okay. "Just tired, Chief. Nothing to worry about." He was tired. Maybe that's all it was. He hadn't slept properly since Sandburg had disappeared. He
was simply tired. Ellison pushed back his plate and reached for the water glass.

  "Pardon me for finding all this weirdly fascinating, but I'd love to talk to you more about this sometime, Blair," Harvey said, quietly, leaning forward.

  "Maybe you could let me know your sources, as well. I'm always looking for any mention of ... them," Sandburg finished, with a small smile.

  "I'll dig out my notes. These ... episodes ... are wild stuff. How often does he have them?"

  His guide shook his head slightly. ""Not much now. It's like he said, he's just tired."

  Harvey sat back and regarded the sentinel. "So, under normal circumstances, he would be okay?"

  "That's hard to say. He's--"

  "I'm right here," Ellison interrupted, setting the empty glass firmly back on the table. "I can hear, you know? Don't talk around me."

  "Sorry," both men responded.

  "Sorry, Jim," Sandburg repeated, looking weary.

  Shit. What's wrong with me? "Chief?" Ellison's hand moved from the chair back to rest on the young man's shoulder, relieved when Sandburg shifted toward the touch. "It's okay; I was just teasing. Well, not teasing, but go ahead and talk to him. I shouldn't have said anything-- Answer the man's question, if it's helpful. He deserves some answers after everything that happened."

  "No, now's not the right time," Harvey said quickly. "I've been too intrusive already."

  "Another time, for sure. There aren't many people I can talk to about this." Sandburg yawned, covering his mouth at the last minute, the white gauze bandages around his wrists showing beneath his shirt sleeves.

  Harvey looked at Evan next to him, who was listing slightly in his chair. "How are you doing?"

  "Okay," Cortez said, softly. "I'd like to lie down though." He had eaten a small bowl of rice and had some of the won ton soup, but the rest of the meal had largely been untouched.

  Ellison glanced to Sandburg's plate and knew his guide hadn't eaten much more than that. The drugs they were both taking left them tired and not hungry. Sandburg should be lying down as well, not preparing for a trip to Cascade. Had they really discussed it, or was he just assuming that the kid would be as eager as he was to get back home? "Chief? Do you want to wait another night? Maybe--"

  "I want to go home," Sandburg said quickly. "Really. Please."

  Banks came back to the table before any further conversation could take place. He shook hands with Bridges, then moved on to say his goodbyes to Cortez and Leek. "It's been nice meeting you gentlemen. I wish the circumstances were different, but I thank you all for your help. And you, Evan, I'm sure the entire Cascade PD would like me to thank you for your care and assistance to Blair while you were both captured. It means a lot to me personally."

  "Me, too," Sandburg whispered, a tear running down his face.

  Evan nodded, but couldn't seem to find any words.

  Harvey stood up, his eyes fixed on Sandburg. "And what you did for Evan, Blair, was so brave that I'm not sure whether to hug you or suggest you be locked up somewhere for acting crazy."

  "A hug would be fine," Sandburg said with a soft smile, shifting back in his chair as Harvey came around the table to embrace him. "We'll talk one day, I promise," Ellison heard Sandburg whisper to the older man. "But for now, I think your partner needs you."

  "First things first, right?" Harvey gave Blair one last squeeze, touched Ellison's arm lightly, then returned to stand behind Evan's chair. "Ready to go?"

  Evan shrugged, reluctantly allowing Harvey to help him to his feet. His dark eyes shifted to Sandburg, wordlessly staring at him, then he leaned forward across the table, his hand extended. "Take care of yourself."

  "I will." Sandburg shook his hand formally. "Call me if you want to. Or email me."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it." Cortez turned away on his own and walked slowly to the door, Harvey Leek trailing behind him.

  Nash watched them go, then sighed, shaking his head. "He's beginning to hurt. Best get him lying down soon." Nash circled around the table to where Sandburg sat and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. "I know you have these two guys looking out for you, but if they ever give you any trouble, you give me a call, okay?"

  "Okay," Sandburg agreed, smiling. "But I'll be fine. I'm going home."

  "Good." Nash squeezed his shoulder, then shook hands with Ellison. "And you take care, as well."

  "Thank you." Ellison smiled briefly, then watched as Banks and Bridges walked to the front door, leaving the sentinel and guide alone. Tired again, he idly followed their casual conversation, then another sound caught his attention. Somewhere in the restaurant, a group was singing 'Happy Birthday'. Ellison looked around but couldn't see them. He listened again, concentrating this time, finally isolating the music to another location. Probably the restaurant at the other end of the block. He had just picked up the familiar tune.

  But why am I hearing it at all?

  He heard his Ford truck start up in the parking lot across the street.

  Talking . . . a board meeting somewhere. Stocks and market trends. And when he listened, the sound of felt pen squeaking on white board.

  He could hear the drone of an airplane. And when he focused on it, he heard the pilots speaking.

  He tugged, pulling his hearing in. Another sound, a whirrrrr. It took him a moment to pinpoint the noice -- the fan on the computer at the cash register. Zeroing in on it, he could also hear the sound of dust blowing around loose inside the frame.

  Why? Why do I hear these things and not other things?

  Then, as if someone had flicked a light switch, he only heard the normal sounds of the restaurant, his hearing dissolving back to a regular range. His head pounded. He could feel the weight of Blair's hand on his forearm, the heat transferring through his shirt sleeve, the gentle tug of each hair on his back of his arm. Ellison finished his tea and put the glass down, studying the small ring it made on the table top. "I'll do my best, Chief. It might not be good enough." He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  "What do you mean?" Sandburg whispered.

  His finger passed through the water residue on the table's surface, smearing it. "Six weeks ago we thought we had a rough idea of my range with these senses. Four weeks ago, you died, and I was truly alone. I thought I needed to be alone before that, but when you were gone, I understood, to my complete horror, what it meant to be alone. It was unthinkable."

  He took a ragged breath, letting the air escape slowly as he found his words. "Three weeks ago, lying it that grotto with my senses enhanced by the drug Alex gave me, I could hear the distinct sound, not only of your heart beating, but of the blood rushing through your veins. I heard the ticking of your pocket watch, the way you were gasping for breath." He picked up the empty glass, his fingers tracing the moisture on the side, the ridges of his own finger prints. "One week ago, the night you were kidnaped, I heard you, when it was impossible for even me to do so. I felt your fear. I knew when you fell asleep . . . But now things are back to normal, and I'm not sure what normal means anymore. I'm not sure what normal is. My range is fading."

  "Jim, are your senses--"

  He knew the question before Sandburg finished voicing it. "They're working. No less than they ever were, but not as great as those first days in Mexico. The range is erratic. I can't count on them. You can't count me."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I can't control these--"

  "Control? When have you ever had complete control? That's what I'm here for. It's never going to happen alone." Sandburg held up his hand, palm out, and waited.

  "I know. I know it won't work alone." He could see the individual cells in his partner's hand.

  "Then what's your problem, Jim?"

  He thought about it, about his insecurities, his inadequacies. His strengths. "What do you want, Chief?"

  "I want to go home. Now."

  Ellison matched his palm to Sandburg's. When he added a slight bit of pressure, his guide matched it, the middle of their palm
s touching. My soul to yours. "You sure you want to do this?" Ellison asked, dropping his hand to reach back for his jacket. "It'll be an uncomfortable ride for you."

  "I want to go home," Sandburg repeated, looking up at him, eyes tired and wide with need. "I'm willing to put up with being a bit uncomfortable. I want to go home. I want things to be the way they were before."

  Home.

  It sounded like a distant tease of words.

  Home. Normal. What is normal, anyway? Normal for us -- or normal for most people?

  He steadied Sandburg as they got to their feet, the younger man awkwardly moving on his crutches. They walked toward the door, his arm draped around Blair's shoulders, trying to recapture that feeling of closeness that had too often threatened to flicker like a dying candle between them.

  Home. I kicked you out of your home. I destroyed our home.

  "I want to go home," Sandburg whispered, his voice quiet and low, as if he knew what Ellison was thinking.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Because it is where I belong."

  Ellison nodded, ignoring the pain of his pounding headache, feeling bitterness and joy tangling in his heart as they walked out into the evening sunshine. "Even if I'm there?"

  "Because you are there."

  He looked down at Sandburg, standing quietly on the sidewalk, his face still showing his own pain. The response had been so quick.

  So desperate.

  It reverberated through Ellison's body, leaving his limbs weak. It was too much.

  It was everything. It was overwhelming. It was right.

  It was too much, the weight pressing against him, yet it was everything his spirit hoped for.

  It was overwhelming him, emotions tugged from the corners where he had stashed them, but it was right. Wasn't it?