Feet on the Couch
by LRHBalzer
(Story is set within Sweet Science, but also includes missing scenes from the first five aired episodes)
Jim Ellison stared at the flickering images on the television set and wondered what on earth he was doing. He should be in bed. It had been a long day and there was no reason why he was still up. Just turn off the television and walk up the stairs, he told himself.
But he couldn’t, plain and simple.
He leaned back and stared at the light reflecting on the high ceiling of the loft. The room was empty. He was alone.
Once that would have been normal. Coming home. Eating something. Catching the news, maybe a game, on the television. Going to bed.
But things had changed. Now ‘coming home’ meant more to him. Home was more than just the loft, it was Blair Sandburg, too. Sandburg made it ‘home’. Coming home at the end of the day meant an evening shared. A meal at the table. Conversation about the day. Jokes. Laughter. Arguing about what to watch on the televison, what to play on the stereo. Saying ‘good night’ to someone before you retired for the evening.
Sandburg had left the loft several hours before and he hadn’t returned. Ellison had seen the pain in his eyes when he walked out the door, the despair at the way the case was going.
So he sat, staring at meaningless patterns of light on the ceiling, and waited, not knowing what else to do.
When did I start to care this much? Ellison asked himself. How did this happen? How did he end up here?
Why am I sitting up, waiting for him to come home?
He got to his feet and crossed the room to the refrigerator, taking out a beer. Opening it, he leaned back against the counter and stared around the loft, taking in all the changes that had occurred in the last few years. New furniture. New paint. The original wall exposed in the living room, with its big number four. The bookcases. French doors.
He found himself there, looking into Blair’s room and remembering the bleak spare room it had once been. Unused, superfluous, filled with cardboard boxes with little in them. As dead as he was.
Now it was colorful, multi-patterned, passionate. Alive. Books and artwork. Masks and spears. Disks and CDs and a fax machine hidden under a woven blanket. Pillows from twenty different countries . Pictures of friends from around the world. Artifacts and a lap top computer. Ellison inhaled deeply and let the myriad of smells settle around him. This was Blair. The ancient and the new. Wood, polished and stained. Magazines advertising computer programs. Worn, mildewy, forgotten books with crinkled pages. Incense. Candles. Blair.
Where are you, buddy?
He turned away and walked to the balcony windows, seeing not only the windy dark night, but his own reflection in the glass. For a brief moment, he was embarrassed at the worry on his face, the lines in his forehead, the way his hand clutched the beer bottle.
Embarrassment faded as he acknowledged what the outward signs represented. They meant he cared. He gave a damn what happened to his friend. His happiness depended on Blair’s happiness. Blair’s joy was his joy. His triumph was Blair’s triumph. And now, tonight, Blair’s pain was his pain.
He changed his focus through the glass to see the bleak street below, but catching no sight of the familiar frame walking along the street, hands perhaps thrust into his pockets, collar turned up against the wind. The street was empty; the sidewalk deserted. No cars passed along their street. No taxis returning the companion of his heart to their home.
Jim slowly walked back to the couch and sat down, staring at the candles Blair had set up on the coffee table. The significance of the arrangement was lost to him, six golden candles with different scents, set in a perfect half-circle around an incense burner. Had Blair chosen them for their significance to him, taking time to look at each one, decide its merit, then place it on the table just so? Or had he gathered a variety of the scented candles, as mixed as his emotions, and set them in random order in the half-circle, hoping to find some hidden meaning in the pulsing of the flames?
I’m as confused by this as he is, Jim thought, picking up one candle, his thumb tracing the path of wax that had dripped down the side and hardened. He chipped at it with his nail, and the trail of wax broke off, falling to the coffee table. Saddened by the destructive act, he replaced the candle and leaned back into the couch, staring at the reflection of the evening news scattered across the ceiling, and he knew that at this moment, he didn’t care about what was happening in the world.
But his entire body resonated with the desire to see his friend at peace. Blair knew that he cared. He had to know. Everyone else knew.
I think I cared from that first meeting in the hospital.
Well, almost.
Maybe not then. Nor that first meeting in Blair’s office.
But sometime in there, sometime during those first few days and weeks, he had come to care, and care deeply.
Jim raised the beer bottle, holding it out before him, then taking a long swallow. Come back soon, Chief. This place is empty without you.
*
Switchman
Detective James Ellison held the door open for the young man trailing along behind him down the corridor. “Wait inside; I’m just going to shower and change, and then I’ll drop you off at the university.”
“Right. I appreciate it, but I could have taken the bus.” Blair Sandburg, newly appointed tagalong, stopped long enough to look out the hallway window at the street below before continuing to the apartment’s door.
It was like having to watch out for a little child, Ellison had noted. The kid noticed everything. Nothing was too small to escape his attention. If there was a window — he had to look out it. A box had to be opened. A corner had to be looked around. A noise had to be investigated. A penny had to be picked up. A person had to be smiled at. He should have had these hypersenses, not me. He already acts like he has them.
Ellison snapped his fingers, urging the young man to pick up his pace. “Dropping you off is no problem. Besides, I’m going right by where you left your car—”
“On your way to your date’s place. I heard.” Sandburg stepped into the doorway of the loft, his wide eyes darting up to the high ceiling, then left and right.
Ellison grimaced slightly at the choice of words, but the kid was looking elsewhere and missed it. It wasn’t a date really. He was just having dinner with his ex-wife. No big deal. Well, maybe, if things worked out tonight, they’d… “She’s not really my—”
“She seems cool. Carolyn, right? Have you known her long?” Sandburg asked, looking over at him finally as he set his bag down on the floor just inside the door. “Think she might guess about you being a Sentinel?”
“No. And don’t get comfortable; we won’t be here long. Don’t leave your stuff lying around. Just wait over there,” Ellison said brusquely, gesturing to the couch.
Sandburg quickly picked his bag up, wincing as he transferred the weight from his bandaged hand to the other. “Listen, you’re in a hurry. I don’t want to get in your way. I really don’t mind — why don’t I just go catch a bus to the university? It’s not that far from here.”
“Just sit down and wait for me.. It’s not a problem; don’t turn it into one.” Ellison waited but the kid still didn’t move from the doorway. “Are you coming in or not?”
“Yeah.” Sandburg stepped all the way into the loft and Ellison shut the door.
“I won’t be long,” the detective repeated, taking off his jacket and hanging it up. “Sit down on the couch.” He dropped his keys on the table by the door.
“Thanks,” Sandburg said, somewhat warily, holding his worn leather bag tight against his chest like a safety blanket. That only lasted a few seconds, and then his
natural curiosity took over as he looked around eagerly. “This place is awesome, man. Do you live here alone?”
Ellison paused at the foot of the stairs to his bedroom and looked back. The kid was staring around the loft as though trying to commit it to memory. Instead of going to the living room like he had been told, Sandburg was walking slowly through the kitchen, not touching anything. Just looking. And looking. Ellison swore he was cataloging everything.
“Yes, I live here alone,” he answered, one foot on the bottom step.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“A few years. Why?”
“Just wondering. It might be important.”
“To what?”
“To you. To this whole Sentinel thing. Everything might be important.” Sandburg gestured to a cupboard. “May I?”
“May you what?”
“Look inside.”
“Why?”
“To see what’s in there.”
“Why?”
“It might be important.”
Ellison put his hands on his hips and blew out through his nose, reminding himself of a bull ready to attack. “No, you may not look through my cupboards. They have doors on them for a reason. They’re private. Like everything here. Do you understand? This shouldn’t be a difficult concept. You are simply here to wait for me to get changed, then I’ll return you to the university and your car.”
The kid nodded, pulling his longing gaze from the cupboard and rounding the kitchen island. A sideways glance took in the sparsely furnished spare room as he slowly, slowly walked by the open doorway, looking for all the world like he was moving forward a frame at a time. Next it was the cookbooks that caught his attention. Pristine, unused books, bought two years ago when Ellison had imagined he would start cooking something more enterprising for his dinner instead of his tried-and-true four recipes.
“Sandburg? Wait for me in the living room,” Ellison said, going up the stairs to his bedroom. “Sit on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t touch anything.”
“No way, man. I’m cool.”
“Fine. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be here.”
Ellison reached the top of the stairs and looked down over the railing to see the young man finally reach the couch and sit down, his head turning one way and then the other, looking at everything, as though he were watching a tennis match or a kick-return for a touchdown or — well, in this case, like he was touring an exhibit of rare artifacts. Whatever it was, it irritated the detective.
Satisfied for the moment that the kid was sitting down and not snooping around, Ellison crossed over to his bed, took off his gun and placed it on his dresser, along with his badge and wallet. He frowned at a rip along the seam of his jeans by the left ankle and put them aside to go to the dry cleaners to be mended. It was a relief to peel off the filthy clothes he was wearing. He’d jumped from an overpass to land on top of a bus, and he could already see the bruises on his chest and thighs from the impact. He took a few deep breaths to check his ribs, but they seemed to be fine. One was a little sensitive, but it was probably just bruised, like the rest of him. His left elbow was beginning to discolor and his lower back to stiffen up from being thrown around when the bomb finally went off.
Yes, a shower sounded pretty good.
Gathering up his clothes, he dropped them into the laundry hamper, taking a moment to look over the railing again. The kid had settled down and was sitting rubbing his hand, his backpack on his lap, looking over the back of the couch to read the titles of the few books on Ellison’s shelves. The EMTs had bandaged his hand — Sandburg must have injured it during the explosion, or maybe in the fight earlier, Ellison decided, realizing that he hadn’t asked what had happened. He shook his head, then went around to his closet and pulled out a fresh shirt and slacks, and over to the dresser for socks and underwear.
So what do you wear when you’re going to your ex-wife’s for dinner?
He looked at the flannel shirt he had chosen, then returned it to the closet, opting for a more expensive linen shirt — one she had given him for his birthday or Christmas one year. Rummaging further, he located the tie that went with it. Why not? How often do I dress up a bit? Not much in the last few years; the first time he’d worn his suit for something other than a court appearance was for their dinner the week before. Had it been that long? Counting the days, he realized it had only been three days ago. An amazing number of things had happened in those three days. And yesterday he had met the kid out there, and before he knew it, that kid was calling the shots, telling him what to do. And he was going along with it.
Definitely something he was not going to mention to Carolyn. She’d never believe it anyway.
Well, now that the original panic with his senses was over, he could take things a little slower and get control over the situation again. He’d given the kid full rein to make decisions because … well, because he’d really had no other options. But now that he was able to cope a bit better, they’d have to sit down and lay out some ground rules.
Ellison put on his bathrobe and padded down the stairs, frowning when he saw the kid was doing some kind of weird meditation or something, sitting stiffly on the couch with his eyes closed, his mouth open slightly, his hands still gripping his bag. First time he had ever seen Sandburg not moving. Even in the truck, the kid still bounced and gestured in high gear.
With a shrug, Ellison went in the bathroom and started the shower, deciding to take a few minutes longer to try to relax a little, especially since Sandburg seemed to be under control at the moment. He stepped into the bathtub and let the water blast against his back, enjoying the heat as it worked its magic and soothed his muscles. He could feel the glide of water droplets over his skin, the sharp pain of his cuts and scrapes, the sensation of soap bubbles popping against the hairs on his arm. The gentle fragrance of his shampoo. The almost overpowering scent of the deodorant soap as he raised it to his face. He coughed, holding the bar away. The sound of water hitting the tub suddenly became a tumultuous roar, and he dropped the soap, instinctively covering his ears to block the noise. The bar of soap crashed to the edge of the tub, then fell again to land by his feet with a booming thud. He tried to ignore the sound of water slapping against the tiles, splashing together, rushing down the drain, gurgling in the pipes, echoing and re-echoing. The volume spiked, fluctuated wildly, and then, just as quickly as it had intensified, it suddenly died. He shook his head, trying to clear his brain.
There. Everything came together, and he was once again in control.
Carefully, slowly, he allowed himself to tune in to the water against his skin, trying not to lose himself in the erotic sensations of water gliding over his body. So, the kid thinks I have super senses. Touch … Yes, he’d buy the touch part of the theory. At least, he’d admit that his skin was a lot more sensitive than normal. That test thing in the forest with the ashes… That was strange, the feel of the different textures, the awareness of the contrasts of composition. Maybe this would come in handy.
The water’s spray felt glorious on his back. Not a word that often came to mind — glorious — but it fit. He bent his neck forward, letting the water pound on him. Feeling the muscles — individual muscles — relax. The feel of water running over his hypersensitive skin, skimming over his opening pores.
The touch of Carolyn’s lips on his.
Whoa.
Ellison turned to face the shower, letting the water strike his face and wipe out that particular touch memory as he struggled to get his body back under control. What had he been thinking — kissing her like that?
In the confusion of the past few days, he’d forgotten that it had ever happened. No, forget what he’d been thinking… what on earth had Carolyn thought of him suddenly grabbing her, kissing her in the middle of the rain-drenched street, half-devouring her with his mouth.
Shit.
<
br /> So do I mention that tonight? Do I tell her about this sense stuff?
He spent another few minutes soaping up and rinsing off while he poked at the idea of telling her, deciding finally not to say anything until he had a better idea of what he was up against with the whole senses thing. Sentinels? He was going to have to do some research on his own and see if he could find any independent material to back up Sandburg’s wild claims.
The air felt heavy with moisture as he turned off the shower. Someone was cooking chicken … teriyaki chicken. He could smell sushi rice and wasabe. The young couple on the second floor probably. She was Japanese. He saw them at the market sometimes and she always seemed to be trying to convince her boyfriend to try something different.
I never used to be able to smell other people’s dinners, unless they were barbecuing and I had the balcony doors open. I must be hungry.
He was, actually. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He’d picked up Sandburg at the university right at nine — the kid did some teaching there and had just finished an eight o’clock class. Did he say what it was he taught? I don’t think I asked. He really didn’t want to know much about the off-beat professor. They’d driven out to the forest for those tests the kid had come up with, which had then turned into them driving all over town matching scents from the perfume and tracking down the suspect. No real food — he’d grabbed a cup of coffee, but that’s all he’d taken the time for.
I bet the kid is hungry, he thought, reluctantly. Should I offer him something to eat? He mentally reviewed the contents of his refrigerator, deciding there was really nothing to give him. A stale package of cookies in one cupboard. Soup? No, I’m not his keeper. He can get his own dinner. If he was hungry, he should have told me. He’s an adult. I’m not going to baby-sit him. If he’s going to keep up with me, he’s got to pull his weight.
Actually, the kid had done pretty good. Undisciplined, certainly, but Ellison planned to have that in order shortly. The kid just needed some direction, some clear instructions on what his role was to be.
I never should have said that about him being my partner. One tossed-off comment, meant for Joel’s ears to get him away from the kid before the bomb squad captain asked too many questions, and Sandburg had lit up like a Christmas tree. The smile only faded slightly when Ellison had shifted the topic to the academy. And how was he going to convince Simon to let the young man ride with him, shadow him, while they worked on this senses stuff? It was clear this wasn’t something that was going to clear up overnight. Not if he wanted control over it. No, he had to make a commitment for at least three or four weeks.
Feet on the Couch Page 1
