by K Ryn
Disclaimer: The usual. Not mine. No money made. Just borrowing them for a time, I promise.
Author's Notes: I've always disagreed somewhat with the perception that the boys are so drastically different. On the surface yes, but underneath? The Muse must lean in my direction, because she favored me with a mischievious smile and the result is this story. Another short one, but pretty smarmy, so be warned. No big plot in this piece, and no owies for the boys. They cover a fair amount of ground though -- even if they don't leave the loft. ~g~ My thanks once again to Carolyn for her fine-toothed beta comb, and to Linda for her encouragement and flattery.
Testing the Differences
by
K. Ryn
[email protected]
.
Jim Ellison breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into the loft. It had been a long week, but a successful one. With two difficult cases completely wrapped up, his desk was clear heading into the weekend. Monday would bring its own set of new worries and challenges, but until then, he intended to relax.
He glanced into the living room, seeking the physical presence of his roommate, whose heartbeat he'd heard from downstairs. Blair Sandburg sat on the floor in front of one of the couches, legs crossed under him. Stacks of white cards, roughly 10 inches square, were spread in a semi-circle on the carpet, effectively surrounding him. A heavy textbook was balanced in his lap and the ever-present notebook and pen rested next to one knee.
Ellison grinned, recognizing the familiar concentration level of the anthropologist in one of his classic study modes. Not quite ready to enter the Sandburg Zone, Jim dropped his keys into the basket near the door and slipped out of his jacket, hanging it on the rack. Holster and gun followed the outer apparel and a weight much heavier than the five pounds of weapon and leather lifted off the detective's soul.
He wandered into the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. With a deft twist he removed the metal top. A flick of the wrist sent the cap sailing with pin-point accuracy into the garbage can. With a satisfied smile, he took a long pull of the amber liquid, grinning in pleasure as the chilled beverage slid easily down his throat. He automatically found himself cataloging the various tastes and sensations and shook his head.
Just enjoy it, Ellison, don't analyze it, he admonished himself.
It was hard not to. His enhances senses sometimes seemed to have a mind and will of their own. Granted, now that he had a better handle on them, they were an invaluable asset for police work. But there were times that being a walking crime lab was more than he wanted to handle. With all the sensory input assaulting him twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, being just plain, normal, Jim Ellison was a difficult thing to achieve.
And that was what he wanted now. The work week was over. He'd finished the paperwork on their last case earlier in the day. Unless something came up, he had the weekend free. It was time to relax and regroup: maybe sleep in -- assuming his internal alarm clock would let him -- or do some surfing if the weather stayed clear. He and Blair had discussed a couple of restaurants to try out for Sunday brunch, but other than that, neither had specific plans for anything else.
Or at least they hadn't when they'd spoken earlier that morning. Jim glanced into the living room and frowned. The younger man still hadn't acknowledged his presence. Bent forward over his book, he seemed completely oblivious to the world around him. Blair had his teeth into something.
Half curious and half apprehensive, Jim took another sip from the bottle and wandered out of the kitchen. He perched on the arm of the couch and studied the cards on the floor. Each was a flat white cardboard sheet with a different splotch of ink in the middle. He turned a suspicious glare on his Guide when he realized they were.
"Don't even think about it, Sandburg," he growled softly.
Blair's head snapped up and he twisted around in surprise. Blue eyes widened and a broad smile split his face. The younger man's entire being seemed to light up with a genuine inner warmth that flowed from Guide to Sentinel effortlessly, like water rushing downhill.
"Hey, Jim. Welcome home. I didn't hear you come in."
"That's obvious," Jim noted. He had to struggle to keep a grin from ruining his serious expression as Blair cocked his head and stared at the older man curiously.
"Don't think about what?" Blair asked, finally coming up to speed on Jim's earlier comment.
"I thought we'd agreed that this was going to be a quiet weekend, Chief. No cases, no insane schedules..." The Sentinel gestured toward the cards on the floor, "... no tests."
"Tests?" Blair's bewildered expression turned to amusement as realized what the older man was talking about. "Oh... these? These aren't for you, Jim." He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm just helping out a friend from the psych department. You remember Erica?"
The detective paused for a moment, searching through his memory for a face to put with the name Blair had used. "Is she the red head with the incredible legs that I met at the last impromptu mid-terms party at your office?"
Blair's grin widened and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Careful, big guy, or you're going to break the house rule about no drooling on the couch."
Jim shot him the glare that had frozen killers in their tracks, but the younger man laughed and managed to dodge the accompanying swat that Jim aimed in his direction. "Yeah, that's Erica. She and I are trading favors."
"What kind of favors, Chief?" Jim asked with a chuckle of his own.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Ellison. Erica and I are friends. Platonic relationship type friends," Blair retorted.
Jim snorted his disbelief, but Blair ignored him.
"Erica needed help with a project she's working on. I agreed to help her out and in return, she's agreed to let me put her name in my book."
Jim couldn't resist. "Which book is that, Romeo? The novel on your life, or the little black one?"
"The green one, Jim. That one's more important," Blair answered.
Now it was Jim's turn to be confused. "More important than your date book?"
"Much more." Blair flashed Jim a quick smile and then looked down at the book in his lap, somewhat nervously thumbing the edges of the pages. His voice was softer when he began speaking again. "The green one has the emergency numbers for all the people who've agreed to pitch in for me when I need to dump out of my academic life at the drop of a hat. Erica said she'd take notes for me in one of my lectures and proctor an exam if I need her to. She doesn't feel comfortable taking on my office hours or giving a lecture, since it's not her field, but I've got other people who can handle that."
The quiet explanation left the Sentinel speechless. He knew he was staring at his Guide as though he'd never seen him before. The truth was, he hadn't really given any thought to how Blair was almost always able to accommodate their erratic working schedule, even with his own nearly overwhelming commitments at the university. Sure, he'd heard Blair on the phone to one person or another, asking for them to fill in for him, but he hadn't realized the amount of planning and scheming that went into making that happen.
"You want a beer?" Jim asked abruptly.
At the younger man's nod, he went back to the kitchen to retrieve another bottle. The short delay gave him a few moments to put his thoughts into perspective. He handed Blair the beer and settled himself in the armchair so that he could get a good view of the younger man's face.
After nearly three years, his Guide was still amazing him. Not just with his incredible energy level, or his intelligence, but with the depth of his heart, his friendship, his loyalty and his passion for the role he played as a Sentinel's companion.
There had never been any doubt that Blair took the responsibility of assisting him with his senses seriously. Fr
om the outset, he'd been the one leading the way, making suggestions, prodding, cajoling, and resorting to yelling if necessary to get Jim to give an idea of his a chance. Time and time again, the younger man had placed himself in the unenviable position of dealing with a stubborn Sentinel who fought his unique gifts as much as he used them.
Yet Blair had never faltered. At first, there had been the standing jokes about screenplays and movie rights -- about the thesis that would turn into an overnight best-seller. But those wisecracks had been primarily on Jim's part -- a last ditch effort to hold onto the boundaries he'd established to keep everyone at bay. Once they'd returned from Peru and Blair had made a commitment to stay, the need for testing was past -- their partnership had solidified into one of mutual trust and a shared goal.
And their friendship had grown stronger with each crisis that they'd faced together.
Jim studied his friend carefully, contemplating the young man who had changed and enriched his life. He and Blair were distinct opposites -- that was the general consensus at any rate. Whether it was in reaction to their being friends, partners or roommates, nearly everyone -- from the cops at the station to his own father -- seemed to buy into that assessment. They drew their conclusions by a quick glance at the outside layers; short haired, by-the-book cop versus long haired, academic flower child; military versus militant; brawn versus brain; stoic versus emotional; reserved versus hyper-active.
Two separate individuals with distinctly different personalities...
Or were they?
Jim reached down and picked up one of the cards, examining it casually.
"So what exactly do you have to do with these?"
"Nothing really. Erica's already done all the testing. I just need to correlate the data so she can analyze and interpret it," Blair explained. "I borrowed a set of the cards and a couple of her reference books so that I'd have a better handle on the procedures and what some of the results meant. You know, 'a little knowledge... '"
"'Is a dangerous thing,' especially with you, Professor," Jim teased.
Blair gave him a disdainful glare. "Even though it's fallen out of favor in some circles, Detective, the Rorschach test is still an accepted, viable scientific tool in regard to the study of personalities, abnormal or otherwise. And I am a scientist, you know."
"I seem to remember seeing that listed somewhere among the many talents and titles on your long and distinguished resume, Chief," Jim grinned.
"Nice to know I make a good impression at least on paper," Blair joked. "I take it from your wise-cracks that you're familiar with the Rorschach test."
"It was a pretty standard part of the psych workup in the military," Jim answered, nodding. "The last time I was subjected to one of those evaluations was when I came back from Peru."
"Did they ever tell you if they found any significant changes in your answers?" Blair asked pensively.
"No... I seem to remember a few raised eyebrows from the clown who was giving the test, but they didn't hold up my discharge papers, so I guess there was nothing too weird..." Jim's voice trailed off and a slight frown creased his forehead.
"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to remind you of that. Those first weeks after you came back must been a really difficult time for you." Blair's voice had dropped into the soft tonal ranges that Jim always thought of as the younger man's "Guide" mode. The Sentinel instinctively relaxed as the warmth and supportive comfort of the words and empathic timbre washed over him.
"Yeah. I didn't like being their lab-rat any more than I enjoy being yours."
He hadn't meant the comment to be a censure of his partner, but the flash of uneasiness that abruptly crossed Blair's face and the physical flinch that jolted the anthropologist's slight frame told him that it had come across that way.
He immediately started to apologize. "Chief, I didn't..."
"I don't mean to treat you that way." Blair's voice was almost a whisper . The Guide's eyes flickered toward the Sentinel, filled with a serious, searching need for understanding. "The tests... I know they're a pain, man, but it's the only way to try to figure out what's going on with you... the only way I know how to try to get enough information on your senses so that I don't..."
Blair broke off abruptly, and stared down at the book in his lap. The racing beat of his heart filled the quiet loft with a frantic thunder.
"I understand, Chief." There was a desperation in his Guide that he'd sensed too many times before -- a fear that he would somehow fail his Sentinel at a critical moment. It was a concern that Jim couldn't understand. Blair had always come through for him, and not just as his Guide, but as his friend and partner. There was no reason to expect that to change. That was what trust was all about.
He trusts me, why doesn't he understand how much I trust him?
Jim wanted to reach out and touch the younger man, to do something casually demonstrative, but he knew that action wouldn't put the demons running around in Blair's head to rest. He resorted instead to words -- the words his friend needed to hear and that he seldom offered. "You always take good care of me. You haven't let me down."
A nearly silent whisper floated back to him.
"I can't afford to."
"Blair, you've always found the answers we needed, no matter how bizarre the problem" Jim said firmly. "It's not your fault that you got saddled with an uncooperative subject."
The wry, self-effacing comment had the effect he'd hoped for. Blair didn't look up, but the tension in the younger man's body seemed to abate.
"I never should have made that kind of comparison," Jim continued. "I understand your motives, believe me. And I want you to know that I appreciate what you've done -- what you continue to do. It's just that sometimes... well, sometimes I just need to step away from being a Sentinel and just be me."
"But that's who you are, Jim." Blair raised his head and looked Jim directly in the eyes. A full range of emotions skittered across the younger man's face -- pride, respect and, oddly enough, amusement. "You are the most incredible detective, Jim, but sometimes you can't see the facts that are right under your nose -- sensitive as it is. You are a Sentinel in the truest interpretation of the word. Think about it. Five heightened senses don't account for the kind of man you are. There's no sense that defines loyalty or bravery, none that dictates your willingness to risk your life for someone else's."
Blair shook his head and finally smiled again. "Even without your enhanced senses, you'd still be looking out for the best interests of your chosen tribe, whether that was one person or a whole city. I see it in action everyday, man, especially with me. Your senses are just icing on the cake. They augment your own natural tendencies -- your own instincts and personality." Blair gestured toward the card in Jim's hand. "I bet if you looked for it, you'd find a 'Blessed Protector' in one of those ink blots."
Jim sat back in the chair, decidedly uncomfortable at the words of praise.
"Not to say that you're not a stubborn, opinionated throwback at times," Blair added quietly, the smile now dancing in his eyes.
"Maybe it's the Guide's personality that dictates those tendencies," Jim answered with a short laugh. He eyed Blair with a speculative air. "Or maybe it's the Guide's penchant for finding trouble. It seems to me I get enough practice testing my senses just keeping tabs on you."
"Hey, if I can't get you to do the tests the easy way, I have to do it the hard way," Blair shrugged, not in the least fazed by the insinuation. "Have to do something to validate my existence here... besides cooking breakfast, that is."
"Just remember, Sandburg," Jim answered with a scowl that barely hid the warmth that had been rekindled in his soul. "We agreed, no tests this weekend. Don't think you're going to con me into anything. If that means locking you in the loft for the next two days, to keep you out of trouble, then that's what's going to happen. And keep your ink blots to yourself."
"I have far wilder schemes in mind than to waste the precious few tests you do agree to on your subjective interpre
tations of some black blobs of ink," Blair chuckled.
"They're not really black, you know," Jim remarked absently, staring down at the test card in his hands.
"Well, half of them are," Blair countered. "Five black, five colored cards -- ten cards to the standard set."
"But even the black ones aren't solid black," Jim insisted, running his fingers lightly over the ink blot. "There's a concentration of black in the center, but it flares out to other colors on the edges."
"You can see that?" The delight and awe in the younger man's voice and expression was obvious as he moved closer to the Sentinel to examine the card himself. "That is so, cool, Jim!" Blair bounced in his excitement. "How many other colors can you see? Is it a full spectrum, or is it primaries only, or..."
"Settle down, Mr. Science." Jim gave himself a mental slap to the forehead and rolled his eyes at the anthropologist's enthusiasm. After all his protestations, he'd just fallen right into the trap of another test. And he couldn't even blame his partner for pushing this one.
Open mouth, insert foot...
He traced a pattern over the card again, his fingertips pausing over an area as he pointed out the color shifts that his partner couldn't see. "The black spreads out here into blues. There's red edging that area, blending into yellow browns and soft greens at this side. The blue is the most intense hue after the black -- it reminds me of that goofy bowling shirt you picked up at the resale shop."
"Amazing..." Blair muttered, reaching for his notebook and pen. "You're right in that black isn't a solid color, although the rest of us non-Sentinels see it that way. In a light spectrum, black is the absence of all color, but in pigmentation, it's a mixture. Printers often use blue ink or a combination of colors under a pass of black ink to make the black appear more intense -- more saturated. Under the right conditions, black inks separate out into the full range." He glanced up at Jim and grinned in triumph. "Guess Cassie won't have to beg purchasing for that new chromatography equipment after all. We can just add that little skill to your resume. Thanks, Jim."
Blair reached out to take the card from Jim's hands, but the older man pulled it back. "Not so fast, Junior. You owe me."
