Feet on the Couch

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

"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 over-powering 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.

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.

He shrugged into his terry robe and opened the door to the bathroom, his eyes drawn to Sandburg. From this angle, it was immediately apparent that the kid wasn't meditating, he was sleeping. Sitting rigidly on the couch, his head slightly bent now to one side.

Ellison glared at him. Where does he think he is? The whole picture didn't look right. What was a grown man doing sleeping like that? Looked like a baby in a high chair. And if Sandburg stayed in that position much longer, he'd have headache for sure. Or at least a sore neck.

He walked by him, up the stairs to his bedroom, taking care to make a lot of noise. He flipped the radio on loudly, turning it up loud, so he could listen to the early evening news while he dressed. The volume was a little too intense with his hearing the way it was, and he ended up turning it down.  It didn't really matter because Sandburg slept on, unaware.

Ellison stood at the railing and looked down at him. Maybe he was being too harsh. He's just sleeping, not trashing your place. Besides, the kid needed to catch up on some sleep. He looked a little ragged around the edges -- as worse for wear as the gaping holes in the knees of his jeans. That's what I get for getting mixed up with a college student. No sense of the realities of day -to-day responsibilities. Flighty -- that's what he is. Just how long am I going to hold his interest, anyway?

It was seven o'clock. If he wanted to drop the kid off and stop and pick up a nice bottle of wine -- did she say what she was making? Should I buy red or white? Regardless, he had to get going. He'd said eight o'clock and he'd be there on time. That ought to prove something to her.

Why did I tell the kid it was on the way? The university is in the opposite direction from Carolyn's.

Guilt, that was it. The kid was helping him out, and so far, hadn't asked for a penny from him.

Ellison jogged down the stairs, pausing only long enough to punch Sandburg on the arm as he passed. "Come on, Chief. This isn't a hostel or a flop pad or whatever you kids are calling it these days. We've got to go."

He heard the startled gasp behind him and studiously ignored it. Maybe he'd been a little too abrupt, but the kid had to learn.  Sandburg looked more than a little flaky -- tie-died shirt, long coat, the scruffy jeans. And two earring holes in his left ear; Sandburg had obviously taken the earrings out the day before, for whatever reason. No, not establishment.

Ellison rubbed at his own earlobe, remembering how he got the pierced hole -- an undercover assignment that he had meticulously prepared for, including the single earring.

He reached for his keys and turned to find Sandburg at his elbow, blinking rapidly, trying to wake up. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate this." Sandburg looked up at him, smiling slightly, but his face was drawn in pain. The hand must be hurting.

Ellison thought of the Tylenol in his cupboard, then decided he wasn't going to start handing out drugs to a college student. "Let's go. I don't want to be late." He ushered the kid out, then shut the door behind them.

Siege

Rhonda walked by him, her eyes glancing up to meet his, then looking away quickly. She had been crying -- a close friend was one of the police department staff members gunned down in the communications room -- but she had refused to go home, insisting on staying to help out in any way she could. The building was full of on-duty and off-duty personnel, all reeling from the shock of what had gone down in their own building. Their own turf. Their own people.

Ellison sank down at his desk and powered up the computer, only to realize it was still not working. He lifted the telephone receiver, glad to hear a dial tone at least, and then hung it up. He rifled through the papers on his desk, most of which had been gathered from the floor where they had been knocked during the siege. They were all mixed up, interspersed with documents belonging to other detectives in the bullpen. He pulled out anything that didn't belong to him and stood up long enough to drop the stack on top of the desk next to his. Brown could take his stuff and pass the rest on.

He frowned, going through the papers again. He was missing something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Jim?" Simon Banks stood at the door of his office. "I called the hospital about Joel. He's doing fine. They don't expect any complications, but he's lost a lot of blood. He'll be there for a few days, at least."

Ellison nodded, but couldn't find the energy to even come up with a smile for the haggard police captain. "How's Daryl?" he asked, finally.

"I was just going to call Joan and see how he was doing. She handled the whole thing remarkably well -- or at least she's trying to keep calm about it so Daryl doesn't get any more spooked than he is already. When I spoke with her an hour ago, she agreed that we should make sure he gets some reliable counseling for this; she said she's going to talk to his school counselor and let him know what happened, and I've told her I'd pay for a professional psychologist, someone who's trained to deal with the aftermath of situations like this. I've got a good idea of who I'm going to call. But he was doing fine, she said. Watching TV." Simon leaned against the doorframe and sighed deeply. "Damn it, Jim. Why Daryl?"

"He's a good kid, Simon. He'll make it through this." Ellison shook his head, remembering the sight of the fourteen-year-old boy dangling from the seventh floor window. And the same kid who had attacked one of the men who had been ready to gun them all down. "He showed a lot of nerve tackling Kincaid's gunman. You've a right to be proud."

"So do you. Your cousin's kid -- or whoever he is -- is a quick thinker. What's wrong?" Banks asked swiftly, as Ellison stood up.

"Sandburg. That's what I'm missing. He was sitting out here when I went in to talk to you."

"Jim, we were in there talking to witnesses for close to two hours. Did you just leave him sitting out here?"

"I didn't think we'd be that long, then ... I guess I forgot about him. Hey, I'm not used to keeping track of someone else," Ellison said with a shrug.

"And you wonder why you don't have a partner?" Banks asked, dryly. "Seriously, maybe he got bored and went home." Banks paused at Ellison's slight frown. "Jim, he has a home, doesn't he?"

"I'm sure he does. I just meet him at the university. I've never actually been to his place."

"Where is it? He could have taken a bus."

"I'm not sure. Near the university, I think."

"Please don't tell me he's one of the unofficial residents of the woods around Rainier University. We've been chasing students out of there for years. They camp out in the denser areas."

"No. He's got a place. And a TV that he was complaining about. He mentioned watching the news report of the Switchman and how it kept on going on the blink."

"So, no cable. Hmm . . . He seemed a little dazed when I saw him earlier. How's he dealing with this?"

Ellison shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance really to talk to him. We came down from the roof and I left him sitting here while I went in with you to debrief. Then we started interviewing the others."

"We'll need to talk to him too. Set something up for tomorrow. He was one-on-one with Kincaid. His testimony will be important."

"I'll tell him. He's got sharp eyes; I'm sure he'll be an excellent witness."

Banks looked up, frowning.  "Sharp eyes?  Don't tell me he's got this same senses-thing as you."

"No, he's just helping me with--"

"Wait. Not now. Tell me later. I'm going to need something stronger than this coffee when you do." Simon sighed as two more civilian office workers entered Major Crimes. "Tell Sandburg he did okay, it was a hell of a first day on the job for him," Simon muttered to Jim, then turned his attention to the newcomers.

"Captain Banks?" the young man asked, continuing when Simon nodded at him. "We're from Bookings.  We were told to report here to give you our reports."

"Thank you. Just go in my office and sit at the conference table. I'll be right in." Simon closed the door after them, looking over to Ellison. "Jim, why don't you go find out if kid is still here and then go home. It's almost seven o'clock."

"Are you sure you don't need me in there?"

"Nah. I think we've got all we're going to get." Banks smiled reassuringly, took a deep breath, and disappeared inside his office.

Ellison picked up his telephone receiver. Shortly after Sandburg began helping him get control of his senses, he insisted Sandburg get a cell phone, because he was almost impossible to reach at the university. Calling him at home was equally difficult -- make that impossible -- since he didn't have a phone. Well, at least that had been taken care of last week when Sandburg had proudly handed him a card with his new telephone number on it. Ellison pulled it from his wallet and punched in the number.

A phone started ringing . . . from below him somewhere. He hung up, bent over, and stared at the familiar battered backpack tucked under his desk. Well, at least he's here somewhere.

But where? He groaned. Do I want to know where he might have wandered to? What he could have said?

Ellison sat up straighter as possibilities presented themselves. Maybe some overeager young rookie arrested him? They had tried to on the station roof earlier, dragging Sandburg off while the kid yelled that he was one of the good guys.

That brought a smile, one of the first ones since this whole thing began. Gulf War vet. Fought in Desert Storm. Right . . .

He liked Sandburg. The young man had an infectious smile, was a fast thinker, and from what Ellison had heard, had handled himself well with Kincaid.

Ellison went out into the corridor and stood, hands on hips, looking around. The station was crowded. Detectives, clerical workers, forensic officers, friends and family trying to find out if their loved ones were still alive, or if they were one of the unlucky few who had been gunned down, as the radio stations had been quick to report.

So how was he going to find the kid in nine floors of offices, holding cells, rest rooms, break rooms, and corridors? He didn't know where to look.

Don't look. Listen.

He could hear the kid even when he wasn't around.

He smiled and closed his eyes, tilting his head unconsciously as he listened, trying to tune in on the voice that had been chirping in his ear for the last two weeks. Soft and soothing, sometimes. Demanding and blunt, other times. But always sincere, always intense and focused . . .

He heard someone crying, a woman . . .

Someone was sick . . .

He could hear the anguish in a hundred different voices, the tension, the pain . . .

Anger. Two rookies swearing.

Wait . . .there . . .

*"So what was he like? I never had the chance to know him."*

Sandburg's voice. Caring. Coaxing the young office worker to talk about one of the communications officers who had been killed.

Ellison tried to pull back a bit to see if he could figure out where Sandburg was, and ended up disoriented, his senses out of whack, dizziness forcing him to lean back against the wall. All his senses reeled as his hearing overloaded, picking up too much at once. He lost Sandburg's voice amid the confusion and shook his head, trying to recapture it with a strange desperation.

"Hey, you okay?"

Ellison opened his eyes. Sandburg was right in front of him, touching his arm, steadying him. "What?" the detective muttered, allowing the younger man to steer him around the corner into the bullpen and over to his desk.

"Everything okay, Jim?" Detective Brown asked, moving to stand in front of his desk. "I saw this guy go flying down the corridor and--"

"He's fine, H. He's with me," Ellison said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his neck.

Sandburg, still hovering at his side, gave a little wave. "Yeah. Hi. Blair Sandburg," he said, introducing himself, then turning his attention back to Ellison, one hand resting on the sentinel's wrist.

"Henri Brown." The detective stared at him, slightly puzzled, then returned to his desk when it appeared no one was going to give him more information.

"What happened?" Sandburg asked softly, his face inches away. "Are you okay?"

Ellison tried to readjust his vision to focus on the concerned face. "Yeah, I just -- I was trying to find you, so I did what you said."

"Which was?"

"I listened until I heard you, but then I couldn't figure out where you were and--" The dizziness returned and Ellison clenched his teeth, fighting back the unpleasant sensations. He could feel fear radiate from the kid, the cold fingers resting against his pulse, the fine tremor of unacknowledged anxiety.

"You heard me?" Hope drifted into the voice.

"But I couldn't keep the sound. I don't know. This isn't working. I can't--"

"You can, Jim. You just need to learn how. And that's pretty cool," Sandburg said, kneeling beside him. "You did what I said. You listened and you found me."

"Where were you?" he asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead.

"I don't know exactly. In that room with the candy and pop machines."

"The break room."

"Is that what you call it? Yeah, that's where I was. Why were you looking for me?"

Ellison opened his eyes again, found he could focus properly, and shook his head. "Let's get out of here. I need to clear my head. Has it stopped snowing?"

"I'll check." Sandburg stood up, looked around, then leaned over to him. "How can you work in a place without any windows?"

"There's lots of windows here," Ellison mumbled, rubbing his forehead. "All around us."

"Windows to the outside, man. This is stifling." The chatter started, words too quick. "Your working environment sucks, man. No wonder you have a headache. Recycled air, fluorescent lighting, all the low-level noises from the computers and faxes and printers. Did you know that statistics now prove that--"

"Slow down!" Ellison ordered. "I've been in Simon's office for the last couple of hours and it has a window. My headache has nothing to do with that." He continued before he lost his question. "Sandburg -- how did you know I was looking for you? Did you just happen to come out of the break room and see me?"

"I was talking with Stacy and . . . I . . . just sort of started wondering how you were doing. I told her I'd be right back and -- oh, man. I better go say goodbye to her. I ran out of there rather suddenly." Sandburg jumped up nervously and raced from the room, causing every head in the office to jerk up as they registered the blur of activity.

"It's okay. He's with me," Ellison called out again, already having the feeling that he would be saying that a lot in the weeks to come. He's with me. How did that happen?

But he wasn't home yet and the anger was surfacing. He could feel his jaw tighten, his teeth grind together. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He knew he was driving fast, pushing the speed limit.

He was also aware of Sandburg beside him in the front seat, sitting very still, trying to be invisible. No doubt thinking the anger was aimed at him. "I'm not mad at you," he said, deliberately easing his foot on the gas.

"I know," came the quick reply, hardly louder than a breath. The kid had been strangely quiet once they had reached the truck. Even now, he sat with one hand on the passenger side door handle; at one point Ellison had thought he was going to jump out. Sandburg was trying very hard not to be afraid of something, and Ellison had the sneaking suspicion that the kid would not be around tomorrow. Adios.

And Kincaid would score another victim.

Ellison's fist crashed against the dashboard and Sandburg jumped, edging closer to his door. "It's not you," he repeated, one hand raised in a placating gesture, his eyes glaring at the road and traffic around him.

No answer this time, just a silent sharp nod.

Ellison stifled a groan. He was spooking the kid. He had to pull back, to get a hold of his anger. This wasn't aimed at Sandburg, but the student was sure as hell interpreting it that way.

He parked outside the loft. He'd cook dinner for Sandburg. Talk to him a bit. Make sure he was okay with everything. Maybe prep him for the debriefing the next day. They hadn't spent any time discussing the kind of situations he might find himself in helping him on the job, and it was obviously an issue that needed to be addressed.

Which led his thoughts back to the Kincaid. Ellison stabbed the "open door" button on the elevator, pushing through as soon as the opening was wide enough. Five long strides down the corridor and he was at his apartment, jabbing the key in the lock. "Are you coming?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

Sandburg stepped out of the elevator, but kept one hand over the sensor, preventing the door from closing. "Are you sure you're up for making dinner, man? You look kinda beat. Why don't I just call a cab and go to the university and get my car?" A tentative smile accompanied the suggestion.

"Just get inside, Sandburg. I'm hungry and since I'm going to fix something for me to eat, it's just as easy to add enough for you." Ellison waited for the young man to cross the threshold into the loft, then he shut the door behind him. "I can drive you home afterwards. I need to pick up a few groceries, anyway." He dropped his keys on the counter and took off his jacket and hung it up, motioning for the anthropologist to do the same. "It's no problem."

Sandburg set down his backpack on one of the wooden chairs at the dining table, then started to undo the buttons to his jacket. "You don't have to take me home. Dropping me at the university is fine. I want to get my car."

"Whatever." Ellison washed his hands, then opened the fridge to see if he had enough spaghetti sauce left to feed both of them. If he added some vegetables, he would have enough, especially if he added a can of mushrooms or something. Opening the pantry, he took out what he needed and set it on the counter, then pulled out two pots from the cupboard.

Sandburg finally had his coat off and was hanging it up.

Ellison filled one of the pots with water and set it on the stove. He emptied the sauce into the other pot and added the canned mushrooms, giving it a quick stir.

Sandburg was still at the coat rack, frozen in place.

Ellison adjusted the heat, then peered at the kid again. "What are you staring at?" he asked, frowning.

"What? Oh. Nothing." Sandburg patted his jacket absently, but from where Ellison was standing he could see now what had paralyzed the young man. A gunshot hole in the sleeve.

"When did that happen?" the detective asked, his voice even, as though it were no big deal. He'd seen it earlier, but in the confusion of everything going on, he hadn't asked how it had occurred. There was no blood, so the kid hadn't been injured, at least.

"What? That? They shot at me once. Missed," Sandburg said with a little laugh, washing his hands at the sink, hands that were beginning to tremble.

Oh, shit. The kid's going to fall apart on me.

"Uh . . . why don't you just go sit down on the couch? Relax a little. I'll call you when dinner's ready. It'll be at least fifteen minutes."

Sandburg nodded, head down, eyes closed, as he bent over while hanging on to the counter edging the sink. "Sorry," he whispered. "Give me a second," he added, his cheeks flushed against a suddenly pale face.

"Sandburg?" Ellison stepped closer, ready to catch him if he passed out. The stress of the day was just catching up with this kid.

"No, please." Sandburg held one hand up, keeping the Sentinel at bay. "I just never had anyone hold a gun on me before, and this has been twice in two weeks. And they shot at me, man. I guess you're used to it, but I'm not--"

"It's a normal reaction--" Ellison began, launching into a standard talk to a rookie cop or soldier.

"I just wasn't expecting it," Sandburg said, interrupting him, speaking as though he hadn't heard the other man. "One minute I'm in the restroom trying to convince my bladder that it wasn't empty, and the next minute I almost wet my pants. I mean, that was just too freaky, man. What was that about, anyway? What were those guys trying to prove? Can anyone just take over the police headquarters of a city the size of Cascade? How did they know all the ins and outs of how the station worked? What's wrong with this country? Where did they get all those guns? Those guys were going to kill everyone. Kincaid told them to kill all those people! That little boy -- your captain's son! That nice lady. That bomb guy who I met the other day. Oh, man. Oh, man . . ." Sandburg was bent over almost double, still clinging to the counter, panting, having what appeared to be an anxiety attack.

Ellison blinked as he heard Sandburg's staccato breathing. The kid was going to end up with a heart attack if he didn't calm down fairly quick. He took another step closer, pausing as Sandburg jerked away and put his hand up again, motioning the detective to stay back. His hand shook in the air, the wild tremors getting worse. Every time he took a step toward Sandburg, the kid would move away from him, until finally the young man was cornered by the fridge. It was like trying to corner a wild animal.

"Sandburg--"

"You have a gun. Where's your gun?" Sandburg's voice was raspy as he shot out the question.

"What?"

"Your gun? Where is it?"

"Why?" he asked, puzzled.

"Have you killed people with it?" Sandburg stared up at him for a brief second, then gave a strangled cry. "Oh, my God. You have. Oh, my God."

"I use my weapon only to protect myself and others. I have permits and legal permission to have that weapon," he said, gesturing to the table where his gun lay. He took a step closer, now within arm's reach of the kid.

Sandburg looked over at the gun, then shifted again, his back sliding across the front of the fridge. "I'm sorry man, but this is a little too intense, you know? I mean, theoretically I knew you had a gun and everything, but you've actually killed people with it. Maybe that's old stuff to you, but this is a whole new concept to me, okay? I-- I-- stay away from me," Sandburg whispered, his face twisting in anguish when Ellison took a step toward him. "Please. I've-- I've got to figure this out."

"Calm down, Chief. You're getting all worked up over nothing--" Ellison said, instantly regretting his words.

"Over nothing? People are gunned down and it's nothing to you? Don't you care? Don't you give a damn about--"

"Of course, I do!" Ellison snapped at him, frowning when the kid flinched. "I've pledged my life to help them. I risked my life today to rescue them. We can't always stop situations from happening--"

"Why not?" Sandburg said bitterly. "Why the hell not? Doctors practice preventative medicine -- Isn't there something the police can do?"

"There are no easy answers, Chief," Ellison said, keeping his voice level. "We do everything we can--"

Sandburg waved him silent, horrified at his own reactions. "I know. Sorry, man. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said any of it. That was stupid. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." The words came in short pants. Sandburg's eyes were closed now, his face white, his lips colorless. He looked like his knees were about to give out, and Ellison was determined to have him sitting down before that happened. "It's all just churning inside," Sandburg whispered.

"It's okay," the detective responded, hoping to calm him further. "You did good, today, actually. You fast-talked your way out of several dangerous situations. You did good," he repeated, reaching out to snag Sandburg's sleeve.

"Six people fucking died!" Sandburg tore his arm from Ellison's grasp and moved past him down the short hallway. He ran blindly into the door at the end of the hall, then leaned onto it, one fist banging against the flat surface. "They died!" he mumbled, resting his cheek against the door, his eyes closed, clenched tight. "Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes there's nothing we can do--"

"Where was everyone? How the hell did they just march in and do that?" Sandburg looked over his shoulder and shouted at him, not caring that tears streamed down his face. "Why didn't anyone stop them?"

Ellison shook his head, trying to find some words to reach Sandburg's anguish, but there was little he could say. "We tried. We stopped them from killing anyone else."

"Too late. It was too late," Sandburg murmured, turning back to face the door. He leaned his head on the hard surface, his shoulders shaking as near-silent sobs wracked his body.

Ellison looked around his apartment, trying to think of something to do to help this kid, to get him under control. Often there was nothing one could say to take away the victim's trauma. And he wasn't fooling himself. He knew Sandburg was a victim, just as much as the other hostages. He thought of Daryl's passionate reunion with his father, of how the other hostages had hugged each other when it was over. And Sandburg... there had been no one there for him to turn to, no one offering support. Instead Sandburg had stood off to one side, internalizing everything, trying to push down his own fears and help others instead. Classic avoidance.

Ellison frowned, thinking about it. He knew all about classic avoidance. But he had also had training in recognizing it in himself. Sandburg, for all his degrees, was the innocent here. Sandburg who knew all about sentinels and tribal mating customs and co-ed dorms and had a thousand and one facts at his fingertips... Sandburg didn't know the first thing about coping with post-traumatic stress. Perhaps he'd read about it, but that was different than living it.

Ellison had lived it. In far too many shapes and colors.

But touch sometimes succeeded when words failed. Ellison stepped closer and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, relieved when Sandburg offered no further resistance. Slowly he turned him around and eased him down the hallway, past the kitchen and into the living room. Sandburg let himself be seated on the edge of the couch, then tilted sideways to rest his head on the cushions.

"Can you rest for a few minutes?" Ellison asked, then retrieved a folded blanket on the other couch and draped it over the young man. Sandburg grabbed hold of the blanket and pulled it around him like a protective mantle.

Ellison retreated to the kitchen, standing at the stove. Mechanically, he opened the box of pasta and emptied it into the pot of boiling water. The sauce in the other pot was just starting to bubble, so he stirred it absently, his gaze going constantly back to the man in his living room.

He thought briefly of phoning Simon and asking for advice on how to best handle a civilian in distress, but considering what Daryl was going through, Simon had more than enough to deal with on his own. Besides, he was trying to convince the captain to let Sandburg ride with him, that the kid could handle it.

And there really was no one else he could he talk to. Joel Taggart was in the hospital. Maybe Carolyn? No, not for this.

Danny, maybe? Ellison worked out their ages and realized that Danny and Sandburg were probably within a few years of each other. Maybe Danny could talk to this kid. They'd relate better. He would be seeing Danny next week, so if things worked out, he'd introduce them. He liked the idea of them meeting. His two good friends. Both were--

Ellison froze, then blinked. Friends? Where did that come from? I barely know the kid.

Stress. It's got to me, too. I'm blowing this all out of proportion. In a few weeks, when I get this sentinel thing under control, the kid will be gone.

He looked back to Sandburg. The young man was unmoving. He listened. The breathing was ragged, but Sandburg was sleeping, the nightmare momentarily held at bay.

He'd let him sleep until dinner was ready -- five minutes -- and then he'd wake him up. He didn't want him to get in the habit of hanging out here.

This is my home, he repeated. You belong somewhere else. You need to find someone else to take care of you.

He drained the noodles and put them on two plates, then poured the sauce over them and put the plates on the table. Cutlery, Parmesan cheese, and water glasses. A loaf of bread and some butter. Not fancy, but then this wasn't a restaurant. He liked the kid and didn't mind cooking dinner for him this once, but he needed to draw the line somewhere. The kid obviously wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He needed to toughen up. Maybe if he got some training in firearms, he wouldn't be so afraid of them.

"Sandburg?" Ellison called out loudly, not looking at the couch. "Dinner's ready." He sat with his back to the living room and began to eat. He was halfway through his meal before Sandburg joined him, silently slipping into the chair opposite. "I don't have a microwave to heat it up; it's getting repaired."

"This is fine," Sandburg whispered, not raising his eyes, and Ellison had to listen carefully to catch the faint words. "Thank you."

"Eat up and I'll take you back to your car."

The young man nodded and picked up his fork, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

"Want some coffee?" Ellison asked after a few minutes. "Or milk?" he added, trying to think of something to say.

Sandburg only shook his head, then replied softly, "No, thank you. This is fine."

It didn't matter much, since the kid didn't eat more than two mouthfuls. He pushed the food around the plate, twirling the noodles around his fork. Finally, when Ellison cleared his own dishes, Sandburg picked up his plate and carried it to the counter, then disappeared into the bathroom. Ellison could hear the water running in the sink, the long deep breaths Sandburg was taking, then the soft sound of water splashing as he washed his face.

It was late. He would talk to Sandburg tomorrow, try to get him to put it all in perspective. Try to convince him to stick around a while longer. But tonight... tonight Sandburg needed to go home and sleep.

When he came out of the bathroom, Ellison was ready, coat on and keys in hand, and he drove him back to the university.

Killers

It was such a dramatic change from the black pit he had been in earlier that day, that as he drove along the bayside road, he found himself contemplating the reversal of mood and trying to pin down exactly what was buoying his spirits. Was it really the absence of rain? Being out of the courtroom? Out of the bullpen?

No. It was less subjective. It was more a feeling of anticipation. Curiosity.

Hope, maybe.

Hope that what? That things would get better? That a hippy college kid held some answers for him?

Not a wise move. He'd learned the hard way not to put too much reliance on one person and here he was doing exactly that -- expecting Sandburg to come up with all the answers he was looking for. Sandburg was just a kid, still enwrapped in the false world of academia, protected within its hallowed walls. He had no doubt Sandburg was sincere, but how much was he also guessing? Making up? How much of what Ellison was being told was simply conjecture, wishful thinking, or story lore?

But then, my headaches are gone. He's been on the nose so far. He's doing something right.

Ellison shrugged off the train of thought and let the good mood settle back. He turned on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station with some oldies. The luminous clock on his console said it was 7:50 p.m. He was right on time. Yeah, this is good. Ellison felt a smile cross his face and indulged himself for a few minutes as he drove, enjoying the evening, his fingers drumming the steering wheel as he glanced out to the harbor, sharp eyes tracking a ferry as it churned through the waters.

The university was at the edge of Cascade, bordering one side of the inlet, just far enough from the downtown area that the absence of overhead street lights seemed to accentuate the darkness, and in places Ellison could see the stars emerging. After a week of rain, it felt good to see brief glimpses of familiar constellations. The tires made a slight shhhhhh sound as they passed over the damp, glistening pavement. Traffic was light, almost non-existent. His police radio remained remarkably quiet, and Neil Schon's guitar wailed through the stereo speakers.

Ellison automatically turned onto the university lands, a route that was becoming exceedingly familiar. Sandburg had some kind of class he was attending that ended at eight, and he had agreed to accompany Jim on his rounds the rest of the evening. A busy university schedule the past few days had kept the doctoral student from the station, although Simon Banks' suggestion that Sandburg was avoiding the police department because of what had happened the week before was also a possibility. It was clear that they needed to talk about Kincaid's raid. Sandburg wasn't a cop, as Ellison had been rudely reminded when the kid fell apart on him at the loft. He had actually been surprised that Sandburg had agreed to meet him the following day to work on a problem with his sense of smell, but neither man had mentioned the police station. Conversation had been strictly limited to sentinel things, and Ellison hadn't wanted to spook the kid by mentioning the hostage incident.

Bypassing the parking lot, the detective turned onto the narrow road that ran in front of Hargrove Hall. At this time of the evening, there were few students around and the campus seemed strangely silent, so different from the frenetic activity during the day. He had disliked the whole pressure-filled scene when he had been a college student and liked it less now that he was removed from university life. The atmosphere seemed so false, so far away from what was real in life. Wars and bloodshed and battles raged, people died of starvation, poverty and corruption swallowed whole people-groups, while some poor college kid was committing suicide because he didn't get a high enough mark on an exam.

Sometimes it didn't make much sense.

Sandburg, though, seemed to thrive in the academic atmosphere. It's where he belongs, not traipsing after me. Ellison rubbed at his neck, stiff after sitting in court all afternoon listening to the defense drone on and on about the misunderstood childhood of a man charged with multiple convenience store hold-ups. Several times Ellison had turned to say something to Sandburg, and then found himself almost irritated that the kid wasn't there with him. Added to that irritation was the fact that in the few short weeks Ellison had known Sandburg, the student had never actually been with him at a trial, which led Ellison to wonder at his growing expectation that Sandburg would be at his right-hand side whenever he needed him.

It was even more than an expectation. It was more like the kid should be there. That it was only natural that Blair Sandburg occupy his time at the beck and call of one James Ellison.

And it was back, stronger than ever, a feeling of anticipation raising goosebumps on his arms as he slowed the truck down outside Hargrove Hall. Ellison leaned over to unlock the passenger door. He had spotted Sandburg immediately in the small crowd exiting the lecture hall, walking toward the glass doors of the main entrance talking to another student who looked about the same age as him. Ellison tuned in on the conversation, surprised at the ease he seemed to have focusing in on Sandburg, weeding out the other voices straight to his.

*"--depending on whether the book's available."*

*"So what are you doing your paper on?"* The other speaker was a tall, lanky man with a scruffy beard, shifting an overflowing briefcase from one hand to the other.

*"Don't know yet, Tomas. Nothing on the list really appealed to me."* Sandburg's voice, so familiar. Ellison watched him carefully, reaching out tentatively to join his sight and hearing, shutting out the other distracting conversations.

*"What are you going to do then?"* Tomas asked.

Sandburg shrugged, continuing, *"I'll go talk to Clydesdale tomorrow. Maybe we can compromise on a topic."*

*"Why not ask him now? He's still in the lecture hall."*

*"Nah. I'll wait until tomorrow. His office is right near my 9:00 class. It'll keep."*

*"That's cool. Take it easy though, man. You look beat. What are you doing -- pulling all-nighters?"*

*"Just not sleeping much these days. Insomnia. Too wired, I guess."*

*"Come on. I'll treat you to a coffee, then I've got to get home. I'm teaching first thing tomorrow and I want to check my notes."*

*"Thanks, Tomas, but I'll take a rain check. I'm actually meeting someone--"* Sandburg glanced out the glass doors and saw the truck. *"Sorry -- I've got to go. He's here and I don't want to keep him waiting. See you tomorrow at the tutorial."*

*"Take it slow, Blair. Really, man, you look wiped."*

Sandburg waved goodbye and ran out of the building and over to the truck, swinging himself up and into the front seat. "Hi. How's it going?" Sandburg asked, twisting to do up his seatbelt, no trace of weariness in his voice.

"I'm fine." Ellison turned the radio off and pulled away from the curb, glancing over to the young man as Sandburg turned to face forward. He did look tired, but he was still smiling, so it couldn't be that bad, Ellison reasoned. "Do you still have time to do this tonight?" he asked, willing the answer to be 'yes'.

"No problem, man. I've been looking forward to it. So what happened today? Anything? Did you notice anything unusual?"

"With my senses?"

"Of course with your senses!" Sandburg said, leaning over to whack him good-naturedly on the arm.

"Nah. I was in court all day."

"Oh." He sounded faintly disappointed. "So what are we doing tonight? Off to catch some bad guys?"

"First, I've got a meet with someone. This is his regular reporting night."

That seemed to catch Sandburg's interest. "An informant? What is it -- drugs? Insurance scams? Gun runners? What do we do? Is it a drop? Do we shadow him? Wait for flashing lights? Or does he put a big 'X' on his window like Mulder on X-Files?"

Ellison blinked at the rush of questions. "Actually, we drive to a parking lot and wait for him to show up."

"That's it? What's his name?"

"His real name is Danny. He's a friend of mine."

"Yeah? An informant? Or did you like know him in the army or something?"

"We were both in Big Brothers."

"What's that? A cartel or consortium -- or a syndicate?" Sandburg's eyes got round. "Mafia?" he whispered.

"No, I was his 'big brother' during college. You know, the 'Big Brothers of America' group?"

"No shit? You?" Sandburg laughed. "I find that hard to believe."

"That what? That I couldn't do volunteer stuff?"

"No, that it wouldn't involve guns and someone dying." The grin fell from Sandburg's face as he realized what he had said. "Sorry."

Ellison felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Danny was my 'little brother'. I needed to do some community service for a course I was taking, and he was matched up with me. His father had just died a few weeks before, and I guess he needed to have an older male around. I took him to some of the university games and stuff, but then when I found out he loved sailing, we would go out on the bay every weekend I was able to use my cousin's boat."

It was quiet in the truck for a few blocks, then Sandburg asked softly, "And he's your informant now? What did he do?"

"He's undercover. He became a cop, like me, and now he's a detective in Homicide. He's been under for a while, so you wouldn't have met him last week at the station."

There was a noise, a sound, in the truck. A thumping, like the insistent pounding of . . . Ellison glanced over to Sandburg, his eyes catching the throb of pulse at the young man's neck. What's happening?

Red light. Ellison pulled up sharply and looked back at his companion. That's his heartbeat, he realized suddenly. Sandburg was staring straight ahead, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. A deep breath in and out, repeated a few times, and the heart rate slowed to something more normal.

"The light changed."

Ellison looked up, registering the green signal and putting the truck in gear. "You know, Blair, it might be a good idea for you to take some training if you're going to be around the station."

"Not the academy. I'm not cutting my hair and I'm already in school."

"Maybe I could teach you a few pointers, then."

"Like what?"

"How to handle a gun."

"No. No way, man." Curls flew as Sandburg shook his head and Ellison listened with interest as the heart rate quickened.

He made the sound quieter, surprised that he could keep his focus on Sandburg's heartbeat while carrying on a conversation with him. Split intensity of sound level. It wasn't something he'd been able to do before without zoning. "It would be safe--"

"How? How could me carrying a weapon possibly be safe? I don't believe in--"

"In what? Protection? It saved your life the other day."

"I couldn't do it."

"If you're trained properly--"

"You don't get it. I don't want to be trained properly. I don't want to carry a gun of any kind." Sandburg looked away from him, anger tightening his jaw in stubbornness.

"Listen, Chief, why don't you talk to Danny about--"

"About what? About me packing a gun? Why? I've already said I'm not going to carry one. What's your little clone going to say to change my mind? You're not going to make me into a cop like you made him. I'm not going to do it, man. It's so not my scene."

"I'm not trying to make you into a cop. It's for your protection--"

"No."

"I'd really like you to talk to Danny--"

"I said 'no'. I don't want to talk to him."

They pulled into the parking lot. "Okay, not tonight. But soon. I'll take you both out for a drink and you can meet him, at least. I think you'd like him."
 

It was approaching midnight but the Cascade precinct was buzzing. Simon Banks had come in, as had several other members of Major Crimes, officers who had been working on the O'Toole case. Word had traveled fast. The police station was still reeling from the bloodshed Kincaid had inflicted on it a week before and to lose another of their members was hitting them hard. Officers stood in small groups, going over the details, shaking their heads, clearing their throats to ease the tight mixture of anger and sorrow.

In the midst of it all, James Ellison sat at his desk, silent, staring, elbows resting heavily on the paper-strewn surface, his face buried in his hands. He could feel the damp cuffs of his sweater against his skin, from when he had washed the blood off his hands at Simon's insistence. His throat was clenched tight, making it hard to breathe; it felt like someone was slowly choking him.

Danny Choi was dead.

Even sitting at his desk at the station, part of him still saw the body. Ellison had stood, stone-faced, and ignored the crime scene moved around him, all his attention focused on the still body that had been taken from him and laid on a stretcher. There was no heartbeat. He had tried to listen for it. No sign of life. He had tried to resuscitate him, to do CPR, to stop the bleeding, but even before the ambulance arrived and took over, he knew that it was too late, that what the persistent voice beside him said was true. Danny was dead.

And all the Sentinel abilities in the world wouldn't bring him back.

And all the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again . . .

"Henri? Hey, man, I just heard. What went down?" John Armstrong, a narcotics detective was cornering Brown as he got off the elevator and headed into the bullpen. "I heard Choi's dead."

Brown brushed past him. "Yeah. I've gotta get this report to the captain, John. Check out the break room -- they'll be able to fill you in."

"Sure. Take it easy."

Ellison could hear Armstrong wander down the hallway to the break room, repeating his question. And sentinel ears heard the story repeated again. And again. Truth and conjecture mixing until it was hard for him to remember what had happened.

Still, Danny Choi was dead. There was no way he could deny that.

"Jim?"

It took him a moment to realize someone was speaking directly to him, and he lifted his head and looked up at Henri Brown's concerned face.

"You need anything?" Brown asked him, leaning over the desk. "Coffee or anything?"

"No. I don't need anything." His voice sounded harsh. He saw the files in Brown's left hand. "What do you have there?"

"Scene report." Brown took one copy and placed it on Ellison's desk. "That's the copy of your report. It's already typed. I picked it up when I got these."

"Thanks." Ellison rested one hand on top of the closed file, but didn't open it. He didn't have to. He knew what it said. He'd been doing nothing but reliving every moment of this report for the last several hours.

"I'll be right back." Brown disappeared into Banks' office, then reappeared, pulling up a chair beside Ellison's desk. "I thought you should know, I took Sandburg home."

Ellison stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "What?"

"Sandburg? Your cousin's kid or whoever he is? I took him home."

"Oh." I forgot about Sandburg. Ellison sat up straighter. "Where was he?"

Brown looked at him, a bit confused. "I guess he missed the ride back to the station. He was still there -- at the scene -- when I arrived, sitting in the truck, but it was all shot up and he looked a little lost. I asked him if he wanted a ride home and he hedged a bit, but when I said I didn't think you'd be back tonight, he agreed finally."

Ellison nodded absently, trying to hold onto his shaky sense of reality. I forgot about Sandburg. He was with me. Did I leave him there? Did I say anything to him? Ellison frowned; he had no memory of Sandburg's presence after Danny's death. "So, Sandburg's at home?" he asked, stammering.

Brown shrugged. "Yeah, well, he doesn't live far from there. Kinda gloomy place, though."

Ellison nodded again, not wanting to admit he didn't have a clue where Sandburg's apartment was. The anthropologist had been vague about where he lived, preferring to be picked up and dropped off at the university. Ellison had thought it might be because his roommate didn't like company. What was his name now? Sandburg had mentioned him a few times. Oh, right. Larry.

Hearing his name called, Brown bounced to his feet, pushing the borrowed chair back to its rightful place. "I'll be right there," he called out to another detective, then leaned back over the desk. "Hey, Jim? The captain wants to see you in a minute. He's talking with Assistant D.A. Sanders."

Ellison glanced to Banks' office. "Sanders? Or Sanchez?" he asked, standing up, feeling the room shift around him.

Brown shrugged. "Her first name is Beverly. I forget what he said. Anyway, go on in. They're waiting for you."

Ellison put his jacket back on, as though needing the extra protection it offered. As he approached the door, he paused and turned back to Brown. "How was he?"

"Who? The captain?"

"No. Sandburg."

Brown studied his pen, turning it over in his hand. "Oh. I was surprised actually, that you left him there, but I guess you had other things on your mind. He said you went with Choi's body. That you --- The kid was a bit shaken up, of course. He told me it was the first time he had seen a body, seen somebody die. And it was the second time in less than a week that he was shot at." Brown scratched his head. "He's a pretty quiet guy, so it was hard to tell."

Quiet? Sandburg? Ellison groaned silently. I've got to talk to him tomorrow, he thought. Sorry, Chief.  I'll do better. You've got to believe that.

He mentally prepared himself for the coming confrontation and walked into Simon Banks' office.

Two days later
 

"Oh, man . . ."

"Let's get out of here," Ellison said tersely, grabbing Sandburg roughly by the arm and steering him away from the commotion. "Move. Don't look back," he ordered, long strides pulling them from the scene. They had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, tracking down Juno by monitoring his phone calls and following him.

Reporters, lawyers, and cameramen. Not a good combination.

Sandburg wasn't holding him back at all, sheer nervousness propelling him toward the car Jim had signed out from the motor pool while the truck was being repaired. "What do we do now?" he whispered, his hands pulled up into the sleeves of his coat, shivering in the damp air.

"I'll take you home," Ellison said, making a decision as he approached the car, mindful of the crowd behind them.

"I don't want to go home," Sandburg replied, just as quickly. "If you want to get rid of me, the university is fine."

Ellison unlocked the driver's door and got in. "Let's just go back to the loft and figure it out from there."

Sandburg slid in and locked the door, pulling his seatbelt on as the car slid out into the street, wheels spinning to put some distance between them and the reporters.

When the kid didn't respond, Ellison glanced at him as the car sped around a corner. He brought the car down to a more respectable speed once they reached the cover of traffic. Sandburg looked apprehensive, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. "No one got hurt."

Sandburg glanced over at him, then away. "We screwed up, didn't we?" he asked, dejected.

"I screwed up. You're just along for the ride."

Sandburg stared through the front windshield of the car. "I don't want to go to the loft. Just drop me anywhere."

"We need to talk about--"

"Fine. Then we can stop at a coffeeshop and talk. But I don't want to go to your place. Just somewhere neutral."

"Neutral?"

"Yeah," Sandburg said, but didn't elaborate.

Sandburg's heart was thumping in his chest, too fast. It was distracting, irritating, and for some reason, Ellison couldn't seem to tune it out, which was why he was glaring at Sandburg now. He had been speaking with Beverly when suddenly the sound was there, in the background, and Ellison had looked across the hospital room and connected it to its source.

Sandburg had been staring through the glass window, staring at Juno, probably just beginning to process what had happened that night. The drive at high speeds through the city to Sanchez's building, racing up the stairs to her apartment, breaking in -- probably terrified that he'd be too late. The window shattering as Juno's bullets tried to find their target. Diving toward Sanchez, pulling her out of the way, into the back bedroom. Sanchez had thrown on some clothes and when the bullets had stopped, the two had emerged from the building and appeared at Ellison's side, watching as the paramedics tried to keep Juno alive.

Now, two hours later, Ellison turned away from Sandburg and glanced around for a moment before heading over to his car, breathing in the cool air. He had an overwhelming need to act.  To do something concrete.  First, he had to get them to a place of safety, away from everything. "I'm taking you home." Ellison walked out onto the street, heading to the parking lot.

"Okay." The response was quiet, but still loud enough for him to hear. No argument this time. Sandburg got in the car and mumbled off an address, saying nothing else.

The streets were busy, movie theaters spilling crowds into the night. Neon lights spelled out restaurants and bars, catering to the night life. They drove through the main streets, finally leaving them behind as they entered the seedier part of Cascade, close to the docks. Ellison stopped in the middle of an empty street, not wanting to pull off the road into the parking lot of the address he had been given. "You're not serious."

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Sandburg started to open the door when Ellison swung the wheel and moved the car closer to the building.

Ellison stopped the vehicle and pulled the key from the ignition, opening his door and getting out of the car. Sandburg exited from the passenger side, walking stiffly to the side door of the seemingly abandoned warehouse. He unlocked the door and stomped up the stairs to the second floor, not bothering to see if Ellison followed.

"It's a dangerous neighborhood."

Sandburg spun around at the top of the stairs and looked back at him defiantly. "I've lived here for two months without a problem. It serves my needs. I pay a decent rent for it and have had no complaints. If you come inside, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Understand?" Sandburg managed to keep his raised voice level, but his eyes flashed anger.

Momentarily taken aback by the harsh response, Ellison nodded succinctly and mounted the stairs, determined to keep any further comments quiet as he cleared the stairs and crossed the wooden floor. He was on Sandburg's turf now; while the young man was obviously stressed, he was also strong-willed enough to demand his rights. It was something Ellison had come to respect in the student, his sense of who he was, his demand to be treated fairly, not to be ignored or slighted. There was a history underneath it all that Ellison knew nothing about.  He knew very little about Sandburg, but what he did know was that the young man was a mixture of sophistication and naivety, great strength and fragility, wisdom beyond his years and an innocent trusting of the world and those who lived in it.  Whatever forces had worked together to create such a personality, it was clear that it was certainly benefitting the sentinel-cop now.

Sandburg was already across the room, withdrawing a beer and a loaf of bread from a half-sized fridge. He dumped both on an old table, then opened the fridge again to take out a brick of cheese and some butter. "I'm making a grilled cheese sandwich. Do you want one?" he asked, curtly, but politely.

"No, thanks. I'll grab something later," Ellison said, his eyes taking in the humble surroundings. It seemed Sandburg only lived in one small area of the large room. Shipping boxes and crates formed walls around furniture, offering only the smallest measure of definition to the room. A kitchen of sorts -- a sink, a counter, the small fridge, and a hot plate -- a table with one chair, a red over-stuffed couch and armchair, and a television perched on top of a VCR. To one side was a dresser and mattress on the floor. A small doorless room beyond that had a toilet and sink. Be it ever so humble . . .

He turned back to the kitchen in time to see Sandburg open the single bottle of beer and fill two small glasses. It occurred to him suddenly that Sandburg meant to share it with him, and he accepted the glass thrust at him, realizing that he had grievously insulted the young man. Sandburg was just as proud as the next person. Ellison may not approve, but he really wasn't in a position to offer any criticism. That was a right he hadn't earned yet. He sat down at the single chair at the table while Sandburg busied himself heating his sandwich over the lone burner on the hot plate.

"Are you sure you don't want one?" Sandburg asked softly, his anger dissipated, replaced now by weariness.

"Thank you, but I'm fine." Ellison scanned the room again. "You're okay here?" he asked, trying to keep the judgement from his voice.

"Yes."

"Okay." The detective sipped at the beer, not wanting to drink it too quickly or he would have no reason to stay longer. "Where's your roommate?"

Sandburg looked up at him puzzled.

"Larry?" Ellison prompted.

"Oh, him. He's not always here, you know.  He only stays here once in a while if I'm working on a project."

Ellison nodded, feeling like he was missing something, and glanced around again. "Mind if I check the news on the television?"

"Go ahead. The remote's on the coffee table."

Two crates side-by-side made up the coffee table, and Ellison sat at one end of the musty couch and turned on the televison, surfing through the few channels Sandburg could get without cable to find the eleven o'clock news. After a few minutes, Sandburg came to sit at the other end of the couch and ate his grilled cheese sandwich. The national news ended and merged into sports, and Ellison kept watching. Sandburg sighed, got up and put his plate in the sink, then moved back to stand near the couch.

"I'm pretty beat here, man, so I'm hitting the sack. Leave whenever you want to. I'm fine here, really," he added, and Ellison looked back to him.

"The local news should be on at 11:30. Mind if I watch it? I want to see if Juno or O'Toole are mentioned."

"Be my guest." Sandburg sat at the kitchen table and pulled his boots off, then padded over to the mattress and crawled, fully clothed, into the tangle of blankets, settling in with his back to Ellison.

The detective watched him for a few minutes, his emotions bouncing from anger to concern, to something approaching terror. The warehouse wasn't safe. It was cold, damp. The neighborhood wasn't safe. It wasn't a place someone lived. At best, it was marginally safe during the day, when the buildings around it were busy with workers and trades people. He remembered Sandburg's reaction at the loft, the eyes taking in everything. Maybe that look of longing had more to do with the apartment itself, rather than studying the living habits of its owner. The loft was filled with light. This place had only a few dirt-encrusted windows. The loft was clean, dry, and warm. While reasonably tidy, there was no chance this place would ever be clean. Two floor heaters, plugged into the perilous electrical system, offered only pockets of warmth.

The local news held no mention of Juno, and at a quarter to twelve, Ellison switched off the television. Sandburg was asleep, his face buried in the pillow, long hair hiding him from Ellison's sight. The heartbeat, still audible when he thought about it, was regular.

Ellison sat in the stillness of the night and listened to the creaking of the building, the wind outside, and the quiet breathing of the sleeping man. Finally, he pushed to his feet and walked down the flight of stairs, carefully closing the door behind him. He sat in his car for a few minutes, looking up to where he knew Sandburg slept, alone in the echoing building, and he listened for a moment to the heartbeat and breathing until he was convinced Sandburg was indeed resting comfortably in the nest of blankets.

With a heavy heart, he started the car and pulled out onto the road, unable to push away the feeling that he was abandoning the young man. Sandburg was too vulnerable left there and something within Ellison screamed that he should do something about it. But there was nothing he could do. This was Sandburg's choice of residences, for whatever reasons, and that's just the way it was.

Ellison's stomach made a plea for food and as he approached the neon lights of the city again, he found a sushi cart outside one of the theaters and pulled over to get something to eat. He got out of his car stiffly, unable to shake the persistent conviction that he had abandoned his post.

The Debt

Sometimes a moment's warning isn't enough.

The building shook as another explosion, not quite as severe this time, rocked the floor beneath them.

"Blair?" Ellison got to his hands and knees and looked over to where the young man lay, half-covered by what appeared to be part of his table. Larry, the Barbary ape, had got to Sandburg first, trying to get under his hair for safety, and with relief, Ellison saw Sandburg's hand move to push the little ape away.

"Sandburg? Are you okay?" he asked, coughing in the thick dust hovering in the air. He started crawling around blasted bits of furniture and other belongings. "Chief?"

"Larry? Stop that!" Sandburg muttered, eyes still closed as he rolled over onto his back. "Jim?"

"Right here," Ellison said, reaching him and helping him sit up. "You okay?"

Sandburg tried to nod and ended up coughing. He sat hunched over, his hair forming a curtain and hiding his face. "Yeah. I'm okay," he said finally. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," Ellison said, relieved. "Your monkey looks like he's okay, too." Ellison tugged back on Sandburg's hair, forcing the young man's face upward.

"Larry's not a monkey," Sandburg groaned as he opened his eyes. He pulled out of Ellison grasp and grabbed hold of Larry, trying to comfort him. "What the hell was that, Jim? It didn't seem like an earthquake. My ears are still ringing." He looked up at Ellison. "What about you, man? That must have been painful."

"I had a half-second warning. Not enough to get out of the way, but enough to turn down my hearing." Ellison sniffed the air. "We've got a fire happening, Chief. I'll grab the cage, you grab the monkey, and let's get out of here."

"Sure." Sandburg tottered to his feet, the Barbary ape wedged under one arm. "Ah, man . . ." he sighed, looking around at the mess. "What happened?"

"Just get down the stairs. Hold on to the railing."

"What about my stuff?"

"Forget your stuff. We need to get you to safety. Then we'll deal with the rest." Ellison waited until Sandburg was mobile, then headed down the stairs first, his gun ready in his right hand, the cage grasped in his left hand. "Stay close behind me," he whispered loudly over his shoulder. "I don't know what caused this and I don't want to be separated from you."

I don't want to be separated from you.

The words echoed in his head, but Ellison kept walking down the stairs, aware of Sandburg's hand on his back, clutching his shoulder. The lightbulb in the stairwell was no longer working, and it was unlikely Sandburg could see anything. Ellison could hear his heartbeat . . . faster than it should be, but considering the circumstances, acceptable.

He paused before pushing open the door to the outside, but he couldn't detect the sound of any voices. Satisfied Sandburg was close behind him, he stepped out into the cold, smoky night and scanned the area where their cars were parked. The explosions had come from the other side of the building from Sandburg's entrance. It had been almost two minutes since the last explosion, but the fire was still burning through the warehouses; he could feel the shift in temperatures on his skin as they moved away from the building. He set the cage on the ground and pushed Sandburg down beside it, leaning against his Corvair. "Stay there. Don't move unless I say so. I'm just going to check on things."

"Want me to call it in?" Sandburg asked, looking up at him, his face streaked with dirt, still holding on to the monkey.

"No." Ellison could hear faint sirens already. "No. Just stay there." He ran out onto the street to get a better view of the other side of the warehouse. No heartbeats registered from inside the neighboring building. The fire could be seen sprouting through the roof, edging closer to the wall it shared with Sandburg's building. There was a gaping hole in the side of the burning warehouse, as though a car or truck had driven through it. Recent rainfall had left the streets damp, and the detective could see the distinct marks of tires tracking through puddles leaving circles on the blacktop, showing two, maybe three, cars had turned around there within the last few minutes. For the moment, at least, the area was deserted.

But not for long. The first fire engine was careening around the corner, sirens wailing and horns blaring. Badge out, Ellison waved them in the direction of the main blaze, then returned to where he had left Sandburg, frowning that the kid had moved, despite the warning. The screeching monkey was in his cage and Sandburg was struggling down the stairs with an obviously too-heavy box of books. Ellison holstered his gun and took it from him, dropping it on the backseat of the Corvair, then he turned and jogged up the stairs, coming back with the camera and the tripod belonging to Carolyn's department. It had been knocked over, but he had checked it out quickly and it seemed okay. He'd try it out tomorrow.

He secured it in the back of his vehicle, then frowned again as he caught sight of Sandburg heading back up to the second floor. "Where do you thing you're going?"

Sandburg kept moving, but answered him, at least. "To get the rest of my stuff. If the fire spreads, I'll lose all my notes."

"I told you to stay in that spot and not to move!" The monkey was locked in the cage, so he wasn't going anywhere. I wonder if I could get a bigger cage for Sandburg?

Sandburg kept talking as he continued to climb the stairs. "And I told you that --"

"I know. You need your stuff." With a resigned sigh, Ellison followed him.

Ninety minutes later, Ellison took the last suitcase downstairs. For all Sandburg's clutter in the warehouse, there was surprisingly little salvageable once the emergency crews had decided the fire was under control. The kid didn't really have that much stuff; he just had it spread all over the 10,000 square feet. Water damage or smoke damage had destroyed most of the furniture, but they had been able rescue a suitcase and duffle bag of clothing, four boxes of papers, and two of books.

There really wasn't much left. Sandburg had brought almost everything he could downstairs while Ellison was busy with Banks and the investigation in the drug lab building. Sandburg had the hood of the Corvair down, and Larry and his cage took up half of the back seat, along with some of the boxes; the rest Ellison had in the back of his own vehicle.

< "Is this all your stuff?"> Ellison asked.

Sandburg nodded, glumly. < "It's most of it. I'll have to try to come back tomorrow and put the rest into storage. This is just the worst. Where am I gonna stay?">

< "I don't know. A hostel? Hotel or something?"> Ellison began to retreat. Banks had warned him that Sandburg might hit him up for a place to stay.

< "That's fine for me,"> Sandburg said, forlornly. <But what about Larry?">

< "Put him in a kennel. He'll figure it out,"> Ellison replied, edging toward his truck. The captain was right. He could see where this conversation was heading.

< "I can't do that to him. I mean my project's due next Friday... Unless..."> Hopeful eyes looked his way.

Ellison backed away. < "No. No. No. Forget it. Just forget it.">

< "Come on, Jim. Jim, please. Please. Please please. My back is up against the wall here, man. I've got nowhere else to go."> The eyes were pleading now, soulfully gazing up at him.

He scrambled for a response. < "I'm just not a big fan of animals in cages."> Okay, it was a dumb line. But what was he supposed to say? I'm just not a big fan of anyone camping out at my place? Especially anthropology students.

But Sandburg wasn't buying it. < "Larry? Larry? He's no problem, man. No trouble at all. I mean, he's been around people his whole life. Heck, he's more human than most of my friends.">

< "And that's supposed to reassure me?">

The final pitch. Sincere. Begging. Desperate. < "Jim, one week. One week and I promise, I promise, we'll be out of your hair. Come on. One week, man.">

Ellison caved. < "All right. Look, one week."> Sandburg gave a relieved smile, and Ellison felt compelled to add, <"But you or the gorilla act up and you're out. All right?">

< "He's not a gorilla. Look, you've already hurt his feelings.">

< "You know, I'm already beginning to regret this.">

Sandburg didn't seem quite as elated as Ellison had imagined he would be. Instead, he nodded wearily. "Thanks, Jim. I'm ... um ... I'm ready to go now. There's nothing left."

"I'll follow you, then," Ellison said, gesturing for Sandburg to get into his car. "Do you have your keys?"

"Yeah. Just give me a minute to warm her up." The Corvair sputtered and gasped, but finally caught and began to rumble softly.

Ellison got in his truck and started it. Now what?

Why do I feel awkward? It was as if his brain was heading in one direction and his heart in the other.

The arguments began as he pulled out onto the street after Sandburg.

I cannot believe I agreed he could stay at the loft for a week.

    But he's leaving this place, at least.

He's going to be underfoot constantly, in my face, driving me crazy.

    But I'll know where he is, and that he's okay.

I need to have my head examined. That damned monkey. It's his fault. If it wasn't for the monkey, Sandburg would be staying at a youth hostel or something.

    Then I would have more reason to worry.

Why? Why am I so concerned about him? He's a responsible young man, has a master's degree in something or other, teaches classes at the university, is well-respected, quick thinking, and has been taking care of himself for a long time.

    But yet I feel responsible. No... that's not the right word. I feel a need to know he's okay. I feel an overwhelming need to know he is safe. Protected.

It's just the sentinel thing.

    Probably. But what does that mean?

It's obvious I have some guilt feelings--

    Guilt? No. Maybe accountability.

To whom?

    To whomever made me a sentinel.

So I'm ... what? ... responsible to... God... for Blair Sandburg.

    Responsible. Accountable.

That's ridiculous. The kid just needs a place to stay for a week. I'm just doing him a favor. He's been helping me out for a few weeks now without asking a penny, so the least I can do is help him out here. His place just blew up!

    So why am I feeling so relieved, if that's all it is?

Does he know I listen to him talk like this, from a distance?

    I should tell him. Make sure he knows that.

But he talks to himself.  I need that. It helps me figure out what he's doing.

    I should tell him, though. It's like eavesdropping or something.

Oh, he knows. He knows. He's the one who's always telling me what my limits are. He knows I have the capability to listen to him.

    But does he know I listen when he's not aware of it?

Maybe not.

Ellison glanced at the time.  It was late, almost midnight.  No wonder he was so tired.  At least they didn't have to wait until the crime scene was secured.  Joel Taggart and his team had the situation in hand.  Simon Banks said he would talk with Sandburg in the morning and get his statement then. The kid had lived next to a drug lab for a few months and he must have seen someone hanging around it. It was actually amazing he hadn't been confronted by them before.

The light changed and they continued to the loft.

    Does he know I can hear his heartbeat?

 I haven't told him. It's embarrassing.

    Why? What's so embarrassing about it?

Because it's so easy. I listen and it's there. Or if his heart isn't beating a normal rhythm, I can suddenly hear it.

    Maybe I can actually hear it all the time, but I only notice it if it's faster than normal.

But why his heartbeat? Why not everyone's? Simon? Or Brown? Or Joel Taggart?

    Maybe ... maybe it goes back to being accountable. I'm not accountable for them. I'm just accountable for him.

"Hey, Jim. I'm thirsty. Mind if we stop for a minute at the 7-11 at the next light. I'll only be a minute."

"That's fine. I've got some Coke and some beer at the loft, though. It's not necessary."

"Yeah? You don't mind?"

"I don't mind. The light's changed, Chief."

Sandburg looked at the signal, then back to Ellison, a smile crossing his face. "Oops. Okay. Forget 7-11." He ran back to the Corvair, put it in gear, and tore through the intersection. Larry screeched in dismay.

Ellison grinned. Sandburg was certifiable.

But he liked him.

But he didn't want him at the loft.

But he liked him and wanted to make sure he was safe.

But at the loft?

But... But...

    I'm responsible for him. Face it.

What I obviously need here is a good night's sleep. I'm conjuring up delusions of grandeur. Now I figure God has entrusted people to me to take care of.

    Not everyone. Just him.

That's ridiculous. He's able to take care of himself.

    He needed me two weeks ago when he fell apart at the loft.

He didn't fall apart.

    He did. He needed me.

He was just reacting to Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

    Yes. And he needed me.

He just needed someone to help him through it. It could have been anyone. A friend at the university. That Tomas guy could have bought him a cup of coffee and they could have talked about it. Anyone.

    No. Just me. For some reason, it's me.

Father figure. Big Brother.

    Maybe. No. It's different than that.

Friend.

    More than that.

Lover.

    Different than that.

Then what?

It doesn't matter. He's an okay kid. He's good for a laugh and he's helping me with these senses.

    But why?  Why is he doing this?

Damn it. I don't know why. Oh. Right. The paper. The doctorate thing.

    More to it than that.

I don't want to go there.

    But it might be important.

That's what he said, that first day at the loft. He seemed to want to know everything about me, everything I did, because he thought it might be important. Important to whom?

    To him.

I might be important to him?

    I might be important to him.
 

He wasn't sure where all these thoughts were coming from.  He felt like he was on a case, putting together the pieces, trying to figure out where his 'gut feelings' fit in.  All the analysis in the world couldn't explain gut feelings.  Oh, sometimes there would be an attempt to explain it away as simply a detective making use of all his knowledge and skill and experience, and processing all the clues so quickly that it appeared -- even to him sometimes -- like it was a hunch, rather than a rational, fast-as-light process.

They turned down his street, Sandburg parking in the first available spot while he drove around to park in the back.  It was unfortunate that he didn't have more time to prepare for Sandburg moving in.  He needed more time to think this out.

It's only for a week.  It's not like it's forever.

The thought frightened Ellison.  Few things did.  Mind and heart argued.  Intellect and soul fought for his attention.

    He's coming home.

It's only for a week.  Be firm. He won't want to stay, anyway.... Why do I feel like he's going to take off on me?

    Maybe because I either treat him like a child or like a nuisance.

He is, though.

    No.

Okay, not a child. But there's this innocence about him. It scares me.

    Why?

Because I don't want to be the person who destroys that.

    And he's a nuisance?

No. He's just different. And different, well, -- I hate this word -- but it scares me. Sometimes.

For a little while.

    That's good.

Is it? I may end up killing him.

    I may end up admitting that I care.

But for now, I need to be firm. In control. I need to be clear about the boundaries. What he can and can't do. I need to be crystal clear that he only stays seven days. I have no intention of him staying a moment longer. The loft is not set up for guests.

In the loft not even five minutes, and already his plan was falling apart.

"You bought a bed?" Sandburg exclaimed.

Ellison stood at the door of his study staring at the futon couch he had purchased a few days before. "I got a good deal on it. A guy at the station was moving and needed to get rid of it, so I thought it might be a good idea to have something in here."

It had been a spur of the moment decision, actually. Heinzman had asked him if he knew of anyone who needed a sofa bed or dresser and Ellison had bought them off of him. It had been years since he had purchased anything for the loft. When Carolyn had left, she had taken most of the furniture, except for their bed, and Jim had gone to the local furniture discount store and rented the couches and a table and chairs. Simple. Practical.

So what? So he bought a futon bed. Good timing, that's all.

Good timing.

"Wow." Sandburg deposited his suitcase on the floor and looked around the small office. "Thanks. If you hear of another deal, let me know; my mattress is shot, man. That's another thing I'll have to buy. And another couch. Major water damage there. I guess the television is dead, too." The dollar signs were starting to add up for Sandburg. Ellison didn't bother to ask him if he had home insurance. Who would have signed a policy for a warehouse?

"Let me get you some sheets for the futon." Ellison left the room before Sandburg could see his look of confusion. The timing of the explosion, and his buying the bed for the study, was eery. And to top it off, when he had picked up some groceries just the day before at the large everything-under-one-roof supermarket, he had detoured into the linen section and had put a set of sheets, a pillow, a blanket, and a comforter into his cart. At the time, his rationale had been that if he had purchased a bed for the office in case someone needed to spend the night, it would probably be a good idea to have some sheets to put on it, and all he had were the sheets for his own bed. He had picked up some extra towels, too, but he decided not to mention that.

When he came out of the bathroom, the Barbary ape was yelping in the living room where they had deposited the cage, and Sandburg was kneeling down beside it, talking quietly to a rather distraught Larry. Rather than disturb him, Ellison went into his office and made the bed up quickly, disposing the plastic packaging in the trash. Pulled away from the wall a bit, the sofa opened to a full sized bed, more than adequate for Sandburg's needs. Ellison glanced around the room and unhooked his obsolete computer, removing it from the desk and leaving the surface clear. He never used it anyway. It was Carolyn's old computer and he had never gotten around to setting it up. It was easier just using the one at the station, with its idiot-proof navigation setup. He could find what he needed there.

"Hey, man. Thanks." Sandburg leaned against the doorframe, eyeing the bed longingly. "I really appreciate this and I promise we won't be any trouble at all." He saw the cleared desk and looked quizzically up at Ellison for an explanation.

"I, uh, thought you might need some more room for your papers and that little computer you have."

"It's called a laptop, Jim, and that's really cool of you to do that, but I don't want to put you out any more than you are already."

"Think of it as doing me a favor if you keep all your stuff in this one little room rather than spreading it all over like you had it at the warehouse." Ellison glanced at his watch. "It's almost one a.m. I'm going to have a quick shower and head off to bed -- Is there anything else you need?"

"No. Thanks." Sandburg pulled off his jacket, his nose wrinkling at the smoky smell. "If I find this disgusting, it must be really bothering your senses, huh?"

"My sinuses feel clogged," Ellison admitted. "I figure the shower will help."

"Good idea. Mind if I have one after you? My hair stinks."

Ellison nodded. "There are towels in the bathroom cupboard. Help yourself." He started in that direction, then stopped as a thought occurred. "Where did you shower before? There's nothing at the warehouse."

"I used the showers at the university, in the gym locker area," Sandburg said, pulling some clothes from his suitcase and sniffing them. "These all stink of smoke."

Ellison went into the bathroom and grabbed his robe from the back of the door and tossed it to the kid. "Strip out of your clothes and we'll wash them all so you'll have something to wear tomorrow and I won't have to smell smoke for the next few days."

"Is there a laundromat near here that's open all night?"

"No, I thought we'd use my washer and dryer," Ellison said, a little imperiously, bringing an empty laundry basket into the room. "It's easier."

"You have a washer and dryer? Where?" Sandburg poked his head into the main room, glancing around.

"Downstairs in the basement. You put one of your boxes of books on top of the dryer."

"Oh. Right. I wasn't really paying much attention." Sandburg emptied his suitcase into the laundry basket, then started peeling off several layers of clothes while Ellison went over to glare at the whining monkey. "Larry's just a little freaked right now!" Sandburg called out. "It's not every day the place he's in blows up. He'll go to sleep soon. Really."

Since glaring hadn't impressed the monkey one way or the other, Ellison returned to Sandburg's room and gathered up the young man's clothes scattered around the floor as Sandburg wrapped himself in the bathrobe. "I'll put these in the washer. You go have your shower."

"No, thanks, I appreciate it, but I'll wait until you're finished--" Sandburg started to say, then hushed as Ellison waved him silent.

"Take it now. Just leave me some hot water."

"Thanks. Uh... Could I use your shampoo? Mine's at the university."

"Help yourself." Ellison waited until the shower came on before heading downstairs with the smoky laundry basket. By the time he had the washing machine on and Sandburg's boxes neatly stacked to one side of the portion of the basement he owned, Sandburg was out of the shower, one towel wrapped around his head and the other draped around his skinny waist. Good thing I bought more towels. This kid is high-maintenance -- I can tell already.

It was two in the morning before Ellison finally made it to bed, sinking back into the cool covers and enjoying the difference in temperature between them and his shower-heated skin. Eyes closed, he pulled the comforter up to his neck and listened to the sounds below him. Larry was sitting in his cage, emitting a questioning yip every two or three minutes. Near him, on the couch, still wearing the too-big bathrobe, Sandburg was trying to get a comb through his tangled hair.

I don't usually buy conditioner. Sorry, Fabio.

He could hear the slight acceleration of Sandburg's breathing as he fought with the knots. The monkey was pushing its paws through the bars, trying to convince Sandburg to let him out.

*"Go to sleep, Larry. Please!"* Sandburg whispered. *"I'm too tired to deal with you, okay? Please?"*

His pleading fell on deaf ears as the monkey became more insistent.

A comb was dropped to the carpet with a muffled curse. *"Shit."*

Ellison opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

The monkey gave a short demanding screech, and Ellison could hear the door to the cage opening.

*"Please, Larry. Not tonight. Just go to sleep."* The whisper was soft but he could still hear it if he concentrated. *"I don't have any other options right now. We've got to be quiet. I don't know what else to do."*

The monkey made a little sniffling sound.

*"I know. You're scared. Our place blew up. I'm sorry. I'm not feeling too swift about it all myself right now."*

Another sniffling sound.

But this time it wasn't the monkey.

Ellison waited until everything was quiet before getting out of bed and heading down the stairs. Sandburg was asleep on the couch, the monkey sitting on his chest, staring up at the detective. As gently as he could, Ellison picked it up and put it in the cage. He pointed to the little pillow and Larry went over to it and curled up into a tight little ball.

Hoping he was on a roll, Ellison crouched beside Sandburg. "Hey, Chief."

Sleepy eyes opened to look at him, then narrowed in confusion. "Jim?" Memory connected and Sandburg sat up quickly, one hand going to his head as dizziness hit. "What?"

"Your bed is in the other room. Why don't you try using it?" Ellison asked, making sure to keep a smile on his face. He helped Sandburg to his feet, navigating him around the furniture and into the bedroom.

"I was going to check on the clothes in the dryer," Sandburg mumbled.

"I'll take care of it. Just get some sleep." Ellison left him sitting on the edge of the bed and padded down the stairs to the basement. The dryer had stopped, the full load only half done. He set the timer again and went back upstairs. Sandburg had managed to lie down, still wrapped in the bathrobe, the comforter pulled up and around his neck. He was already asleep.

Ellison watched him, mentally comparing the picture with the one a week ago. Clean mattress not a mildewy one. New bedding not a collection of old moth-eaten blankets. Warm enough; Sandburg didn't need to sleep in his clothes and wearing fingerless mittens. Safe. No rats. No bombs going off.

Of course, he was inconvenienced by having a house guest.
 
 Maybe he could live with that.

The next morning, Ellison woke to an unexpected sound -- or absence of sound.

No heartbeat.

Well, that wasn't one hundred percent true. When he searched the loft, he could hear the monkey's heartbeat, but Sandburg's was conspicuously absent.

Ellison pulled on some sweatpants and went downstairs.  Definitely no sign of Sandburg. He wasn't in his bedroom or anywhere on the main level. Make that -- not in Ellison's office/guest room. On the way to the bathroom, he stopped and glanced to the front door, then waited until a key fit into the lock and Sandburg entered.

"Oh, hi."

"Where've you been?" Ellison asked. "A bit cool for a morning run, isn't it?"

"Who? Me?" Sandburg laughed. "Not likely, man. Hope you don't mind; I used your key. I just make a quick trip to the little store on the corner to get some conditioner and some fruit for Larry."

"I have fruit here and --"

Sandburg's raised hand stopped him. "Thanks, Jim, but I don't want to be freeloading on you. I didn't have enough money left for shampoo, though, so I hope you don't mind me using yours again today."

"No problem. I get first dibs on the shower, then it's all yours."

Sandburg nodded, then went into the kitchen to cut up the food for Larry. Ellison took his shower, and by the time he left the bathroom, Sandburg was ready for his turn. "When do we have to be at the station?"

"I'm going in soon, but you can show up whenever you're free. Simon said anytime today is fine for the statement."

"Super. I'll do some work on my project with Larry, and then come in. Oh," he exclaimed, turning back to the cage. "I almost forgot." Sandburg grabbed a video and popped it into the VCR. "Do you mind if I turn the TV on for Larry?"

"How much television does he watch?" Ellison asked, heading up to his room.

"Twelve to fourteen hours a day." Sandburg pushed the play button and turned on the TV. The same show they had been watching the night before came on.

Ellison stopped halfway up his stairs. "How many times has he seen this?"

"Lots." Sandburg disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later the shower came on.

Larry hung upside down in his cage and chattered at the TV screen.
 
One week, Ellison promised himself.

He had breakfast ready by the time Sandburg came out of his bedroom. "Pull up a seat," he ordered.

Sandburg seemed surprised. "Is that for me?"

"I don't see anyone else here. Sit down." He gestured to the table, and the kid slid into the closest vacant chair. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Uh.... scrambled."

"Light or firm?"

"Firm."

"Same as me. That makes it easier." He left the eggs on the burner for another thirty seconds, then clicked it off. "Do you eat bacon?"

Sandburg sat staring at him blankly. "Once in a while," he stammered.

"There's orange juice, coffee, toast, jam, bacon, and eggs. Help yourself." Ellison dished out the eggs and put the pan in the sink. "Dig in," he ordered, and started to butter his toast. He glanced up to see Sandburg looking down at the table. "What's wrong?" he asked when twenty seconds went by without the kid moving.

Sandburg shifted then, obviously uncomfortable. "I don't have any money right now, but I'll pay you back as soon as I can, okay? It's just that I spent all my last check on rent and stuff and I have to wait for my next check at the end of the week. I didn't mean to take advantage of you or anything. Well, I did, maybe a little bit, but I promise I'll be out of here as soon as I can. You don't have to do this, you know. I'm not asking you to go out of your way. I'll pay you back as soon as I can. Really. It's just that--"

Ellison put down his knife and waved the kid silent. "It's just breakfast, Chief. It's not a problem." He got up and retrieved the salt and pepper, wondering why he always managed to forget to put them on the table.

Sandburg seemed to come to some sort of understanding and finally picked up his fork and began to eat, slowly at first, and then with more appetite once he had swallowed a few bites.

The tension dissolved and they ate and talked about the drug lab, Larry and his TV addiction, what each had planned for the day, and ideas about what to make for dinner. Sandburg made him laugh and he almost choked on his eggs. When they finished eating, the kid offered to clean up and Ellison left for the police station in a relatively good mood, feeling relaxed and content, a smile on his face.

It'll be okay. I'll make it a week.

Maybe even two.

Cypher

Jim Ellison shut the door to his truck and headed over to the apartment building door, glancing up to the faint, flickering lights seen through his bedroom windows. Sandburg was home already, which meant dinner was happening, there was a fire in the fireplace, and a friendly smile would greet him when he walked into the loft.

I could get used to this, he thought with a smile.

But he's moving out on Sunday.

Sandburg hadn't said much about it.

He's moving out on Sunday because that was our arrangement. One week.

But does he want to move out?

It's my place. Our arrangement was one week. A deal's a deal.

But why does he have to move out?

Pot roast . . . carrots . . . Fruit pie of some kind, maybe blueberry. . . He couldn't identify the other smells yet, but he was making strides. Alcohol . . . An uncorked bottle of wine. Red wine, he realized smugly. Sandburg had probably used it with the pot roast and they would finish off the bottle with the meal. The kid was going all out. But then, this was his last night cooking, as the weekend held other plans for both of them.

So why does he have to move out? Tell me that, Ellison.

What if I ask him to stay?

No, it's better this way.

And rubbing his forehead wasn't helping at all. It only seemed to start up the dueling dialogue in his brain.

What if -- What if I let him stay a while longer? Would it really be so bad?

But once in, it might be hard to get rid of him.

Get rid of him? That sounds a bit harsh.

I'm just being realistic.

Forget being realistic. Go with your gut feelings.

Not on this. If I get carried away with the moment, see those woe-begotten eyes turn in my direction, I'm sunk. I have to think this out. I need some solid ground here. I've got to think this through rationally . . . So, what are the pros and cons?

Okay. Pros. First, Sandburg's got a grip on this whole Sentinel problem. Having him live here would be to my advantage as I can get these senses under control quicker. And I wouldn't have to worry about them going wonky on me and no one around.

Cons: He'd be intruding on my privacy. And I don't like jungle music or whatever that is. And he's in the shower first in the morning and the floor is wet when I go in there.

Pros . . . Well, sure, he's a nice enough kid. He's got one of those contagious smiles. Okay, and I'll even admit that lately I generally feel better with him around.

Pros: Cooking. There's one. Cooking is definitely not my choice of evening activity at the end of a rough day. He seems to like it, though. And he does an okay job at it. That's a pro.

Cons: I gave up my office space. What if I need it back? . . . But then, I can't remember ever actually using it. That was Carolyn's home office area and has been only a storage space for me.

Cons: Women. Yeah . . . It would be awkward if I wanted to bring someone home. Like Beverly. If Sandburg was living with me, there would have to be arrangements made about female, uh, guests . . . But then, besides Beverly, when was the last time I actually brought a woman home for dinner or even to the loft for a nightcap? Usually I'd take them out for dinner, then back to their place.

Cons: My privacy. Major thing to consider here. I've liked my privacy. This is my retreat. My place of solitude.

It's my place, still, regardless. I set the rules; I call the shots. It's my decision. So what do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

What the hell. Let him stay.

"Hey, Chief. Smells good." Ellison tossed his keys into the basket by the door and hung up his coat. "Need any help?"

"Hi, Jim. Good timing," Blair said, looking up, smiling, then adding a flour mixture to the meat juices to make up the gravy. "Uh, how about setting the table? I figure about five minutes and this should be ready."

"You've been busy, I see. Not that I'm complaining." He got the dishes from the cupboard and set them on the table.

"Yeah, got a bit carried away. I don't get the chance to cook often, not in a place where the oven actually works, there's more than one pot, and the ingredients are all in stock. And believe me, since I usually live alone, the opportunities when I have an entire roast beef to cook, with all the trimmings, are few and far between," he added, stirring the gravy, then resuming slicing through the medium rare meat. "Is this okay? I can cook it more if you want."

"Looks perfect. But then I'm starving; if it's not moving, it's cooked enough for me." Ellison looked at his handiwork on the table, then added cutlery and wine glasses. "Oh, hey, Simon gave us some tickets to Sunday's Jags game. You free?"

"Oh, man!" Blair groaned. "I can't believe you have tickets to that game. Against Chicago, right? But I'm moving on Sunday, remember? It probably wouldn't look very good to Christine if I dumped my stuff and then took off." Sandburg put the serving platter on the table, the carved meat surrounded by roasted potatoes and carrots and what appeared to be perfectly browned Yorkshire pudding buns. "This is lousy."

"Lousy?" Ellison asked, pouring the wine. "Looks wonderful to me."

"No, I mean about the game," Sandburg said, dropping into his chair, appearing suddenly depressed.

"Yeah. Well, maybe I can get Brown or one of the other guys to go with me." Ellison forked the meat onto his plate, aware of his subdued partner. "Uh, listen, Chief," he started, then stopped.

"What?" Sandburg pushed his plate over to the platter and slid some food onto it.

"About Sunday?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was just thinking . . . Now hear me out; don't interrupt. I mean, I don't use the room much . . . And the women thing -- that won't be a problem. We can work something out . . . Doing the laundry and cooking would be a big help to me . . . I need my privacy, though. Some days I won't be very talkative, do you understand? I'd need you to respect that. . . . Music, too. Yeah . . . And it makes sense, with the Sentinel thing. Those tests and other stuff . . . But I want the first shower in the morning. Got that?" Ellison asked, pouring gravy over his meat and potatoes.

Sandburg was staring at him, stunned. "Jim? What exactly did you just say?"

"I said you could stay here. You don't have to go if you don't want to." Ellison took a sip of his wine and nodded in appreciation. "Tastes good. Where'd you get this? There's no label."

"Tomas' grandfather makes his own." Sandburg leaned forward. "Let me get this straight. You're saying I can stay here? For how long?"

Ellison shrugged, chewing his food, and avoided meeting the student's intense gaze. "Let's just see how it works out."

"I need a time frame here. I'm sorry, Jim, I just need some rough idea what you're talking about."

Ellison swallowed and wiped his mouth on his napkin. "Okay." He raised his glass in a toast. "Chief, you are welcome to stay here until the end of your semester. That should give us time to see if this living arrangement will work."

"That's a month away."

"Just a month?"

"It's almost the end of April now," Sandburg said, dryly. With exams and everything, that should take us to the end of May."

"Then until the end of the summer. I should have my senses under control by then, right?"

"You think?" Sandburg laughed, then sobered. "What about rent?"

Rent? That was one area he hadn't even considered. "What about it?"

"How much would I pay?"

Ellison shrugged again, at a loss of what to say. He didn't want to take any money from Sandburg. "I don't know. How about you just do the cooking and laundry for the rest of this month, and we call it even?"

"What about next month?" Sandburg persisted. "I'm on a limited budget here--"

"You were managing to pay $850.00 a month for the warehouse."

"I was also renting out sections of it for storage space for other students. I only had to put in about $400.00 of my own money. And in the summer, I don't make much money at all."

Ellison waved the topic away. "We'll figure that out later. It'll be something you can pay, though." He drained the last of his glass of wine, wondering where it had gone so quickly.

"Then my next question is -- why?"

"Why what?" he asked, pouring himself more wine and topping Sandburg's as yet untouched glass.

"Why do you want me to stay here? I thought this was some major imposition problem for you."

Ellison took a long sip of the wine, stalling for time. Why? I'm not sure why. I just want you to stay. "Eat up. Your food's getting cold."

"Answer my question. Please?"

"Just seems to be a good idea. For now, anyway." He put his glass down on the table, meeting Sandburg's eyes. "I'd like you to stay. If you want to."

"I want to."

"Then eat your dinner."

"You always going to be this bossy?"

"Probably. You got a problem with that?"

It was Sandburg's turn to shrug. "I don't know." He grew pensive again, not letting go of the subject. "Jim, I -- What if I screw up? What if I do something wrong and I don't even know I've done it wrong. We're two very different people here and --"

"I'm aware of that. Eat your dinner. Phone Christine and tell her you got a place. I'll call Simon and tell him we'll be at the game with him on Sunday. Deal?"

Sandburg raised his wine goblet and clinked it against Ellison's. "Deal."

Lash was dead. Ellison stared down at the body, wavering, trying to keep his footing on the ancient flooring. He bent over, his weapon pressed into Lash's neck, and rifled through the man's pockets, removing a set of keys that had mercifully not fallen out. He drew his hand away, stepping back. Lash was dressed in Blair's corduroy jacket. He could smell Lash's blood overpowering Sandburg's own scent.

Lash was dead.

Blair?

Training took over, and Ellison shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. His body was beginning to shake with the post-adrenaline surge from the fight. He needed to call this in, advise Simon of the situation, but a quick check showed that his microphone had been lost in the struggle and subsequent fall through several floors. Lash was dead; he was certain of that. Nothing else needed his attention here.

Ellison shoved his gun back in the holster and glanced upward, turning off the cop mode and letting that other part of him surface, that part he was beginning to accept, where his senses were screaming for his action. Go to Sandburg. He listened for Sandburg's heartbeat, no longer doubting that he would find it. And it was there, pounding too fast, as he thought it would be.

He remembered knocking over candles in the fight with Lash, but he couldn't smell any fire burning, threatening his partner. "Hang in there, Buddy." He turned his back on Lash's very dead body and half-ran, half-limped to the stairs. "I'm coming."

Walking was painful. He'd pulled a muscle in his back. He ached and hurt more with every step. Three flights he had to walk up, carefully picking his way up a stairway that was basically crumbling beneath him. Twice he had to cling to the railing as the step fell through, but the racing heartbeat of his partner drew him steadily upward.

No sirens, but he could hear the cars approaching, police radios chattering. Simon, he thought to himself, going up another stair. He was supposed to give me twenty minutes before moving in.

Simon would come, of course; there had been gunshots and he hadn't reported in. No ambulance yet, but one had been standing by and would come as soon as the police gave them safe access. They were prepared to deal with the trichloroethane mixture that Lash had been administering to his victims -- and had probably administered to Sandburg, from the brief glance Ellison had of the young man. "Oh, Blair," he muttered, trying to move faster. "Hang on. I'll get there as fast as I can."

He could hear the faint struggles slowly cease. It's just the drug. The drug is incapacitating him. The heartbeat was slowly slightly, not dangerously, the breathing definitely straining.

"Sandburg?" he yelled, as he started up the final flight. "I'm almost there!"

Once more step and he made it to the right level, the sight of his partner propelling him across the room. "Blair?" Ellison leaned over his partner, checking the unfocused eyes. Sandburg was completely subdued, partly conscious, but unable to move. The yellow scarf was out of his mouth at least; the gag had probably been removed so that Lash could feed him the potion. Ellison undid it and flung it away. "I'm here. How you doing? Hmm?" Sensitive hands felt down the motionless body, searching for any hidden life-threatening injuries. "I'm just checking you out. Did he do anything else to you?" Instead of calming, the heartbeat quickened at his light touch; the eyes showed panic.

"Chief?" Ellison frowned; the kid was unable to even turn his head. He could see that Sandburg had heard him, but had no way of responding. "Relax. It's okay." The heart rate increased, almost as though his words had frightened the young man. "It's okay," he repeated, patting Sandburg's leg. "Just try to breathe normally."

Ellison bent down and examined the chains and cuffs. He had a key to open the locks, but Lash had threaded the chains and he needed a pair of pliers to undo them. The detective looked around the room, his eyes resting on the different groups of trophies that Lash had assembled for each of his victims. Then he saw, on the far table, two photos that Blair had put up in his room, the first two things he had unpacked when it was decided that he would stay in the loft -- a picture of his mother and a picture of several friends taken at the last anthropological site Blair had worked on. Beside them, on the little table, was one of the student's textbooks, a comb, a CD, and two computer disks labeled "Sent1" and "Sent6". Ellison pocketed the disks, then turned his attention back to Sandburg.

The kid still lay unmoving in the chair, terror-filled eyes open, unable to lift a finger or call out for help. It was unlikely Lash had detoured from his regular routine, so physically Sandburg might be okay once the drug wore off in a few minutes. Ellison checked Sandburg's pupils and heartrate again. This was more than just chloroform, though; there was some kind of paralytic agent working, too. Carolyn had said the drugs were short-acting, and the detective was damn sure he was going to hold her to that. She had also told him that it was likely that the victim would not remember what had happened to him while drugged, and Ellison was counting on that, too. If there was some way this entire evening could be erased from Sandburg's memories ...

He pulled out Lash's set of keys and found the one to the bands around Sandburg's ankles and wrists. His hands were shaking as he bent over to unlock the metal cuffs. Exhausted from his fight, aching from the fall, nerves reacting now from the kill, all valid reasons to sit down and catch his breath, but now was not the time to deal with his own pain and weariness; he had someone else to consider. His well-being now depended on Sandburg's well-being. He knew this instinctively, but couldn't put forth the reasons.

He unwound the chain and dropped it beside the dentist chair; his fingerprints would be on the locks, but so would Lash's. The disks he would take -- they would raise too many questions -- but the rest would be left for evidence. There was enough evidence in this room to lock away Lash forever. But Lash was dead.

Ellison bristled at the urge to kill him again for touching Sandburg. For frightening him. For wearing his clothes. For daring to try to pass himself off as the young man.

He waited until the rage had abated, then stood and gently placed one hand along Sandburg's cheek, moving so he was in Blair's vision. A smile formed on his lips. "Hey, Chief. It's over now. He's dead."

Tears spilled out of the bleary eyes. Sandburg blinked, but more tears replaced them, pooling and running down his face, over Ellison's hand . The kid let out a strangled moan, full of pain and fear and desperation. He was vulnerable -- completely, totally vulnerable.

And Ellison responded in the only way he knew. He had to deal with the issue at hand. Sandburg was exposed, vulnerable, and he needed to make him feel safe and protected. Hardly knowing the path he was about embark on, Ellison leaned over his partner until his face was beside Sandburg's, his arms extending behind the young man's back. Then he pulled back, bringing Sandburg with him, one hand supporting the wobbling neck, the other maneuvering the limp body toward him. Toward safety. Toward protection. Toward whatever this unnamed emotion was that demanded the action of the sentinel.

Sandburg moved slightly, his head jerking as he tried to turn his face into the hollow of Ellison's neck, eyes tightly closed now as his fingers struggled to find purchase in Ellison's jacket. At least one of the drugs in his system was beginning to release him.

"Easy, kid. I'm here. I'm not leaving you." He shifted to get a better grip across the young man's shoulders, and Sandburg's grasp tightened almost frantically. "I'm here. Did you think I wasn't going to come back and get you out of this chair?" he asked, meaning it in jest, but Sandburg let out another half groan/half sob, and the utter distress clearly heard in the sound was enough to break even the hardest of hearts.

But where Sandburg was concerned, Ellison was discovering, he was a marshmallow, clear and simple. "Hey, Chief," he whispered, turning his head so his mouth was by Sandburg's ear. "How about we get out of here and get some fresh air? Would you like that?"

The grip didn't loosen, so he kept his own embrace equally secure. Pulling back even further brought Sandburg out of the chair, still clinging to him, but still as weak and as limp as a rag doll. There was no way the kid was going to be able to walk out on his own in the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Ellison tried to set him on his feet, but there wasn't enough strength in Sandburg's legs to hold his weight.

"Chief, I'm going to put you over my shoulder to get you out of here."

Sandburg's head shook slightly, plainly 'no'.

"It's the easiest and quickest way for me to get you to safety. Are you okay with that?" he persisted.

Sandburg's head jerked again, and Ellison couldn't decide if it was a yes or no. A choked sob followed, the body in his arms trembling.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes'. Okay, here we go." Ellison crouched slightly, getting his shoulder at Sandburg's waist, then standing, his arms wrapped around the kids' legs as he turned, Sandburg draped over his shoulder.

Up the short flight of stairs and he was on the fire escape, looking down to the empty parking lot of the old warehouse. By the time he had reached the bottom, Sandburg had come fully awake on his shoulder, kicking against his hold. He stopped, bending down to let Sandburg's feet touch the metal staircase, then collapsing to sit beside him, drawing the sagging young man closer.

"'-im?" Sandburg was trying to see, but his eyes weren't focusing. His head wobbled on his neck.

"I'm here. It's over." He looked up as two police cars, sirens wailing, skidded into the lot. Banks and Brown were both out at a run, guns out.

"Jim?" One sob followed, then another as Sandburg pressed against him, shivering.

"Yeah. You're safe now," he whispered back as the choking sobs increased in intensity and all the fear and horror found release.

"Ellison?" Simon Banks approached. "Is he all right?"

"I think so. Captain, get a forensics team in there, a cameraman. That guy was a serious nutcase," Ellison said softly.

"Lash?"

"Dead."

"You shot him?"

"Dead," Ellison repeated.

"Good." Banks put his gun away and crouched down before them. "The ambulance will be here any time."

"I can hear it."

The captain rested his hand on Sandburg's convulsing bank. "Did Lash drug him?"

"Yeah. Had him chained up in a dental chair. I don't know what all else happened."

"His clothes are damp. I'll get a blanket for him," Banks said, and went back to his car, stopping long enough to speak on the police radio with the ambulance on route, filling them in on Sandburg's condition. By the time he had returned, Sandburg had quieted, his hand still clutching Jim's shirt, eyes staring off into the distance with a vague, disconnected look that didn't seem to recognize the blanket being placed around his shoulders. Any warmth he was receiving was from Ellison.

"Thanks, Simon," the detective said, feeling totally numb himself. His injuries, however minor, were making themselves known.

Banks crouched down again, looking carefully at Sandburg's face. "Jim, what happened to him?"

"I heard him, Simon. I heard Sandburg talking to Lash. You should have heard him; he did everything right. He may not be a cop, but he did everything right. He kept Lash off-balance, he tried to stay in control for as long as he could. I'm just so damn proud of him," Ellison whispered, drawing the young man closer. "And he's alive."

The ambulance turned into the parking lot, following the flashing lights on the police cars, and Banks stood and waved them over. The older of the two men approached, dropping his bag and moving quietly as he quickly assessed the situation. "Hi, there," he said, dropping to one knee to look at Sandburg's eyes. "My name is Paul Hampton. I'm a paramedic. What's your name?"

Sandburg turned away from him, his face hidden against Ellison's chest.

When there was no response, Ellison answered for him. "His name is Blair Sandburg. My partner."

Hampton nodded, but turned his attention back to his patient. "Mr Sandburg, I'd like to look you over. May I?"

Blair shifted, twisting to wrap his arms around Ellison's neck, his face hidden by his matted, dirty hair.

"That would be a 'no'," Ellison said, trying to resist the urge to push the man away and protect his obviously distressed partner. "The chloroform has left him a little muddled."

"That's perfectly understandable. It's a normal reaction," Hampton reassured them. "I'd like to check him out, though. If I can do this now, that'll just leave the blood tests and toxicology screens to be done at the hospital. The quicker we do this, the quicker he's home tonight."

Ellison turned his head to look at the bundle in his arms. "Hey, Chief. Do you want to go back to the loft?"

Sandburg nodded, his breathing fast and panting, trying to control his anxiety.

"Then what you say we let this guy check you out? I'll be right here."

After a moment, Sandburg nodded again and allowed himself to be turned around to face Hampton. Once Hampton had checked his eyes, he kept them closed tightly, enduring the hands checking his pulse, blood pressure, and other vitals.

Hampton jotted everything down, then, judging his patient's readiness, asked a few questions. "Could you tell me your name?"

"Blair."

"Blair, what's your last name?"

"San'burg."

"Blair, do you know what day it is today?"

Sandburg's eyes closed. It was too much of an effort to think.

"Blair?" Hampton called, then waited for Sandburg to open his eyes before asking, "Do you know who this guy is?" He gestured to Ellison.

"Jim."

"And this man?"

Sandburg nodded. "S'mon."

"Good. You're doing fine." Hampton wrote it on his form, then added the birthday, place of birth, and when the last time he ate was. It wasn't until he asked, "Could you tell me your permanent address?" that Sandburg faulted.

"No," the young man mumbled, sadly. "It blew up. Gone."

Ellison grimaced at the answer."Uh, he's a bit mixed right now." The detective supplied the address to the loft and Sandburg turned and looked at him. "What's wrong, Chief?"

"Oh. Right . . . It's my home?"

"Yes. Remember?"

The most beautiful smile lit up Sandburg's face, taking Ellison, Banks, and Hampton by surprise. "Yeah." With a soft sigh of contentment, Sandburg curled over to lie with his head on Ellison's lap, asleep in seconds.

Hampton grinned. "I'd say he should be fine. He'll be best sleeping this off. When he wakes up though, he's going to be miserable. The aftereffects of chloroform aren't pleasant."

And they weren't.

Jim kept watch that first night, once they were home from the hospital. Blair had been given something to ease his nauseated stomach, but it left him sleepy and did little for his pounding headache. Morning found him lying restlessly on the couch, wrapped in blankets and feeling wretched.

Jim brought over a glass of juice. "Can you try to drink something?" he asked softly, moving aside the emergency bucket.

Blair opened his eyes, then closed them against the light. "Yeah. I'll try. Thanks." He propped himself up on the couch, taking the glass from Jim's hand. After a few cautious sips, he leaned back, still holding the glass. "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty." Jim took it from him and put it on the coffee table, watching, amused, as Blair fell back asleep sitting up. Fortunately, Sandburg made no fuss as Jim resituated him on the couch, covering him with the blankets. There was little as he could do for the young man. The drugs would just have to run their course.

He heard the elevator door open and recognized a familiar scent. Before the knock came, he opened the door. "Hi, Carolyn."

"Hi, Jim. I was just on my way in to work and was wondering if you knew how-- Oh. He's here." She stepped inside the loft, glancing around quickly as though reorienting herself. "I didn't know he'd be here." The sentence turned itself into a question.

"He lives here," Jim said, closing the door. "Where else should he be? Can I get you anything? I just made a pot of coffee."

"Thanks." She hung her coat on the hook, staring across the room at the sleeping young man on the couch.

Jim handed her the coffee, then took his own cup to the kitchen table, sitting at one end so he could watch Sandburg easily.

Carolyn sat to his right, facing the balcony. She glanced over her shoulder through the open doorway into what was obviously a bedroom now. "How long has he lived here?"

"Since the explosion at the drug lab. Ten days."

"He settled in quickly."

"It just seemed to work out," Jim said with a shrug.

"I knew Lash kidnaped him from here, but I didn't realize he was actually residing here." Carolyn smiled. "You with a roommate... Who would have thought? What happened to the very private, my home is my castle, stay out of my life 'James Ellison'?"

There didn't seem to be any hostility in her voice, so he answered her honestly. "I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet." He took a sip of the coffee, glanced over to Blair, then back to Carolyn. "He doesn't seem to enter into that equation."

"What? You've included him as part of your tribe?" Carolyn joked.

He looked at her and blinked, startled. "Yeah. Maybe that's it exactly."

Blair shivered and Jim got up and walked over to him, adjusted the blankets, checked his forehead for fever, then he returned to the table and Carolyn's bemused smile. "He was cold," Jim said in explanation, as he sat down again.

"You really are changing. That kid is doing you a lot of good. He's bringing out the part of you that you always said you had to check at the door to be effective."

"My humanity," Jim said, remembering his own words to Blair just a day or so before.

"Right." She reached across the table, resting one hand on top of his. "Whatever is going on with you, take care of yourself, okay?"

"Thanks," he said, meeting her eyes. "And I didn't tell you at the time, but I really appreciated all your help with this case. I know I was a little heavy-handed in requesting information--"

"Demanding information. Ruining my lab. Contaminating my evidence samples."

He found a smile to match hers. "All that. Thanks."

"Well, you were worried about him. I just wasn't used to seeing you care that much about someone."

Jim closed his eyes, but her hand hadn't left his own. There was no anger in her words, only the simple acknowledgment of his actions. "He didn't deserve any of this to happen to him."

"No, he didn't. Nor did you -- and I know that this hurt you just as much as it did him." Carolyn glanced at her watch, then squeezed his fingers beneath her hand. "I've got to get going. I'm sure Simon will want to push through the paperwork on this one and get it out of our lives."

Jim walked her to the door. "Tell Simon I'll be in later. The doctor said Blair should be feeling better by noon."

"I pass that on to him, but I don't really think he was expecting you until this afternoon." Carolyn paused before leaving. "Jim, I know something is going on here. You were smelling things, identifying substances that should have been impossible for you to identify without lab analysis."

He looked back at her, his face carved in stone.

"I won't mention it in my reports, okay? I just wanted you to know that." She leaned across and kissed his cheek, then returned the warm hug he drew her into. "Take care of yourself. And him."

"I will. Thanks." He closed the door after her and returned to his partner's side.

It was just after ten in the morning when Blair woke up again, looking like he had a bad hangover, but otherwise feeling fine. He pushed himself off the couch and weaved over to where Jim was washing dishes. "Please tell me I had a wild party last night and I'm just suffering for it now."

"Nope."

"So that old nightmare of being kidnaped by a psychopathic serial killer really happened this time?" Blair sighed, leaning back against the fridge.

"Yup."

"Damn. I'm a little bit foggy here about what all went on. He's dead, right?"

"Yup."

"Could you answer in full sentences, at least? I feel like I'm doing twenty questions."

Jim rinsed off the last plate and let the water down. "Lash is dead. I got you out of the building. The ambulance came and we went to the hospital, then we came back here. Do you want some breakfast? I could whip you up something while you take a shower."

"Whoa," Blair held his head as though he were dizzy. "Slow down, man. Too much information, too fast."

"Shower. Eat. Then we talk." Jim steered him toward the bathroom and closed the door after him.

"Okay, we'll do it your way," he could hear Blair mumble. "This time."

A cleaner, fuller, more awake Blair smiled across the table at him thirty minutes later. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"For rescuing me."

"You're welcome." Jim met Blair's eyes. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"So am I, man. But this isn't your fault, you know."

Jim shrugged, looking away.

"It's not," Blair insisted. "That guy is --was -- a major headcase."

"What did he do to you?"

Blair frowned slightly at the force of the question, but seemed to understand Jim's need to know. "I woke up once, lying outside in a big puddle of water. Chained up with this majorly uncomfortable gag on. I see where they get the name now. Gag. I thought I was going to puke." His nose wrinkled at the memory. "Then, I don't know. I guess I was out of it. Then I remember him sort of hanging over me in that room. I was like majorly freaked and he's patting me, telling me 'it's okay', 'it's okay', as though that's going to make me feel better. Yeah, sure. A psychopath reassuring me is going to make me calm down..."

Jim groaned. "That's why I upset you later. I did the same thing."

"Huh?"

"When I was trying to free you, I kept saying 'it's okay' and it only seemed to make you more ... upset."

"You can say it, Jim. The word is 'terrified'.. I was freaking terrified. Scared out of my gourd. -- What does that mean, anyway? I'm going to have to look it up." Blair seemed to wander with the thought for a moment, then came right back. "I don't remember you saying that, but I'm sorry. I should have known it was you. I remember you being there and thinking that if I could just get closer to you, like under your skin somehow, I'd be safe." He looked up at the man sitting across the table from him. "I don't know how you did it, but I know I felt safe."

Jim nodded, thoughtfully. "Just doing my job."

"Which job is that?" Blair asked softly.

He shrugged. "Cop," he said, after a moment, resisting what he wanted to say.

"What about 'Sentinel'?"

"I guess." Uncomfortable suddenly, he got to his feet, moving to the couch to retrieve the blanket. He stood folding it, then just held it for a moment. "Yeah," he admitted. "I was being a sentinel, too." Jim took a deep breath, wondering why this was all so difficult. "And I discovered something else."

"What?"

"You're a part of this. I feel like a lot of what is happening isn't rational, it's something instinctual within me. And it alternately scares the hell out of me and relieves me." He put the blanket down on the arm of the couch. "Okay -- here's the bottom line. I know that you belong here. With me. For as long as you want. No deadlines. The money or chores aren't important. You're being here is. I can't do this without you. Got that?"

Blair stared across the room at him, looking shell-shocked.

"Is that okay with you?" Jim asked, finally.

Blair nodded, wiping his eyes.

"Then get some shoes on. We've got work to do at the station." Jim walked by him on the way to the stairs, stopping for a brief moment to ruffle the shower-damp curls.

"I remember you talking to Simon," Blair said, suddenly, as Jim mounted the stairs. "That you were proud of me."

"I am."

"I didn't screw it all up?"

"No."

"I'll be ready to go in five minutes."

"I'm leaving in two."

"Four?"

"Three."

"Deal."

Epilogue

Ellison hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes, yawning. Sandburg was in some sort of trouble, and he had just agreed to go down and see what the problem was. He looked at his watch again, shaking his head at the early hour of morning.

So why'd I immediately agree to come and get you without more details? Because I'm a sentimental sentinel, that's why. What happened to my tough guy image, Chief? If word of this type of behavior gets out...

He shook his head, amazed that he had actually stayed up waiting for his roommate. He hadn't planned it, but it had happened anyway. One minute he had been sitting thinking about how Sandburg came to be part of his life, then suddenly the phone was ringing and said roommate was asking for a favor.

The static snow from the television prompted him to move aside the pillow he was still holding on to and cross over to the television set and flick it off. I can't even remember what I was watching on TV. He looked down at what he was wearing, deciding he didn't look that rumpled for having fallen asleep on the couch; the clothes would do for the Federal Building.

Sandburg, what now? Now you've got me sleeping with my feet on the couch, clutching a pillow, waiting for you to come home at night. How the mighty have fallen...

Jim smiled ruefully as he got the pillow and returned it to Blair's bedroom. He shrugged into his jacket, glancing around the loft to make sure the candles were out and everything else would be safe until he got Blair back home.

Home.

That's what you did, kid. You made this home. Your presence in my life took a spartan, utilitarian apartment and made it somewhere warm and comfortable and safe. A place to laugh, and yell, and, yes, even to sit up at night with my feet on the couch, waiting for you to come home. You made me worry about someone -- not because I think you're incompetent, but because I care. Because sometimes I don't know how to help you when you're hurting like this. I don't know how to make you feel better, and that eats at me. I wish I did.

Jim picked up his keys, still looking back at the empty couch.

The words aren't always there any more, but if this display of sentimentality doesn't prove I care about you, I don't know what will. It certainly proved it to me.

He turned off the lights, shut the door behind him, and went out into the night.

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