Fanfic - Handyman [The Sentinel: Gen/Pre-slash (Jim/Blair)]
Fandom: The Sentinel
Pairing: Gen at the moment. Series will eventually be Jim/Blair.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: First time playing in this fandom. Take from that whatever warnings you will. Especially when I add that I've only actually watched a few eps [though I've read most of the transcripts].
Thanks to atleastintheory for the quick proof-read.
Handyman
Despite the festive atmosphere at the bullpen, the trip back home was made in silence. Jim didn’t press, even if Blair’s unnatural stillness was weighing heavily on him. He settled instead for monitoring Blair’s vitals, reassuring himself with the steady beat of his partner’s heart. It became a little less reassuring when it sped up, then slowed, then increased again. Jim glanced at Blair at a red light, but nothing of what he was thinking was showing on his face.
“Beer?” Jim offered once they were home. It was the first word either of them had spoken since leaving the PD. Blair made a sound of acquiescence and headed straight for the sofa, throwing himself in it and making himself comfortable.
Jim got out two bottles, popped the tops and carried them back to the sofa, offering Blair one and taking a long draught from the other. He watched as Blair simply played with his bottle, finally reaching out to take it away from him. He set both bottles down on a couple of coasters and reached out to drape an arm on the sofa behind Blair.
“What’s on your mind, Chief?” he asked quietly.
“I can’t do it, Jim,” Blair told him, the barest hint of despair in his voice. “The Academy will never go for it. Or the mayor, or the department, or the city in general. I’m a fraud.”
“Don’t,” Jim interrupted, voice taut. “Ever call yourself that.”
Blair looked at him in surprise and Jim felt another wrenching pull in his gut. He’d really destroyed their friendship if Blair thought that Jim would let him get away with that.
“You’re not,” Jim insisted. “So don’t say that, okay? Not you.”
“Okay,” Blair said after a long moment. He hesitantly shifted closer to Jim, tucking himself into as compact a shape as he could manage - and given his flexibility, it was pretty compact. Jim dropped his arm and let it rest casually on Blair’s shoulders instead of the sofa. There was a time, he remembered, when he wouldn’t have thought twice about casual contact with Blair, but now he held his breath, hoping that his touch wouldn’t be rejected. He felt infinitely better when Blair lightly curled up against his side with a minute sigh.
“Forget the other stuff for a minute,” Jim said, reaching up to tangle a finger in a lock of Blair’s hair. “Would you want to be a detective if you could?”
“Wanna be your partner,” Blair replied immediately.
“Want to be a detective?” Jim asked him gently but seriously. “Take me out of the equation. Would you be happy working for the PD? Carrying a gun? Could you do it?”
Blair fell silent again, his face pensive. “I think I could,” he said eventually. “I do love the job. And knowing me I’d clock the other guy with my gun, but…”
“Could you fire?” Jim asked intently.
“I don’t know,” Blair whispered, and Jim relaxed.
“You’ll be fine,” he said confidently, and grinned down at Blair’s perplexed face. “Relax, Chief.” He reached out and snagged his beer, using the movement to casually pull Blair flush up against him. Hesitantly, Blair stretched a little, then wound his fingers into the hem of Jim’s shirt. He relaxed only when Jim made no move to dislodge him.
“I have an idea about dealing with your acceptance into the Academy,” Jim told him. “And about dealing with this whole mess in general. But before I run it by you, I want to make sure it’s completely feasible. Are you okay with waiting till then?”
“Couldn’t get any worse,” Blair said philosophically. “If you don’t mind though, I’m just going to hide at home for a bit. Could you grab my stuff from my office? It’s already all packed up in boxes - I mean, I knew they’d kick me out so…” his voice faded and he closed his eyes.
“Okay,” Jim agreed easily. “I’ll be out most of tomorrow, I think, but I should be back for dinner. I’ll swing by and pick up your things on the way. Everything that’s boxed up?”
“Yeah,” Blair murmured. When he didn’t continue, Jim glanced down and realised that he’d fallen asleep.
Jim waited till his senses told him that Blair was deeply asleep, then shifted his partner into a more comfortable position. One arm still wrapped around Blair, he switched on the television and immediately turned the sound down below anything Blair could hear, kicking up his hearing a notch. Repeat of last night’s Jags game. It’d do. He settled back comfortably, Blair’s head warm on his thigh, and started to plot.
~*~
It had taken some time but William Ellison now had to admit, if only to himself, that he actually was rather fond of Blair Sandburg. Certainly he hadn’t liked the little hippie tagalong at first, and the dislike had only firmed itself when he realised that he’d been encouraging his first-born in his - abnormalities.
Why, he wondered, had it taken him so long to get past his pride and realise how badly he’d been hurting his son with what he’d done? Oh he knew, in an abstract sort of way, but he’d never let himself feel the weight of what Jimmy had had to deal with. And that had driven a wedge between them so huge, so insurmountable, that he hadn’t even gone to see Jimmy after he’d returned from Peru. He hadn’t known how; had been sure that he’d have been turned away, hadn’t wanted to deal with the rejection. He really knew nothing of his son after Jimmy’s college years. If he’d known anything before. He doubted it.
And he had Blair Sandburg to thank for his reconciliation with Jimmy. For Jimmy’s reconciliation with the whole family, really, because Stephen was coming round more often these days and his boys seemed more comfortable with each other than they’d ever been before and none of this would have happened, Stephen had told him, if it hadn’t been for Sandburg.
Sandburg was of the opinion that if none of them had wanted it to happen, it wouldn’t have. He effortlessly disclaimed his part in the Ellison family reunion, though none of the Ellisons bought it. Sally in particular had a soft spot for the anthropologist.
Later, when they were less wary of each other, Jimmy confided to them what Sandburg had told him. That the Ellisons were a very interesting breed of creature. Wanting to fix things but too stubborn to do so. Too stubborn to see how alike they were, and utterly infuriating to mild-mannered anthropologists who only wanted to help.
Mild-mannered, Jimmy snorted. He’s a firebrand. Shoves me around when he thinks I’m being an idiot.
Do you deserve it? Stephen asked.
If Sandburg thinks so? Jimmy replied. Absolutely.
They eventually settled on monthly catch-up sessions which grew steadily less awkward with time. Sandburg never appeared at these, of course, but William knew that Jimmy’s first few appearances there had been courtesy of the “mild-mannered anthropologist.” Sandburg taught them all, obliquely, to admit when they’d screwed up and ask forgiveness. Sandburg had been the epitome of honesty and candidness.
Which was why he’d been furious at Sandburg at first, believed that Sandburg had sold Jimmy out, despite everything. He hadn’t wanted to believe that honest, kind Sandburg, who’d gotten them back together as a family, could have done something like that. The evidence seemed incontrovertible, though. Jimmy hadn’t shown up that week and William had grown even more incensed.
What’s going on? he asked the answering machine. Jimmy, what happened?
There was no reply. A few days later, he saw the press conference on television. A little after that came the news that Zöeller was dead.
Hi dad, Jimmy voice played on his answering machine tape. Guess you saw the news. You know what Blair did. Any ideas on how to salvage the situation?
He did know what Sandburg had done. Sandburg had given the Ellisons back their family and lives, and then destroyed his own life for Jimmy. For his son. The least he could do was help “salvage the situation.” And he’d start with a quick phone call to his lawyer.
~*~
“Stephen,” Jim greeted as he hobbled into the house on his cane. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“You kidding? I’m in on this too,” Stephen said defiantly. Jim held up a pacifying hand.
“Fine by me. The more friendly faces the better. Thought about what I suggested?”
“I have,” William said with a brisk nod, motioning his sons forward to the table. There were a few neat stacks of paper on it, and they settled down to read through them. Jim didn’t even wince at all the legalese. This was for Blair and so he’d deal.
The rest of the afternoon vanished as they debated their course of action -
“… well, the publishing house certainly, they backed Graham…”
“University didn’t help, and Edwards…”
“… how much…”
“… for heightened sight, maybe?”
“That case with Juno for instance…”
The smell of dinner was what eventually broke up the family meeting. By that time they’d hashed out a rough plan of action. Jim would have to do some things that would make him uncomfortable, but since Blair had destroyed his academic career for him - well, it was the least he could do.
It would take a little longer to make sure everything was foolproof, and tomorrow Jim would bring Simon into the plan. Perhaps Megan. The Australian was a firecracker, she was one of the few in the know about Jim’s Sentinel abilities, and she liked Blair. She could only be an asset.
Jim went to the university, picked up Blair’s things, exchanged icy glares with a few gawkers and headed home. Blair, though still unnaturally subdued, had put together stir-fry for their dinner and they ate in comfortable silence. Their old rapport was coming back, Jim thought. It was a pity it had taken so much to force them to admit their mistakes and fix things.
“Better get a start on those, Chief,” Jim said, nodding towards the boxes in the living room as he picked up their plates. “Want any help?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Blair assured him, and didn’t even wince as he sat down to start. Jim stood there with the plates in his hands, watching Blair for a few moments.
“Hey, Blair? If I ever doubt you about anything ever again, you have my permission to slap me,” Jim said quietly, then moved towards the kitchen area without waiting for a response.
Blair kept unpacking, a small smile on his face.
Jim washed and dried the plates meticulously, put them away, then decided the kitchen could use a bit of a cleanup in general. He was just wiping down the counters when he heard Blair’s heartbeat grow erratic. The bottle he was holding slipped from his fingers and he spared a second to scowl at it.
“Chief?” he asked, dropping the cloth he still held and heading at a not-quite-run for the other man. Blair was staring quietly at a sheet of paper he held in lightly trembling hands.
“What is it?” Jim asked, crouching down beside Blair. The paper was handed over in mute silence and Blair started looking through the contents of the small box in front of him. Jim placed a hand on Blair’s knee as much to reassure himself as to calm Blair, and started reading.
Dear Professor Sandburg, it read. Jim hoped the salutation was a positive sign.
Every class you’ve ever had knows how much importance you placed on academic honesty. One thing that never changed from class to class was the fact that the first lesson always explained that plagiarism and unacknowledged collusion would not be tolerated. You had no room in your classes for those who cheated in their work, and always ensured that you were available for those who needed help. You were never afraid to tell off anyone for cheating, no matter their family, prestige, or what the university wanted you to do.
For that reason, we believe that there has to be something else behind your recent press conference. We don’t know what would have driven you to do such a thing, but we’re positive that there’s a lot that’s been left unsaid. Whatever your reasons, we’d like you to know that you have our support.
You’re one of our favourite professors. Very few people ever came away from your classes disinterested. You had a way of making everything seem fascinating, and a way of engaging all of us despite our torpor (face it, eight in the morning is when most of us still want to be asleep). For sheer infectious enthusiasm, none of the other professors really come close. We’ll miss you.
If there’s anything we can do for you, just let us know. We’re behind you all the way.
We hope you like the presents!
Sincerely,
And then followed a list of names that started with Elsie Joseph and continued in three columns for the next four pages, ending with Ashley Sanders. Everyone - or almost everyone - in the classes Blair had been teaching the past semester, Jim guessed, and squeezed Blair’s knee in relief.
“Elsie was one of my best students,” Blair told him with a smile. “She’s going to make a brilliant field anthropologist one day.”
“She’s got the brains to know when something’s off, anyway,” Jim allowed, giving the paper back to Blair and ruffling his hair as he stood. “Wait, is that your office window?” he barked out in laughter as he caught sight of the contents of the box.
“How they managed it, I don’t want to know,” Blair offered, grinning.
“I was wondering where it’d gone,” Jim confessed, a smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth. “We can hang it in your room. Or here, if you want.”
“In the living room?” Blair asked quizzically. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Nah,” Jim said, and added whimsically, “he’s got to be able to see me to Guide me, right?”
Blair snorted and waved him off, but Jim caught a happy smile on his lips as he turned back to his unpacking.
~*~
Simon and Megan took time off the next day, meeting the Ellisons at William’s house. Between the five of them (and Sally’s occasional input), they hammered out the last of the potential problems with their plan. It took surprisingly little time, and William was able to catch his lawyer at his office.
Two hours later, the lawyer arrived and was promptly given the story that they’d concocted between them. He was impressed, shocked and flabbergasted by turns, but after quizzing them on a few points, agreed that they had a pretty good case. When he finally left, the co-conspirators gave each other smug looks. If William’s lawyer - one of the shrewdest guys around - had bought the story, it was solid.
“Stay for dinner,” Sally invited, and Megan and Simon accepted with alacrity. Jim called Blair up and told him to come on over. With the plan finalised, it was time to bring Blair into it.
“Wait,” Blair said blankly once they’d explained their general plan. “You want to sue them?”
“Absolutely,” William insisted. “We’ll say that Jim isn’t a Sentinel and the paper wasn’t true, but the fact remains that they had no right to leak your work, especially since you specifically forbade them to.”
“I still said I was…” Blair looked guiltily at Jim and amended his words. “I did say it was fake. People will start wondering about Jim if I retract that now.”
“Nope,” Jim told him. “We’ll tell them a little half-truth.”
“Here’s the story,” Megan started, and laid it out for Blair.
Blair had been fascinated by the idea of tribal Sentinels for as long as he could remember. (That’s actually true, Blair interrupted. Since I heard the story from an elder when I was a kid. What happened to Burton? Jim asked. That’s when the obsession started, Blair explained with a grin.) He’d started at Rainier University at the age of sixteen and worked his way towards his doctorate, studying amongst other things his pet field of heightened senses. There were plenty of people in the world with one or two heightened senses, but Blair’s dream had been to find a full Sentinel, as described by Richard Burton. (Also true, Blair said. Where’s the half-truth? Megan smacked him and told him to be quiet. Jim patted Blair’s hand in consolation.)
He had heard of Jim through the grapevine - heard of how Jim had been seeking help at the hospital. What the doctors thought of as stress-induced hallucinations, Blair’s Sentinel-focused mind had interpreted as heightened sensitivities. Excited at the prospect of finally finding his Holy Grail (Jim snorted. Blair blushed.), Blair had gone to talk to Jim about his senses.
Unfortunately for Blair, they’d discovered that the bulk of Jim’s symptoms - the crawling sensation of his skin, the dizzy spells, the nausea and inability to keep down food - had been due to stress-aggravated allergic symptoms. Jim’s medical record would show that he was allergic to a number of common medicines. As he’d tried taking medicines for his initial, mild problems, they’d simply escalated to unbearable levels. Though disappointed that Jim hadn’t been what he’d been looking for, Blair nonetheless recognised how much Jim was suffering and suggested a few alternative therapies. To Jim’s surprise, these worked well and he soon had his symptoms under control.
Thankful for Blair’s help and curious about his field of study, Jim had talked to Blair about Sentinels. Always eager to explain his favourite topic to anyone, Blair had explained what a person with heightened senses felt. The description reminded Jim of something, which he described to Blair.
His eyesight had always been unusually good, Jim told Blair. He had excellent night vision and could see further than most people could. His eyesight had been a great asset in the military, where his proficiency at long-range recon had been exceeded only by a few. Curious now, Blair performed a few tests with Jim, concluding that he did indeed have a heightened sense of sight.
This, Blair explained, was not uncommon. For instance, he had at least twenty other cases of heightened sight that he could think of off-hand. (Um, more than that, Blair corrected.) Jim’s sight put him amongst the most sensitive people on Blair’s scale. It was unusual, yes, but was certainly within Blair’s parameters. (Not true, Blair said. Jim was way off every chart I constructed.) Other tests revealed that sight was the only sense of Jim’s that was heightened.
Jim didn’t want this known at first, uncomfortable with the idea that his sight was something abnormal. Blair assured him that his name would be kept confidential and asked if he could use the information from the tests they’d done in his dissertation. Jim eventually agreed.
Blair, in the meantime, had grown more disillusioned about finding a Sentinel. (Hah! Blair exclaimed. Megan smacked him again.) Under pressure to find a Sentinel or change his dissertation topic, Blair began toying with the idea of giving up his life-long dream. An off-hand comment of Jim’s sparked an idea and Blair applied for a ride-along at the Cascade Police Department. The records would show that the paper Blair had said he would be writing was one on closed societies. Blair thought that there was at least a publishable article there, if not an alternative dissertation topic. The latter proved to be true and Blair worked hard on his second topic, wanting as much done as possible before he asked his dissertation committee if he could change his topic. In the meantime, Blair’s old thesis sat on his computer. He could still look for a Sentinel on his own time, he thought, even if his dissertation was on another topic. And if he found one, he could still publish a paper about it. (You know, Blair commented. I never even thought that. I just wanted so badly to do my diss on a Sentinel.)
Eventually, Blair started wondering what this Sentinel he was looking for would be like. He theorised to Jim that if being a Sentinel meant a genetic predisposition to helping the tribe, then a modern-day Sentinel would probably be drawn to jobs like Jim’s. Police officers or fire-fighters, for instance. Some way they could protect their tribe. Jim liked the idea and speculated that a few of the men he’d known in the army might have had heightened senses too. Some were just too good with a rifle.
Blair still hadn’t found a Sentinel, so in between working on his closed-societies dissertation, he started writing another document. This took the information that he’d collated over the years about heightened senses. Blair wrote, for his own pleasure, his dream thesis on his dream Sentinel. With Jim’s permission, he used Jim himself as a model for the Sentinel. Since the paper was never intended to be seen by anyone other than himself, he didn’t bother with the usual confidentiality procedures. (Actually, I was just an idiot and thought I could take out all the references to Jim later, Blair said with a snort.)
Blair had all but finished his actual dissertation on closed-societies and was trying to summon up the courage to tell his dissertation committee that after years of dragging his feet (Rub it in, why don’t you! Blair exclaimed.), he’d decided to change his topic. At this point in time, Blair made a break-through. He found a Sentinel. (I what! Blair exclaimed.)
Her name was Alex Barnes, she told Blair. She was an artist, and her senses had kicked in when she got lost camping recently. Blair had no reason to suspect otherwise. An artist certainly didn’t fit his idealised vision of what a Sentinel was, but then he’d made most of that up anyway, hadn’t he? Here was his opportunity to find out what a real Sentinel was like.
(She wasn’t! Blair insisted. She might have had heightened senses but she was no Sentinel! Jim placed a soothing hand on Blair’s knee. Okay, he said. Okay.)
Here was Blair’s opportunity to find out if Alex Barnes was a real Sentinel. If she was, then he wouldn’t need to change his topic after all. He was thrilled at the prospect, working with her for long hours to test the parameters of her senses. While he had come across people with equally strong senses, none of them until Alex had had all five senses heightened. (What am I, Jim said wryly, chopped liver? Your senses were actually stronger than hers, you know, Blair told him comfortingly.)
Blair continued to work with Alex until, through Jim, he made the unpleasant discovery that she wasn’t what she’d claimed to be. She was no simple artist, and she certainly hadn’t gotten her senses in the woods. Solitary confinement in prison wasn’t exactly how Blair had envisioned any Sentinel receiving their abilities. Alex had dropped out of contact by then and Blair couldn’t help Jim find her.
Alex’s murder attempt hadn’t been something any of them had expected. She’d wanted to silence the only person - to her knowledge - who knew that she had heightened senses, wanting to preserve an advantage when it came to carrying out her criminal activities. Fortunately, Jim had gotten to Blair in time, and eventually managed to resuscitate him. (Hm, Blair said, lost in thought until Jim recalled him with a friendly nudge and a soft look in his eyes to match Blair’s. Simon and Megan exchanged significant looks.)
The incident had killed any desire in Blair to continue working on a dissertation involving her - and he’d decided that while she might have heightened senses, she certainly wasn’t what a Sentinel was supposed to be. (Exactly! Blair exclaimed.) According to Burton, a Sentinel was predisposed to protect his tribe, not hurt it. That perhaps explained why Blair had records of a few people with individually stronger senses than her. She wasn’t a Sentinel after all.
Blair had still been recovering from his brush with death (Brush? Blair asked sardonically. William and Stephen exchanged confused looks. Megan and Simon looked grim. Jim draped an arm around Blair’s shoulders in a loose hug.) when the Ventriss fiasco occurred. The university paid no attention to Blair’s poor health and chose to try and pacify the child of an important family rather than do what was morally right. Anyone who cared to look could see what the leaders of the university considered crucial. Anyone who cared to look should have realised that Blair’s own strong morals could never let him publish a falsified dissertation.
In fact, Blair had been about ready to confront his dissertation committee about changing his topic. It was then that his mother dropped by for a visit. He mentioned to her that the paper was all but done, with only some editing left to do. Thinking that her son’s paper was probably fine as it was and that Blair was merely suffering from nerves, Naomi sent in a copy of his dissertation to an old friend, asking him to look it over for him. Sid Graham, who worked for a publishing house, was more than happy to do so.
Unfortunately, she sent in the wrong paper.
Naomi had always known of Blair’s fascination with the Sentinel myth. She thought that his fictional paper - starring Jim as a Sentinel - was his actual dissertation. The first Blair knew of this was when he received a call from Sid offering him money for the publishing rights. (An obscene amount of money, Blair insisted.) Blair turned him down flat, horrified to realise that his mother had sent in the wrong paper. He told Sid that the document he had was not for publishing. Thinking the matter settled, he was rudely surprised to find the press clamouring at Jim’s doorstep, demanding to know if he was truly a Sentinel. Sid had deliberately leaked the manuscript, trying to force Blair into accepting his offer.
Jim had been upset at first, but realised after an explanation that what had happened wasn’t Blair’s fault. (I should have been so understanding, Jim snorted. Don’t worry, Blair told him, you gave me permission to slap you in the future, remember? Simon hid a grin.) Unfortunately, he was working on a very important case at the time, and that took precedence over what Blair and Jim thought would blow over quickly.
Except that it didn’t blow over, and press interference directly led to the escape of Zöeller. That incident made Blair realise that he’d have to do something to take the heat off Jim, so that the PD could concentrate on catching the assassin. (If they weren’t too busy making fun of Superman there, Megan added. Jim glared at her.)
And so Blair gave a press conference. The only time he lied was at that press conference, when he ruined his academic career by stating that he had falsified the dissertation. No one had believed Jim and Blair when they denied the contents of the paper. Blair determined that the only way for Jim to do his job was to give the press an even bigger scandal to play with. He did so by ruining his life. (It was just a book, Blair protested. Shut up, everyone else chorused in unison.)
It worked. The press left Jim alone, and Zöeller was dealt with. The assassin died in his attempt to escape, the case was closed, and everything was back to normal in Cascade.
Except for Blair’s reputation. Now that he didn’t have a cold-hearted professional murderer to deal with, Jim decided to turn his attention to fixing Blair’s life. Talking to Blair revealed that Blair had had enough of the back-stabbing and politics of university life. (You got that right, Blair snorted.) He’d signed up to teach and to impart his love of anthropology to another generation, not play favourites and pander to the senior professors’ whims. (Exactly! Blair exclaimed fervently.) He therefore had no objections whatsoever to Jim’s suggestion that they sue Sid Graham, his publishing house and Rainier University. Jim insisted on making things as public as possible so that everyone would know exactly how much Blair - who wasn’t even a police officer - had sacrificed in helping the PD catch an infamous killer.
Megan finished her spiel and sat back, everyone waiting with bated breath for Blair’s response.
“Wow,” he finally said, eyes wide and innocent. Jim twitched. He knew that look.
“Have you people considered publishing?” Blair asked, and then clambered over Jim hurriedly in an attempt to avoid another whack from Megan.
~*~
“Okay?” Jim asked as Megan tried to convince Stephen to dance with her on the lawn. Jim hoped he’d accept; his little brother had two left feet.
“Okay,” Blair said with a wicked grin in Megan’s direction. Jim glanced at him suspiciously.
“Feet of clay?” he asked.
“Of iron! On her feet!” Blair laughed quietly. Jim grinned at the realisation that they’d been thinking exactly the same thing.
“You seemed okay with Naomi,” Jim said casually, arm creeping back around Blair’s shoulders. Below them, William and Simon were hotly debating the Jags’ chances in the coming season. Blair willingly moved with Jim, leaning heavily against his side and sipping at his juice as they both looked out over the second-floor balcony.
“She’s my mom,” he said in reply. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”
At that, Jim stiffened slightly. “So you’re… not okay?” he asked cautiously.
Blair twisted slightly in Jim’s hold to grin wryly at him. “She’s my mom,” he reiterated. “I know she’s never really had to take responsibility for anything in her life. This was probably her biggest screw-up yet though. I haven’t forgiven her yet, but I know she didn’t have any bad intentions.”
“So why haven’t you forgiven her?” Jim asked curiously.
“She’s gone, you know?” Blair huffed into his drink. “She’s in Oregon by now. She said she was sorry and all, of course, but I could see how relieved she was when you gave me the badge. Like - oh thank goodness, someone else has fixed things for me, now I can run away again.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about her,” Jim said wryly, and Blair’s eyes crinkled at him over the edge of his glass.
“Sid Graham’s your mom’s friend,” Jim pointed out after a moment.
“He’s also a sleaze,” Blair pronounced with finality. “Naomi’s like a kid, really. She just needs to grow up. Sid Graham needs to grow some morals.” He glanced at Jim out of the corner of his eye. “Relax; I’m fine with the plan.”
Jim smiled a little sheepishly at being caught out. “If you’re sure,” he said, and settled against the railing, comforted by Blair’s weight, solid and alive against him. Alive. That was very important.
“Tell me what you see,” Blair murmured, and Jim suddenly remembered a time, months or years back, when they’d sat out on the balcony together and Jim had stretched out his senses one by one and described everything he experienced to Blair. It had started as a test and evolved into their personal ritual, one that always left Jim feeling at peace and Blair quietly proud of his Sentinel.
“Megan dancing with Stephen,” Jim started with a faint smile, beginning as usual with the objects nearest and slowly moving further out. “And she should be glad that he’s not wearing steel-toed shoes. The grass on the lawn is a very peculiar shade of orange in places when the sun hits it just right. The gates are a lovely burnished bronze in the light. There’s a bird on it - it’s just taken off now, a little sparrow, and it’s winging its way into the sky. The feathers on its wings have dark brown markings on them… if I look hard enough, they leave little afterimages of brown lines in the air as it flaps. Its tail is twisting; it’s heading back down, towards the park. There are children there in the playground. Three families, it looks like, with four adults off to the side chatting and watching the children. Two of them seem like they’re together… a young couple, they can’t be more than thirty. She’s got the palest blonde hair I’ve ever seen.”
Jim’s voice drifted on the wind to the others down below, who listened in rapt attention to the snatches of words they could hear.
“I didn’t know his senses were that acute,” Stephen said in surprise. “That park’s a couple hundred yards away.”
“And he can see well enough to describe what the people there look like,” William mused quietly.
“Actually,” Simon interjected, head cocked as he listened. “He’s moving even further out now.”
“Actually,” Jim called down in amusement, “On a good day, I can see clear out to the pier from home.”
“The problem with a Sentinel,” Megan sighed, “is that you can never keep a secret from him.”
Jim relayed what Megan had said to Blair, who grinned and called back down. “You can, but it’s horribly hard!”
“You wouldn’t keep secrets from me though, would you?” Jim asked with his best sad-eyed look.
“Only if you ask me if your butt looks fat in that dress,” Blair retorted, and then had to run as an indignant Jim attempted to headlock him.
~*~
The public court case, the revelations and the amount of money that Blair subsequently won were huge enough to swamp the papers again. Best of all, Blair thought, was that both Sid Graham and Chancellor Edwards had been summarily sacked. Also, that the reporters present had shifted very guiltily when they’d seen the security footage that revealed how close Jim had been to Zöeller before they got in the way. Jim sat through the tests on his sight patiently, then “reluctantly” admitted that he really had seen Juno that one time oh-so-long-ago - he just hadn’t realised it had been out of most people’s abilities and at the time hadn’t been willing to acknowledge his heightened sight. The parameters of his sight (they were sticking to about half his real capability) were carefully documented for future reference. It would make things a little easier, Jim thought in relief.
Blair had been invited to rejoin Rainier University and submit his dissertation. Blair had resisted the urge to tell them where to stick their offer, turned them down, and joined the Police Academy.
He breezed through most of the courses, having learnt most procedural work in his time with Jim. The physical stuff was a little more difficult, but Blair had always been fit, and his body was flexible and young enough to adapt easily to the suddenly rigorous workout it was going through. Hardest was the firearms training; the knowledge that the little piece of metal he was working with could one day be used to end someone’s life sat heavily in him.
“There are officers who never need to draw their gun,” Jim told him. “But they’re very rarely ever from MC.”
And that was that. Blair knew the kinds of things that Jim got up to. He’d almost certainly have to draw his gun, probably more than once. He might have to (he shuddered) shoot someone.
If he could get past the problem of actually getting the gun out of his holster, anyway.
“Face it,” Jim chortled, “you have no clue how a shoulder holster works.”
Blair threw his holster at Jim.
He got the hang of it eventually and made everyone proud when he turned out to be extremely accurate with his gun. He still had to wonder if he’d be able to use it on a real person, though.
“You’ll be fine,” Jim assured him. “You’ll see.”
He passed at the top of his class to no one’s surprise but his own. “You used to write papers for a living,” Jim told him. “The people teaching report-writing probably cried tears of joy when they read your work. Dear God, they prayed, thank you for sending me someone who knows how to use punctuation. I once again believe in you. And you already knew everything there was to know even before you took procedure classes.”
“Mostly, it involves doing the reverse of whatever you generally do,” Blair agreed. The next few minutes were spent in an impromptu wrestling match.
Blair had to spend a token month on the streets as a beat cop before finally joining Jim at Major Crimes. There was a fair bit of resentment on the part of the newer detectives, who didn’t see why someone so fresh should get the much-coveted spot. They were quickly set straight by just about every detective Blair had ever worked with. His new colleagues’ obvious support went a long way in restoring Blair’s confidence, which even after the settlement hadn’t been completely restored.
“It really was partly my fault,” Blair explained when Jim asked about it. “I was the arrogant schmuck who left your name and details in. We’re just lucky I’d taken out the more personal references already by that time. But if I’d been thinking I’d never have used your name at all, right from the beginning.”
“Doesn’t matter any more,” Jim insisted. “We were all immature brats about the whole thing. Me more than you. But things are okay now, right?”
“Right,” Blair said with a slow smile. “Chinese?”
“Korean,” Jim decided. “Want to go out instead of ordering in?”
“Lead the way,” Blair said cheerfully, detouring briefly to his room to change.
Blair paid for their meals, which they took to the park to eat. They determinedly did not speak about anything of importance. Blair instead chose to entertain himself by testing out Jim’s night vision. Jim humoured him. It came as a surprise to both of them when they found that Jim’s night vision was sharper than it used to be.
“Don’t say the T-word,” Jim groaned after one look at Blair’s face. Blair patted him on the arm in consolation.
The battery of tests that Blair ran on Jim showed that all his senses had sharpened a little. Maybe, Blair theorised, regular use in the right way improved them. Like exercising your muscles. Or like those eye exercises you can do that apparently reduce the strain for people wearing glasses.
“What do you think would happen if I did those?” Jim asked idly.
“The moment you develop laser vision, I’m ordering you a spandex suit,” Blair warned.
Days passed, then weeks, then months. Jim had been forever destroyed for undercover work, but he didn’t seem to care. Slowly, Blair began to notice a new, odd phenomenon. Jim still stuck to “Chief,” but more and more he was also using “Blair” at home. Only at home though, and generally only when he was feeling particularly mellow and affectionate. Blair hoarded each moment happily.
They were back in sync with each other and they’d never felt better. The Major Crimes crew eventually got used to them, but visitors from other departments were always thrown for a loop when they saw how Jim and Blair interacted. Sometimes they finished each other’s sentences. Sometimes they responded to a look as if it had been a full explanatory paragraph (maybe it had been). Sometimes they pre-empted what the other would do, say or need. Blair would be typing away at a report and would reach out and pick up a pen, offering it to Jim without looking. Jim, standing behind Blair, would reach out and grab the pen, still reading the form he was holding. It took some getting used to.
But things settled. Jim and Blair relearned their friendship. The PD got used to them. The curious looks from strangers on the streets lessened. Life was good.
Blair came home one day to a meal from his favourite Mediterranean restaurant spread out on the table. The lights were turned down and his favourite scented candles graced the table.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, slipping his jacket off. Jim came trotting down the stairs a moment later, clearing his throat pompously.
“On this day five years ago,” he began, “a certain anthropologist by the name of Blair Sandburg stole a doctor’s coat and brazened his way into a patient’s room.”
Blair had started grinning at the first words and was laughing by the end of the sentence. Jim smirked at him.
“I thought we’d celebrate the occasion,” he said, gesturing grandly. “I hope I remembered right - I got some of that stuffed grape things you like.”
“Ooh!” Blair’s eyes lit up and he dove for the food. Jim sighed, a smile tugging at his lips, and followed.
After they ate, Jim turned the lights back up a little in deference to Blair. Then he produced popcorn and they watched the game. The Jags were trounced. Jim despaired.
“Thanks, Jim,” Blair quietly said later as he cleared away the remains of their popcorn. Across from him, Jim was making sure the balcony doors were secure. “I wasn’t really expecting this.”
He wasn’t really expecting the arms that came around him either, and very nearly put his self-defence classes to work. The short, amused huff of air in his ear told him that Jim hadn’t missed his sudden tenseness and subsequent relaxing.
“I don’t show you enough how much I appreciate you, Blair,” Jim told him softly. “And that led to way too many problems in the past.” His arms tightened. “That day, when I saw the press conference, I told myself that I’d let you know how much I care about you.” His head dropped to Blair’s shoulder.
“You’re my best friend,” he continued. “You’re family. I need you to know that. And that I do love you. More than anyone else. Stephen or dad, even.”
Blair stood stock-still for a moment, then wriggled around in Jim’s arms so that he could properly hug his Sentinel.
“Back at you,” he muttered into the vicinity of Jim’s chest, more content than he’d ever been in his life.
~fin
Concrit much appreciated! [And does anyone know where I can crosspost this to get a few more readers who're actually in The Sentinel fandom?]
Pairing: Gen at the moment. Series will eventually be Jim/Blair.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: First time playing in this fandom. Take from that whatever warnings you will. Especially when I add that I've only actually watched a few eps [though I've read most of the transcripts].
Thanks to atleastintheory for the quick proof-read.
Handyman
Despite the festive atmosphere at the bullpen, the trip back home was made in silence. Jim didn’t press, even if Blair’s unnatural stillness was weighing heavily on him. He settled instead for monitoring Blair’s vitals, reassuring himself with the steady beat of his partner’s heart. It became a little less reassuring when it sped up, then slowed, then increased again. Jim glanced at Blair at a red light, but nothing of what he was thinking was showing on his face.
“Beer?” Jim offered once they were home. It was the first word either of them had spoken since leaving the PD. Blair made a sound of acquiescence and headed straight for the sofa, throwing himself in it and making himself comfortable.
Jim got out two bottles, popped the tops and carried them back to the sofa, offering Blair one and taking a long draught from the other. He watched as Blair simply played with his bottle, finally reaching out to take it away from him. He set both bottles down on a couple of coasters and reached out to drape an arm on the sofa behind Blair.
“What’s on your mind, Chief?” he asked quietly.
“I can’t do it, Jim,” Blair told him, the barest hint of despair in his voice. “The Academy will never go for it. Or the mayor, or the department, or the city in general. I’m a fraud.”
“Don’t,” Jim interrupted, voice taut. “Ever call yourself that.”
Blair looked at him in surprise and Jim felt another wrenching pull in his gut. He’d really destroyed their friendship if Blair thought that Jim would let him get away with that.
“You’re not,” Jim insisted. “So don’t say that, okay? Not you.”
“Okay,” Blair said after a long moment. He hesitantly shifted closer to Jim, tucking himself into as compact a shape as he could manage - and given his flexibility, it was pretty compact. Jim dropped his arm and let it rest casually on Blair’s shoulders instead of the sofa. There was a time, he remembered, when he wouldn’t have thought twice about casual contact with Blair, but now he held his breath, hoping that his touch wouldn’t be rejected. He felt infinitely better when Blair lightly curled up against his side with a minute sigh.
“Forget the other stuff for a minute,” Jim said, reaching up to tangle a finger in a lock of Blair’s hair. “Would you want to be a detective if you could?”
“Wanna be your partner,” Blair replied immediately.
“Want to be a detective?” Jim asked him gently but seriously. “Take me out of the equation. Would you be happy working for the PD? Carrying a gun? Could you do it?”
Blair fell silent again, his face pensive. “I think I could,” he said eventually. “I do love the job. And knowing me I’d clock the other guy with my gun, but…”
“Could you fire?” Jim asked intently.
“I don’t know,” Blair whispered, and Jim relaxed.
“You’ll be fine,” he said confidently, and grinned down at Blair’s perplexed face. “Relax, Chief.” He reached out and snagged his beer, using the movement to casually pull Blair flush up against him. Hesitantly, Blair stretched a little, then wound his fingers into the hem of Jim’s shirt. He relaxed only when Jim made no move to dislodge him.
“I have an idea about dealing with your acceptance into the Academy,” Jim told him. “And about dealing with this whole mess in general. But before I run it by you, I want to make sure it’s completely feasible. Are you okay with waiting till then?”
“Couldn’t get any worse,” Blair said philosophically. “If you don’t mind though, I’m just going to hide at home for a bit. Could you grab my stuff from my office? It’s already all packed up in boxes - I mean, I knew they’d kick me out so…” his voice faded and he closed his eyes.
“Okay,” Jim agreed easily. “I’ll be out most of tomorrow, I think, but I should be back for dinner. I’ll swing by and pick up your things on the way. Everything that’s boxed up?”
“Yeah,” Blair murmured. When he didn’t continue, Jim glanced down and realised that he’d fallen asleep.
Jim waited till his senses told him that Blair was deeply asleep, then shifted his partner into a more comfortable position. One arm still wrapped around Blair, he switched on the television and immediately turned the sound down below anything Blair could hear, kicking up his hearing a notch. Repeat of last night’s Jags game. It’d do. He settled back comfortably, Blair’s head warm on his thigh, and started to plot.
~*~
It had taken some time but William Ellison now had to admit, if only to himself, that he actually was rather fond of Blair Sandburg. Certainly he hadn’t liked the little hippie tagalong at first, and the dislike had only firmed itself when he realised that he’d been encouraging his first-born in his - abnormalities.
Why, he wondered, had it taken him so long to get past his pride and realise how badly he’d been hurting his son with what he’d done? Oh he knew, in an abstract sort of way, but he’d never let himself feel the weight of what Jimmy had had to deal with. And that had driven a wedge between them so huge, so insurmountable, that he hadn’t even gone to see Jimmy after he’d returned from Peru. He hadn’t known how; had been sure that he’d have been turned away, hadn’t wanted to deal with the rejection. He really knew nothing of his son after Jimmy’s college years. If he’d known anything before. He doubted it.
And he had Blair Sandburg to thank for his reconciliation with Jimmy. For Jimmy’s reconciliation with the whole family, really, because Stephen was coming round more often these days and his boys seemed more comfortable with each other than they’d ever been before and none of this would have happened, Stephen had told him, if it hadn’t been for Sandburg.
Sandburg was of the opinion that if none of them had wanted it to happen, it wouldn’t have. He effortlessly disclaimed his part in the Ellison family reunion, though none of the Ellisons bought it. Sally in particular had a soft spot for the anthropologist.
Later, when they were less wary of each other, Jimmy confided to them what Sandburg had told him. That the Ellisons were a very interesting breed of creature. Wanting to fix things but too stubborn to do so. Too stubborn to see how alike they were, and utterly infuriating to mild-mannered anthropologists who only wanted to help.
Mild-mannered, Jimmy snorted. He’s a firebrand. Shoves me around when he thinks I’m being an idiot.
Do you deserve it? Stephen asked.
If Sandburg thinks so? Jimmy replied. Absolutely.
They eventually settled on monthly catch-up sessions which grew steadily less awkward with time. Sandburg never appeared at these, of course, but William knew that Jimmy’s first few appearances there had been courtesy of the “mild-mannered anthropologist.” Sandburg taught them all, obliquely, to admit when they’d screwed up and ask forgiveness. Sandburg had been the epitome of honesty and candidness.
Which was why he’d been furious at Sandburg at first, believed that Sandburg had sold Jimmy out, despite everything. He hadn’t wanted to believe that honest, kind Sandburg, who’d gotten them back together as a family, could have done something like that. The evidence seemed incontrovertible, though. Jimmy hadn’t shown up that week and William had grown even more incensed.
What’s going on? he asked the answering machine. Jimmy, what happened?
There was no reply. A few days later, he saw the press conference on television. A little after that came the news that Zöeller was dead.
Hi dad, Jimmy voice played on his answering machine tape. Guess you saw the news. You know what Blair did. Any ideas on how to salvage the situation?
He did know what Sandburg had done. Sandburg had given the Ellisons back their family and lives, and then destroyed his own life for Jimmy. For his son. The least he could do was help “salvage the situation.” And he’d start with a quick phone call to his lawyer.
~*~
“Stephen,” Jim greeted as he hobbled into the house on his cane. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“You kidding? I’m in on this too,” Stephen said defiantly. Jim held up a pacifying hand.
“Fine by me. The more friendly faces the better. Thought about what I suggested?”
“I have,” William said with a brisk nod, motioning his sons forward to the table. There were a few neat stacks of paper on it, and they settled down to read through them. Jim didn’t even wince at all the legalese. This was for Blair and so he’d deal.
The rest of the afternoon vanished as they debated their course of action -
“… well, the publishing house certainly, they backed Graham…”
“University didn’t help, and Edwards…”
“… how much…”
“… for heightened sight, maybe?”
“That case with Juno for instance…”
The smell of dinner was what eventually broke up the family meeting. By that time they’d hashed out a rough plan of action. Jim would have to do some things that would make him uncomfortable, but since Blair had destroyed his academic career for him - well, it was the least he could do.
It would take a little longer to make sure everything was foolproof, and tomorrow Jim would bring Simon into the plan. Perhaps Megan. The Australian was a firecracker, she was one of the few in the know about Jim’s Sentinel abilities, and she liked Blair. She could only be an asset.
Jim went to the university, picked up Blair’s things, exchanged icy glares with a few gawkers and headed home. Blair, though still unnaturally subdued, had put together stir-fry for their dinner and they ate in comfortable silence. Their old rapport was coming back, Jim thought. It was a pity it had taken so much to force them to admit their mistakes and fix things.
“Better get a start on those, Chief,” Jim said, nodding towards the boxes in the living room as he picked up their plates. “Want any help?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Blair assured him, and didn’t even wince as he sat down to start. Jim stood there with the plates in his hands, watching Blair for a few moments.
“Hey, Blair? If I ever doubt you about anything ever again, you have my permission to slap me,” Jim said quietly, then moved towards the kitchen area without waiting for a response.
Blair kept unpacking, a small smile on his face.
Jim washed and dried the plates meticulously, put them away, then decided the kitchen could use a bit of a cleanup in general. He was just wiping down the counters when he heard Blair’s heartbeat grow erratic. The bottle he was holding slipped from his fingers and he spared a second to scowl at it.
“Chief?” he asked, dropping the cloth he still held and heading at a not-quite-run for the other man. Blair was staring quietly at a sheet of paper he held in lightly trembling hands.
“What is it?” Jim asked, crouching down beside Blair. The paper was handed over in mute silence and Blair started looking through the contents of the small box in front of him. Jim placed a hand on Blair’s knee as much to reassure himself as to calm Blair, and started reading.
Dear Professor Sandburg, it read. Jim hoped the salutation was a positive sign.
Every class you’ve ever had knows how much importance you placed on academic honesty. One thing that never changed from class to class was the fact that the first lesson always explained that plagiarism and unacknowledged collusion would not be tolerated. You had no room in your classes for those who cheated in their work, and always ensured that you were available for those who needed help. You were never afraid to tell off anyone for cheating, no matter their family, prestige, or what the university wanted you to do.
For that reason, we believe that there has to be something else behind your recent press conference. We don’t know what would have driven you to do such a thing, but we’re positive that there’s a lot that’s been left unsaid. Whatever your reasons, we’d like you to know that you have our support.
You’re one of our favourite professors. Very few people ever came away from your classes disinterested. You had a way of making everything seem fascinating, and a way of engaging all of us despite our torpor (face it, eight in the morning is when most of us still want to be asleep). For sheer infectious enthusiasm, none of the other professors really come close. We’ll miss you.
If there’s anything we can do for you, just let us know. We’re behind you all the way.
We hope you like the presents!
Sincerely,
And then followed a list of names that started with Elsie Joseph and continued in three columns for the next four pages, ending with Ashley Sanders. Everyone - or almost everyone - in the classes Blair had been teaching the past semester, Jim guessed, and squeezed Blair’s knee in relief.
“Elsie was one of my best students,” Blair told him with a smile. “She’s going to make a brilliant field anthropologist one day.”
“She’s got the brains to know when something’s off, anyway,” Jim allowed, giving the paper back to Blair and ruffling his hair as he stood. “Wait, is that your office window?” he barked out in laughter as he caught sight of the contents of the box.
“How they managed it, I don’t want to know,” Blair offered, grinning.
“I was wondering where it’d gone,” Jim confessed, a smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth. “We can hang it in your room. Or here, if you want.”
“In the living room?” Blair asked quizzically. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Nah,” Jim said, and added whimsically, “he’s got to be able to see me to Guide me, right?”
Blair snorted and waved him off, but Jim caught a happy smile on his lips as he turned back to his unpacking.
~*~
Simon and Megan took time off the next day, meeting the Ellisons at William’s house. Between the five of them (and Sally’s occasional input), they hammered out the last of the potential problems with their plan. It took surprisingly little time, and William was able to catch his lawyer at his office.
Two hours later, the lawyer arrived and was promptly given the story that they’d concocted between them. He was impressed, shocked and flabbergasted by turns, but after quizzing them on a few points, agreed that they had a pretty good case. When he finally left, the co-conspirators gave each other smug looks. If William’s lawyer - one of the shrewdest guys around - had bought the story, it was solid.
“Stay for dinner,” Sally invited, and Megan and Simon accepted with alacrity. Jim called Blair up and told him to come on over. With the plan finalised, it was time to bring Blair into it.
“Wait,” Blair said blankly once they’d explained their general plan. “You want to sue them?”
“Absolutely,” William insisted. “We’ll say that Jim isn’t a Sentinel and the paper wasn’t true, but the fact remains that they had no right to leak your work, especially since you specifically forbade them to.”
“I still said I was…” Blair looked guiltily at Jim and amended his words. “I did say it was fake. People will start wondering about Jim if I retract that now.”
“Nope,” Jim told him. “We’ll tell them a little half-truth.”
“Here’s the story,” Megan started, and laid it out for Blair.
Blair had been fascinated by the idea of tribal Sentinels for as long as he could remember. (That’s actually true, Blair interrupted. Since I heard the story from an elder when I was a kid. What happened to Burton? Jim asked. That’s when the obsession started, Blair explained with a grin.) He’d started at Rainier University at the age of sixteen and worked his way towards his doctorate, studying amongst other things his pet field of heightened senses. There were plenty of people in the world with one or two heightened senses, but Blair’s dream had been to find a full Sentinel, as described by Richard Burton. (Also true, Blair said. Where’s the half-truth? Megan smacked him and told him to be quiet. Jim patted Blair’s hand in consolation.)
He had heard of Jim through the grapevine - heard of how Jim had been seeking help at the hospital. What the doctors thought of as stress-induced hallucinations, Blair’s Sentinel-focused mind had interpreted as heightened sensitivities. Excited at the prospect of finally finding his Holy Grail (Jim snorted. Blair blushed.), Blair had gone to talk to Jim about his senses.
Unfortunately for Blair, they’d discovered that the bulk of Jim’s symptoms - the crawling sensation of his skin, the dizzy spells, the nausea and inability to keep down food - had been due to stress-aggravated allergic symptoms. Jim’s medical record would show that he was allergic to a number of common medicines. As he’d tried taking medicines for his initial, mild problems, they’d simply escalated to unbearable levels. Though disappointed that Jim hadn’t been what he’d been looking for, Blair nonetheless recognised how much Jim was suffering and suggested a few alternative therapies. To Jim’s surprise, these worked well and he soon had his symptoms under control.
Thankful for Blair’s help and curious about his field of study, Jim had talked to Blair about Sentinels. Always eager to explain his favourite topic to anyone, Blair had explained what a person with heightened senses felt. The description reminded Jim of something, which he described to Blair.
His eyesight had always been unusually good, Jim told Blair. He had excellent night vision and could see further than most people could. His eyesight had been a great asset in the military, where his proficiency at long-range recon had been exceeded only by a few. Curious now, Blair performed a few tests with Jim, concluding that he did indeed have a heightened sense of sight.
This, Blair explained, was not uncommon. For instance, he had at least twenty other cases of heightened sight that he could think of off-hand. (Um, more than that, Blair corrected.) Jim’s sight put him amongst the most sensitive people on Blair’s scale. It was unusual, yes, but was certainly within Blair’s parameters. (Not true, Blair said. Jim was way off every chart I constructed.) Other tests revealed that sight was the only sense of Jim’s that was heightened.
Jim didn’t want this known at first, uncomfortable with the idea that his sight was something abnormal. Blair assured him that his name would be kept confidential and asked if he could use the information from the tests they’d done in his dissertation. Jim eventually agreed.
Blair, in the meantime, had grown more disillusioned about finding a Sentinel. (Hah! Blair exclaimed. Megan smacked him again.) Under pressure to find a Sentinel or change his dissertation topic, Blair began toying with the idea of giving up his life-long dream. An off-hand comment of Jim’s sparked an idea and Blair applied for a ride-along at the Cascade Police Department. The records would show that the paper Blair had said he would be writing was one on closed societies. Blair thought that there was at least a publishable article there, if not an alternative dissertation topic. The latter proved to be true and Blair worked hard on his second topic, wanting as much done as possible before he asked his dissertation committee if he could change his topic. In the meantime, Blair’s old thesis sat on his computer. He could still look for a Sentinel on his own time, he thought, even if his dissertation was on another topic. And if he found one, he could still publish a paper about it. (You know, Blair commented. I never even thought that. I just wanted so badly to do my diss on a Sentinel.)
Eventually, Blair started wondering what this Sentinel he was looking for would be like. He theorised to Jim that if being a Sentinel meant a genetic predisposition to helping the tribe, then a modern-day Sentinel would probably be drawn to jobs like Jim’s. Police officers or fire-fighters, for instance. Some way they could protect their tribe. Jim liked the idea and speculated that a few of the men he’d known in the army might have had heightened senses too. Some were just too good with a rifle.
Blair still hadn’t found a Sentinel, so in between working on his closed-societies dissertation, he started writing another document. This took the information that he’d collated over the years about heightened senses. Blair wrote, for his own pleasure, his dream thesis on his dream Sentinel. With Jim’s permission, he used Jim himself as a model for the Sentinel. Since the paper was never intended to be seen by anyone other than himself, he didn’t bother with the usual confidentiality procedures. (Actually, I was just an idiot and thought I could take out all the references to Jim later, Blair said with a snort.)
Blair had all but finished his actual dissertation on closed-societies and was trying to summon up the courage to tell his dissertation committee that after years of dragging his feet (Rub it in, why don’t you! Blair exclaimed.), he’d decided to change his topic. At this point in time, Blair made a break-through. He found a Sentinel. (I what! Blair exclaimed.)
Her name was Alex Barnes, she told Blair. She was an artist, and her senses had kicked in when she got lost camping recently. Blair had no reason to suspect otherwise. An artist certainly didn’t fit his idealised vision of what a Sentinel was, but then he’d made most of that up anyway, hadn’t he? Here was his opportunity to find out what a real Sentinel was like.
(She wasn’t! Blair insisted. She might have had heightened senses but she was no Sentinel! Jim placed a soothing hand on Blair’s knee. Okay, he said. Okay.)
Here was Blair’s opportunity to find out if Alex Barnes was a real Sentinel. If she was, then he wouldn’t need to change his topic after all. He was thrilled at the prospect, working with her for long hours to test the parameters of her senses. While he had come across people with equally strong senses, none of them until Alex had had all five senses heightened. (What am I, Jim said wryly, chopped liver? Your senses were actually stronger than hers, you know, Blair told him comfortingly.)
Blair continued to work with Alex until, through Jim, he made the unpleasant discovery that she wasn’t what she’d claimed to be. She was no simple artist, and she certainly hadn’t gotten her senses in the woods. Solitary confinement in prison wasn’t exactly how Blair had envisioned any Sentinel receiving their abilities. Alex had dropped out of contact by then and Blair couldn’t help Jim find her.
Alex’s murder attempt hadn’t been something any of them had expected. She’d wanted to silence the only person - to her knowledge - who knew that she had heightened senses, wanting to preserve an advantage when it came to carrying out her criminal activities. Fortunately, Jim had gotten to Blair in time, and eventually managed to resuscitate him. (Hm, Blair said, lost in thought until Jim recalled him with a friendly nudge and a soft look in his eyes to match Blair’s. Simon and Megan exchanged significant looks.)
The incident had killed any desire in Blair to continue working on a dissertation involving her - and he’d decided that while she might have heightened senses, she certainly wasn’t what a Sentinel was supposed to be. (Exactly! Blair exclaimed.) According to Burton, a Sentinel was predisposed to protect his tribe, not hurt it. That perhaps explained why Blair had records of a few people with individually stronger senses than her. She wasn’t a Sentinel after all.
Blair had still been recovering from his brush with death (Brush? Blair asked sardonically. William and Stephen exchanged confused looks. Megan and Simon looked grim. Jim draped an arm around Blair’s shoulders in a loose hug.) when the Ventriss fiasco occurred. The university paid no attention to Blair’s poor health and chose to try and pacify the child of an important family rather than do what was morally right. Anyone who cared to look could see what the leaders of the university considered crucial. Anyone who cared to look should have realised that Blair’s own strong morals could never let him publish a falsified dissertation.
In fact, Blair had been about ready to confront his dissertation committee about changing his topic. It was then that his mother dropped by for a visit. He mentioned to her that the paper was all but done, with only some editing left to do. Thinking that her son’s paper was probably fine as it was and that Blair was merely suffering from nerves, Naomi sent in a copy of his dissertation to an old friend, asking him to look it over for him. Sid Graham, who worked for a publishing house, was more than happy to do so.
Unfortunately, she sent in the wrong paper.
Naomi had always known of Blair’s fascination with the Sentinel myth. She thought that his fictional paper - starring Jim as a Sentinel - was his actual dissertation. The first Blair knew of this was when he received a call from Sid offering him money for the publishing rights. (An obscene amount of money, Blair insisted.) Blair turned him down flat, horrified to realise that his mother had sent in the wrong paper. He told Sid that the document he had was not for publishing. Thinking the matter settled, he was rudely surprised to find the press clamouring at Jim’s doorstep, demanding to know if he was truly a Sentinel. Sid had deliberately leaked the manuscript, trying to force Blair into accepting his offer.
Jim had been upset at first, but realised after an explanation that what had happened wasn’t Blair’s fault. (I should have been so understanding, Jim snorted. Don’t worry, Blair told him, you gave me permission to slap you in the future, remember? Simon hid a grin.) Unfortunately, he was working on a very important case at the time, and that took precedence over what Blair and Jim thought would blow over quickly.
Except that it didn’t blow over, and press interference directly led to the escape of Zöeller. That incident made Blair realise that he’d have to do something to take the heat off Jim, so that the PD could concentrate on catching the assassin. (If they weren’t too busy making fun of Superman there, Megan added. Jim glared at her.)
And so Blair gave a press conference. The only time he lied was at that press conference, when he ruined his academic career by stating that he had falsified the dissertation. No one had believed Jim and Blair when they denied the contents of the paper. Blair determined that the only way for Jim to do his job was to give the press an even bigger scandal to play with. He did so by ruining his life. (It was just a book, Blair protested. Shut up, everyone else chorused in unison.)
It worked. The press left Jim alone, and Zöeller was dealt with. The assassin died in his attempt to escape, the case was closed, and everything was back to normal in Cascade.
Except for Blair’s reputation. Now that he didn’t have a cold-hearted professional murderer to deal with, Jim decided to turn his attention to fixing Blair’s life. Talking to Blair revealed that Blair had had enough of the back-stabbing and politics of university life. (You got that right, Blair snorted.) He’d signed up to teach and to impart his love of anthropology to another generation, not play favourites and pander to the senior professors’ whims. (Exactly! Blair exclaimed fervently.) He therefore had no objections whatsoever to Jim’s suggestion that they sue Sid Graham, his publishing house and Rainier University. Jim insisted on making things as public as possible so that everyone would know exactly how much Blair - who wasn’t even a police officer - had sacrificed in helping the PD catch an infamous killer.
Megan finished her spiel and sat back, everyone waiting with bated breath for Blair’s response.
“Wow,” he finally said, eyes wide and innocent. Jim twitched. He knew that look.
“Have you people considered publishing?” Blair asked, and then clambered over Jim hurriedly in an attempt to avoid another whack from Megan.
~*~
“Okay?” Jim asked as Megan tried to convince Stephen to dance with her on the lawn. Jim hoped he’d accept; his little brother had two left feet.
“Okay,” Blair said with a wicked grin in Megan’s direction. Jim glanced at him suspiciously.
“Feet of clay?” he asked.
“Of iron! On her feet!” Blair laughed quietly. Jim grinned at the realisation that they’d been thinking exactly the same thing.
“You seemed okay with Naomi,” Jim said casually, arm creeping back around Blair’s shoulders. Below them, William and Simon were hotly debating the Jags’ chances in the coming season. Blair willingly moved with Jim, leaning heavily against his side and sipping at his juice as they both looked out over the second-floor balcony.
“She’s my mom,” he said in reply. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”
At that, Jim stiffened slightly. “So you’re… not okay?” he asked cautiously.
Blair twisted slightly in Jim’s hold to grin wryly at him. “She’s my mom,” he reiterated. “I know she’s never really had to take responsibility for anything in her life. This was probably her biggest screw-up yet though. I haven’t forgiven her yet, but I know she didn’t have any bad intentions.”
“So why haven’t you forgiven her?” Jim asked curiously.
“She’s gone, you know?” Blair huffed into his drink. “She’s in Oregon by now. She said she was sorry and all, of course, but I could see how relieved she was when you gave me the badge. Like - oh thank goodness, someone else has fixed things for me, now I can run away again.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about her,” Jim said wryly, and Blair’s eyes crinkled at him over the edge of his glass.
“Sid Graham’s your mom’s friend,” Jim pointed out after a moment.
“He’s also a sleaze,” Blair pronounced with finality. “Naomi’s like a kid, really. She just needs to grow up. Sid Graham needs to grow some morals.” He glanced at Jim out of the corner of his eye. “Relax; I’m fine with the plan.”
Jim smiled a little sheepishly at being caught out. “If you’re sure,” he said, and settled against the railing, comforted by Blair’s weight, solid and alive against him. Alive. That was very important.
“Tell me what you see,” Blair murmured, and Jim suddenly remembered a time, months or years back, when they’d sat out on the balcony together and Jim had stretched out his senses one by one and described everything he experienced to Blair. It had started as a test and evolved into their personal ritual, one that always left Jim feeling at peace and Blair quietly proud of his Sentinel.
“Megan dancing with Stephen,” Jim started with a faint smile, beginning as usual with the objects nearest and slowly moving further out. “And she should be glad that he’s not wearing steel-toed shoes. The grass on the lawn is a very peculiar shade of orange in places when the sun hits it just right. The gates are a lovely burnished bronze in the light. There’s a bird on it - it’s just taken off now, a little sparrow, and it’s winging its way into the sky. The feathers on its wings have dark brown markings on them… if I look hard enough, they leave little afterimages of brown lines in the air as it flaps. Its tail is twisting; it’s heading back down, towards the park. There are children there in the playground. Three families, it looks like, with four adults off to the side chatting and watching the children. Two of them seem like they’re together… a young couple, they can’t be more than thirty. She’s got the palest blonde hair I’ve ever seen.”
Jim’s voice drifted on the wind to the others down below, who listened in rapt attention to the snatches of words they could hear.
“I didn’t know his senses were that acute,” Stephen said in surprise. “That park’s a couple hundred yards away.”
“And he can see well enough to describe what the people there look like,” William mused quietly.
“Actually,” Simon interjected, head cocked as he listened. “He’s moving even further out now.”
“Actually,” Jim called down in amusement, “On a good day, I can see clear out to the pier from home.”
“The problem with a Sentinel,” Megan sighed, “is that you can never keep a secret from him.”
Jim relayed what Megan had said to Blair, who grinned and called back down. “You can, but it’s horribly hard!”
“You wouldn’t keep secrets from me though, would you?” Jim asked with his best sad-eyed look.
“Only if you ask me if your butt looks fat in that dress,” Blair retorted, and then had to run as an indignant Jim attempted to headlock him.
~*~
The public court case, the revelations and the amount of money that Blair subsequently won were huge enough to swamp the papers again. Best of all, Blair thought, was that both Sid Graham and Chancellor Edwards had been summarily sacked. Also, that the reporters present had shifted very guiltily when they’d seen the security footage that revealed how close Jim had been to Zöeller before they got in the way. Jim sat through the tests on his sight patiently, then “reluctantly” admitted that he really had seen Juno that one time oh-so-long-ago - he just hadn’t realised it had been out of most people’s abilities and at the time hadn’t been willing to acknowledge his heightened sight. The parameters of his sight (they were sticking to about half his real capability) were carefully documented for future reference. It would make things a little easier, Jim thought in relief.
Blair had been invited to rejoin Rainier University and submit his dissertation. Blair had resisted the urge to tell them where to stick their offer, turned them down, and joined the Police Academy.
He breezed through most of the courses, having learnt most procedural work in his time with Jim. The physical stuff was a little more difficult, but Blair had always been fit, and his body was flexible and young enough to adapt easily to the suddenly rigorous workout it was going through. Hardest was the firearms training; the knowledge that the little piece of metal he was working with could one day be used to end someone’s life sat heavily in him.
“There are officers who never need to draw their gun,” Jim told him. “But they’re very rarely ever from MC.”
And that was that. Blair knew the kinds of things that Jim got up to. He’d almost certainly have to draw his gun, probably more than once. He might have to (he shuddered) shoot someone.
If he could get past the problem of actually getting the gun out of his holster, anyway.
“Face it,” Jim chortled, “you have no clue how a shoulder holster works.”
Blair threw his holster at Jim.
He got the hang of it eventually and made everyone proud when he turned out to be extremely accurate with his gun. He still had to wonder if he’d be able to use it on a real person, though.
“You’ll be fine,” Jim assured him. “You’ll see.”
He passed at the top of his class to no one’s surprise but his own. “You used to write papers for a living,” Jim told him. “The people teaching report-writing probably cried tears of joy when they read your work. Dear God, they prayed, thank you for sending me someone who knows how to use punctuation. I once again believe in you. And you already knew everything there was to know even before you took procedure classes.”
“Mostly, it involves doing the reverse of whatever you generally do,” Blair agreed. The next few minutes were spent in an impromptu wrestling match.
Blair had to spend a token month on the streets as a beat cop before finally joining Jim at Major Crimes. There was a fair bit of resentment on the part of the newer detectives, who didn’t see why someone so fresh should get the much-coveted spot. They were quickly set straight by just about every detective Blair had ever worked with. His new colleagues’ obvious support went a long way in restoring Blair’s confidence, which even after the settlement hadn’t been completely restored.
“It really was partly my fault,” Blair explained when Jim asked about it. “I was the arrogant schmuck who left your name and details in. We’re just lucky I’d taken out the more personal references already by that time. But if I’d been thinking I’d never have used your name at all, right from the beginning.”
“Doesn’t matter any more,” Jim insisted. “We were all immature brats about the whole thing. Me more than you. But things are okay now, right?”
“Right,” Blair said with a slow smile. “Chinese?”
“Korean,” Jim decided. “Want to go out instead of ordering in?”
“Lead the way,” Blair said cheerfully, detouring briefly to his room to change.
Blair paid for their meals, which they took to the park to eat. They determinedly did not speak about anything of importance. Blair instead chose to entertain himself by testing out Jim’s night vision. Jim humoured him. It came as a surprise to both of them when they found that Jim’s night vision was sharper than it used to be.
“Don’t say the T-word,” Jim groaned after one look at Blair’s face. Blair patted him on the arm in consolation.
The battery of tests that Blair ran on Jim showed that all his senses had sharpened a little. Maybe, Blair theorised, regular use in the right way improved them. Like exercising your muscles. Or like those eye exercises you can do that apparently reduce the strain for people wearing glasses.
“What do you think would happen if I did those?” Jim asked idly.
“The moment you develop laser vision, I’m ordering you a spandex suit,” Blair warned.
Days passed, then weeks, then months. Jim had been forever destroyed for undercover work, but he didn’t seem to care. Slowly, Blair began to notice a new, odd phenomenon. Jim still stuck to “Chief,” but more and more he was also using “Blair” at home. Only at home though, and generally only when he was feeling particularly mellow and affectionate. Blair hoarded each moment happily.
They were back in sync with each other and they’d never felt better. The Major Crimes crew eventually got used to them, but visitors from other departments were always thrown for a loop when they saw how Jim and Blair interacted. Sometimes they finished each other’s sentences. Sometimes they responded to a look as if it had been a full explanatory paragraph (maybe it had been). Sometimes they pre-empted what the other would do, say or need. Blair would be typing away at a report and would reach out and pick up a pen, offering it to Jim without looking. Jim, standing behind Blair, would reach out and grab the pen, still reading the form he was holding. It took some getting used to.
But things settled. Jim and Blair relearned their friendship. The PD got used to them. The curious looks from strangers on the streets lessened. Life was good.
Blair came home one day to a meal from his favourite Mediterranean restaurant spread out on the table. The lights were turned down and his favourite scented candles graced the table.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, slipping his jacket off. Jim came trotting down the stairs a moment later, clearing his throat pompously.
“On this day five years ago,” he began, “a certain anthropologist by the name of Blair Sandburg stole a doctor’s coat and brazened his way into a patient’s room.”
Blair had started grinning at the first words and was laughing by the end of the sentence. Jim smirked at him.
“I thought we’d celebrate the occasion,” he said, gesturing grandly. “I hope I remembered right - I got some of that stuffed grape things you like.”
“Ooh!” Blair’s eyes lit up and he dove for the food. Jim sighed, a smile tugging at his lips, and followed.
After they ate, Jim turned the lights back up a little in deference to Blair. Then he produced popcorn and they watched the game. The Jags were trounced. Jim despaired.
“Thanks, Jim,” Blair quietly said later as he cleared away the remains of their popcorn. Across from him, Jim was making sure the balcony doors were secure. “I wasn’t really expecting this.”
He wasn’t really expecting the arms that came around him either, and very nearly put his self-defence classes to work. The short, amused huff of air in his ear told him that Jim hadn’t missed his sudden tenseness and subsequent relaxing.
“I don’t show you enough how much I appreciate you, Blair,” Jim told him softly. “And that led to way too many problems in the past.” His arms tightened. “That day, when I saw the press conference, I told myself that I’d let you know how much I care about you.” His head dropped to Blair’s shoulder.
“You’re my best friend,” he continued. “You’re family. I need you to know that. And that I do love you. More than anyone else. Stephen or dad, even.”
Blair stood stock-still for a moment, then wriggled around in Jim’s arms so that he could properly hug his Sentinel.
“Back at you,” he muttered into the vicinity of Jim’s chest, more content than he’d ever been in his life.
~fin
Concrit much appreciated! [And does anyone know where I can crosspost this to get a few more readers who're actually in The Sentinel fandom?]