A Different Way of Seeing
by LRHBalzer
(sequel to "Sentinel Too")
Note: This is the last of a trio of short stories that make up my sequels to the Third Season cliffhanger.
1. Primary Focus; 2. Movers and Shakers; 3. A Different Way of Seeing
* * *
Sunday, May 24th, 6:00 a.m.
Jim Ellison sat up, quickly taking stock of his surroundings, trying to remember why he had fallen asleep in Sandburg's room instead of in his own bed. Sheer exhaustion, he finally admitted to himself, brushing a hand over his unshaven face. He moved upward from the bed, stretched the kinks from his body, then glanced down to an object that had fallen to the floor by his feet. The stuffed bear. He scooped it up and tossed it on the bed as he stumbled from the room and down the hall to the bathroom. There is something to be said for not having to negotiate stairs first thing in the morning, he thought, splashing water on his face.
As the cold water jolted his senses, he froze.
He had dreamed during the night.
But of what?
The flash of memory kept him in place over the sink, water running over his cupped hands as he fought for the content of his dream. Nothing. Just the faint trail of its passing through his thoughts. The jungle. The injured wolf.
Nothing.
He straightened and stared at his reflection in the mirror as though expecting the image to speak and reveal his dreamscape. Blank, still-tired eyes stared back at him. Nothing.
He stripped off the clothes he had slept in and stepped into the shower, moving through his routine quickly, then shutting the water off. Dripping, he waited, eyes closed, once again feeling the whisper of words from his dream haunt his consciousness. The jungle. The injured wolf. Perhaps another person...
Nothing but the briefest glimpse of that other-time world.
Jim shook the water from his hair, pulling a clean towel from the shelf and briskly rubbing himself dry. He pushed away all thoughts of the dream. If it refused to make itself known, he had no patience to go looking for it. Either it was there to tell him something, or not. Since he did not remember it, it must not be important.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and reached for his shaving supplies, rinsing the razor and shaking the can. The foam swelled into his hand, a white frothing ball, and he spread it over his beard, eyes meeting eyes, stubborn and alone. He looked away long enough to pick up the razor, then met his own stare once more. "What is it?" he asked, not expecting an answer and only marginally relieved when one didn't come.
Upstairs in his room, he rearranged his dresser top, moving the photograph to the left and the bonsai to the right. After a moment's hesitation, he moved them back, deciding he liked it better the other way. It really didn't matter. He pulled open the top drawer and groaned at seeing only a few clothes in it. Laundry. When was the last time he had done laundry?
When was the last time he relaxed and put his feet up and had a beer with Sandburg?
He fished out some underwear and threadbare socks, then pulled open the next drawer for a T-shirt, frowning at the choices. Gray with ripped seam under one arm. Light blue with an unidentifiable stain on the front. He looked more closely and detected the faint remains of mustard. Mustard? Oh, the hot dog two weeks ago. He had been jostled by someone as he walked down the sidewalk. He threw the shirt on the pile of dirty laundry to wash again. Blair had bought some of that stuff that took out stains; it was probably down by the washer and dryer. That's why I haven't done laundry. I couldn't get to it with all the furniture in the way.
The gray shirt went on the bed. A clean pair of jeans in the bottom drawer would do. They were old, but still in good enough shape. Like me, he thought, idly.
He dressed quickly, frowning at the rip on the T-shirt, but deciding it wouldn't show with a jacket on. Then he saw Blair's jacket, still on the bed. He picked it up and held it for a moment or two, lifting it to his face. It needed cleaning, smelling of fountain water and the hospital and only so faintly of his partner.
It was all he had left of Blair's clothing -- the rest had been cut off at the hospital and had been taken for evidence or thrown away. Except for the jacket that someone had carefully removed -- why? Jim wasn't sure. He didn't even like it, but he had sat holding it those first hours at the hospital when they wouldn't let him near his partner. He had been frantic and lost control, hardly aware of Simon and Rafe locking arms around him and carrying him from the ER into the waiting area. Simon had handed him the jacket and he had crushed it to his chest and rocked back and forth. Holding it. Waiting. Hardly feeling the warmth of Rafe and Brown on either side of him. Or Simon's constant reassurance, the light touch to his face and head, the squeeze on his shoulder every few minutes trying to connect with him. To keep him from zoning.
Ellison shook himself at the memory, suddenly aware of what had gone on, how they had stayed by him while he had been lost in his grief and worry.
He took a deep breath and let it out, centering himself.
A movement in the corner of the room. He spun around, crouching, then slowly straightened. "What is it?" he asked again, eyes burrowing into the shadows and the man who stood there. He was in the jungle dreamscape. He was dreaming.
"Your Guide has journeyed back to you," the older Sentinel said, raising his staff, then setting it down. He was dressed for battle, the paint detailing his tribe and allegiances.
"Yes. He's growing stronger," Ellison said softly.
"Yet he has been hobbled." The Sentinel-warrior moved aside.
The wolf of his previous dreams lay on the ground behind the warrior, legs bent awkwardly beneath its body. It tried to stand when it saw him, but fell back to the earth, landing heavily.
Ellison took a step closer, his sight zeroing in on the broken bones of its back legs. "Who did this to him?" Ellison demanded, his attention turning on the Sentinel-warrior, fists clenched.
"He must learn his place."
"Sandburg made his choice."
"In his mind, he made his choice and he knows his place. Even in his heart, he knows where he wishes to be. But his soul still wanders."
Ellison moved past the Sentinel-warrior and knelt at the wolf's side, his hand resting on the gray coat of the fierce animal. He could feel the wolf's pain, the short heavy pants, the muscles trembling. It quieted beneath his touch, nuzzling against his hand, unafraid of him. As he watched, the wolf changed shape, twisting into the naked body of his partner. Sandburg lay curled on the ground, his cheek against Ellison's palm. The Guide blinked, then looked at him and sat up, smiling as Ellison drew him upward, steadying him as he stood. Relief flooded the animated face as his legs straightened beneath him and supported his weight. Together they took a few steps, then Ellison released him -- leaping to try to catch him as he fell to the ground with a cry and faded back into the pain-filled body of the wolf.
"What's wrong with him?" Ellison asked, turning his anger back to the warrior even as he tried to calm the distraught animal.
"I told you. He has been hobbled. When he learns what it means to be your Guide, he will stand unaided."
"That makes no sense. How can he be my Guide if he can't walk?"
"Then you must learn to listen to him. That is your lesson. Your task. Listen and he will guide. Stay close to him, and he will guide. With you, he can walk. Without you, he cannot. And if he cannot, you will not be a Sentinel." The Sentinel-warrior turned and disappeared, taking with him the jungle and the dream.
Jim swayed, blinking as color returned to his world. The dream was already fading, but not the fact that he had dreamed -- hallucinated -- while awake, standing. Grasping at the memory, he stared back into the corner where t
he old warrior had stood, but the morning light showed only a hamper of clothes that needed washing. He swore, his jaw rigid with tension, but the content of the dream refused to make itself known.
The jacket was still in his hands. Jim looked at the tag, saw it had to be dry-cleaned, and added it to the pile of clothes to the right of the dresser, all things to be taken to the dry-cleaners. There was a place over one block that Blair always took their clothes to, trying to make time with the young woman who worked there on Wednesday and Fridays.
Life would go on. Blair was alive. Things would be mended. Cleaned. Repaired. But for now, he would put on a ripped T-shirt because he had nothing else to wear. The significance made him laugh. And the laughter brought enough energy for him to grab a armful of clothing and take it to the washing machine downstairs, at least starting a load. Tonight he would put it in the dryer and there would be clean clothes to wear the next day. And tomorrow I'll do a load of Blair's clothes, so he'll have clean clothes to wear home.
The thought cheered him and he ate some breakfast, managing to put some bread in the toaster and scramble some eggs. He didn't recognize the brand name of either package, and smiled again at what his friends had done to keep him going. The fridge had milk in it. Orange juice. Bread, butter, and eggs. Two boxes of cereal sat on the counter, one with sugar, one without, as though the purchaser hadn't been sure how his tastes ran.
He washed up his breakfast dishes and set them to dry, then got his things together as he saw it was approaching seven-thirty and the time that Simon was coming for him. Jacket, keys, cell phone. He needed a watch, but his was broken. He went into Blair's room and straightened the quilt he had been lying on, then stared at the bear thoughtfully, trying to figure out what it was doing out. He hadn't seen it for several months. It had been relocated from its place on top of the bookshelf to a box when Blair needed more space for his growing collection of books. But now it was back.
Maybe for good reason. Maybe it would help Blair sleep, help him relax a little with the silliness of sleeping with a bear. He frowned, sorting through his own vague memories of going to sleep holding the bear. Pushing the thought aside, he decided he would take it to Sandburg and let him make the decision of whether he wanted it or not. What could that hurt?
An hour later, after smuggling it past Simon out of the loft, then in and out of the captain's car, Ellison's feet dragged to a halt as he walked down the hospital corridor. He looked down at the paper bag clenched in one hand. He wasn't really planning on giving his twenty-eight-year-old partner a stuffed bear to keep him company, was he? The bear had served its purpose at one time, when Blair had been injured and trapped in the basement of a semi-demolished house, but to his knowledge the stuffed animal had not made an appearance since then, relegated to a cardboard box of memories.
Okay. So...maybe he wouldn't give him the bear after all. But then what was he going to do with it? He had nowhere to put it. Simon had already left for the station. There were no coin lockers around that he could see. If he walked in his partner's room with a paper bag, Sandburg would want to know what was in it, and he didn't really have a good enough reason he was willing to share.
Ellison walked a few more steps, then turned left at the end of the corridor, instead of right. The nurses' station. "Excuse me, I'm--"
"Yes, Detective," said the duty nurse, not looking up from her paperwork.
He forced a smile. "I'm Detective Ellison. Could I leave this bag here? I don't want to take it in with me when I'm visiting my partner."
"This is not a storage locker, Detective," the nurse responded, still not looking up.
"I realize that..." He stopped talking, realizing she wasn't listening. "Excuse me?" he began again. "If I can't leave the bag here, do you have any suggestions where I could leave it?"
She glanced up finally, looked at the bag, then went back to her papers. "I think you can manage to carry that with you, Detective. You look strong enough. And if you can't carry it, I'd suggest checking yourself in. That would be 'Admitting' on the first floor."
"Listen, all I want--" At the slight tap on his arm, he turned to see another nurse, Rebecca, if he remembered correctly.
"Detective Ellison?" She motioned him away from the desk. "I'm sorry. It's been a hard night. We lost three patients, all within a short period of time. It's hard to deal with sometimes. She's not usually like that," she added, in a softer voice yet.
"Thank you. How's my partner?" he asked.
"The doctor is in with him now. They had wanted to take some tests, but they're having difficulty waking him up. He's not responding." She stopped him as he turned to go. "Do you want me to watch the bag for you? I can put it under my desk at my station. I'll just write your name on it and let my replacement know you'll be collecting it later. Her name is Barbara."
"Thank you." He handed over the bag. "Don't lose it--"
"I'll make sure it's safe."
"Thanks." Ellison walked quickly to his partner's room, stopping outside the door only long enough to listen to the steady heartbeat. As long as that heart was beating, the lungs filling with air, he could deal with the rest. "What's wrong?" he asked as he stepped into the room. Two orderlies were preparing to move an unconscious Sandburg from his bed onto a gurney.
Dr Albinoni turned as he entered. "Good morning, Detective. We're having some difficulty waking your partner up. He has a fever and seems--"
Ellison turned away from him as he heard a faint sound from the bed.
"Hey...Jim." Sleepy blue eyes met his, a yawn twisting the familiar features as Blair fought to wake up.
"Hey, there, Junior," he answered, moving between the orderlies to sit on the edge of the bed. Ellison waved the two men away, then took Sandburg's offered hand in between his own. "Have a good sleep?"
"Hmm...Yeah. Tired still, though," came the hoarse whisper. The dark lashes swept downward as Blair turned his head on the pillow.
Ignoring the doctor's surprised expression at his partner being awake, Jim touched the back of his hand to Blair's forehead. "You've got a bit of a fever."
"I'm cold," Blair admitted, eyes still closed.
"Cold and tired, right?" Jim asked, his voice teasing. "Listen, buddy, the doctor here wants to check you out, then we can visit some, okay?"
Blair's eyes opened, glanced to his right, then he closed his eyes and groaned.
"Are you in pain?" Ellison asked, moving his hand to the side of his partner's face.
A shiver turned into a slight shake of his head. "Uh...can we talk first? Before...he examines me? Please..." The last word ended in an entreating hiss.
Dr Albinoni stared impatiently at Ellison as he turned to look questioningly at the physician. "Again?" Albinoni looked to his watch, then his schedule. "I have to see a patient in the next room. I'll be back in a few minutes. If it could fit into your very important schedule, I'd like to give him a complete examination. We want to monitor this fever and I'm concerned at our inability to wake him before."
"He's a sound sleeper. I have to go into his room and pull him out of bed some mornings; he doesn't even hear his alarm. I think he just needs some time to settle down. Once he gets his bearings, he'll be fine for an examination. It always takes him awhile to wake up in the morning." Ellison fixed the doctor with a stare that had been known to cause hardened criminals step back.
"Five minutes, and I'll return to check him over." Albinoni gathered his things and left the room.
* * *
Blair let out a sigh of relief when the man left them. He cautiously opened his eyes again and glanced around, taking in the morning light streaming through the trees and Ellison sitting on the edge of the platform he was lying on.
"What was that all about?" Jim asked, quietly, staring down at him. "Did you really just wake up?"
"Hmm? What? Yes, I just woke up when you walked in. Why?" Blair turned toward him, yawning once again.
"Because they couldn't get you to wake up." The Sentinel's vo
ice was flat. Concern masked.
Strange that he saw Jim as 'The Sentinel' in this way of seeing. The bandana around his head, the tribal markings, the army fatigues stripped to bare functional use, armed with a crossbow and knife. Not Jim Ellison: his friend and co-worker, but 'The Sentinel'.
"What do you mean? They couldn't wake me up? Really?" He yawned again, his lungs expanding to take in the extra air. It still hurt a little to take a deep breath. "I don't remember them trying to wake me up. Just opening my eyes and seeing you coming over to me."
Jim noticed his slight wince. "They have you on antibiotics, watching your lungs. Let me know if you have trouble breathing, okay?"
"Okay." Blair tugged on Jim's arm, trying to pull himself up to a sitting position, and once again the Sentinel obliged him. Settled a little more comfortably, he pulled the rough woven blanket (that felt like a soft cotton blanket) closer, watching as Jim tucked it around him. "Thanks," he whispered, leaning his head back. It was easier to breathe sitting up. Easier to talk.
But it was hard to find the words he wanted when his brain was so sluggish. He shivered, tugging the blanket closer. He couldn't think of any way of wording this that didn't make him sound crazy. Maybe he was. Crazy. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. Just fake it.
He had been sure that when he woke up in the morning, everything would be okay. He'd breathe okay, everything would look like it was supposed to look, and in a week or two, he'd tell Jim all about it. Hey, guess what? When I first woke up in the hospital, I thought I was in the jungle. Funny, huh?
He shivered again, clearing his throat to say something, but started coughing instead. He had a huge headache, he realized, and tried to move one hand up to his head, but the IV cord stopped him. The other hand ventured out from beneath the blanket and touched the bandage wrapped around his skull. Well, that explained the pounding inside his brain. Coughing didn't help.
Jim arranged the blankets around him, still waiting patiently for him to talk. The man was studying him carefully, the Sentinel's face composed and ready for anything, it seemed. Anything but this, probably. Jim does not want to hear this, man. No way. How do I say this to him? It's so unfair. Damn it. Damn it!
A Different Way of Seeing Page 1