And Dream that I am Home Again

by Lois RH Balzer

  "We're not keeping you apart, Blair, we're--"

  Evan interrupted Nash. "You are, though. That's what you're doing, Nash. You're keeping them apart."

  Nash sighed, his thumb and forefinger squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Okay, we are. But it's just so Jim will wake up."

  "He's zoned?" Blair whispered.

  "Harvey thinks he's in some other mode -- I don't know all the terms for this."

  "Oh, God." Blair pushed himself up this time, swinging his legs to rest on the floor. "Let me get back to him."

  "Just give him a few minutes, son," Nash said, blocking him. "Harvey's just trying to see if--"

  "Harvey's not his guide!" Blair said harshly, struggling to his feet. "I am!" Standing was not such a great idea, though, sending stabs of pain up his leg, his sight disappearing in black spots.

  "Chief?" Ellison appeared in the doorway, clutching the door frame. "Chief? You okay?"

  "Jim?" Yeah, I am now. Sandburg dropped back to the edge of the bed, waited for the dizziness to pass, then his eyes fixed on his partner's face. "Yeah, I'm okay. You?" You look like hell.

  "I'm fine." Ellison ignored the snort from behind him.

  "So …" Blair looked around, glancing to Simon and Harvey when they moved past Jim into the room. "Anyone want to tell me what's going on here?"

  "Hungry?" Harvey asked, hopefully, ignoring the question. He helped Evan off the bed, and resettled him on the couch. "We still have dinner reservations at the Chinese restaurant across the street. Half an hour. That just gives us time to wash up and head over there."

  "You're hungry?" Simon asked, looking at Harvey, surprised.

  "He's always hungry," Evan muttered.

  "Look who's talking, Cortez," Harvey threw back at him. "Can you handle dinner?"

  Blair watched the looks traded between the two, then met Jim's eyes again. So no one wants to tell me what's going on. And you either know and don't want to talk about it, or you're just as in the dark as I am. I know something happened. And that would be …

  Nothing came to mind, but Jim looked a few shades too pale -- although standing next to Simon, Jim always looked pale. Maybe Simon was pale, too, but Blair hadn't figured a good way to tell yet. He went more by Simon's expression than the shade of his skin.

  Jim looked at him for a moment, his head to one side, and Blair sighed. Listening to the old ticker, aren't you?

  Jim nodded then to himself, and turned back to the other room. "Dinner sounds good. I'm going to put my shoes on." They could hear the door to the bathroom closing and water running.

  Blair stared down at his cast, noting for the first time that it was more of a brace than a cast. "Can I walk on this?" he asked.

  "The doctor said you could in a day or two. You're supposed to be keeping off it until then." Simon pointed to where the crutches rested by the door.

  "Any objections if I go in there with Jim?"

  "Give him a few minutes to freshen up, Sandburg." Simon also looked extremely tired, Blair noted. Not adding up to a lot of good news.

  "Evan?" Nash crouched in front of Cortez. "You up to going with us?"

  "Yes." Evan shifted slightly to make room for Harvey beside him on the couch. "I might not eat much, but I want to be there. And I want my explanation."

  "And I'll tell you all about it. Now's just not the best time," Harvey said, softly, resting his arm behind Cortez on the back of the couch.

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's something we've got to keep confidential."

  "From whom?"

  "From everyone else who's not in this room."

  "Including Joe?" Evan asked, looking at Nash skeptically.

  "Let me worry about Joe," Nash said, smiling. "Everything's okay. If you're hungry, you just get your butt off that couch and get your shoes and jacket on."

  "Then where's my gun, if we're going out? If I'm okay, I want my gun."

  "When you can walk a straight line without listing at an angle, then we'll talk about your gun, mister."

  "I'm walking lopsided because I'm used to wearing a gun. My weight is thrown off."

  "Riiiiight, Bubba."

  Sandburg smiled at their banter. He knew how Evan felt. He wanted everything to be the same. The way it was before. He wanted to go home. He looked to Simon, then pointedly in Jim's direction, and back again.

  "I'll go see how he's doing," Simon said, going into the other room.

  Blair watched him go, then caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the low dresser. Red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy face. Hair squashed on one side, wildly tangled on the other. Pathetic, Sandburg.

  But I feel okay. He really did, even though he remembered crying now. And that Jim had held him. And that Simon and Nash and Evan and Harvey had been there, too. I don't have enough energy to be embarrassed about that. No one else seemed to be uncomfortable about it, so why bother?

  Besides, the energy in the room wasn't even focused on him; it was focused on Jim. Something was wrong with Jim. Something they had seen when he was crying and Jim was with him.

  He stared at the doorway to the other room, wondering what it was. What had happened during that brief time while he was asleep? Jim had been like this major rock through the entire thing. He couldn't imagine something happening to Jim.

  I'm tired. Still.

  Harvey was looking at him. He met the man's eyes, seeing the concern there. Not concern for himself, but Blair could see the concern there, anyway. So it's for Jim. Is he okay?

  Harvey smiled at him, then leaned over and mussed up Evan's hair, turning his attention back to his own partner. It was strange meeting someone who had Guide stamped in big letters across his forehead. Maybe somewhere there was a sentinel needing Harvey. Blair watched the two men joking around, and he couldn't help but laugh with them and enjoy the way Harvey brought a smile to Evan's face. It was almost as though they were meant to be together.

  Maybe they were, he realized. Maybe …

  What if he had met Jim before the man's senses had kicked back in? Would they have still become friends? Probably not. The thought made him feel sad at what he would have missed.

  Maybe Evan was a sentinel? Would Jim know? On Highlander they always knew a pre-immortal. Do sentinels know another person is a sentinel, even if their senses aren't online yet? Jim knew about Alex before he even met her, because her animal spirit was in his territory, but Jim didn't seem to be weird about Evan.

  But Seattle wasn't Evan's territory or Jim's. That might make a difference.

  So did Harvey know? Or suspect? Or wonder?

  He wanted to ask, but Harvey was right. This wasn't the time.

  And right now, the only concrete thoughts he could come up with were: I want Jim to be okay. I want to go home. I don't want Chinese food. I want Jim to be okay, and I want to go home.

  Simon came back into the room with his jacket on, his small suitcase tucked under his arm. "Come on, let's get going. I'm going to put my stuff in the truck. Need help, Sandburg?"

  "I'm okay," he said. "Jim will help me."

  "He's just packing the duffel bag." Simon paused, glancing back at the empty doorway. "You sure you don't need anything?"

  "I'm sure." Blair eased himself from the bed, staring down at his foot. "Oh, there is one thing, Simon. Why is my cast pink?"

  "Uh, better talk to Jim about that," Simon said, quickly heading out to the parking lot, followed by the others.

  "Oh. Okay." Blair stared at it again, frowning, then he looked up sharply. "Jim had something to with this? What does that mean? Jim requested this color?"

  The man in question came into the room carrying the duffel bag, and Blair forgot his complaint. Jim looked awful, like he was only holding himself together with sheer willpower.

  "Let's get you cleaned up, Chief. I'm not taking you out in public looking like that." Jim helped him hop toward the bathroom.

  "Jim? Everything okay?" Blair whispered, as he leaned back against the sink counter.
>
  Jim smiled and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Yeah, Chief. It will be. Once we get home."

  "Yeah." Blair leaned over and washed his face, then dried his hands by running his damp fingers through his hair, trying to tame the frizzy curls. He added more water to his hands, and worked at it for a minute, meeting Jim's eyes again in the reflection. Jim looked weary and a little ... haunted, but the detective smiled when he realized he was being studied.

  "I wasn't a few minutes ago, but I think I'm hungry now."

  "That's good." Blair nodded, pushing away from the counter to stand next to the sentinel. "Let's go."

  Let's go home.

  Home. That's what they both wanted. How many nights had he slept at home since that day when Jim had evicted him from the loft? Three nights when he got out of the hospital. Two nights when they got back from Mexico. Five nights out of a month. His things were still in boxes. It didn't look much like home.

  It felt like home, though.

  "Dinner, then we hit the road." Ellison handed him his crutches.

  "Okay," Sandburg agreed. "You gonna tell me what's wrong?"

  Ellison shrugged. "Not sure what it is. I feel fine now."

  "So do I. Well, except for the foot and stuff. We okay though?"

  Ellison wrapped his arms around him, standing for a long moment, head down, his forehead resting on Blair's shoulder. He didn't raise his head until Simon's voice echoed through from the other room, asking if they needed help. "We're fine here, Simon. We'll meet you across the street at the restaurant." Ellison looked down at him. "We'll figure it out, Chief."

  Blair sighed as he made his way out of the motel room. Yeah, we're okay. It's the rest of the world that sucks.

  Part 2

  .

  The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand,

  nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship;

  it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that

  someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him.

  --Ralph Waldo Emerson

  * * *

  .

  "Pass the rice, please."

  "One shot through the neck. It hit an--"

  "Here. Anyone else want the prawns? I'll half what's left with you--"

  "Forensics wasn't sure. The amount of blood at the site was significant though, and--"

  "You only want rice? How about something else? Do you want more soup?"

  "Near as we could figure, there are at least four men from the Bainbridge area who are missing--"

  "How about more of the lemon chicken?"

  "The FBI recovered a considerable arsenal of weapons--"

  "They cleared probably close to half a million dollars on the--"

  The conversations faded out . . . not that Blair Sandburg had been attempting to follow them.

  He looked across the table at Evan, who was also poking at his rice with his chopsticks. Evan raised his head, his hooded eyes meeting Blair's, his face asking the same questions. Had it happened? All of it? Had the things so carefully not being discussed at the table really happened to them?

  It didn't seem real. Except for the aches and pains, the physical reminders, the faint smell of medication -- what had happened to them seemed like nothing more than a bad movie. A "B" flick, not worth staying up at night for. A book with an improbable plot.

  The nights and days they were held at the warehouse were blurred by drugs and pain, peaks of terror amid the gray clouds, shrouded images, flickering. He remembered huddling with Evan in the darkness of the storage room, waiting, hearing the laughter and the curses beyond the thin door. They had talked about everything else, anything else, refusing to speculate on what their wounds added up to, because the final tabulation would be too much to handle alone.

  But it was over, they knew they were safe now, and they knew it had happened to them. They bore the scars, if not the complete memories. However, knowing they were safe and feeling they were safe, were two separate things.

  Blair's hand tightened on his chopsticks, trying to breathe around the sudden tightness in his chest. He smiled, though, when Jim's arm brushed against his, the sentinel's casual touch, under cover of asking him if he wanted more rice, a blessed reminder of who he was, and who he was with. He was with Jim. He was where he was supposed to be.

  Jim had been amazing the last few days, quietly offering encouragement, verbally and physically and emotionally, despite Jim's own weariness, despite his uncharacteristic clumsiness at the table, knocking over his first glass of tea, and despite the pain that clouded the sentinel's eyes every time Blair had a mini panic attack. Jim reached over now, tousling his hair, needing to touch him, and Blair smiled reassuringly.

  That morning, in the hospital before they were released, he and Evan had decided they wanted to go to a Chinese restaurant that night. Okay, maybe it wasn't the best decision, but it had been so important at that moment, to do something normal, to be in public, not hidden away. There had been much debate over the wisdom of this, the other four men wanting to order in rather than leave the relative safety of the motel room, to keep them protected, to shelter them -- but from what? This normalcy was what he and Evan craved. Maybe not pretending that their capture and abuse had never happened, but at least acknowledging to themselves that life could and would go on. Sharing a meal with friends in a restaurant was the simplest of pleasures -- so what if neither man could eat more than a spoonful of food? It wasn't about eating. It was the socializing, the affirmation of friendship, that mattered.

  More than that, Blair knew he needed to see Evan interacting in the world with Nash and Harvey, to know that Evan would be okay. And he saw Evan looking at Jim and Simon, sizing them up, reassuring himself that Blair was also in good hands.

  I'm not alone. I know that. Blair glanced back to Jim, basking in the man's quick smile tossed his way.

  "You're not eating much for someone who insisted we go out for dinner. You doing okay?" Jim asked, reaching for another egg roll, dripping in grease.

  "You look like you're enjoying the food. Maybe we can take the rest of this home. I'll probably be hungrier tomorrow. We could have it for dinner."

  "Is that what you want?"

  Blair met his eyes, reading the concern. "I want to be stretched out on the couch at home, wrapped in the afghan, listening to some quiet music on the stereo." With you. At home. Alone.

  Jim heard the words he didn't say aloud. There was a tenderness in his friend's eyes that was sometimes hidden by the cool exterior of the cop or the mixed emotions of the sentinel, but as Blair looked at him now, he felt like he could see to the depths of Jim's soul.

  I'm not alone. What incredibly wonderful words.

  Blair looked across the table to Evan again, taking in the dark smudges under the young man's eyes, the weariness of his expression, the uncomfortable way he sat on the chair, and wondered if he looked as bad as Evan did. As he watched, Harvey poked Evan gently, nudging him to eat something more. Blair smiled, recognizing that particular manifestation of caring. Yes, someone was going to be watching out for Evan.

  Simon captured the end of Blair's plate and pulled it slightly toward his own, dishing out some of the bok choi, then sliding the plate back in front of him. "Eat up. It's good stuff."

  "Thanks," he murmured, his chopsticks stabbing the green vegetable, debating whether he should attempt to swallow it or not. For Simon's sake, he tried to eat the food dished out for him, but his stomach wasn't too happy about the prospect. Still, it was worth the effort. "Thanks, Simon," he whispered, tilting his head to smile at the captain.

  "No problem. Just eat it," Simon ordered gruffly, but the gentle bullying was so wonderfully normal that Blair's smile widened. Simon had been a solid presence at his side ever since he had been rescued, supporting Blair and perhaps more importantly, supporting Jim as the sentinel cared for him.

  Blair closed his eyes, reveling for a m
oment in the overwhelming sensation of being cared for. Or was it simply the knowledge of being valued that had healed his soul? Whatever it was, he wasn't ready to analyze it, which only proved to him how tired he really was. And Jim, too, was no longer making an effort to be a part of the conversation that was largely carried by Nash, Harvey, and Simon.

  Blair turned his attention toward his rice, trying to eat a few more mouthfuls. His chopsticks felt awkward in his hand, and he tried switching them to his left hand, which sometimes worked when he overused his right hand on the computer. But something else wasn't right. He felt offbalanced, like he was going to topple off his chair.

  When he glanced to his partner, he groaned silently as the slightly unfocused look appeared on Jim's face. Yet another zone-out, the third in the last hour. Harvey laughingly called the last one a "brown-out", commenting that Jim's power source was stressed to the limit and he was simply conserving energy. At least no one at the table seemed to be upset about it; the San Francisco detectives were probably just assuming this was a normal occurrence for a sentinel.

  Come on, Jim. Please don't do this. Stay with me, just until we get home. I'm not sure what's wrong here, but just stay with me, okay?

  Simon laid a hand on Blair's left arm. "Anything I can do?"

  "No. Thanks, Simon. We'll be okay." Blair closed his eyes and centered himself, holding tight to the shaky platform of his emotions. I need to do this on my own. I need to. He needs to know I'm okay. Blair's heart started beating faster, and he put his hand over his chest as though trying to quell the frantic thumping. Jim's fine, he told himself. He's just worn out. The events of the last ten days were just overwhelming sometimes -- devastating to Jim, who had been forced to watch from the sidelines when Blair allowed himself to be captured, in an attempt to rescue Evan and the others. "I do appreciate your concern, Jim. I'm okay. I'll be okay," he whispered softly, his words keyed to Jim's sensitive ears. "I know it's been a crappy few months, and things have not exactly been going smoothly. I suppose it's a wonder you can let me out of your sight."

  It hadn't all been bad, though. There had been some wonderful moments, too . . . After what happened at the fountain at Rainier, when he had first got out of the hospital and he hadn't been seeing properly, there had been an amazing closeness between them. Then he had come back from that precious time in Mexico ready to soar again, to take on the world. Instead, he had crashed into the hard unforgiving earth. Crashed hard.