FEET ON THE COUCH - CYPHER

LRH Balzer

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

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

But he's moving out on Sunday.

Sandburg hadn't said much about it.

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

But does he want to move out?

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

But why does he have to move out?

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

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

What if I ask him to stay?

No, it's better this way.

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

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

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

Get rid of him? That sounds a bit harsh.

I'm just being realistic.

Forget being realistic. Go with your gut feelings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do I want to do?

What the hell. Let him stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About Sunday?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's a month away."

"Just a month?"

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

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

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

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

"How much would I pay?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Then my next question is -- why?"

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

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

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

"Answer my question. Please?"

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

"I want to."

"Then eat your dinner."

"You always going to be this bossy?"

"Probably. You got a problem with that?"

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

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

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

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

Lash was dead.

Blair?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lash?"

"Dead."

"You shot him?"

"Dead," Ellison repeated.

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

"I can hear it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blair."

"Blair, what's your last name?"

"San'burg."

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

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

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

"Jim."

"And this man?"

Sandburg nodded. "S'mon."

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

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

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

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

"Yes. Remember?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He settled in quickly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope."

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

"Yup."

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

"Yup."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're welcome."

"For rescuing me."

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

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

Jim shrugged, looking away.

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

"What did he do to you?"

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

"Which job is that?" Blair asked softly.

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

"What about 'Sentinel'?"

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

"What?"

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

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

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

Blair nodded, wiping his eyes.

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

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

"I am."

"I didn't screw it all up?"

"No."

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

"I'm leaving in two."

"Four?"

"Three."

"Deal."