LRHBalzer
INTERLUDE FROM "NIGHT TRAIN"
James Ellison leaned against the center island of his kitchen, arms folded, and pensively stared at the young man sleeping on the futon in his guest room. Well, what was formerly his guest room.
Now I suppose it's Sandburg's room.
And said Sandburg was out to the world, the despised dose of extra-strength Sen-Quil having knocked him into la-la land. He was sick, wiped out by the heavy duty cold that had hit Ellison two days previous.
It was strange seeing the man lying so quietly, so still. It wasn't without precedent, of course. The first day Ellison had brought the kid to his place, Sandburg had fallen asleep, exhausted after the Switchman fight, sitting upright on his couch. The next time, after Kincaid, Ellison had convinced Sandburg to rest for a while after the trauma of the day, and the kid had curled up on his couch and slept.
Then Sandburg's warehouse home had been destroyed, and suddenly Ellison had company, the newly purchased furniture in the converted storage area magically ready for the new occupant. Ellison was still trying to figure out how that happened. He had felt a sudden need to buy furniture for the room, someone at the police department had some to sell, and he found himself moving a futon bed, dresser, desk, and bookshelf into the downstairs study/storage room. However serendipitous it was, Sandburg appeared a day later. Presto: instant room, instant roommate.
And then good old Lash, of course. Ellison shuddered, shifting his shoulders trying to relieve the tension as the memories brushed the surface of his emotions. Lash just a few weeks earlier had been the deciding factor, the first time the violation of Ellison's home had not been about possessions and territory, but about a person, a person other than himself. Lash had broken his door down, and had broken the sanctity of his lair, his refuge, his home.
The thought, even now, sparked a heartburn of fury, engulfing the sentinel. How dare he... How dare Lash enter his territory. How dare he touch.... Violate... Breathe on...
Damn. I'm starting to believe Sandburg's spiel. He's conned me into thinking like him now. Like I'm the head of my little tribe. Pissed off at people entering my 'territory' uninvited. Lord James Ellison of the Prospect Colony. Shit.
Well, it did piss him off. Sandburg was just starting to sleep through the night after Lash's contribution to the nightmare pool, and now this. This-- This--
Ellison blinked, refocusing on the raspy breathing of the young man. This was different, he had to remind himself. There was no bad guy this time -- except for blaming himself for passing on the germs. This was just being sick, not suffering from shock, or being drugged, or overtaxed. This was coughing, sneezing, stuffed head, runny nose, feeling crappy.
Maybe if I had superpowers, I'd blast this virus to hell. Germs: Up against the wall. Come on, spread 'em. Bacteria: Stop or I'll shoot. I said stop. BLAST. BLAST. Ah... got you all.
Ellison shuddered at the direction his mind was traveling. He really needed more sleep himself.
He turned around and grimaced at the pot simmering on his stove. The infamous tea. At least Sandburg had tried to drink some of the noxious tea he had made for Ellison the day before, but the scent alone was enough to bring up the meager breakfast he'd eaten that morning. Making a quick, don't-even-think-about-arguing-with-me decision, Ellison drained the rest of the liquid down the sink, dumped the twigs and bark and whatever else was in the pot into the garbage, then bagged it all and took it down to the garbage bin in the alley.
It would take weeks to get the stench out of the pot itself, but it was a start, at least. It was something he could concretely do, to take charge of this one small area of his life, the cleansing of his cooking equipment.
He carefully lowered the metal lid to the apartment's dumpster, aware of Sandburg's alleyside window three floors above him. A metal staircase wound back and forth up the side of the renovated warehouse building, stopping at Sandburg's room, then winding one floor above to his own.
Hey, I've got an idea, Sandburg had said a few days before. You go down to the alley and open the dumpster, and I'll drop them in from way up here. It'll save you taking them down.
I think I can carry one garbage bag, Sandburg. That doesn't make any sense. Why should two of us do a job that only requires one person?
Because it's more fun. Hey, do it my way this time, Jim, and I promise next time we can switch and I'll open the dumpster and you can throw in the garbage bag.
Or maybe you go back to whatever it is you're working on, Chief, and I promise I won't throw you off the fire escape.
Standing outside now, Ellison smiled in spite of himself and looked up at the blue mid-day sky, watching the clouds steadily move across the otherwise clear expanse. He shook his head, trying to put words to his mixed thoughts. What exactly is going on here? What happened? In one form or other, he'd been asking himself that for weeks, ever since this particular anthropologist descended into his life.
"Every Sentinel needs a partner. Someone to watch his back," Ellison quoted at the clouds, then turned and entered the building. The back stairs were waiting for him, and by the time he reached the third floor, he was breathing heavily. Damn virus. It was still lingering, robbing him.
Ellison stood at the entrance to Sandburg's room and brushed the curtain aside. He glared at the rather pitiful lump beneath the quilt. "Every Sentinel needs a partner. Someone to watch his back. That means follow me. Watching my back means you are behind me. Don't get involved."
The lump didn't move. Sandburg was once again ignoring him. Ellison let the curtain close and returned to the kitchen.
I'll have to remember to tell him that when he's awake. Damn kid just is so... capable... sometimes, that it's hard to remember.
It really was.
Sandburg was... No... Sandburg was easy to trust. No, that wasn't right, either. Not that it was wrong, but it wasn't what Ellison was trying to put into words.
It just seemed so natural to include him.
That was it.
It just seemed so natural to include him.
Which was why Ellison was going to have a lot of explaining to do to Simon Banks the next day.
Ellison stared inside the refrigerator and scratched his head grimacing at the ache in his muscles, courtesy of a number of fights and a session with the underside of a train car. So it was a stupid move, bringing the kid along.
But it made sense at the time. The line had been crossed though. Bringing Sandburg along was one thing. Putting a gun in his hand and expecting him to go against the bad guys was clearly something else.
But it had made sense at the time.
Then again, I was seriously whacked out by my cold and the reactions of the cold syrup.
Even Simon had gone along with bringing the rogue anthropologist along, despite the restrictions on what they could tell him. (He'd have to remember to remind Simon of that during their meeting.)
Rogue. A good name for the kid. A scamp. What else did it mean? Disobedient or something?
Ellison closed the fridge and wandered to the dictionary and flipped it open. I should really go to bed.
He found the word. "Rogue: Vagrant, tramp." He smiled. Well, that sorta fit. Sandburg dressed like a tramp half the time and didn't have anywhere to live. Well, except in my spare room, which in three weeks has been thoroughly transformed into Sandburgville.
What else? "A dishonest or worthless person." No. That wasn't him. Sandburg was many things, but Ellison couldn't apply either label to him. The kid could obfuscate with the best of them, but he wasn't dishonest and he was of utmost value to one stressed out Sentinel-in-training.
"A horse inclined to shirk or misbehave." The smile widened. A new nickname beckoned. Trigger, maybe? Or Buck? Cochise? Silver? Mr. Ed? The rest certainly applied. Stay in the truck, Sandburg... I mean it. Stay in the truck. Are you listening? I'll be right back. Stay in the truck. He would walk away and sixty seconds later, the kid was on his shadow. It was almost as if there was no way of stopping it.
Someone to watch my back.
Sandburg did have a point: how could he watch Ellison's back from the front seat of the truck?
Then again, Simon had an equally strong argument: he's not a cop.
"An individual exhibiting a chance and usually inferior biological variation." Ellison scratched his head again and put the dictionary away. That sounded more like him than Sandburg. Although Sandburg would argue that the sentinel was anything but inferior.
Ellison stretched out on the couch. He hated all-night assignments; it left one disoriented in the morning. Your body really needed to sleep, but it was daylight and the regular daily cycle kicked into place, ignoring the lack of sleep of the previous evening. So, instead of making himself go upstairs and lie down on his bed, he'd pretend this was merely a sunny day relaxing nap. Yeah.
Maybe when Sandburg was feeling up to it, he'd let the kid do those tests he promised.
Maybe.
EPISODE MISSING SCENE
Ellison moved away from the police cruiser and stood beside Sandburg, watching the Hazmat team at work. He could see the tremors still coursing through the student's body, Sandburg's arms wrapped around himself, trying to contain the post-adrenaline rush nerves. "Ready to go?"
"Go? Yeah. Sure." Sandburg glanced over at him, then back to the Hazmat team. "They've secured the virus. The container's locked up for transport."
"Good." Ellison turned him around and pointed to where their vehicle was parked. "Let's get you locked for transport, okay?"
"Sounds good." Sandburg stood nodding, looking like a little toy spring dog with a wobbly head stuck on someone's rear car window. "Yeah."
"Chief?"
"What?"
"We got him. Brackett will be put away for this. It's over." Ellison looked down at the younger man, seeing that his reassuring words weren't getting through.
"What if he says something?"
The sentinel sighed. "Then we'll handle it. Let's not cross that bridge before it happens."
Sandburg shivered and laughed. "Let's not cross any bridges for a while. I'm probably going to piss my pants even looking at one."
Ellison cocked a smile at him. "Then get a ride home with someone else, Chief. We cross a bridge to get back to the loft."
"Oh, did I say bridge? I meant foot bridge, specifically. I'm okay with those big ones. Anything that will take me home -- no problemo." Sandburg smiled wider, some of the fear falling from his face. "Let's get going." He headed off toward the parking area, dragging Ellison.
They were on the road before he spoke to his partner again. "You still feeling rough? Are you cold?"
Sandburg glanced over to him. "Me? No. No, well, it's just this flu bug still, I guess. The smoke in the lecture hall didn't help either. It'll be fine tomorrow."
"So are you cold?"
"A little chilled. I'm fine though."
"I can turn up the heat."
"No. We'll be home soon. I'm fine. Not to worry." Sandburg turned and seemed quite engrossed with whatever was out his side window.
Ellison's grip tightened on the wheel. Great. More things to add to the kid's anxiety levels.
Blast that Brackett.
Rogue.
Now, Brackett was a rogue agent, for sure. Dishonest and worthless, the dictionary had said.. The description fit Brackett to a "T".
"Can we detour by MacGregor's Natural Foods on Wiltshire?"
"For what?"
"Just some stuff. Some vegetables. Rice pasta. I need some shampoo." As though it were an after-thought, Sandburg added in a soft mumble, "Oh, there's some homeopathic supplies there too."
Something for your nerves. "Sure. Don't take too long, though. I'm beat." He turned down the side road and pulled up outside the grocery store.
"No problem." Sandburg slid out of the vehicle and ran into the store, noticeably off-stride.
Ellison's hand smashed against the steering wheel. This wasn't working. He was putting the kid in danger, dragging him into areas that he had no business being in. Doctoral students shouldn't be trying to stop crazed CIA agents who used things like the Ebola virus as a weapon to steal a spy plane. It wasn't in the job description.
"You said you were just supposed to watch my back."
And, truth be told, Sandburg had watched his back, and had guided him out of that bad zoneout.
Guide.
That's what Brackett had called him. A guide.
Guides led people.
But Sandburg said he was supposed to watch Ellison's back, which implied following.
The way Bracket used the term, though, it sounded more like Sandburg would be leading and Ellison following.
Which didn't sound good at all.
No. They would be talking about this.
Ellison stared through the window into the store and tracked Sandburg standing in the check out lineup, still shivering, eyes hollowed and haunted, his hands clutching his few purchases trembling.
Tomorrow. Soon. They'd talk about it.
The End