Disclaimer: Jim, Blair and the rest of the Cascade crew belong to Pet Fly. I just let them come visit sometime.
Spoilers: "S2P1/2", "The Waiting Room", various ones dealing with Blue Light Land and invisible four-legged mentors.
Rating: PG, at most. Some swear words.
Many thanks to wolfpup for space on her site, and congratulations for winning the 2002 Burton Award. And a big "Hey-ho!" to my feedback and beta expert, Andrea. No, you can't have her, although she might lease herself out for a reasonable rate.
Linda Stoops
At six-thirty A.M., the alarm clock rang as it did every weekday morning in the third-floor, number 07 apartment at 852 Prospect in Cascade, Washington, and every weekday morning, Cascade's Sentinel, a man with five enhanced senses (or maybe six; the jury was still out on the subjects of interaction with spirit animals, bringing one's partner back from the dead and talking to ghosts), shut off the noise and pushed himself up to a sitting position in bed. A scent wafting from the kitchen twitched the olfactory processors in his brain up a few notches, identifying the smell as coffee mixed with multi-grain bread, cold smoked salmon and eggs with a trace of green onions. Breakfast usually wasn't this elaborate, although it got more so on holidays and birthdays, leaning more toward eggs, toast and coffee for him and a concoction of algae powder and supplements in filtered water for his roommate. This morning, he could barely discern the odor of wet seaweed among the rest, and for that he was grateful. Last night's pursuit and arrest had led to a dip in the Sound, and it had taken two handfuls of shampoo to get the stink out of his hair. His clothing went directly into the wash last night, too, and he knew those would be going through a few cycles as well.
He got out of bed, pulled on his robe and began to lean out of the bedroom to call a greeting to the loft's other resident.
"Ah-ah-ah, no peeking!" the voice warned. "What's for breakfast? I want details." As a Sentinel's Guide, his duty was not only to prevent the fugue states called "zone-outs," where one type of input was focused on to the exclusion of all else, but also to help the watchman pinpoint and describe stimuli where ever necessary. This led to planned as well as impromptu experiments.
"That's what this is? A test?"
"Well, maybe a little. I figured you needed something after that dive you took last night. I haven't checked the laundry yet. You'd be a better judge of whether those jeans needed to go another round, so I'm leaving it to you."
"Right. Okay, breakfast: eggs mixed with green onions, wheat toast with some other grains in it -- I think I smell rye and sunflower seed -- regular coffee, the Nova Scotia you got yesterday, and your algae shake."
"Nothing else?" The tone in the voice hinted at possibilities.
"Hmm." He took a breath in through his mouth, increasing his perception of the air-borne particulates. "Can't get past the pond smell. Sure you didn't go for a swim last night, too?"
"Funny, so funny. All right, you can look. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything from cold juice and--"
"Ah-hah, doughnuts!" He swooped into the dining area and grabbed for the top ring of the trio on a plate near his designated setting.
"Hot food, first, please. That much sugar, and you won't eat anything else. Come ten o'clock, you'll be starved and cranky from the blood-sugar plunge." The sharp look in the other man's blue eyes forestalled any negotiation.
The doughnut rejoined its companions, but not without a regretful frown from its former captor.
"Thank you. So, food's ready. Help yourself." Turning the heat off under the pan of eggs, the Guide picked up his drink and brought the buttered toast to the table.
"So, do you think you'll be coming in to the station today?"
Caught in mid-mouthful, he held up a hand for patience until the shake had cleared the throat. "One-thirty, maybe two. I've got a test first thing, then I'm covering for another professor while she's got the flu, followed by a 400-level class, and my office hours run till one, but you know how students are."
"No sweat. It's gonna be paperwork and interviews from the raid, then walking whoever the D.A. sends us to cover this through the maze. She knows what's going on, but she's in the middle of the Coleridge racketeering case right now. Simon wants to know if you'll sit in on the meetings with the neighborhood and area merchants' groups." Delivering the remainder of his breakfast to the table, the detective sat down and began to eat. As much as his partner nagged him about a healthy diet and brought home god-knows-what from the various food shops round town, he did appreciate the range of recognizable foods that did make it into the apartment, and he made an effort to try some of the odder things. Liking them, of course, was another matter.
"He mentioned that last night while the EMT was checking you out. I suppose you got her number." Stuffing toast and lox into the mouth took the place of a response. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" A glare substituted for another. "Yeah, well, anyway, the meetings won't be until four today and three on Wednesday, so it's cool." He grinned. "Civilian observer to police liaison, huh? Wouldn't that be sort of a promotion? Should I send a bill for services?"
There was a quick swallow to answer that one. "Try it, and I'll bet Simon will use it to light his cigar."
"Hey, then maybe I should write it up on some of that flash paper you get at the magic shop on Whittier Avenue. Snick... FWHOOM!" Hands gestured expressively, suggesting the lightshow-to-come.
"Oh, sure, and then we'll both be doing cold case files for the rest of the month. Thank you, no."
"Nah, he wouldn't do that. Simon likes me. He'd understand a little, tiny, harmless practical joke."
"Stop plotting for a minute and remember who we're talking about."
"Ahhh... right. Okay, no bill, no FWHOOM."
"Now you're using your head, Einstein. Damn, look at the time." He shovelled the last of the eggs onto some toast and ate it while taking his dishes to the sink, alternating a clean-up with chugs of coffee.
"I'll get the rest of the dishes. Hit the showers."
"Right." He scooped the clothes laid out last night under one arm and disappeared into the bathroom. In closer quarters now, he could swear he smelled lingering residue from the Sound, so he washed all over once more and shampooed again for good measure. A thorough shave and teeth-brushing, and he felt 100%.
The kitchen and dining room were pristine when he came out, and he nodded approval. As his roommate had taught him to extend his palate, so, in turn, did he instill more conscientious behavior when it came to household cleaning. Most of the time, anyway. When you lived with someone, activities became a series of compromises. He'd learned that in college and, later, the Army.
Yesterday's news had called for clear but cool weather today, so he slung his leather jacket over the holster rig and weapon he'd slipped on without a second thought. Routine was good, too. You could handle surprises if a good part of the day were routine, not having to think about what to do next every minute. He was getting to the point with his senses where dialling up and down and avoiding overloads were becoming habitual, too. Controlling his abilities, above everything else, was the best routine he could strive for.
After all, a Ranger expected nothing less than the best from himself.
"See you around two, then." Grabbing his keys, he strode out the door.
"Yup," came the reply from the couch, above the clicking of computer keys.
He was in the parking lot and starting the engine when his cell phone rang.
"Sandburg."
"Hey, you missing something off your jacket? Like your ID?"
A glance down confirmed the absence. "Shit. I'm on my way up."
"Don't worry, Chief. I'm heading out the door now. See you in thirty."
"Thanks, Jim."
A beep in his ear, and the caller disconnected.
Yes, Blair Sandburg thought, settling back and extending his Sentinel hearing to track his Guide's descent to the street, having something -- and someone -- you could count on was the best thing to have.
THE END