website at: Forest in the Sky, http://www.ravenswing.com/~fits
Summary: ...wherein Jim rescues himself, Blair worries over Jim's thumb, Simon gets mad at the Feds, Joel wants the chili ostrich recipe and Jim just wants the chili.
Story notes: Takes place immediately after Secrets, sort of a low-key conclusion to that episode entirely non-representative of how Jean actually wants the epilogue to turn out. Sounds familiar? That's coz this baby was first posted on 5 Feb 2001 under the same name, but it being Jean's first time, the formatting was really awful lacking in background notes and details. Now that she's wiser, she's reposting again but with a re-edited version: more canon details has been added, more mistakes corrected, and thanks to Nena's heads-up, reference to that notorious ice-skater has been taken out.
Non-ownership: No, no, no and no, she doesn't own them.
Warning:Still not properly beta'ed other than a spelling and grammar check. Pre-slash. And if you find any more inaccuracies in canon facts, let her know.
Rating:Pre-slash. No sex. Yet.
by Jean St. James
16 Jan 2001
He's still leaning there against the wall, the rifle snug in his arms. He turns when I blast through the roof access, and gives me a tired nod.
"Jim!" I get myself over to him as quickly as I can. Okay, so I run a little. Maybe more than a little.
"Hey," he says, his voice raspy in the wind.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
But I am running my eyes all over him. I see the overnight stubble, the new lines of fatigue, the pale cheeks, the terrible red rings around his blue eyes contrasting with the blackness of his lashes. They make him look like someone has used blood and kohl on him instead of eyeliner.
"Jesus," I can't help wincing.
"I'm fine, Chief," he rasps again to reassure me. "You guys showed up in time."
"What they usually say about cavalry and timing, huh?" I joke a little shakily. "Though you seem to have everything under control without any help."
A sudden gust of wind blasts across the roof. I shiver involuntarily, but not Jim, even though his knuckles are white with cold. There he's standing, steady as a rock and totally unfazed. He really doesn't look like someone who has just emerged from a few days of captivity under god knows what conditions. He looks more tired, actually, like a man who hasn't slept. Which is what he probably is.
Sometimes, I wonder about my roommate. He's a stand-up, take-charge, take-action kind of guy -- something anyone can figure out within three minutes of meeting him. But I'm thinking that if Jack Kelso hasn't regained consciousness in time to clue us in on Oliver's location, Jim probably would have finished rescuing himself, arrested the bad guys, and then called us from a payphone to complain about having to do it all alone. That kind of ability just doesn't exist in every ex-Ranger. I mean, look at what happened to Sam Holland. Speaking of whom...
"Um, Jim..."
But he isn't looking at me. He's staring down into the street. I stop and I see the stillness of his posture, and suddenly, I'm reading, like, the hundred thousand words he's not saying.
It's a strange thing how Jim speaks to me without making a sound. I like to think I'm the only one he does that to, but sometimes, I see Simon and Joel reading him the same way too. It makes me feel a little uncomfortable, like the captains are somehow encroaching on something private. And maybe I've felt the same way towards Carolyn too, albeit to a lesser degree. After all, she's now in San Francisco. And let's face it: if she ever was as adept as the three of us in deciphering Jim's non-speak, she wouldn't be the ex-wife now, would she? And she wouldn't be in San Francisco now, too.
"You know who that is?" he asks. He's staring at something unseen in the distance below.
I don't have to look to answer. I've always been afraid of heights, a phobia no amount of therapy could help. And if Jim insists that I look...well, I've seen the body come hurtling down onto the SUV, and heard it breaking its spine with a sickening crunch. So I don't think I need to look. Not that I think he'll insist anyway.
"You mean the late Colonel Oliver?"
"You met?" He shoots me a questioning glance.
"Oh yeah. Simon has a lot to say about that. Oliver impersonated a Fed and took custody of Sam Holland's body before we -- "
Jim looks stricken.
I want to kick myself, except that I need both legs to stand.
"Oh god, Jim. I'm sorry. I cannot believe I let my mouth run away like that -- "
"It's okay, Chief," Jim interrupts, his voice dark with emotion. "I think I knew, you know? About Sam."
I stare at him.
"I just didn't want to believe my gut instincts, that's all," he says, before turning quickly away.
He thinks I can't see how my mistake is tearing him up. Okay, so I know factually it isn't my mistake, because I'm not responsible for his old buddy's death, but it's just -- well, it feels like I'm the one causing him pain, okay?
"Oliver didn't want anyone connecting Sam to him. That's why he took the body."
Jim's voice is floating back to me in the wind. His back is mostly turned towards me, and all I can see of his profile is the pale curve of one cheek. His tone says it doesn't matter that his worst fears about an old friend has just been confirmed. His body, however, is saying otherwise.
I move closer and put a hand on his back. The black nylon of his windbreaker is cold, but I can feel the heat of his body radiating from within the thick padding. Softly, I begin to tell him. Starting with the last time I saw him walk out of our front door, and working my way to the point where Simon and I look up and see him on the rooftop with the rifle. He listens quietly, but begins shooting me this look he has when I get to the part about the loft being broken in.
"What?" I pause to ask after the third time.
He sighs in exasperation. "Chief, I'll eventually be updated on everything anyway. You know that."
"But Jim..."
"Just spare me the obfuscation, alright?" he says tiredly. "I'm not really in the mood for it."
I sigh, rewind and tell him again. In detail this time. About how close the bullets actually came to my head. About the harrowing hide-and-seek up and down Prospect. About the creepiness of the station holding cell. There is no escaping Jim, really. His eyes remain fixedly on me throughout my narration and if he's anyone else, I'll be flattered by the attention my storytelling is getting. But see, he's Jim, and I know that riveted stare isn't the result of anything I'm doing except for the concern I'm causing. He's checking me out in that way only a Sentinel with medic training can.
"You're okay," he announces when I wind down.
"Of course I'm okay," I snort indignantly. "I wasn't the one who was kidnapped and tied up and stashed god knows where and threatened and -- "
"Alright, alright, alright!" He throws up a hand in surrender.
"Jim, come on. It's been a rough last couple of days. I think that entitles us to a few days' break before you don the Blessed Protector cape again."
"Sandburg..." He gives me a stare.
I have to hand it to him. I mean, he's pale, tired and worn, and the fatigue lines on his face are deepening with every passing second, but he still manages to convey every degree of annoyance in that one look. It would have worked, too, if I haven't had two years to develop immunity.
"Jim, take a break. I need a break, even if you don't."
He narrows his eyes at me. A familiar expression begins taking hold of his face, the one that says he knows I'm bullshitting him and my below-the-belt tactic isn't going to work. He jabs a finger at me.
"Sandburg, the next time someone comes after you, or me, run in the opposite direction, understand? You don't try and go back to the place where they first spotted you."
Well, yeah. What does he think I did? Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have tried to get back to that phone booth, but hey, I needed a phone and I didn't have time to make sure the cell was in my pocket before ducking out the fire escape...
He interrupts my thoughts by straightening. "Come on, I'm sure Simon can use some help."
Actually, I don't think the captain does, but I'm not about to argue if it gets me out of another lecture. Besides, it's a control thing with Jim -- god forbids he should enjoy the coddling he normally accords to the kidnapped victims he rescues -- and a sensible person just doesn't argue control with Jim.
So I wait while he bends to lean the rifle against the wall for the forensic team to find. That's when I notice the scope he's putting back on the weapon.
"You shot out the tire without the scope? From up here?"
He shrugs. "It got in the way."
"But Jim, that's...that's like, an incredible distance!"
He pauses to look at me. A small, satisfied smile curls his lips. "It's a pretty neat, huh?"
Pretty neat. Duh. He's understating his own abilities as usual. I punch his arm.
He laughs. It's a ringing sound, deep and soft. He reaches out to ruffle my hair.
And I glimpse a patch of sickly dark red.
I arrest his hand before it can make contact with my hair. Holding it up, I turn it over.
His palm is covered with congealed sticky blood. The flesh of his thumb is ragged, torn by a puncture wound that is still oozing that coppery-smelling stuff.
"Oliver did this to you." I don't think I've ever spoken in a colder voice.
He tugs his hand away. "Not him."
"Then who?"
He glares at me, but relents when I don't budge.
"They were drugging me," he answers softly. "I pushed a nail into my thumb to keep awake. It'll heal, Chief. No big deal."
I think I ceased listening after the third word. "Drugs? They drugged you?"
"Just a knockout sedative, Chief." Jim's voice sounds gravelly. "It only worked as well as the rest of the stuff I tried for my shoulder."
"It only worked as well -- Jim, it didn't work at all, did it?"
"Only for a few minutes."
Shit. "Shit!" I curse out loud. But I've nagged at him before, and I won't nag at him again. "That's it," I declare instead, reaching out and taking his injured hand. He resists.
"That's what? And what are you doing?"
"We need to research your responses to medications once we get back. And I'm taking a look at your thumb." That god-awful hole in his thumb is horrible to see.
His other hand shoots to my shoulder. "Hold it right there, Chief. One, I'm not about to subject myself to some crazy tests of yours. And two, the wound isn't a big deal. Leave it be." So saying, he tries to pull out of my grasp.
I grip his hand tighter. Mostly because it's pissing me off that some-damned-body had trained him to use pain as counter-therapy and then brush it off as a no big deal. Partly because he is pissing me off with the cavalier attitude. In my book, there's no room for levity when it comes to his drug reactions.
"You're dead wrong on both counts, Jim," I tell him flatly. "Now, keep still."
He glares at me. But I don't budge. If you want Jim Ellison to do something you want, you cannot budge. The perseverance pays off. Like now, for instance, when he finally sighs and relents.
Good.
Now, I'm no medic, but Jim has taught me that applying pressure directly to the wound will help stem the flow of blood. I'm pulling out my handkerchief and doing it now, and though his hand is plaint and lax in my grasp, I notice the wince he's trying to hold back. And I think, tough, tough guy. Sometimes it's okay to be a human, alright?
But despite what I'm thinking, I nevertheless try to be as gentle as I know how. Jim may carry this macho iron-man image of himself around in his head, but I've seen the armor and I know it ain't thicker than an eggshell. He's got to be hurting, with the highly sensitive hands he has. And I'm guessing his control is also pretty shot too, because of the drug.
It's a testament to my skill at Jim-speak that he doesn't say a word while I work. It's got to be taking all of his concentration to dial down the pain. His hand feels cold, his skin dry and clammy.
"I don't suppose they had the consideration to feed you too?" I say, hoping to take his mind off the discomfort.
"They tried, but I wasn't in the mood for their cuisine," he answers laconically.
I spear him a look.
"Chief, I was a little busy at the time," he hedges.
I get it. But it's a toss up between two guesses: either Jim was preoccupied with escaping from his prison, or the goon bringing the food was the escape. I'm betting on both. "God, you must be starving," I say instead.
"Honestly, Chief, right now I feel more tired than hungry."
At last, I'm satisfied that the makeshift bandage won't fall off. I look up at him for approval.
He nods. Then gives me a faint smile.
"No problem, man," I say in answer. "Though we still need to get it looked at. Infection might spread."
"Later," he insists.
I want to argue, but he is already moving away from me, towards the roof exit. I can only sigh and follow him, keeping one eye on him.
In case.
Jim's metabolism is uniquely incredible. I think that he doesn't realize just how unique and incredible it is until recently. There he is, one minute marching down the stairs in front of me with his customary grace and authority, and in the next, I'm sticking myself under his arm as a human crutch before he can break his neck in a nosedive.
"Shit! Jim, you okay?"
He doesn't answer, because his eyes are shut tight. What color there's left in his face is gone. He's now a distinct shade of gray.
I prop us against the stairwell wall, and when I'm relatively sure he's not going to slide away from me, I reach up to feel his forehead.
It's burning. So are his cheeks, his neck, everywhere else I touch him except his hands. Which are cold as ice.
I tell him so.
His eyes slit open. "About that infection you were saying, Chief?" he gasps.
"Yeah?"
"Well, it's here."
An infection, says the paramedic, probably from the rusty nail. Tell us something we don't already know. What we need is for some prescription to be written out to start a germ warfare in his body, but we aren't going to get that from the back of the ambulance. Or from the pretty blonde either, though from the way she's laying her professional hands all over my partner, I'm thinking that maybe she can be persuaded.
We have no choice but to cart my complaining roommate all the way to the ER, leaving Simon behind to deal with the scene. Something in Simon's demeanor tells me he'll take the Feds over a grumpy Jim if given a choice. Not that he needs a choice, being the captain and all.
Still, I think Simon is getting the short end of the stick, considering the noise volume he and Cameron have been generating. We were hearing them even before we reached street level. My attention was mainly on my partner, watching over every step he was taking to make sure he didn't fall while mentally ticking off a list of things to do to help my Sentinel recover from his ordeal. As such I didn't immediately register the shouting match until Jim straightened from where he was half leaning on me.
"What?"
He nodded wordlessly out at the street.
I looked and saw our intrepid captain locking horns with the pissed off Federal Agent. Their stances were faintly reminiscent of rhinoceros bulls butting heads in an alpha-male showdown.
Now, since becoming Jim's ride-along, I've seen more than enough to completely believe the popular conception that cops and Federal Agents hate each other's guts. They really do. Their animosity has never been more prominently displayed than today.
"Captain," Jim called. I noticed that he was using that soft tone, the one containing equal parts respect and relief that any superior would have been proud to hear.
Its effect wasn't lost on the arguing men. Amazing how that one softly uttered word could penetrate through the din they were making. The argument ceased abruptly, rather, Cameron ceased abruptly, partly because of that softly uttered word, and partly because Simon was no longer there in front of him, arguing back.
Simon is a big man, and even on normal days, his strides tend to eat up distance in a way few men can hope to match. Jim is one of those few, and so will Joel, if not for his weight. Before I could catch up, the captain was there, clapping his big heavy hands on Jim's shoulders and squinting down into Jim's face as though he could will any injury to show up by the sheer power of his stare.
"You're okay?"
Even from here, I could see the relief, worry and anxiety warring for dominance behind those gold wire-rims. I jogged towards them quickly.
"Yes, sir," Jim was saying.
"You sure?"
"He's running a fever, and he's got a hole in his left thumb," I interrupted before Jim could brush the question off.
The captain scowled, but it was betrayed by the gentleness with which he took Jim's left hand and inspected the bloody ragged puncture for himself. He muttered a curse, and dug into his coat pocket for his cell phone. "I'm calling for the paramedics," he said, his voice and his glare brooking no argument.
If anyone noticed that Simon would rather dial the phone one-handed than let go of Jim's hand, no one dared breathe a word. I myself was relieved for another reason. Even on my best days, I don't look forward to the task of hauling Jim's stubborn ass before any kind of medical inspection. Now, at least, Simon had settled that for me.
Jim, oddly enough, didn't argue with the captain like I expected him to. Instead, he was looking towards the Feds' dark sedan. I followed his gaze briefly to see what had caught his attention.
Ah. Ben Chavez, the formerly missing ATF agent, the subject of this entire mess. The man was pacing impatiently around the motorcade. He looked nothing less than five miles of bad road and if anyone asked me, I'd say he was more interested in a hot shower and warm bed than a pissing contest over jurisdiction and procedures.
Jim let his eyes sweep past Chavez and the vulture-eyed Cameron before returning to Simon. "Is everything alright, sir?" he asked in that deceptively casual way of his.
Simon didn't reply until he finished talking into the phone. Then he snapped the device shut, let go of Jim's hand, and smiled. Or, I might say, pulled his lips back to bare his teeth. The expression didn't bode well for the Feds.
With a wave of his cigar at the white-draped body lying on the ground next to the black SUV, the captain said, loud enough for the entire street to hear, "Chavez is alive and well thanks to you, Detective Ellison. And one hell of a shot, by the way."
I couldn't help taking a peek at Cameron to see his reaction. His scowl wasn't a pretty sight in the least.
"Oliver was trying to take down Chavez and set me up to take the fall," Jim was replying like the good soldier Uncle Sam taught him to be.
I met Simon's gaze, and without meaning to, silently began to count. On three, Agent Cameron picked up his heels and began storming towards us. Well, not actually towards us, but Jim. Right into his face, to be exact.
"Detective Ellison," he started without preamble, with a singular lack of courtesy that had Simon and me bristling. "You were in the middle of this."
Did that sound like an accusation?
"Depends on what you mean by 'in the middle'," Jim returned quietly. "If you mean was Norman Oliver behind the whole pipeline to the cartel you're after, then the answer is yes. For the last seven years. Maybe even longer."
That bit of information stopped whatever tirade Cameron was about to spit. "This case is under Federal jurisdiction, Detective," he bit out instead, with a hostile look in Simon's direction. "Any information you supply from your end will be crucial. You will give your statement to me personally in my office in an hour's time, including everything you know about Colonel Oliver and your connection to him. Leave nothing out." He gave Simon an unfriendly stare. "I'm sure your captain understands."
That pissed Simon off. Hell, it pissed me off. I watch the captain calmly fold his arms, but I wasn't fooled. Because the man had nearly bitten his stogie in two.
"We know our duty, Agent Cameron. You can expect our co-operation even without that statement. But as to how much Ellison can say about Oliver, that's not up to him, you or me. You'll have to personally ask the government."
The agent's face darkened. "Don't think I can't do that, Banks."
"Then do it. But until you've got some kind of clearance from the CIA, or the Pentagon, or the NSA, Detective Ellison remains strictly under my command and he'll present himself for debrief when I'm satisfied he's physically fit to do so." With that, Simon drew himself to his full formidable height and glared down at the Fed.
The hint that Jim might not have survived his ordeal totally unscathed blew the wind out of Cameron's sails. Short of impersonating an unsympathetic bastard in front of his men, there was nothing he could do to counter Simon's statements, which everyone knew was reasonable enough.
He settled for glaring back at the captain. "Make sure he does," he snapped, and then turned and stalked away.
We stood watching the motorcade repack Chavez into the sedan and drive away. Leaving Major Crimes to clean up the crime scene, as usual.
"Since when are the Feds in the habit of treating kidnapping victims as guilty suspects?" I wondered aloud.
"Since eternity," Simon growls. "They're also ingrates. They would have lost Chavez without Jim."
"I don't like the way Cameron handled it either, Simon," Jim says tiredly. "But I think I understand where he's coming from. I'll bet he's suffering under a lot of pressure from the higher ups."
"That doesn't mean he can ride roughshod over my detective, especially when said detective didn't exactly come out of this one hundred percent." Simon turned worried eyes on Jim. "You look worse than I feel, Ellison. And I feel like hell."
Jim rubbed his uninjured hand over his eyes. "It's been a long couple of days. I'll be fine."
"As soon as you're checked out okay," I interjected. "How's the temperature?"
"Climbing," he admitted. "Look Simon, let's not waste time waiting for the paramedics. I'll walk you through the scene."
"That's not necessary..." Simon began, but Jim cut him off.
"Come on." He turned on his heel and went back inside the building.
Simon looked to me in appeal. I threw up my hands. I knew enough police procedure by now to know Jim really didn't have to walk us through the scene. He could have given us his statement out here on the street and it would have been enough.
But the situation wasn't about police procedures and making statements. It was about Jim Ellison setting his mind on something, and no one getting in his way. At least, not until he fell flat on his face.
I cast a meaningful look at Simon and jog to catch up with my partner.
He led us first to the basement. I knew without having to ask that this was where he'd been held. The broken pieces of nylon ties and the handcuffs were dead giveaways. As Jim and Simon conferred, I squatted down and carefully examined the restraints.
There was no blood on them, thank god, but there were a few dark crimson spots spattering the concrete floor at the base of the pillar support where the handcuffs lay discarded. Two years ago, I would have been hard put to tell what those spots were. Now, I recognized them immediately.
I looked up to see Jim looking at me. My heart rate must have sped up unconsciously.
Because this was where they'd hurt him. Where Jim had dug that nail into his thumb to fight the effects of the drug.
Jim excused himself and came over. "You okay, Chief?"
I stood up. "I am if you are," I told him.
He held my gaze an instant, and then looked away. "You'll find the weapon Oliver was intending to use up on the roof, sir," he told Simon. "His, and my fingerprints will be on them."
Simon scribbled in his notebook. "Noted. And who was the woman? Cameron got in my face before I could question her."
"She said her name's Tanya. She works for Oliver, though in what capacity I'm not sure. They set it up to fool me into thinking she was just a helpless secretary who got caught in the middle like me."
"They were hoping to ferret out of you what Sam Holland told you," Simon finished with a grimace.
"Yeah," Jim confirmed tonelessly. "Except that Sam didn't have a chance. I fell for the ruse, though. That is, until she cold-cocked me."
I winced. So did Simon.
"I've always felt there was something off about Oliver, but I didn't know what. If I hadn't...if my unit hadn't been shot down..." Jim paused to rub his face.
Neither Simon nor I interrupted. I remember seeing the empathy in the captain's face. I remember feeling an impotent rage.
"During my time in the jungle, I found tracks made by armed men going in and out around the borders. It didn't take much snooping around to identify those men."
"Members of the Cali cartel?"
"I didn't know they were Cali's men then. All I knew was that some of the faces I saw were the same ones I noticed around Oliver's office. That's when I knew why Oliver gave us the wrong co-ordinates. He didn't want anyone poking around uncovering his pipeline. But when I got back to the States..."
"You couldn't prove a thing."
Jim nodded wearily. "Damned right I couldn't. The only evidence they could pin on him was the sabotaged co-ordinates he supplied our pilot."
"So he went down for mission sabotage but not for his cartel racket." The captain sighed. "What a mess. I'm glad it's all cleared up now."
"Even if it did take seven years."
"Still..." Simon waved his cigar helplessly. He shook his head. "What are the odds, Jim, that you might not have been involved if Holland hadn't come to you?"
"I'd say close to zero, sir. Oliver had an axe to grind, and Sam was dispensable. The bastard would still have come after me eventually." He shrugged. "Better sooner than later, I suppose."
"So Kelso was right," I muttered beneath my breath.
But Jim heard me, as usual. "He told you?"
"We would never have figured out where you were without his help," Simon answered him, putting his notebook away. "And he got shot for it."
"Shit." Jim rubbed his brow.
I could see the headache coming on, and glared at the captain. The last thing Jim needed right now was to hear about Jack, on top of Sam Holland and the memories of his dead unit.
"How is he?" Jim managed to rasp.
"Recovering," Simon quickly reassured, giving me an apologetic nod. "Like you should be."
"I said I'm fine, sir."
"Not according to my definition of the word." He draped one heavy arm over Jim's shoulders and turned my partner in my direction. "Take him outside, Sandburg. Make sure the paramedics get a good look at him. They should be here by now."
I was at his side in an instant, my hand on his back. "Come on, big guy, you've done what you can, here. Time to look after yourself."
Surprisingly, Jim didn't argue but let me guide him through the door. Before we exited, I caught Simon's worried look. I didn't say anything. It was understood between us that I'd take good care of Jim.
The ambulance was waiting when we resurfaced. And this is where I am now, wondering whether to con the paramedic into writing out the prescription to avoid a trip to the ER, where there will undoubtedly be doctors, who will undoubtedly be interested to find out how something so minute as a rusty nail could blow into an infection fever in a couple of hours. His fever is mounting too rapidly for my comfort, and the tear in his thumb is taking on a suspicious swelling. There is also a darkening reddish bruise surrounding a dark red spot on the side of his neck, as well as another needle puncture on the inside of his right forearm. Not to mention the bracelets of chafed red bruises ringing both his wrists like some sadistic jewelry. I hear the words tranquilizer dart, sedatives, and nails that Jim is bandying with the medic, and my blood pressure rises.
Jim shoots me a glance. "You're okay, Chief?"
I look at him, and wonder what could cause a man to have absolutely no conception of his place in the hearts of his friends.
"We need a doctor to take a look at the infection," the paramedic announces.
"That isn't necessary -- " Jim begins.
"It is," the medic interrupts. "We're not qualified to prescribe antibiotic treatment, and that's what you need. We don't know what that nail has come into contact with, and you don't want gangrene to set in."
So much for my idea of sweet-talking her.
"I know how to keep it clean," Jim stubbornly insists.
"That will work if infection hasn't set in yet, but it has." She gives Jim a no-nonsense stare.
I'm developing new respect for the tiny woman. Jim is giving her one of his patented glares, but it's rolling off her like rainwater on oilskins. And then my partner gives in, albeit mulishly, and I think I'm not just developing respect, I'm downright awed. The number of people who can stare Jim down and get him to do what they want can be counted on one hand. Myself excluded.
"I'll ride with you," I add, shooting my best charming smile at the medic. "See, I've always wanted to ride in the back of an ambulance with sirens wailing."
"Oh, there won't be any sirens, honey," the woman smiles back at me. "This isn't a life or death emergency, so we won't need it."
"Ah, rats," I grin.
Jim shoots me an irritated glance. "Down, Sandburg."
"What did I do?"
We don't stay at the ER long. Mainly because Jim is itching to leave and I'm itching to keep him away from the overly curious doctor.
"I've never encountered anything like this," the man is gushing while bandaging Jim's thumb. "An infection setting in this fast is -- "
"It's been at least a day," I quickly obfuscate, catching Jim's glance. "And I saw the nail. It was really dirty, you don't want to touch it without gloves."
"That explains things," the doctor replies, but it's clear from his expression that he isn't a hundred percent convinced.
"Yeah. About his prescription?"
"It's at the front desk. Just take it to the dispensary and have it filled out."
"Okay. Sure. Thanks. Come on, Jim, I can hear a shower with your name on it." I tug on Jim's arm and lead him out of the curtained cubicle without waiting for his reply. He barely has enough time to snag his windbreaker from the gurney.
Jim doesn't say a word as I pull him along into the dispensary, collect his medicine, settle the payment and insurance, and finally out into parking lot. After the last couple of days, it will be a long time before I let anyone examine my Sentinel too closely.
A black and white is waiting to take us back to the loft. Bless Simon. The uniform tells me that the captain has ordered me to call him as soon as Jim is cleared. I nod to the officer in acknowledgement and usher my silent partner into the back seat. Grateful as I am to the captain, I know I won't be making that call until I have Jim back at home, surrounded by tons of blankets, warm food, with a remote in his hand and his favorite Jags playing on the TV screen.
The officer turns out to be an excellent driver, and once again, I mentally bless our captain for picking the man. Halfway through the journey, Jim rests his head back and closes his eyes. In seconds, I hear a soft snore.
I let him sleep. I am tempted to do the same myself, but there's no way I can rest just yet. Surreptitiously, I pick up his bandaged hand and wrap it in both of mine. He shifts at the contact, and I look up to see his eyes slit open a crack.
"Rest," I whisper to him below my breath.
His eyes obediently slide shut.
I try not to steal too many glances at him. I've heard the grapevine about Ellison's longhaired civilian partner and the last thing I want to do is feed fuel to the fire. The one time I allow my eyes to wander towards him during the trip, there's a crease deepening between the dark slashes of his brows and his lashes are fluttering rapidly against the curve of his cheekbones. Something's haunting his sleep, and I don't need to be a sleep expert to guess that the ghost is about seven years old and wears the face of a recently deceased ex-US Army colonel.
I debate whether to wake him. But then, we are pulling in front of Collette's. A drizzle is just beginning. I reach over and gently shake one sloping shoulder.
"Jim, we're home."
There is no response. I shake a little harder. "Jim."
He jumps awake, hitting me in the jaw. I duck to avoid another fist.
"It's okay! It's okay!"
I think I'm trying to assure everyone in the cruiser. The uniform officer looks like he's about to climb over the seat and physically do something, anything. Jim still isn't hundred percent awake. And I'm rubbing a sore chin.
"Jim! Jim, wake up!" I all but yell.
He complies with a half-strangled shout. I mentally make a note to tell the officer to keep what he's seeing to himself. Jim doesn't like to have his vulnerability displayed.
"Relax! Jim, we're home, man. You all there?"
For a few breathless seconds, I sit squashed against the opposite side of the seat as far away as I can from the man I've come to call my best friend. There's no recognition in those wildly staring blue eyes, and I'm wishing someone would necromance Oliver back to life if only to take my place for an instant.
Then Jim seems to see me, and notice where we are. He shakes his head a little, mumbles something, and then disappears out of the car so fast it leaves me blinking.
"It's the medication," I say to the nonplussed officer.
Understanding dawns on his young face. I silently thank the obfuscation god for his gift. "Look, uh, you wouldn't, like, you know, talk about this or anything..."
He smiles at me. "My old man was a cop, Sandburg. I've seen it all before."
I smile gratefully. "Thanks, man. And for the great driving."
He looks incredulous. "After riding around with Ellison? I'll bet."
I laugh a little, not at all comfortable with the fact that Jim is probably hearing us even this very minute. Saying goodbye and another round of thanks, I scramble out of the police car and chase after my partner.
Jim is the lobby, jabbing impatiently at the lift buttons. There's this tingly feeling on the back of my neck that tells me something is about to erupt. His finger is curt and rapid on the plastic square. I'm surprised to see that thing hasn't cracked yet.
"You okay, big guy?" I ask cautiously.
He jerks a nod without looking at me.
The elevator -- surprise, surprise -- opens. We go in, he jabs for the third floor, and I sidle to the opposite wall out of fist distance. Jim may look like he's awake, but for all I know, he could be on autopilot and is still in some kind of zone. A nightmarish one. I don't want to have to explain to Simon about new bruises. And if I don't survive, I sure don't want Jim to wake up and face what he has done.
It's with a sigh of relief when the elevator opens on the third floor and Jim gets out before I can move. However, he only gets as far as our front door, where he abruptly freezes.
What now?
Let's see, Joel and I managed to straighten the loft up earlier, nothing that's broken is left lying around, the forensic marks are gone, the bathroom towels are on their rails, dishes are washed, leftovers in their red Tupperware...
"We need a new door," he says. "Again."
Oh.
"We'll go shopping soon," I promise.
He turns and looks at me, and there's something inscrutable in his gaze. I can't put a finger on what I'm sensing from him. But I'm liking it, whatever it is.
"Jim?"
"Yeah?" he almost whispers.
I clear my throat. "I'm glad you're home."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he says, "Me, too."
And I reach into my pocket and pull out the keys before the embarrassment could take a firm footing. The door comes unlocked in a second. "Home sweet home," I declare with a flourish.
He looks at me with those same inscrutable eyes, and then pushes the door and goes inside.
I watch him grind to a halt in the middle of the loft. There he stands, and looks around. I don't need to see his eyes to know that they are roving over and checking every visible item. I let him do it, knowing he needs to imprint himself on his personal territory again.
Then he sniffs the air, and turns to me. "You made chili?" he asks.
"Ostrich. Gave Joel an upset stomach."
"Let me guess, he ate the whole bird." A wan smile lifts one corner of his lips.
It's the first sign of humor I've seen from him since finding him on that rooftop. Feeling encouraged, I regal him with a little of Joel's bathroom experience. It gets him chuckling towards the end.
The sound warms me. I sweep the loft expansively. "So what do you want to do? Sleep, shower or eat?"
He considers briefly. "Everything. In that order, I think."
I smile. "Go ahead, then. There's still some chili ostrich leftover, if you want."
"I want," he replies firmly, then gives me a grin before going upstairs.
And I watch
him go, the heavy burden in my heart finally dissolving as he disappears
over the top of the final step.
"Yeah, he's alright," I say as softly as I can into the phone, while trying to clean up the remains of meal. "It isn't serious, they prescribed antibiotics...yeah, me too. I can't help imagining how they must have trained him...I know that, Simon, it's just...okay. Okay, I hear you...he does, does he? Well, tell him Jim can't come in until Wednesday. Doctor's orders...yeah, I'd like to see his face too...Thanks, Simon. See you Wednesday."
Leaving the dishes to soak, I quietly replace the phone in its cradle and chance a peek up at Jim's bedroom. I can just see the top of his head through the railings, although the snores are coming down loud and clear.
Which reminds me of my own weariness.
As quickly and quietly as I can, I clean up the kitchen, then go to take my own shower. Changing into sweats, I find myself hesitating enroute to my room.
It won't hurt anything if I just peek in on him. Just to make sure.
In case.
Nodding once to myself, I propel myself towards the stairs and tiptoe up towards the upper sanctuary.
That's what I've come to think of Jim's bedroom. A sanctuary. A place for the Sentinel to rest and regroup. To heal.
Upon reaching the top step, I have to smile.
Jim has apparently fallen asleep on his way to the mattress, for he was lying on his stomach, his feet sticking out the side. His face is turned towards me, mouth slightly open as he snores, with his left hand resting curled up at his chin, the bandaged thumb touching his nose. His hair is standing in tousled shiny spikes, the result of falling asleep with a damp head. And he hasn't even taken off his robe.
I move over to him, and gently lift his legs. He doesn't stir as I set him right on the mattress, or when I pull the comforter from under him to lay over him. Knowing he won't feel it, I rest my hand on his head, feeling the silky crispness of his hair between my fingers, then softly stroke his cheek.
I don't ever want to let him out of my sight again.
It is a long time before I can bring myself to remove my hand. And an even longer time before I feel assured enough to leave him to his slumber and go to mine. Silently, I back away from the edge of his bed and turn to leave.
A soft rustling stops me. I turn back to see Jim watching me through weary eyes.
"Hey," I all but whisper. "Just thought I'll check on you. Make sure you're okay."
"I wasn't really asleep," he replies, his soft voice hoarse and quiet.
I frown. "You're alright?"
He sighs and turns onto his back. "Tired as hell. But I can't get my mind to stop."
"I know that feeling." I pad softly back and place myself on the edge of his bed.
For long moments, he says nothing but remains staring up at the rain pounding on the skylight. Many a time I've wondered what he sees in those droplets, if his extraordinary sight gives him a perspective different from others.
"I keep hearing Sam, you know. What he said to me before all hell broke loose." His voice was a whisper.
They are the words I've been waiting to hear. They can't be doing him any good staying all bottled up inside. Something has to give, and I've been hoping it would be onto my listening ear. I've just never pictured it would come so soon, with me sitting beside him on his bed. Once again, Jim has managed to surprise me.
"He didn't listen when I told him to stay clear of Oliver," Jim murmurs distractedly, half to himself and half to me. "The last thing he told me was, he wished he had."
"I'm sorry, Jim." Insufficient as that is, it's the best I can do. I can't pretend to know how it feels like to be him, surviving what he has and going through what he's going through now.
His chest expands, then deflates as he lets loose a heavy sigh. When he speaks again, his words would have been inaudible if not for the reverent quiet that seems to have descended in the loft.
"You know, until you told me about Sam, I always have this sense of gratitude at the back of my mind that I'm not really the sole survivor of my unit. There was always Sam. The one man I was able to save."
I know that story already. Jack Kelso told me. But I think I want to hear it from Jim's perspective.
"He fell sick on the eve before departure. It threw a wrench into the mission, but I ordered him to pull out. I even went to the infirmary with him because he was so shaky on his feet. We weren't best buddies or anything like that, but we were close. We mattered to each other. At least, I know he mattered to me. He had this...naivety about him, somehow. Like you, in a way." He throws me a glance, and then quickly looks away.
I wait.
Abruptly, his jaw muscle clenches.
"I never suspected. Not even once. He fooled me, Sam did. So did the medic who treated him. Oliver put them up to it. He arranged for Sam to fake the flu." His eyes close in pain. "I didn't save Sam, Chief. Oliver did. Because Sam must have agreed to join him at Graft Technologies. The stupid kid."
Don't get me wrong, I am a pacifist, and I am one still. But I'm not above the occasional streak of violence. And right at this moment, I have a fierce desire to inflict some serious damage to Oliver's corpse. I did a paper on survivor's guilt once, and theoretically, I know Jim must have felt some kind of redemption in that Holland had gotten out. But now, with that one tiny comfort wrenched away...
I lay my hand on his arm and stroke the tense muscle through the dark green terrycloth sleeve. He doesn't draw away from me, and neither one of us speaks for the moment. My touch against his skin is communicating enough for two worlds.
"Thanks, Chief," he whispers hoarsely.
I pretend not to hear the tears choking his voice.
"Get some sleep, big guy. I'll be here when you wake up."
Just like that, his eyes close and the tension melts out of his body. I watch slumber draw him down into its bosom as his body visibly melts into the sheets.
Sometimes, he lets down his guard and I glimpse the depth of his trust in me. The first time it happened, it kept me awake with a pounding heart until it eventually sent Jim pounding down the stairs with his gun in his hand. I've learnt to hide it since.
Quietly, I leave and go in search of
meditation candles.
I haven't meant to oversleep, so guilt is the first thing I feel when I wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The next thing I feel is a painful rumble in my stomach. A glance at the alarm clock tells me it's the morning of the next day, and my body is demanding that I refuel it after the long fast.
I stumble out of my room.
"Morning, Chief," Jim greets from the kitchen.
Then I see Joel sitting on one barstool at the island counter and do a double take.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," the bomb squad captain says with a wave of his coffee mug. "Do you know Jim makes a better cup of coffee than those fancy flavored stuff Simon drinks?"
I grunt. I have never claimed to be a morning person.
Jim chuckles. "Go on, finish waking up before you trip over your hair."
I grunt again and go to seek out the bathroom.
It's amazing what the routine of brushing teeth, showering and sitting on the throne can do for a sleep-hazed person. I come out of the bathroom feeling more alive than I've felt the last couple of days, and I'm even humming when I re-emerge from my room in fresh jeans and shirt.
Jim is wearing that god-awful apron and beating the batter for pancakes. He's the only guy I know who is so comfortable in his masculinity that he doesn't think twice about donning that flowery thing and doing something as domestic as cooking in front of his colleague. He hands me a glass of OJ as I pass him to get my algae powder, and I manage to greet Joel properly this time.
"So what brings you here?"
"I'm officially on leave for the day," Joel says.
"Uh-huh." I look at him.
The rotund captain prevails for all of a second before he crumbles. "Okay, so I was hoping to get that chili ostrich recipe from you."
And I know that's only half the truth. It's easy from the way his eyes track my partner in the kitchen that Jim is the other half of the reason the big man is here on the morning of his day off. But I play along with him, just the same.
"That's more like it. Honesty is the best policy, man," I tease. "But aren't you afraid of another bathroom experience?"
"I'll go easy on the recommended quantity of chili," Joel says earnestly.
I laugh. Next to me, Jim chuckles softly and gives me an amused glance.
For the first time since waking up, I take a good look at him.
If he has an infection fever the day before, you can't tell by looking. He's wearing that comfortable light-blue T-shirt, and the cream denim jeans that fit him just snugly enough to outline his lean curves. His color is back to its usual peaches and cream, and his lips rosy from the steam of the coffee machine. The dark stubble on his jaw is gone, the circles under his eyes faded to their normal shade. And despite the white plasters on the side of his neck and his arm, and the bandage on his thumb, all in all he doesn't look like a man who has recently been kidnapped and drugged.
We chat awhile, shooting the breeze without once touching on the events of a few days ago. Joel is no fool despite his appearance. He's sensitive enough to be aware that Jim needs a break for a little while.
He mentions Simon being dead to the world.
"I gotta get him to teach me that eight-hour trick," he says wistfully.
"What eight-hour trick?"
Jim speaks up. "As long as Simon hits the sack before sunrise, he can fool his body into thinking it had eight-hours' worth of sleep."
I consider that a second. "Shit," I say to Joel. "Make sure you call me before you grill him."
Joel chuckles. "Will do. If there's anybody who can use a stunt like that, it's cops and grad students."
"You said it, man." I toast him with my OJ glass.
"Strawberries or blueberries?" Jim asks from the vicinity of the fridge, where he's squatting on his hunches and peering into the crisper compartment.
I get up and lean over his shoulder. "Blueberries," I decide.
"Joel?"
"Blueberries are fine."
I lean away as Jim straightens with the little plastic basket of blueberries in his hand. He frowns down at me. "Stop hovering already, Chief. You're getting in my way."
"I can't help it, man." I raise my hands in surrender. "If you ask me, I don't think you should even be cooking."
"I'm on antibiotics, not incapacitated," he growls.
"Fine, fine, I'll just perch myself here with Joel." So saying, I walk over to the other side and take the other bar stool.
Joel is looking vaguely amused, but I can see the concern in his eyes.
"As long as he doesn't do anything strenuous," I mock whisper loudly.
Jim waves his spatula at me without turning. "I heard that."
"You were meant to," I snort.
"Give Blair a break, Jim," Joel pipes in. "He was really worried about you. We all were."
Jim doesn't reply for a moment, focusing his attention on the washing the blueberries in the sink and shaking them dry. When he finally turns around, he holds up the glistening bunches in his hand.
"I hope this makes up for the fishing trip," he says softly.
I recognize Jim's form of apology. The thing is, he hasn't offended or hurt my feelings in the slightest.
"Just remember to take the next weekend off," I grin at him. "I think Simon owes you that."
He grins at me. "Yeah, he does." Then he goes back to plucking the berries from its stems.
We have a leisurely breakfast, talking and laughing with Joel, and sharing recipes. Jim really is a great cook, though I'm never going to tell him that. You can tell it from watching Joel, however. Unlike most cops I know, the bomb squad captain is one classy gourmand, and one who has heaped no less than three servings of the Ellison blueberry pancakes special.
Finally, Joel takes his leave and Jim closes the door behind him. I am washing up, since Jim has done the cooking. When I finish, I see him leaning against the kitchen table and fingering my Cree fishing spear.
"What did you say this was again?" he asks, making jabbing motion with the spear.
I tell him. "Why, interested in a lesson?"
He snorts. "Only if I want to entertain the fish." He returns the spear to its place.
"Right, go ahead and deride my implement. Just remember payback's a bitch."
"I'm not deriding you, Junior. I'm stating a fact. That thing won't work."
"You wanna bet?"
"Sure. Next weekend. Just make sure you have a fifty ready."
"Deal." I high-five him.
He quirks a smile at me. "So, what you want to do for the rest of today?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Stay home. Rest. Why? You planning something?"
"Nothing more exhausting than a trip down to the market," he says quickly to forestall me.
But I go ahead and disagree anyway. "I can restock the groceries, man. Why don't you stay home and uh, watch TV or something?"
"The Jags won't come on until four. And I want a good dinner. Come on, Chief. It's only a trip to the stores. The doctor didn't say I was grounded, did he?"
He is looking at me with big blue eyes. If anyone tells him, he'll deny it vehemently but Big Bad Jim Ellison isn't beneath pulling a Sandburg puppy-dog when it suits him. Especially if the recipient happens to be a Sandburg.
Still, I hesitate. "I dunno, Jim..."
"Chief, there wasn't enough of that chili last night. I'll like to have a bit more, if you don't mind. Without Joel shoveling away most of it." He offers me a little smile.
Okay, that does it. When the lug actually stoops to buttering me up...
Besides, I'm beginning to get a hint on how I can make him cooperate for the drug tests later.
"Let me get my coat, then."
His answering smile is all I need to erase any lingering doubts.
"I told you, didn't I?" I can't help rubbing it in as we make our way down. It's pathetic, I know, but hey, try being me for a little while and you'll understand how hard it is to have Jim Ellison buttering up to you. "Not all tasty meat has to be laden with harmful cholesterol and saturated fat. Ostrich is healthier than venison even, and the protein of a higher quality. Did you know that..."
He lets me chatter on all the way, nodding at appropriate moments to show that he's listening and even asking a few questions. It's weird, but I decide to make the best of my good fortune and not look a gift horse in its mouth. So I start in on what I know about nutrition, the importance of getting enough good quality non-saturated fat choked protein, and versus the benefits of adding tofu to the diet among all the meat...
Then we're finally walking away from the checkout, and
he quietly tells me, "Actually, Chief, I liked the chili."
Completed 16 Jan 2001
First posted to 852 Prospect and SXF on 5 Feb 2001
Re-edited 9 Mar 2001
Reposted to 852 Prospect on 12 Mar 2001