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TSFF: On Staying Present
I was feeling a little nostalgic today (wishing words would come so I could put an idea or two on the blank screen), and this fic came to mind. For those who knew me in my TS days, you might recognize this. I never archived it because it never felt quite finished. But I thought I'd share.
The Obligatory Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Cascade, Washington, Det. James Ellison, Mr. Blair Sandburg, and anything else Sentinel-related belong to Pet Fly, Paramount, UPN, and anyone else who possess the proper paperwork. Sadly, I'm not one of those people. No money changed hands, blah, blah, blah. You know the routine.
Spoiler warning: This takes place shortly after "Cypher," so spoiler warnings are in effect.
On Staying Present
Jim Ellison prowled through the warehouse, the aches and pains of the two-story fall forgotten as he tracked his prey. In the background two floors above, he could hear his friend's rasping breath, the muffled clinking of links as Blair struggled weakly against the chains that bound him. Jim knew the sedative was taking effect, draining the strength from Blair's limbs though his mind remained aware, if not alert. Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Deal with the fear later. Spying his adversary's reflection in a broken pane of glass, Ellison spun around to face the perverse imitation of Blair Sandburg. David Lash swung a plank at the detective, violently knocking Jim's gun from his grasp. The weapon fell through a hole in the floor to the level below, and Lash ran down a stairway in a race to retrieve it. Jim leapt to the lower level, landing hard and rolling. As Lash grabbed another plank and made a final assault, Jim scrambled for his gun, aimed, and fired. Five bullets left the weapon; five bullets hit their mark. Jim peered over the edge of the flooring where the body had fallen, and staring back at him, from the lush green floor of the jungle, was his warrant officer, CWO Sarris. Jim jumped down
from inside the chopper. The thick, humid air pressed heavily against him. He'd salvaged what he could, supplies that would regrettably go much further now that they only had to sustain one man. Sarris was the last to go. Captain Ellison had done everything he could to try to save his comrade, but his best hadn't been enough this time. Pulling his last ounce of strength from an unknown reserve, Jim chose a spot next to Master Sergeant Shy's grave and began digging. The first shovelful of soil released a dank, loamy scent that mixed with the lingering smells of burning oil, metal, and flesh that still hung in the air. He thought of the picture Sarris had shared with him just before taking off for the mission, a photograph of his daughter in a Navy dress uniform. Sarris had been so proud of his little girl, even if she had chosen the Navy over the Army. Focus, Ellison. Complete your mission. Deal with the grief later. With the ground prepared, Jim made his way back to the chopper. He'd use Sarris's parachute to wrap the body in before burial. Climbing up into the open side of the helicopter, he was alarmed to find
the loft's front door hanging from its hinges, the door jamb splintered. Immediately on the defensive, Jim pulled his gun and called to Blair, but he received no answer. He took in the destruction of the room—whatever had happened, Sandburg had not gone willingly. Jim's jaw clenched. Someone had broken into his home, violated his sanctuary, abducted his friend. Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Deal with the anger later. Jim worked his way down the hall toward the bathroom door. He bumped it open quickly, and a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Lifeless blue eyes stared past him at nothing. Blue lips and a slack jaw spoke volumes of silence. A yellow scarf floated on the surface of the steaming water, and chestnut curls stuck to a pale face as they reached down, fanning out softly to lie next to the filmy sunshine colored fabric. Only the drip of the faucet and his own ragged breathing echoed in his ears. Jim felt a weight settle in his chest and a scream choke in his throat.
Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Fear, grief, anger, despair . . . you have a job to do, and that job includes
the call of shots fired at 1551 Stanton—a double homicide—a drug deal gone bad. As Jim called the remaining dealers out of the rundown house, he noted the body lying on the porch. She wore a bright pink crop top that showed off the piercing in her navel. A tattoo peeked out from the waistband of jeans that flaunted her developing figure. Make-up and blood caked stickily to her soft, smooth face. Twelve going on twenty-one, Jim thought as he again called out the son of a bitch who was dealing to babies. A voice from inside the house yelled a string of obscenities as the front door opened and another body was shoved onto the porch—a young man this time, probably about Sandburg's age, with the same long, dark hair and blood soaking the same flannel shirt. Taking his eyes off his target, Jim looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner was still in the truck. Stay present, Ellison. Separate yourself. Backup arrived as gunfire erupted around him. In the midst of the firefight, Jim watched in horror as Blair leapt from the truck and ran to assist a uniform who had just taken one in the shoulder. The dark haired officer with the classic features, Rafe, Jim’s mind supplied, leaned heavily on the young man, and the two struggled to find cover behind a police cruiser. They had almost reached safety when Jim heard the crack of an unseen rifle and watched Blair fall to the pavement . . .
Jim's eyes snapped open as he gasped for breath. Slowly, he sat up in his bed, resting his elbows heavily on his knees as he dragged his hands down his face and heaved a deep sigh.
~~~~~
Blair listened to the rustling of bedclothes coming from the room above. Jim must be having a restless night, he thought as he scribbled away in his notebook.
Then he heard a weary moan.
"Jim?" Blair called softly. "You okay up there?" When he received no answer, he went back to his schoolwork.
Moments later, he heard more rustling and another low moan. "Jim?" Blair placed his notebook on the coffee table and listened carefully.
More rustling and another moan.
"Jim? Hey, what's up, buddy?" Blair rose from the couch and walked to the bottom of the stairs.
More rustling and a quick, gasping intake of air.
"Jim? Hey, buddy, you okay? Jim?"
Still receiving no answer, Blair carefully and quietly made his way up to his friend's bedroom. He found Jim silhouetted in the dim glow of lamplight that filtered up from the living room below. Jim was sitting up, head hanging as if he carried the weight of the world, or at least the entire city of Cascade, on his shoulders. "Jim? Hey, man. What's up?"
"Nothing. Go back down stairs."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I’m sure."
"Did you have a bad dream or something?"
"I'm fine, Sandburg. Just leave it alone."
"C'mon, Jim. Talk to me." Blair's eyes adjusted to the soft lighting, and he watched his friend carefully as he made his way into the room.
Jim looked up at Blair, eyes dull with fatigue and the need for sleep. "I said leave it alone."
"Is it your senses?"
Jim swung his legs over the side of the bed. "No, it's not my senses," he replied tersely. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and pulled his hands down his face, then let them drop wearily.
"Is it today's bust?"
When Jim didn't answer, Blair knew he had hit the mark. "Look, Jim, you had no way of preventing things from going down the way they did. And if you hadn't heard that guy come around the garage, Rafe and I would've been toast, man. I'm telling you, when you're focused, you’re focused."
The corner of Jim's mouth twitched in a self-deprecating smile. "Whatever it takes to stay present."
Blair leaned against the railing of the bedroom loft and sighed. "Look, Jim, I understand. You've been trained for split-second response time, for being on the alert. Staying present is the difference between life and death for you, man. I know that. It'll take me some getting used to, but it's how you do what you do. And I can be pretty adaptable when I have to be." He lightened his tone. "So while I might have to, you know, excuse myself from an autopsy or ten, it's not a big deal. Just remember that when I deal with dead bodies, they're not really people anymore. They're, like, at least a couple hundred years old and mummified. But I can do 'present,' right?"
Blair caught his friend's eye, his smile a mixture of encouragement and question. Jim gave him a tired but agreeable half-smile and nodded. "Sure you can, Chief."
"Now do you want to talk about your dream?"
Jim shook his head. "No. It’s just how I balance 'staying present' with the other stuff."
Blair decided not to push—for now. The detective had been dealing with "staying present" for years. A few bad dreams and perhaps the occasional nightmare were, Blair imagined, par for the course. He knew he'd certainly had a few unsettling dreams since the Lash thing. It was when the subconscious didn't find a way to cope that things got ugly. Blair nodded. "Okay. Well, if you need to, you know, talk about it, you know where to find me." He pushed himself away from the railing and began descending the stairs.
"Sandburg."
Blair turned and looked at his friend.
"Thanks."
Blair gave his friend a warm smile and a nod, then continued down the stairs. After taking his place on the couch and picking up his notebook, he sat and listened until he heard the creak of bedsprings, the rustle of sheets, and the deep, steady breathing of the man upstairs.
~finis~
The Obligatory Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Cascade, Washington, Det. James Ellison, Mr. Blair Sandburg, and anything else Sentinel-related belong to Pet Fly, Paramount, UPN, and anyone else who possess the proper paperwork. Sadly, I'm not one of those people. No money changed hands, blah, blah, blah. You know the routine.
Spoiler warning: This takes place shortly after "Cypher," so spoiler warnings are in effect.
On Staying Present
Jim Ellison prowled through the warehouse, the aches and pains of the two-story fall forgotten as he tracked his prey. In the background two floors above, he could hear his friend's rasping breath, the muffled clinking of links as Blair struggled weakly against the chains that bound him. Jim knew the sedative was taking effect, draining the strength from Blair's limbs though his mind remained aware, if not alert. Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Deal with the fear later. Spying his adversary's reflection in a broken pane of glass, Ellison spun around to face the perverse imitation of Blair Sandburg. David Lash swung a plank at the detective, violently knocking Jim's gun from his grasp. The weapon fell through a hole in the floor to the level below, and Lash ran down a stairway in a race to retrieve it. Jim leapt to the lower level, landing hard and rolling. As Lash grabbed another plank and made a final assault, Jim scrambled for his gun, aimed, and fired. Five bullets left the weapon; five bullets hit their mark. Jim peered over the edge of the flooring where the body had fallen, and staring back at him, from the lush green floor of the jungle, was his warrant officer, CWO Sarris. Jim jumped down
from inside the chopper. The thick, humid air pressed heavily against him. He'd salvaged what he could, supplies that would regrettably go much further now that they only had to sustain one man. Sarris was the last to go. Captain Ellison had done everything he could to try to save his comrade, but his best hadn't been enough this time. Pulling his last ounce of strength from an unknown reserve, Jim chose a spot next to Master Sergeant Shy's grave and began digging. The first shovelful of soil released a dank, loamy scent that mixed with the lingering smells of burning oil, metal, and flesh that still hung in the air. He thought of the picture Sarris had shared with him just before taking off for the mission, a photograph of his daughter in a Navy dress uniform. Sarris had been so proud of his little girl, even if she had chosen the Navy over the Army. Focus, Ellison. Complete your mission. Deal with the grief later. With the ground prepared, Jim made his way back to the chopper. He'd use Sarris's parachute to wrap the body in before burial. Climbing up into the open side of the helicopter, he was alarmed to find
the loft's front door hanging from its hinges, the door jamb splintered. Immediately on the defensive, Jim pulled his gun and called to Blair, but he received no answer. He took in the destruction of the room—whatever had happened, Sandburg had not gone willingly. Jim's jaw clenched. Someone had broken into his home, violated his sanctuary, abducted his friend. Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Deal with the anger later. Jim worked his way down the hall toward the bathroom door. He bumped it open quickly, and a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Lifeless blue eyes stared past him at nothing. Blue lips and a slack jaw spoke volumes of silence. A yellow scarf floated on the surface of the steaming water, and chestnut curls stuck to a pale face as they reached down, fanning out softly to lie next to the filmy sunshine colored fabric. Only the drip of the faucet and his own ragged breathing echoed in his ears. Jim felt a weight settle in his chest and a scream choke in his throat.
Focus, Ellison. Stay present. Fear, grief, anger, despair . . . you have a job to do, and that job includes
the call of shots fired at 1551 Stanton—a double homicide—a drug deal gone bad. As Jim called the remaining dealers out of the rundown house, he noted the body lying on the porch. She wore a bright pink crop top that showed off the piercing in her navel. A tattoo peeked out from the waistband of jeans that flaunted her developing figure. Make-up and blood caked stickily to her soft, smooth face. Twelve going on twenty-one, Jim thought as he again called out the son of a bitch who was dealing to babies. A voice from inside the house yelled a string of obscenities as the front door opened and another body was shoved onto the porch—a young man this time, probably about Sandburg's age, with the same long, dark hair and blood soaking the same flannel shirt. Taking his eyes off his target, Jim looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner was still in the truck. Stay present, Ellison. Separate yourself. Backup arrived as gunfire erupted around him. In the midst of the firefight, Jim watched in horror as Blair leapt from the truck and ran to assist a uniform who had just taken one in the shoulder. The dark haired officer with the classic features, Rafe, Jim’s mind supplied, leaned heavily on the young man, and the two struggled to find cover behind a police cruiser. They had almost reached safety when Jim heard the crack of an unseen rifle and watched Blair fall to the pavement . . .
Jim's eyes snapped open as he gasped for breath. Slowly, he sat up in his bed, resting his elbows heavily on his knees as he dragged his hands down his face and heaved a deep sigh.
~~~~~
Blair listened to the rustling of bedclothes coming from the room above. Jim must be having a restless night, he thought as he scribbled away in his notebook.
Then he heard a weary moan.
"Jim?" Blair called softly. "You okay up there?" When he received no answer, he went back to his schoolwork.
Moments later, he heard more rustling and another low moan. "Jim?" Blair placed his notebook on the coffee table and listened carefully.
More rustling and another moan.
"Jim? Hey, what's up, buddy?" Blair rose from the couch and walked to the bottom of the stairs.
More rustling and a quick, gasping intake of air.
"Jim? Hey, buddy, you okay? Jim?"
Still receiving no answer, Blair carefully and quietly made his way up to his friend's bedroom. He found Jim silhouetted in the dim glow of lamplight that filtered up from the living room below. Jim was sitting up, head hanging as if he carried the weight of the world, or at least the entire city of Cascade, on his shoulders. "Jim? Hey, man. What's up?"
"Nothing. Go back down stairs."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I’m sure."
"Did you have a bad dream or something?"
"I'm fine, Sandburg. Just leave it alone."
"C'mon, Jim. Talk to me." Blair's eyes adjusted to the soft lighting, and he watched his friend carefully as he made his way into the room.
Jim looked up at Blair, eyes dull with fatigue and the need for sleep. "I said leave it alone."
"Is it your senses?"
Jim swung his legs over the side of the bed. "No, it's not my senses," he replied tersely. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and pulled his hands down his face, then let them drop wearily.
"Is it today's bust?"
When Jim didn't answer, Blair knew he had hit the mark. "Look, Jim, you had no way of preventing things from going down the way they did. And if you hadn't heard that guy come around the garage, Rafe and I would've been toast, man. I'm telling you, when you're focused, you’re focused."
The corner of Jim's mouth twitched in a self-deprecating smile. "Whatever it takes to stay present."
Blair leaned against the railing of the bedroom loft and sighed. "Look, Jim, I understand. You've been trained for split-second response time, for being on the alert. Staying present is the difference between life and death for you, man. I know that. It'll take me some getting used to, but it's how you do what you do. And I can be pretty adaptable when I have to be." He lightened his tone. "So while I might have to, you know, excuse myself from an autopsy or ten, it's not a big deal. Just remember that when I deal with dead bodies, they're not really people anymore. They're, like, at least a couple hundred years old and mummified. But I can do 'present,' right?"
Blair caught his friend's eye, his smile a mixture of encouragement and question. Jim gave him a tired but agreeable half-smile and nodded. "Sure you can, Chief."
"Now do you want to talk about your dream?"
Jim shook his head. "No. It’s just how I balance 'staying present' with the other stuff."
Blair decided not to push—for now. The detective had been dealing with "staying present" for years. A few bad dreams and perhaps the occasional nightmare were, Blair imagined, par for the course. He knew he'd certainly had a few unsettling dreams since the Lash thing. It was when the subconscious didn't find a way to cope that things got ugly. Blair nodded. "Okay. Well, if you need to, you know, talk about it, you know where to find me." He pushed himself away from the railing and began descending the stairs.
"Sandburg."
Blair turned and looked at his friend.
"Thanks."
Blair gave his friend a warm smile and a nod, then continued down the stairs. After taking his place on the couch and picking up his notebook, he sat and listened until he heard the creak of bedsprings, the rustle of sheets, and the deep, steady breathing of the man upstairs.
~finis~