A "missing scene" from the third season episode "Mirror Image."
Gonna be fine. Everything's fine, Blair reassured himself, falling into step behind Jim. Man, do I ever have to get out of here. He was glad Jim kept the pace at a steady jog even though it wasn't strictly necessary. Blair had been so certain that Chapel had been right behind him on the stairs....
Stop shaking, he told himself. Jim checked the stairs.
He followed Jim through the numerous security check points which separated the maximum security section of Conover from the administration offices. Blair's backpack was retrieved from the front desk, in it a change of clothes he'd packed for himself before entering the institution.
"I'll make sure Chapel is secure. Meet you at the truck?" Jim asked. Blair nodded gratefully, accepting the keys to the truck and slipping his backpack over one shoulder. Ellison gave his back a pat, then was off down the hallway back the way they'd come.
Sandburg found the nearest restroom and ducked into it. The tiles were beige, the walls were beige, the stalls were a slightly darker beige.... He knew the neutral colour scheme of the place was meant to be calming but Blair found it actually inspired a sense of isolation.How does someone with nothing but rage inside connect to a peach-painted world? The academic in him wondered if there was a paper there somewhere just waiting to be written.
"The Importance of Red by Blair Sandburg," he muttered to himself as he tried to decide what colour he most closely associated with fear...Oops. Nice effort at distracting yourself. Points for trying.
He stepped into a stall, dragging the beige door along after him and latching it shut. A few moments later, Blair happily stripped out of the institutional underwear he'd been provided and replaced them with a pair of his own, followed by a comfortable pair of jeans and a sweater. Abandoning the stall, he let his hair down and ran his fingers through it before leaning over the sink to splash water on his face. Next he checked his neck in the mirror, gave his appearance a nod and prepared to go.
Turning in his identification and blue patient-wear, Blair scrawled his name in the appropriate log book. A few words spilled off his tongue before he registered the guard's complete disinterest in conversation of any kind. Blair tagged whatever sentence he'd started with a too-cheerful good-bye, turned on his heels and practically skipped out of the building. Stepping through the doors, he spent a minute deliberately trying to appreciate the outside world, then promptly decided that the outside world was a few degrees too cold. He swiftly descended the front steps, hoping that the jacket he'd handed off to Jim the day before was still in the truck. Jim's Ford was parked in a visitor's spot near the base of the stairs.
Blair let himself into the truck, settling in the passenger's seat. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, and he contemplated turning the engine over and cranking up the heater. He wondered how long Jim would be, and that thought took him back to Chapel. If Chapel wasn't in his cell...Blair elbowed the door lock down. He knew he was being paranoid, but then decided that was actually appropriate considering he'd just been released from a mental institution.
Minutes passed, and Blair sat in the truck shivering, the cold wait sending his mind spinning over the last few days. Like now is a good time to start thinking about bodies with bruise-blackened necks and bullet wounds.... Blair shook his head ruefully. He couldn't believe how thoroughly and quickly one could lose oneself in an place like Conover. He'd been delivered to the institution wearing orange coveralls and padded cuffs only the day before. It was part of the standard admitting procedure, and they didn't want to risk an inmate noticing a variation in the pattern and passing the word along.
The cuffs...three blocks from Conover, Jim had parked the truck on a back street and the two of them had hopped into the back of a prison transport van. The cuffs had been produced after the vehicle's doors had been closed and locked into place. Blair hadn't thought about it, hadn't braced himself for it, so when he saw them his heart had kicked against the bone it was caged in. It didn't help that they were almost an exact match for the restraints Lash had used on him. Jim had picked up on his reaction and almost called it off then and there. But I convinced him it would be fine.... It was fine. It is fine. I'm fine.
The driver's side door handle flipped, and Blair gave a violent start before he realized it was Jim. He reached across and unlocked the door.
"You okay?" Jim asked as he took the driver's seat and accepted the keys from Blair. Ellison felt a slight tremor as their fingers touched. Christ, the kid is still shaking.
"Yeah, you just startled me," Blair answered. "Chapel?"
"In his cell. They've added another guard and stepped up security. A thorough search for the communications equipment he was using will begin first thing in the morning."
He started the truck and gave the engine time to find its rhythm. From the corner of his eye, he watched Sandburg fold his hands in his lap, unfold them, push his hair back from his face, grip the arm rest, lace his fingers together again and then promptly release them to tap lightly against his thighs. Taking a closer look, he could almost see the thoughts rapidly tumbling behind Blair's expressive eyes. Blair's eyes fell across his fingers, before flicking up to meet Jim's. Then Sandburg turned away to look back at Conover through the passenger side window. The silence worried Jim, and the kid was obviously cold. As he put the truck in gear, Ellison set the heater blasting though he knew it wouldn't offer much warmth until they were out on the road.
"When did you last wash your hands?" Sandburg mumbled to himself, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the passenger window.
"What was that, Chief?" Jim asked, checking the mirrors and pulling out of the Conover parking lot.
"What?" Blair turned to him, confused.
"You said something."
Blair rubbed his face with his hands and made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. Just practicing hindsight, man. Chapel caught me with the phone in my hand. I told him I was trying to call my higher power, but he didn't buy it. He asked if Cassie had sent me. My denial was pretty weak--I don't think it was even intelligible. Now I'm just running post-stress probability studies in my head. What if I'd kept up the crazy act? What if I'd asked him if his hands were clean as though I was more concerned about germs than having my larynx crushed?"
"He was that close?" Jim asked.
"Man, he had me by the throat, my back against the wall. Who am I kidding--as though I could've gotten a word out even if I'd had something to say."
Ellison was absolutely shocked. He'd assumed that Chapel had simply spotted Sandburg, spurring the kid into a fast flight up the stairs. He glanced over at Blair, realizing he could've missed signs of injury simply because he hadn't been looking for any. "What did you do?"
"I just made this negative sound, and he sort of lifted me up by the throat."
"No, I meant how did you get away?"
"I hit him with the phone receiver and ran like hell," Blair explained, demonstrating, making a sharp swing with a half-clenched fist. "You have no idea how glad I was to see you. I'd like to change my opinion on the security at Conover...that place could definitely do with more regular hallway patrols."
A stop light provided Jim with an opportunity to check over his partner more thoroughly. He reached across, touching Blair's jaw. The anthropologist flinched reflexively then relaxed, allowing Ellison to turn him slightly and reposition his head to expose the full length of his throat.
"It's okay," Blair assured him. "He pinned, but didn't press. I mean, he pressed, but just enough to let me know he could crush my larynx, not enough to actually do any damage. He wasn't through talking with me."
Jim nodded slightly in agreement allowing his sensitive fingers to brush gently across the skin. He could detect only a slight amount of swelling and that was not across the windpipe but along the sides of Blair's neck. The shadows of faint bruises were surfacing where the tips of Chapel's fingers and thumb had pressed into the skin.
"Jim, the light's changed."
"Sorry," Ellison responded, turning his attention back to the road.
"S'okay," Blair answered, then gave a soft surprised grunt as the truck lurched into motion. "Jim, it's okay. There's no need to abuse the transmission."
The detective eased up on the gas slightly and glanced across at his partner. Blair pushed a reassuring grin onto his face, but it didn't last. The kid was still shaken up.
"I'd forgotten how creepy the criminally insane can be--interesting creepy, but still creepy." Blair shuddered. "And Chapel. He's off the scale. Not that I'd want to be left alone with any of the psychos at that therapy session...but Chapel--" Blair shook his head. "Of them all, he was Mister Serious-Social-Disorder. Disinterested in his surroundings, flat voiced, without facial expressions, no eye contact...I don't know what freaked me more, his hand on my throat or the fact that he was looking at me. He's pulling the strings. We have to shut him down."
"We will," Ellison assured him. "I called Simon from Conover. We're on it. I'll drop you off at the loft, then meet up with him at the station."
"Drop me off?"
"Don't you think you should rest or something?"
"Rest?" Blair waved this suggestion off. "Sorry, Jim, but there is no way I'm sleeping tonight. It's just not on the agenda. Let me help."
Despite his insistence otherwise, after they reached the station it became obvious that the adrenaline was draining away, leaving Sandburg high and dry. As Blair tried unsuccessfully to suppress yet another yawn, Jim came to a quick decision. He gathered the folders in front of him. "Time for a change of scenery, Chief. Let's take this back to the loft."
Arriving home, Jim announced that he was in need of a shower while Blair set himself up on the couch, spreading the files out across the coffee table and booting up his lap top. Fifteen minutes later when Jim emerged from the warm steam, he found Blair sprawled on his side, asleep on the couch. He spread a blanket over his sleeping partner and checked the bruising on his neck again before proceeding upstairs for a change of clothes. Returning to the living room, he settled on the other couch and picked up a folder. At that instant Blair jerked awake, his eyes flicking around the room as he sat part-way up.
"Bad dream?" Jim asked softly, looking up from the report in front of him.
"No, just my internal alarm going off," Blair answered, rubbing his eyes and checking his watch. "That was a power-nap. It's a student survival technique. Twenty minutes is the perfect nap length. Honestly, it's been studied. I read about one project where they hired this artist and only let him sleep for twenty minutes at a time, six short naps a day for five weeks. Of course that adds up to only two hours of sleep a day. The guy produced some really whacked-out paintings...."
"That's nice, Chief," Jim said with a tolerant smile as he rose from the couch. "Want coffee?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Blair answered, picking up a folder and leaning back to read.
"Yours has the last of the milk," Jim informed him upon his return from the kitchen.
"Hey, thanks," Blair said accepting the mug. "And thanks for coming for me. You always show up at just the right time." He took a sip of coffee and his eyes suddenly brightened. "Do you suppose it's some kind of subconscious Sentinel thing?"
"No," Jim answered. He didn't want to admit he'd been wandering down the hall blithely unaware right up until the moment Blair ran into him. "It's a conscious Ellison thing."
"Oh, in that case, if you could consistently show up five minutes sooner, that would be even better."
=-=-=
Although Blair had preceded him up the stairs, and definitely had a set of keys clinking in his pocket, it was Jim who unlocked the door to the loft. He extended his senses carefully as he released the dead bolt, confirming all was quiet then giving a nod to Sandburg, who stood back slightly, his hands resting lightly on the edges of his pockets. At least by going out to dinner at Bobby H's with Simon and Cassie, they had given the forensics team time to go through the loft and clear out.
"I can't believe you've actually taken courses in interior design." Jim shook his head, tossing his keys into the basket by the door and shrugging out of his coat.
"That might have been a little, tiny obfuscation," Blair answered. "I was as shocked as you were when Cassie picked up the subject and ran with it."
"And Simon and I had to sit through it. You two talked about complementary colours and the art of furniture arranging for nearly two hours," Jim said, surveying the room. The loft was a mess. The forensic crew had documented the mess and left it, taking with them only the bullets they'd dug out of the walls and the ropes that Chapel had used to secure Cassie and Sandburg.
"It wasn't that bad...well, actually it was, but I was only trying to help. I think Cassie really had to get her mind off Chapel," Blair answered. "She must've taken a course or two somewhere. I'm beginning to wonder about her. Is it just me, or has she studied a bit of everything?"
Jim paused in his damage survey long enough to raise an eyebrow at Sandburg.
"Okay, I'm cool with that. It's just with Cassie there's this weird vibe...like none of it was ever out of simple love of the subject."
"Love of the subject..." Jim repeated, trying to decide what to do with the broken lamp in his hands. "What got you so interested in interior design?"
"Oh, that's easy. When I was fourteen, Naomi and I spent four months splitting an apartment with a designer. Sylvia Beauchard. Beautiful build, French accent...I hung on her every word."
Sandburg was still standing near the door. As was to be expected, the evening's events had left the anthropologist a bit skittish, but something else was going on. Usually, when cranked up, what Blair couldn't find words for was communicated with expansive gestures. This evening his hands had been, and remained, notably at rest.
Blair caught Jim's eyes on him and seemed to belatedly realize that he should be doing something. Striding into the living room, he stepped around the couch and bent down to pick up the apples which had earlier spilled from their basket and gone rolling in all directions. Jim watched as his partner methodically returned apples to the basket...using both hands to lift each one. He was tired of waiting for Blair to broach the topic.
"How are the wrists, Chief?" Jim asked, keeping his voice even.
"Oh, fine," Blair responded, making a show of tucking an errant curl back behind his ear.
"Come on, I'm a detective," Jim pointed out. "You chose a coat with extra long sleeves. You kept it on during dinner despite the fact that the cuffs kept falling in your food. You abandoned your steak, claiming you'd lost appetite--"
"Stress," Blair inserted helpfully with a nod.
Ellison responded with a hard look, he wasn't buying that for a second. He continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "You stared at every bite I took like a starving man. You couldn't cut your meat could you?"
"I could've, I just...I...." Blair knew the game was up. "I just got a bit bruised," he explained, gesturing towards one of his still hidden wrists.
"Are you going to let me look?"
Blair glanced around as though evaluating possible escape routes, then he surrendered, knowing Jim wouldn't let it rest until he'd confirmed for himself that it was not worth fussing about. Slipping out of his jacket, Blair awkwardly unbuttoned the cuff of the left sleeve of his dress shirt, lifted its edge and carefully drew it back, his teeth clenched against making any sound as the cloth dragged over raw skin.
There were dark purple-black bruises across Blair's forearm marking where the ropes had been, and a few patches of oozing skin where friction had taken a deeper toll.
"Ouch," Jim said in sympathy, absentmindedly placing a hand on Blair's upper arm as he leaned in to look. Blair couldn't help but flinch away as Jim's fingers happened on a second set of bruises. This earned him another concerned look.
"It's nothing," Blair excused his reaction. "Just more of the same...and no, I won't strip to show you."
Jim realized he'd done it again. He'd assumed Blair was uninjured, and therefore overlooked immediate signs that indicated otherwise. After being untied Blair had stayed on until he was certain Chapel was thoroughly secured, then excused himself, retreating to his room.
Idiot, you undid the knots. You knew how tight the ropes were, Ellison kicked himself mentally. Must have hurt like a bitch as circulation restored itself.
"You should've said something," Jim said, carefully taking Blair's hand. "I would've helped you with dinner. No big deal."
"Then Cassie would've known."
"Ah, and you wanted to maintain your macho image?"
Blair drew his hand back and directed a sharp look at Jim.
"Sorry," Jim apologized immediately. He'd only been teasing, but he'd obviously misread the situation.
"It's just that Chapel had her really freaked," Blair explained. "He told her the knots had to be tight, so Cassie made them tight. Then he told her the knots had to be tighter, so Cassie made them tighter."
"She did this," Jim said, taking Blair's hand again and turning it over in his own.
"She didn't know what she was doing," Blair responded, assigning no blame. "It was like she was in this whole other zone, she was so scared."
"That bad."
"Pretty bad."
"And you?"
"Scared out of my skull," Blair answered honestly. "I want you to know that if one more psycho breaks in here specifically to harass me, I'm going to have to buy myself a night light," he told Jim. "I'm telling you now, so it won't come as a shock...you know, watching my macho image fly straight out the window."
Jim was about to comment on the need to psycho-proof the loft when he noticed something floating overhead. Moonlight caught the object for an instant before it drifted back into darkness. Jim's eyes dilated to compensate. The shape, the way it moved, reminded him of angels.... What was it?
"Jim, Jim.... Hello, Jim?"
Jim felt his guide gently touch his shoulder, and blinked. "What?"
"You zoned," Blair explained. "On a feather, I think. You've been subconsciously tracking them since you walked through the door."
"I'm going to need a new bed." Ellison sighed sadly, as though mourning the loss of a loved one.
"Can I make you something to drink?" Blair asked, watching his friend carefully. "Chamomile?"
"No, but I'll put the kettle on for you," Jim answered, picking up the request beneath the offer.
"So, how about you?" Blair asked, following Jim into the kitchen.
"What about me?" Jim responded as he filled the kettle.
"Hey, I only got tied-up. You're the one who went three rounds with Chapel. The bruised knuckles are obvious, and at the restaurant you sat with a slight slouch which means at least one of Chapel's gut punches sank pretty deep...mind you, not deep enough to affect your appetite in any way."
Jim didn't comment. He hadn't realized Sandburg had been keeping so close an eye on him, but then again turn about was fair play. He was opening his mouth intending to confess feeling slightly worse for wear, when Sandburg's eyes widened as happened whenever he'd solved some puzzle in his brain.
"You ate my steak!" Blair exclaimed angrily, giving Jim a soft two-handed shove for emphasis...an action his wrists obviously protested. "Ow, ow, ow." Blair drew his arms back against him, hands partially curled. Straightening he met Jim's eyes. "I can't believe you took my steak when you knew why I wasn't eating!"
"I was supposed to let it go to waste?" Jim demanded. "Besides, you said I could take it."
"You asked for it, what was I supposed to say?" Blair shot back, forgetting to mute his gestures and wincing again. "If you'd left it alone, I could've had the waiter wrap it up for me."
"Sandburg, it would be sacrilegious to re-heat a steak from Bobby H's." Jim sighed heavily. "Alright, I'll make it up to you. Have a seat, and I'll find something to puree."
"Not funny," Blair said grumpily, cradling his right wrist against his chest.
Ellison eyed his partner suspiciously before returning his attention to the fridge, leaning in to inspect its contents. "Leftover pasta okay for you?" Ellison asked, then got a closer look at the dried noodles and decided to retract the offer. "No, forget it. The pasta's no good. There's not a lot in here, Chief."
"What about that salad I made? The one with the sea cucumber in it." Blair's eyes narrowed at the distinctly guilty look on Jim's face. "You didn't. Don't tell me you ate that to?"
"I threw it away," Jim confessed. "It smelled fishy. I thought it had gone bad."
"I don't believe you. I was gone for a day!"
"I could cook something," Jim offered though not overly enthusiastic about the idea. The image of himself standing at the stove wearing his apron seemed a little too surreal considering everything that had happened. Blair didn't answer, and Jim turned to find him staring at the dining room with a pensive expression, one finger pressed flat against his lips.
"You okay?" Jim asked.
"Yeah," Blair answered, shaking off his revere. "Though I have to admit that getting tied to the furniture changes one's perspective on interior design. Have you ever considered getting a traditional Japanese dining table? You know, one that stands about a foot and a half high, so you can skip the chairs, and just lay down a few nice mats to sit on."
"Not a chance, Chief."
"It was just a thought." Blair shrugged it off, absentmindedly watching a feather settle onto the table. "Ah, what are we going to do?" he sighed. "This place is a disaster. Chapel busted the locks on the door in my room. He blasted so many holes though your room that the guts of your bed are slowly settling on every available surface. He screwed up my wrist so bad just thinking about picking stuff up hurts."
"Hold up, Chief. Chapel hurt your wrist?"
Blair realized he'd slipped up, and his eyes dropped to inspect the rug. The relatively functional fingers of his left hand seemed to move of their own volition to unbutton his other cuff and slowly work the sleeve up. He knew the bruising on his right forearm was a fair match for that on the left, with an added string of blood blisters where the skin had been pinched. He'd winced when that had happened, and Cassie had quietly apologized...that was what had prompted Chapel say "tighter". Blair shook off the memory, Cassie had come through in the end and that was what counted. Besides, the rope burns really weren't a big deal, it was hiding the other damage that was going to get him into trouble with Jim.... Dark swelling started at his right wrist and spread upwards until it blended with the bruises on his forearm.
"You should have said something," Ellison growled as he inspected Blair's wrist closely.
"I meant to--I was going to get you to check it as soon as Cassie left. Then we ended up going to dinner...there wasn't an appropriate time," Blair apologized. "I just couldn't dump this on Cassie. Not when she was expounding on kitchen styles, trying to force Chapel out of her mind."
"Cassie has to learn to deal with her demons," Jim answered gruffly. "How did this happen?"
"Chapel needed Cassie to, uh, rearrange the furniture. Drag a couple of dining room chairs away from the table, dig through the kitchen drawers for rope, stuff like that. I guess he didn't want me attacking him with another phone, so he put my wrist in a kind of hold and rested the barrel of his gun against my chin."
"What kind of hold?" Jim asked.
"I don't know what it's called. It was a new one to me. It was...it was very effective. He put his arm beneath mine, and flipped my hand straight up. I swear, once he had me like that, he didn't need the gun."
Jim nodded. He knew how painful the arm lock Blair had described could be. He couldn't believe the kid hadn't said anything. "You get hurt, you tell me, you don't wait for an appropriate time." Certain he'd made his point, Jim set his anger aside, his voice softening. "If you need to, you can tell me very quietly. At the very least you should have had ice on that to keep the swelling down."
"I know," Blair said simply. He crossed to the fridge, got the freezer open with a tug from his left hand, then stared forlornly at the ice trays. "Jim, could you?"
Jim pulled out a tray and cracked the ice loose with a quick twist. He packed a few cubes into a tea towel and passed it to Blair. "Why don't we go pick up some take-out, check into a motel somewhere for the night, and worry about the rest of this tomorrow."
"Sounds like a plan," Blair said, leaning back against the counter, settling the ice on his wrist.
"Trust me to pack for you?" Jim asked.
"I have a choice?"
"No. Keep the ice on that wrist." Jim shifted the simmering kettle and turned the burner off, then set about collecting a few essentials for each of them.
A few minutes later as he watched as Blair awkwardly buckling himself into the truck, Ellison wondered how the kid had managed it earlier that evening. His memory tracked back over all the muffled sounds he'd picked up on and ignored.... Jim mentally kicked himself a few more times. He moved to hand Blair his backpack and then thought better of it and simply wedged it in by Blair's feet before swinging the passenger door on the Ford shut.
Assuming the driver's seat, Jim turned the engine over and pushed all negative thoughts from his mind. What mattered was that his guide was now receiving the proper attention. Urging the truck into motion with a little gas and a conscientious gear shift, Jim took them to the end of the block and flicked the turn signal on, slipping around the corner smoothly and accelerating.
"Jim, man, you're taking a wrong turn here. There's nothing out this way but the hospi--" Blair cut himself short. "No. No way. We are not going to the hospital."
"Your wrist needs to be x-rayed," Jim responded, staying his course.
"It's not broken. See I can still move the fingers...." Blair presented his hand and slowly flexed his fingers through a small fraction of their usual range.
"Nice try, Chief."
"Look, I'm tired, you're tired...how about we skip the fast food and just go directly to a motel?"
"Not a chance, Sandburg."
"You planned this. You lured me to the truck with the promise of food."
"The cafeteria at St. Thomas' isn't that bad," Jim teased, not bothering to hide his amusement.
"You're kidding, right?" Blair protested. "Jim tell me you're kidding. Jim?!"
Jim smiled to himself, Blair's words fading from his ears as he tuned in on the warm throb of his heart. The situation was under control, the city was quiet, he'd run Sandburg past a doctor, find him something to eat, settle him into a safe bed...and the rest would wait until morning.
End.
Please send all comments to Shelagh I'll forward them to the author.
