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I wrote this last night and this morning decided I didn't want to post it. When I compare my Blair to our television Blair, I see few -- if any -- similarities. In fact, these random thoughts seem so far from anything television's Blair would ever think, they're almost ludicrous. But then, hey, I thought, this is fiction, right?
Does TV's Blair have a dark side? To tell the truth, I really don't think Blair would ever doubt like this. But maybe, deep down, in the person Blair, not the character Blair, the thoughts crossed his mind. And if they ever did, just maybe this is what the internal debate would sound like. I dunno. RT: JIM was pretty much all Blair, so you were expecting RT: BLAIR to be all Jim. Well, it is, in a way. No more excuses. I'll just let you read.
Disclaimer: Jim Ellison, Blair Sandburg and the Sentinel concept don't belong to me, but to Pet Fly Productions, Paramount and UPN. However, everything else, every original thought, is mine. And if my own thoughts can't earn me any money, no doubt anything I write using these characters can't and hasn't either. ****************************************************************************
by Elizabeth Bach
Nothing but blue. Blue and raw intelligence, steel determination, winsome enthusiasm. Blue and a few questions, a few insecurities, a few misconceptions. And blue. Blair Sandburg's eyes as he stared into the mirror. What was with the vanity lately? What was the deal with the mirror, the constant need to look at himself, to see himself there, to identify in the reflection every one of his possessions where they sat in his room? If he turned around, they were all there, where he'd left them, not having been touched or moved or spoiled. But something about their images as they appeared in the mirror.... The way, in the dim light, he, himself, seemed so flat against them, so two-dimensional, as if he blended into them, embedded in them.
It's so different, looking at yourself this way. There's no fooling, no hiding. You're nothing but concept, truth in its purest form. There, staring into the mirror, you take part in the truth! You're something beyond the sensual world, unlike sitting at a desk, or in a car, or on a couch, where you can't see behind you and only think you're seeing what's ahead, while even that's just speculation. So different in this mirror, where you can see your possessions as you merge into them, where your edges meet them, where you can lift your hand, reach out to touch, but you remain literally intangible.
Blair Sandburg touched his finger to his own image, pressed it against the truth in his eyes. Felt no pain, no sensation whatsoever, except for the cold glass. Sure, it was cold. But what was that? Was that the truth? Can you feel that? Can you taste that? Do you hear that?
Blair heard Jim's knock, but didn't answer. He didn't need to. Jim would open the door. Jim with his Tupperware. Jim with his truck...his loft...his job...his life. Jim with his senses. Beyond the sensory world there lies a truth, and Blair stared into the mirror. Torn. Between this flat concept of an anything but flat truth and this dynamic concept of an everything but complete untruth. This fallacy. This abnormality. This thing which Jim had, and which Blair had dreamed about finding in someone. In one man. A real, live Sentinel. And right now it was all a lie! What did Blair know? What could he prove? He could run test after test after test, but that was all he could do. He could guess. He could instruct. He could make the connections, but what he could not do was understand. This concept he could not understand. The door opened, and Jim looked in, and Blair stared into the mirror. But he could not see, in his truth, a trace of the senses. Just the man where he stood in the dim light.
"It's a dark world we live in, man."
"That dark world's full of bright colors, Chief," was the automatic and optimistic response.
But Blair didn't feel optimistic as he stared all the more desperately. He'd known when he'd first looked into the mirror, and with each subsequent peek he took, that this was not supposed to be easy. But to see Jim standing there, in all his Sentinel glory.... It was too much. At that one moment, it was too much.
"Yeah, but you're the only one who can see them. Just for once...a day...a moment, I wish.... God, I just wish I could have what you've got. Feel what you feel. Sense what you sense."
"But you can't."
The words made him flinch. Was that the truth? Was that what he saw in the mirror? In his face? The blue?
Jim stayed there for a moment, still against the door frame. And he waited. Blair knew what for. For that reassuring lift of the eyebrows, that glance that meant it was okay to go on. It was okay to make some kind of crack, to slap him on the back, to close the door and leave. To make dinner, to watch TV, to sleep, to dream. To turn the lock, to stand in the elevator, to sit at a desk, to rush to a crime. To taste, to smell, to hear, to see, to feel. To be Jim, and to be a Sentinel. To defy the truth. To encourage the defiance.
And finally, he left. The door closed again.
What was the point? Blair wondered, staring, still staring. What was the point in playing this role, which he'd assigned to himself, for the rest of his life? What was the point, when he could see the truth so plainly in front of him, of pretending? He could see his laptop in the mirror, where it lay behind him, its own lines merging with the lines of his head. A vat of observation, of speculation, of obfuscation. And when they were done, when they'd exhausted the tests, and the theories, and the lucky guesses, everything he'd written, every note he'd taken would be there. And what then? They were just words that he'd made up. He could say them over and over in his head, and out loud, but looking into the mirror.... He knew the truth. And the truth knew him, saw him there, stared back, asked him a question, out of the blue.
Blair closed his eyes and was suddenly sitting at Jim's desk. He glanced sporadically at the text book open but unread in front of him. It was past midnight, and he was looking, unabashed, through the blinds into Simon's office. The open slats resembled bars on a cage, he thought absently. A cage he was still on the outside of. Simon and Jim were trapped, but he was still free. He could still escape.
Then he opened his eyes, willed himself to not look away, forced himself to stare down those demons, stare down the truth. And it was as if it had been creeping in on him gradually, and he'd seen it, but chosen to ignore it. And now, suddenly, it was right there, in the mirror, in his eyes: His own prison. The edges of the mirror mapping out his cell. And it contained the things in this room, his belongings: the artifacts, the books, the nightstand, the lamp. The door where Jim had stood. The laptop, the papers, the covers, the bed. And there...in the blue...the truth. The truth!
But how.... How did he reconcile the two? How did he explain to himself that he was already trapped, and that what he thought was a portal of truth was really just an image being reflected back out at him, reflected from within his own cell, a prisoner itself?
Blair Sandburg reached out, touched the mirror, and let his fingers slide down the glass. Cold. Still cold. Was that the truth? Or merely a reflection? If he turned, looked at the sensual things where they stood, left the mirror behind him, would truth still be staring? Could he accept that truth was still there, even though he couldn't see it? Couldn't feel it? Taste, touch, smell? Was that truth in and of itself? And was it truly contained by the same prison walls?
He turned slowly, and there they all were. Each possession, three-dimensional, but untouched, unmoved, unspoiled. There were the artifacts, the books, the nightstand, the lamp. The laptop, the papers, the covers, the bed. The door where Jim had stood. And truth?
Blair took a cautious step toward the door. And truth, truth was watching his back. He reached out for the handle, hesitated in mid-air. Suddenly, the door opened, seemingly of its own accord. But when he looked out, he could see Jim standing there. And the mirror. The mirror crashed to the floor.
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