TITLE: Into The Beyond

AUTHOR: Victoria May

RATING: PG-13

WARNINGS: mild swearing

CATEGORY: Gen, Angst, Drama, post TSbyBS

ARCHIVE: Just let me know where

FEEDBACK: Please! voria@charter.net

AUTHORS NOTES: This is probably my best fic ever in any fandom. It is also the one I have been most afraid to write--post TSbyBS. It's also done in first person, my first attempt at this style of writing. So please, let me know what you think!

SUMMARY: The next step of the journey.

Into The Beyond
By: Victoria May

I stand and study the man before me for quite some time before he cocks his eyebrow quizzically at me-as if asking what is so unusual, so interesting to hold my attention so. I can only shrug as I continue my search of his angled face. Noting the small laugh lines around his eyes, accenting the worry lines creasing his high forehead. What a contrast to his youthful features-his nose turning up just so above his full, pink lips. Clear blue eyes shine brightly, laughing at some unspoken joke-probably due to the fact that he'd obviously won a round of cosmic luck with mother nature, resulting in his boyish good looks. My eyes are finally drawn up and marvel at the wild wave of hair on top of this man's head. Small tendrils curl lazily while others twist and turn with wild abandon. But the short, neatly shaved sides and back keep it in check.

I'll be honest. I know why I am staring at this man-this stranger who continues to stare resolutely back at me. He reminds me of me, yet not. It's hard to explain. His small build, his inquiring eyes, his playful smile-these all remind me of me. But this man is so far different than the man I know as myself. This man radiates confidence while I tremble in fear at what is to come. This man looks at the world with optimism and an excitement I haven't felt since I started work on my doctorate. This man knows happiness while I find myself still searching.

My attention is drawn away momentarily as a toilet flushes behind me. I quickly swing my eyes back at the man and smile. The man also smiles, a warm, friendly smile guaranteed to win friends many times over.

I startle as a voice teases in my ear,

"You have got to get over this love affair with the mirror Blair. We all know that you're drop dead gorgeous and the ladies would kill to get one night alone with you. Must you continue reminding the rest of us of how gangly we are?"

I laugh and drag my eyes away from my reflection. Pinning my gaze on my companion I hold up my hands in surrender. "Sorry. I can't help it. I can't reconcile what I see when I look in the mirror with who I am." I turn and point at the mirror. "That is not me. Besides, you've got me beat hands down. Tall, dark and handsome. That's what the ladies go for, not short, geeky and nearsighted."

Arthur slides aqua green eyes towards me and gives me a funny look as he finishes washing his hands. He grabs a paper towel and quickly wipes his hands, tossing its soggy remains into the trash. Turning towards me he grabs my shoulders and turns me back towards the mirror.

"Blair, that is most definitely you. I don't know what you see when you look in that mirror, but I see Blair Sandburg, Cultural Attache for the Redwood Corporation. I also see my friend Blair who is delaying our dinner. Now snap to it man-our dates are going to think we're school girls who can't attend to our private business alone. They'll think we're telling secrets in here," Arthur pulls open the door and looks back at me.

"Okay, okay. I'm coming." I steal one last peek at the man in the mirror and shake my head as I follow my friend out of the restroom. I try to shake off this new dismal mood that has befallen me somewhere between the appetizers and dessert. It is a common feeling now, one that I am familiar and comfortable with. It wraps around me like a warm blanket on cold nights when all seems meaningless and foreign. On those nights, I often find myself staring in the mirror, wondering how I came to be here. I wonder what happened to Blair Sandburg?

Oh, I'm still Blair. You could almost say I'm the new and improved Blair. But something about that doesn't quite ring true. At least, not to my mere, mortal ears. Sure I still look like Blair-at least, sort of. I mean, a man can't change that much that he becomes unrecognizable, even to himself-can he? It doesn't take me that long to realize who I'm looking at when I step in front of those glistening portals. I'm sure it's just the hair. After all, it was a shock to see who was under all that hair when I started the police academy. I could barely recognize myself back then. And when I decided to have even more taken off-okay, I admit it, it was my idea to shave off the sides and back. But who can resist a luscious lady pointing out a hairstyle that, in her opinion, would make me look absolutely 'to die for', as she put it. And even I have to admit that the end result was pretty good.

So, maybe the hair has something to do with this lingering feeling of doom. But I wouldn't put my money on it. After all, I'm not that anal about how I look. Really. Sure, I gave people a hard time in the past for suggesting I cut my hair or change the way I dress. Not so much because I was so attached to how I looked, but that it was expected of me to protest. I mean, I had to stand behind the Blair Sandburg that existed back then. If I couldn't do that, how could I expect anyone else to accept me as I was? At that time, I didn't want to change. I liked being the neo-hippy witch doctor punk. I would have-changed that is—if need be. And I did change, slowly over the years. Though I doubt anyone really noticed it happening.

To be honest, the change started almost immediately. It was so instantaneous that even I didn't notice it right away. Gone was the grunge look that I had liked so much. It was comfortable, at least that was what I told myself through my many years of graduate school. In reality, it bugged the professors. How's that for honest? Yes, I Blair Sandburg, ever the radical of the group took it upon himself to drive the professors absolutely mad. And I succeeded too. Score one for Sandburg. But don't blame me for that. Personally, I put all the blame on Naomi. After all, how can one expect a kid to grow up with a parent so entrenched in her anti-establishment ideals to just 'fit in'?

I was on the end of my grunge obsession when I stumbled onto the living embodiment of my doctoral thesis. A cop to boot. So, losing the extreme look wasn't too hard. I just dug a little deeper into my closet and started wearing some of the sportier stuff I had started buying. No reason to make waves with the pigs-right? I can still hear Naomi's voice when I called her that first night after Jim made me his partner. 'Blair, sweety, I know I wasn't really there for you to go through a rebellious stage as a teenager, so I can understand a certain karmic need to make up for that. But the pigs?' Her voice had screeched so loudly I thought I would be deaf. I just thanked the gods that I hadn't mentioned the switchman or the bomb Jim threw off the bus. I don't know if Naomi could have survived news like that. It took her years to finally accept that I wasn't going to have a nervous breakdown or something from all the violence.

I guess that's another way that I'm different. I'm more confident-or not. I am after all, spending an inordinately excessive amount of time looking at my reflection denying that it's me looking back. Basically, I'm in a position of power at the Redwood Corporation. I hold in my hands the power to make or break business transactions that stand to make the company millions of dollars. My veto-my opinion, means something and I can't make a mistake. If that's not nerve wracking, I don't know what is. To stand in front of the board of directors of this company that took a risk on me when I was looking at a life of flipping burgers, and justify why we can't merge with some multi-billion dollar corporation is way more intimidating than staring down terrorists and gang-bangers. Well, maybe a close second to looking into the eyes of Lash as he pretended to be me. But come on, Lash versus financial ruin for a fortune 500 company? Which do you think is more terrifying? Okay, I'll take Lash any day over being the one responsible for causing financial havoc for millions of stockholders. I mean, have you ever looked into the eyes of a frenzied stockbroker? Way scarier than Lash man.

I guess you could say I have officially merged into the 'establishment'. Yes, Naomi knows, but she's happy for me-really. Not only does my hair scream 'trendy' so do my clothes. I wear suits. Okay, not often, but I own several. I do business dinners, on my company card. Isn't that a hoot? Blair Sandburg, owner of a platinum business credit card. And what still amazes me is that no one gives me a second look when I hand it over. Now that's saying something. I kind of miss all the sidelong glances I used to get on an almost daily basis. When I'm not wining and dining potential clients, feeling out their true intentions towards the environmental aspect of their business, or sitting in on a board meeting, I dress casually. Slacks, button down shirts, with sweaters over top. If Rafe could see me now.

So why do I ogle myself every time I'm near a mirror? I haven't the slightest clue. I'm happy. I like the way I look. I like my job. I've got good friends, one of whom I'm double dating with tonight. I don't miss my old life. I let that go long ago. I was truly surprised at how easily I absorbed into this new life. Sure, the road was hard at first. I mean, what twenty-eight year old wants to find himself flipping burgers at McDonalds? You thought I was kidding about that-I wish. I tried to find a job. I applied at all the local schools, technical colleges and area universities. No one wanted a fraud on staff. Then I tried not so local schools-it's amazing how fast word travels. Blair Sandburg was truly and steadfastly banned from the world of academia. But hey, I'm a survivor. I just applied elsewhere. Like museums and the historical society. I tried to submit a few articles to magazines. I didn't even get the rejection letters. Finally, I applied for Greenpeace-well, you can guess how that turned out. I understand, I really do. They're out there risking their lives to protect the environment. Why bring someone on board who is an admitted liar-thief to be honest. After all, if I hadn't denounced my dissertation, I'd be a rich man today.

Well, I'm not going to gain any answers hovering outside the men's room. I shake off as much of the melancholia I can and squeeze my way back to my table. I Approach the table with a smile on my face and bend down and gently kiss my date. Angeline. Man, she is beautiful. Her parents knew what they were doing when they named her. She is an angel-inside and out. Oh, but I don't let that fool me. She's also a shark. She's the vice-president of the cosmetics division. We met at my first board meeting and I made it a point to sit next to the Latina goddess as often as possible after that. She finally asked me to dinner, stating I was taking too long to work up the nerve to ask. Of course I agreed. Oh, we've taken our time getting to know one another, but we've both stopped dating others. I guess you could say we're an 'item'. I've never been a part of being an 'item' before. It's both frightening and wonderful at the same time.

Angeline's parents are from Argentina and applied for citizenship before she was born. Angi was born in Texas. She returns to Argentina as often as she can, visiting her grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. I think that is what brought us together-our ties to South America. Her heritage and my obsession. No, not sentinels. I was in love with South America long before I had ever heard of sentinels. She wants me to join her on her next trip down-I don't think I'm quite ready to face the family yet. I wouldn't say my reluctance has as much to do with culture shock as it has to do with dealing with her large extended family. After all, I grew up with Naomi. Aside from the occasional surprise visits with her brother and his family we were all we had. Sure Naomi had aunts and uncles and cousins of her own, but when her parents died, she saw no need to keep up the relations. All that negative energy from their dislike of her lifestyle was hard on her chi.

"Are you okay Blair?" Angi asks as I sink into the empty chair next to her.

"I'm fine," I answer, smiling at her as I take her hand in my own.

"He was staring at himself again," Arthur volunteers as he picks up his wine and sips.

I Shoot a glare at my friend and feel my hand being tugged gently upwards. I sigh as a kiss is placed on the back of my hand.

"Blair, why do you do that? You're perfect-you know that, don't you?" Angi asks, her voice thick with love.

I swallow as I feel my heart skip a beat. I have never felt as loved as I do when I am with Angeline. She always knows the perfect thing to say.

Shaking my head, I squeeze her hand and say, "I'm not perfect, but thank you for saying that. Now, are we going to have dessert or just sit and look at it all night?"

Releasing my hand, Angi reaches for her chocolate mousse and takes a bite. I laugh as she closes her eyes and lets the rich chocolate melt in her mouth. I can feel myself melting right along with the chocolate. Angi eating chocolate is probably the most seductive thing I have ever seen. Tempted to watch her indulge in her favorite vice, I give in to the pull of my own raspberry smothered cheesecake. Finally, we have all finished our desserts and have decided on a nightcap before we call it an evening. Seeing our waiter disappear into the kitchen, I volunteer to order from the bar.

Making my way back through the throng of people squeezed into the posh restaurant, I wonder why we chose this particular establishment. There were, after all, several quaint and out of the way love nests we could have chosen. But we've had a good time, crowd and all so I won't complain. Pushing my way to the bar, I grab onto the railing and lean forward. As the bartender is placing the drinks down in front of me, I'm jostled from behind and spill one of the drinks.

"Geez, I'm sorry, I'll get you another," a smooth voice reacts as a long arm is signaling the bartender to refill my drink. I stand frozen-I know that voice. I could pick that voice out of a crowd at a Jags game. Slowly I turn and look at the man pressed behind me. He is looking over my head at the TV screen in the corner.

"Jim," I say, but even I can barely hear my voice above the din in the pub. Clearing my voice, I try again. "Jim!"

Startled, Jim looks down and glances at me than past me, trying to find who called to him.

"Jim," I say again and this time his gaze settles on me and his eyes grow wide as recognition dawns.

"Sandburg?" he says, more of an exclamation than a question.

"Yeah," I answer and grin at him. "How are you doing man?" I ask. I'm surprised that I'm so pleased to see him even after all this time.

"I'm good," he answers, still staring at me in shock. As if he realizes that he is being rude, he shakes his head and asks, "How are you? What are you doing these days?"

I can almost see his brain working to digest what his senses are telling him. I look good, I'm healthy and I'm happy. I also look more straight-laced than he ever has in his entire life. Jim on the other hand looks relaxed and comfortable in jeans, a tee shirt and a pullover sweater. His hair is still short, but a bit spikier on the top while the sides are shaved. He's also grown a beard and mustache. Not anything too wild or bushy-this is trimmed neatly and contained to his chin and upper lip. He looks good-better than I've ever seen him. I try not to think about that too much.

Still grinning, I turn more towards him and answer, "I'm good. I'm working at the Redwood Corporation. Man, you look great," I add. I can't help myself. He looks amazing. I was really worried about him for awhile. I know it sounds egotistical to think that he would fall apart or sink into some zone without me there, but some sick and demented part of me hoped for it and then cursed myself for thinking anything so horrible.

Jim grins back and picks up his drink, taking a sip. "Thanks. I feel really good. But hell! Look at you! Who would have thought it-Blair Sandburg, yuppy."

I glare and throw a mock punch at his arm. "Don't even go there man! I am so not a yuppy. But yeah, I've made some changes. I've got a really good thing going on," I add, to sooth Jim's fears I tell myself, knowing that really I just want him to know that I didn't drown this time. I lived, and I lived well.

I'm amazed at how calm I am around this man. How 'right' this feels to be sitting here talking with him. I can hear a small voice, that sounds suspiciously like the Blair of two years ago, demanding that I yell and insist on an explanation for what went so horribly wrong a lifetime ago. How this man who called himself friend could string me along, again, with promises of trust and partnership only to cut me loose before I even graduated the academy.

But oddly enough, that's not what I ask. "You still in major crimes?"

Instead of answering, Jim turns and nods his head towards a corner table. Squeezed into a corner, sit Simon, Joel, and Henry. Nodding my head, I turn quickly away. I don't want them to see me. Of course if they keep straining to see the TV above their table they wouldn't see an elephant if it came crashing through. It's not that I have anything against the Major Crimes gang-I mean, I'm not harboring a grudge or anything. What happened should have been expected. I was just too naïve to realize it ahead of time. I should have known that it wouldn't have been as easy to join their world as I had thought. I mean, I was the one touting the 'thin blue line' spiel. I may have been on the outskirts of the action for almost four years and even shared in social outings, but I hadn't earned that spot. It was a freebee that came with being Jim Ellison's tagalong. But going through the academy, carrying a badge, that meant earning that coveted position amongst the ranks. I needed time to earn those friendships as an equal. Time I didn't have. Not their fault.

I had to wonder again why I wasn't feeling any anger at this enigma sitting next to me. I should be seething. Instead, I notice how right this feels. Being next to Jim. Not pretending to be anything but two men getting reacquainted.

"Still at the loft?" I ask, ever curious.

"Yeah. I don't think I'll ever move. Caroline hated it but it just screams home to me," Jim answers. "How about you? Where are you living?" he asks and I can tell that he really wants to know.

For one split second I'm taken aback by his interest. He hadn't cared where I'd ended up after he'd asked me to move out of the loft. The intense feelings I'd thought I was over come rushing back—the hurt, the betrayal at being asked, no told, that I wasn't wanted any longer. Wasn't welcome. Oh sure, he gave me plenty of notice. I mean, I had only just begun the academy when Jim threw this at me at dinner one evening. `Sandburg, I think maybe you should find your own place once you graduate. It's just time,' he'd said. And I could see it made perfect sense to him. But those words burnt a hole through me more thoroughly than any bullet ever could. Feeling somewhat smug despite my own urging to keep this friendly, I couldn't help but rub in my good fortune.

"I'm renting a condo at The Lighthouse," I answer. I can see Jim's face contort into a look that screams 'I'm impressed!' Of course he is, The Lighthouse Condominiums are pricey due to being on the water. I snigger and add, "Don't look so impressed; I get a discount for being employed by Redwood."

Jim looks interested and leans forward. "So what do you do at Redwood?"

I grin and god help me, I bounce in my seat. I've been trying to break myself of that habit and here I am bouncing like I'm five years old. But I can't help myself. I'm proud of my work at Redwood. Proud that they took a chance on me and proud that after two years I'm still there. Taking a quick drink from my glass, I answer.

"I'm a cultural attache for the company. They do a lot of work in and out of the United States. They're constantly expanding and merging and needed someone who could meet with the execs of those companies and the locals around the factories and find out if they are environmentally and culturally friendly. They pride themselves on their reputation for cultural awareness. They've even won awards. I was lucky to get hired."

Jim nods. "That's fitting. So, how did you go about winning this dream job?" he asks, with a teasing smile.

I can feel my own smile slip and struggle to regain it. "It wasn't easy," I say quietly. "Let's just say that it was a hard road, but in the end I came out on top." While I am enjoying the ease at which Jim and I have found ourselves talking and catching up, I don't feel like sharing this particular hurt with Jim just yet. That thought alone stuns me as I'm already assuming that I'll be seeing Jim again.

I realize I've been drifting as I feel a hand on my knee. I look up and my breath catches at the intensity of the gaze I am faced with.

"Blair. I want you to know-I'm sorry. I really am. I'm happy that you've found something good." He stops talking as someone walks up. I can feel them pause at my elbow and before I can look, I feel an arm snake its way across my shoulders and a finger trace over my left ear. I look around to see Angi there.

"Hey Blair. I hope you're not deserting me. I didn't want to break up your talk with your friend, but it's getting pretty late."

This is what I love about Angi. She doesn't just sit and let others trample all over her. I feel bad about leaving her sit there with Arthur and Marissa for who knows how long. Smiling at her, I grab her hand and turn to Jim. "Jim, this is Angeline." I'm tempted to add, `The love of my life; the keeper of my soul' but I know that would be a bit extreme. Instead I settle for, "Angi and I have been dating for a while. Angi, this is Jim, an old friend." I look over at Jim to see if I've called it wrong, but he looks pleased at hearing me call him friend. "I've got to take off man. It was great seeing you," I pause, unsure if my next question will be welcome. "Maybe we can get together again?"

Jim visibly relaxes and returns my smile. "I'd like that a lot."

"Great!" I blurt out as I grab for a napkin. "Let me give you my number. Just give me a call and we can plan an outing." I purposely threw this ball into his court. I wasn't going to go through another round of calling him and never getting an answer. That was old news and if Jim wasn't going to call, I didn't plan on sitting by the phone like a love sick school girl.

*2*

After that night, I settled back into my old routine. Wooing Angeline, sniffing out new clients, volunteering at the local Salvation Army—teaching adult education classes twice a week. The latter having been prompted by a Community Involvement policy at Redwood. I'd never planned on teaching again, in any form. But when I found out about the required volunteer hours for Redwood employees, I was drawn to this position. Or rather, I was pushed towards it.

Marla Newberry, head of the Personnel Division, and my beneficiary. I owe all of this to her. She took a chance on an admitted fraud and liar. I never expected to be hired by Redwood. But true to my nature, I applied and hoped for the best. I was stunned beyond words when I actually got a return call and an interview. Marla gave me a chance no one else had given me. The chance to give one good reason for my actions. `Loyalty' I answered, unwilling to say more. Smart lady that she is, Marla filled in the rest and offered me a chance to rebuild my life. All I can really remember of my talks with her is my immense relief that she didn't outwardly sneer when I stated my most recent work experience. After all, who would really want to tout their esteemed position at the burger god?

It was Marla who contacted me about the position at the Salvation Army. She knew I had been a teacher, and being a good observer of people herself, knew that it was something I dearly missed. So instead of being informed and told to apply, I found myself already signed up with a schedule to boot. Go figure. But hey, I'm not one to complain about having such a staunch advocate in my corner. It was something I'd thought I'd never have again.

So I went on with my life. Weeks passed. I swore I wasn't going to let this bother me, I really did. But who was I kidding? Of course I was waiting for the phone to ring. I tried not to feel disappointed. I mean, hadn't I had enough rejection in my life already? But I had really thought he would call. I was sure of it. Then, just when I had finally given up all hope, the phone rang.

It was Jim, with an offer of dinner at the loft. An apology for not calling sooner, something about a murder case which stubbornly refused to crack. And now, finally, it had and he wanted to get together. It was an amazing feeling—the rush of resulting sensations at hearing his voice. All the built up resentment I hadn't realized I had been harboring was suddenly gone. I felt like I could breath again. I didn't know I was suffocating. So we made the plans and I agreed to meet him Friday evening at the loft. He was cooking he'd said.

So I bought a bottle of a fine dinner wine, picked through my wardrobe until I found something nice but comfortable, and canceled my date with Angeline. She understood, of course. She wished me luck and made me promise to give her a detailed run down when I got home. Angi knows who Jim is. She knows how hurt I had been by his sudden dismissal from his life. But she hasn't once asked me why I want him back in my life. Instead, she quietly—or not so quietly—supports me. The third degree. You've never felt like you're under a spotlight until Angi gets her hands on you. The woman knows how to get a story out of you. Not that I mind. It's nice knowing we have no secrets. Yeah, she knows about the sentinel thing. How could she not? But what she knows, that the rest of the world doesn't, is that it was the truth. So understandably, she's not too happy with Jim at the moment.

Friday evening arrives and I made my way steadily to the loft. I try to ignore the butterflies beating a frantic pulse in my stomach. I haven't been back to the loft since the day I moved out. Little did I know that day marked the end of everything I held sacred. My home was gone, my friendship was gone, and soon my new life was to be gone too. So of course I am feeling a small amount of trepidation at returning to the scene of the crime.

But I pull myself together and amble up the rickety staircase. I ignore the elevator, wanting more time to prepare myself for what was destined to become a confrontation. I can hear a door above opening and glance up. Jim is standing in his doorway, looking at me with a strange smile on his face. Sentinel senses in fine working order I see.

"Blair," he says, as he pulls me into a hug. I can't help it—it feels right and I wrap my own arms around him in a quick enthusiastic squeeze back. "Come on in," he says as he ushers me inside.

I pause in the doorway and swing my eyes over what was once my home. It is still warm and friendly—inviting even, but there is nothing to say that `Blair Sandburg once lived here'. Instead, it screamd `JIM!' in capital letters. But not in the barren way it once had. Gone was the green wall, replaced by a warm beige. A large, metal entertainment center adorns the beige, complete with a huge television set and accessories. The fireplace is lit warming the loft and I shrug out of my coat. I walk in deeper and notice the new plants tucked into all the nooks and crannies. Almost like a jungle. What strikes me most, is the large jaguar print tossed over the back of one of the sofas.

My eyes take on a life of their own and slide towards the open doors leading to the `spare room'. Jim catches the look and waves his hand towards the glass doors.

"I'm just using it as a guest room. Stuck a computer in there—for bills and stuff," he adds.

I curse me feet as they draw me closer to my old room. I am surprised to see that he had made changes here too. Erasing the past? Or maybe just rebuilding the future. Gone were the paneled walls—in their place are more of the soothing beige. A large, cream area rug adorns the floor. A futon is pushed against the wall where mine once lay—I am glad to see that he wasn't so afraid to keep anything that reminded him of me. Of course this futon is made up in neutral tones with only a few threw pillows. A collection of wildlife paintings are scattered across the walls. I nod my approval and catch Jim's small smile out of the corner of my eye.

I am having a hard time being mad at Jim, even in the face of finding my old life so completely eradicated.

I turn away from the small room and join Jim at the table where he is laying out dinner. Lasagna. Gods, I missed his lasagna. I take a deep breath and inhale all the good aromas. Jim lifts the bottle of wine I had blindly handed him as I came in and starts to pour two glasses. Finally, he sits and looks at me.

"You're not angry at me," he states, as if he already knows the answer.

I smile and take a sip of wine. Shaking my head, I meet his eyes. "I don't know why I'm not. I should be—every part of me screams out that I should be ripping your head off right now. Instead," I pause, unsure how to continue.

"Instead," Jim continues for me, "This feels right."

I nod. "Yeah, it does. But what does that mean? What feels right? That you decided one day you didn't need me anymore and that was that? Or that now that we've stumbled across each other we pick up where we left off?"

"No, I don't think it has anything to do with either of those things," Jim says. I freeze, my glass halfway between my lips and the table. Seeing my disdain, Jim rushes to continue. "I think where we are right now—who we are, and meeting again, coming together now as we are, is right."

I relax and set my glass back on the marble table top. "You think this was meant to be?" I ask, unbelieving. Who would want to believe that so much hurt, so much pain was `meant' to happen? But I guess Jim could. He wasn't the one who found himself shunned one day by his best friend and partner. Who called and received no answers. Who found himself giving up his life for one that held no meaning to him. No, he wouldn't understand at all.

"I'm sorry," I hear him say and all the rest come through as well. `Sorry you're hurting. Sorry I let you down. Sorry I let my fear based impulses act for me. Just, sorry'.

"So," I say, suddenly unsure of how to progress.

"So tell me how you got this dream job," Jim prompts as he picks up his fork and takes a bite of his gooey, steaming lasagna.

I take a bite off my own plate, drown it with more wine and wipe my mouth. I launch into the tale which led me first to the absolute pit of despair and then to salvation. I tell of all my failures and let downs, tell of my stint as burger flipper at the McDonalds in the warehouse district—the only one willing to hire me, and tell of Marla and her blinding faith in me. I tell of the last two years serving this large corporation and the resulting happiness I finally found. When I finish, Jim's face reflects years of bottled sorrow.

"When Simon offered you that badge, I really wanted you at my side. But I was ignoring what my heart was telling me. You weren't meant to be there. It wasn't your place. It was mine. But after what you did for me, I didn't know how to help you. I didn't want to desert you," Jim explains.

"But you did," I add, knowing it was time for the truth.

"Yes, I did. As soon as things settled down, I felt this need to be free. I felt like I had to be on my own. And geez, you had only just started the academy. How was I going to say, `Gee Sandburg, maybe this isn't the right answer.' I still had no answers and I could see how hard it all was on you. So I pushed aside these growing urges and did what I hoped would be enough to find peace."

"You asked me to move out," I answer. "But it wasn't enough, was it? I was still there, where you felt I didn't belong. No longer just supporting you, but invading your territory."

"No!" Jim denies. "It wasn't about that. It was about, if felt like, time to move on. I didn't have an answer for you, but I knew you didn't belong there. Not because it was my place, but because it wasn't yours. We both needed to move on, but I didn't know to what."

"So you shut me out," I say, refusing to look at Jim. The anger, the abandonment I had felt so long ago was crashing back, overwhelming me.

"I think I was acting on instinct. I knew you weren't supposed to be there, but I felt guilty that you had no where else to be. So instead of talking about what I was feeling, I just acted on impulse. I did whatever I could to get you to leave," Jim admits.

We sit silently for a few minutes, each reflecting on our thoughts.

"I knew," I say. Jim looks up at me with his eyes wide.

"I knew," I repeat. "I was scared. I had no where to go. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't ready. I resented you for forcing me. I wasn't ready," I say again as I take a deep breath and try to find my center. Oh, I may look different, and I may work for the bourgeoisie, but I haven't forgotten my upbringing. I still had something through the hard times to reassure myself that Blair Sandburg wasn't gone forever.

"Oh god," Jim's voice cracks as his hand reaches for mine. "I am so sorry Blair. Why don't you hate me?"

"How can I? We were both feeling the same thing. You just reacted the way you always did. On instinct. And I tried to hide, like I always did. But it didn't work. Not this time. I guess it was just time for us to grow up. And if we weren't going to get that on our own, than something more powerful stepped in and forced our hand."

I close my eyes and sit back in my chair. "Jim, you know it was just a game, right? I think I owe you an apology . . ." I'm cut off as Jim says,

"No! You don't owe me anything. This wasn't your fault."

"But it was. Can't you see that yet man?" I reach into my pocket and pull out a small plastic bottle which I set in front of Jim.

Jim picks it up and reads the label. "What is this?" he asks.

"Zoloft. It's an anti-depressant. I started it after I got my insurance at Redwood. I'm back in therapy man and my therapist suggested I try that for awhile. We've been cutting back on the
dosage—I'll probably be done with it in another three months."

Setting the bottle back on the table, Jim looks at me and shakes his head bewildered. "So what are you trying to tell me? That I wrecked your life so completely you had a nervous breakdown or something?"

I laugh and tuck the bottle back inside my pocket. "No man. What I'm trying to tell you is that I let this sentinel thing, let my life, get completely out of control. I was too involved to see how demented everything had gotten. I was living on a dream. My life held so much uncertainty growing up; I never knew where I was going to be or what I was going to be doing. So I latched onto the idea of sentinels and built it up into something bigger than it ever was. I built you up man. It wasn't you making you feel like some inhuman freak—and don't tell me you didn't feel that way. It was me. And I am the one who is sorry.

"This whole experience, I didn't think I was going to make it. But I did. It was like waking out of a dream. I think reality just finally caught up with us and kicked us in our asses."

Jim stares at me like I have grown another head. He still doesn't get it.

"Come on Jim. This isn't the jungle. It's the twenty-first century. The new millenium. We didn't need to be living out of each others' back pockets. It was unhealthy. Maybe sentinels and their guides needed such close quarters deep in the jungle, but modern day society has so much more security to offer." I stop talking and pull out my cell phone. "Look how easy it is to reach you," I dial the loft number and the phone behind the counter rings. I fold up my phone and tuck it away again.

"So you're not my guide?" Jim asks, still struggling to understand.

"Hell yeah I'm your guide man! But we—I, spent too much time focusing on sentinels from long ago. I never tried to apply what I know, what I studied for years, to us. We aren't in the jungle. We're in Cascade. We have television and newspapers and radios to alert us to danger. We have phones and fax machines and computers to use to communicate. No more smoke signals. We hop in our car or on an airplane or train and cross miles in just a few hours. We were letting ourselves be smothered by the other when in reality, we should have been living our own lives."

I stop my lecture and gulp down some wine. "How are your senses?" I ask.

"They're fine," Jim answers. "Better than they've ever been since I ran into you at the restaurant," he adds.

"But we weren't together the last couple weeks. We saw each other that once. And you're saying you're senses are better after just that minimal contact. That proves my point man! We don't have to be attached at the hip to be sentinel and guide."

Jim looks at me sadly and begins to clear the table. I sit in silence listening to him scraping our plates into the disposal. Finally, his voice drifts out of the kitchen.

"So, has it always been just a sentinel and guide thing?" he asks, his voice defeated.

I jump up from my chair and storm into the kitchen, arms waving wildly. I am ready to pull my hair out, but it's too short to get my fingers into.

"Don't you get it yet man? I told you a long time ago—it's about friendship. That's why it feels so good to be together. Not because of some ancient sentinel-guide imperative."

His hands immersed in soapy water, Jim looks at me. "So you don't regret it?"

"No, I don't. Do you?" I ask, sure of Jim's answer.

"No. I don't regret it. We're both better because of it. You may feel like you need to apologize for dragging me into some dream of yours, but I just want to thank you. I needed you back then. More than you'll ever know. We needed each other—don't you see that?" Jim looks at me with a deep understanding in his blues eyes that startles me.

"We both needed to grow up Blair," he continues. "I needed to stop hiding. I had to learn that I alone am responsible for my happiness. I couldn't get it from my dad or the army or the PD, or
even from Blair Sandburg. I had to learn who Jim Ellison is. And thanks to you, I have."

"Jeez Jim," I mumble as I drop back down into a chair.

"How's that for insightful?" Jim asks playfully, as he flicks soap suds my way.

"Scary," I answer honestly. I'm not used to this self-assured Jim Ellison. I'm usually the one with all the answers. With a wicked gleam in my eye, I bounce off my chair and up to Jim. I hold out my hand,

"Pleased to meet you, my name's Blair."

Jim grasps my hand and pulls me into a hug. "Smartass," he mumbles. Releasing me from his embrace, he leans against the counter.

"So I hear there's a wild poker party tomorrow night, if you want to crash," Jim offers.

I hold my arms up in a warding off gesture. "Oh man, Angi will kill me if I don't take her out tomorrow night. She made me promise to give her a complete run down on tonight."

"Oh, a kept man," Jim chides and I laugh.

"Yeah," I happily agree.

"Congratulations," Jim says with a twinkle in his eye. "So how about the next game? You up for crashing in on a bunch of old cops?"

"You got it man. I wouldn't miss it for the world." I run my fingers through my short curls. "If only just to see the looks on their faces when I walk in looking like this."

"On second thought, I'm not so sure I want their deaths by heart attack on my conscience," Jim teases.

"Listen smart guy, I've got to go." I move to grab my coat and Jim intercepts me. Pulling me into a hug once again, he murmurs into my ear,

"Don't let it be another three years."

I laugh and pull away. "I have it on the authority of the Shaman of the Great City that the sentinel will be seeing his guide quite a bit. Don't you worry."

"I'm not worried," Jim says. "After all, I know where you live."

"Oh great, tease the short guy," I joke as I pull open the door which I just now notice is still the same forest green color of old. Some things will never change.

I leave and feel a peace that wasn't here before. I know now that everything I have gone through, was just another cycle, like life and death. Once again I have returned to my sentinel. Once again, I have found my friend.

END