The Sentinel isn't mine. Jim isn't mine. Blair isn't mine. Kincaid isn't mine. All in all, folks, if you want someone with some sort of legal claim, you're in the wrong place. All I can claim is that I love them lots and promise to give them back when I'm done. (whenever that may be... What are y'all doing in 2008?) 'Kay? This is another section in my Blessed Protector's Thoughts series. Yes, yes, I know. It took me long enough... Archive: Yep. Link to my page at http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/8868/tsfanfic.html Warnings: There's some dialogue that may be considered "slashy" but it's not, trust me. ________ A Blessed Protector's Thoughts on Siege At the Loft The pan is hot enough that the onions sizzle when I drop them in. The sound is a welcome one, normal, homey, comfortable and more importantly a promise of dinner soon to come. I add the peppers and leave them to brown while I check on the meat. It's a fairly quiet evening, in as much as things are ever quiet in Cascade. The quiet and relative peace are a more than welcome contrast to the crazy day I've been having so far. Hostage situations, fire fights, and I don't think I'll ever forget that helicopter ride. A very welcome contrast. After everything was over, after Kincaid and his men were brought in, the injured whisked away by ambulance, the rest of the city's police force finally brought back from wherever Kincaid had sent them, it *still* wasn't over. People to book, statements to take, paperwork to complete. I was just about certain today would never end. But thank you God, it has. Less than an hour ago Simon finally got tired of the whole thing and kicked us all out. It has more to do with the fact that his ex-wife found out that their son was nearly thrown out a window than out of any sympathy for us, but who's complaining? I grabbed my coat and Sandburg and got the hell out of there. For some reason, instead of dropping the kid at home, wherever that is, I invited him back to the loft. Guilt, I guess. It's not everyday that someone gets into the sort of mess Sandburg found himself in today, and the fact is, he never would have been there if it weren't for me. And he certainly wouldn't have been alone if I had just stayed there with him. Okay, so guilt it is. Just don't tell him that. Dinner was easily decided on, especially once we both agreed we didn't want to wait for take-out to get here. I grabbed ingredients for a simple stir-fry and set to work while Sandburg sacked out on the couch with one of those thick text books he always seemed to have with him, promising to do the dishes once we were finished. It's really kind of strange now that I think about it, but this has really become something of a habit over the last few weeks. I've known Sandburg about two months now - a little less, really - but more and more often we seem to end his little tests and lessons in sensory control by coming back to the loft for dinner, maybe a movie or something. Not that I mind, oh no. Quite the contrary actually. The kid's doing a lot to help me out and if making him dinner is enough to keep him happy, then what the hell, I have to eat anyway. Besides, I'm gradually learning that having him around isn't such a bad thing after all. He's smart, reasonably funny even if his sense of humor would be best appreciated by other scientists most of the time, and as he's more than proven today, he's quite capable of handling himself in an emergency. It's not every one who could take out a fanatic killer with a *vending machine* for God's sake. Joel's going to be telling that story for years, I can tell. Okay, okay. *I'm* going to be telling that story for years. I'm enjoying the peace and quiet, but that doesn't mean I want total silence. It's been one hell of a day and I could use a little winding down. And Sandburg looks like fair game. "I have a theory, Chief," I say offhandedly as I scoop out the vegetables and meat onto two plates. "Want bread with this?" "Sure. What theory?" I *knew* that would get his attention. "You may not like it." I hand set both the plates down on the table. "What would you like to drink?" Whatever you've got. Juice is fine, I guess. Why wouldn't I like it?" "Lemonade, apple or orange?" "Lemonade. I repeat. Why wouldn't I like it?" "You feature rather prominently in this theory," I warn him, trying not to let my amusement show. Sandburg's not to good at reading my expressions, not yet anyway, but I'm feeling silly and I don't want him to catch on too quickly. "How prominently?" Blair accepts the glass of juice I hand him and claims his seat at the table. Listen to me. *His* seat. I invite the kid over a few times, he sits in the same place and therefore it's his? I have got to go out more often. "Very prominently. As a matter of fact, you *are* the theory." "Oh?" He's got that look. The one I've learned means he knows *something* is up, he just doesn't know what. Poor kid's probably trying to figure out whether I'm joking or giving him the ax. "Why don't you tell me the theory, Jim." "Well, if you're sure," I say, feigning reluctance as I take my own seat. "Just remember I warned you, okay?" I delay for a moment while I get up to grab a beer from the fridge. He's fidgeting when I get back, pushing his food around his plate with his fork, toying with his glass. I swear if he starts tearing the napkin I'll burst out laughing. "Remember when we met? For real, at your office, not that minor infraction of the law at the hospital?" He rolls his eyes, and I ignore him. Maybe one day I'll let him forget that incident, but not just yet. I bet Joel would like to hear that one, come to think of it. "Remember right after I stormed out of your office?" "Was this before or after you tried to throw me through the wall?" Sandburg's face is the expression of innocence, but I know well enough by now not to fall for it that easily. He's trying to get in a few hits before I get to where I'm going. "After," I tell him, making sure he doesn't see any sign that the statement hit home. Maybe one day he'll let me live that down. Probably not. "I zoned out, remember?" His look is one of amusement mixed with disgust. "Oh, like I'm gonna *forget*." "Well, after everything you've been through in the last couple months," I shrug and let my words trail off. He gets the point. "I haven't been through so much that being run over by a garbage truck doesn't still stick out in my memory," he says patiently. I shrug again, willing to concede the point. "That's when I first began to suspect that something was up. With you. Between us." I carefully avoid looking him in the eyes, but I catch a glimpse of his expression when I take a sip of beer. The kid is so easy! "What exactly do you mean, 'between us'?" he asks. "Just that. Sandburg, whenever we're together something happens, and you are definitely the catalyst. I just don't know any other way to put it." I drop my fork and lean back in my chair. "It's like this outside force, and I can't avoid it or control it. It's making me crazy and I don't know what to do about it!" The frustrated tone in my voice is enough to get him to take me seriously, even without the implication of what I'm saying. Kid thinks he's my father or something. "Jim, man, calm down. Tell me what's going on, okay? Whatever it is we can work on it, right? Does it have something to do with your senses?" "Not really. Just in the way that you're concerned." I look him straight in the eye, holding my breath to make sure I don't laugh out loud. "Chief, I'm afraid this is going to start interfering with my work. We need to settle this, one way or the other." I can actually see him, screwing up the courage to ask that next question. "Jim. Just tell me, okay? Whatever it is we can work it out. There's no need for it to interfere with your job. I promise you, I won't let that happen. I'll help you anyway I can, but you have to tell me first." I blink and shake my head slightly. God his voice is hypnotic sometimes. Worse than a zone-out in some ways. I sometimes think that he could talk me into doing anything he wanted when he uses that tone, and I'd never know. I don't think he *would*, just that he could. But I don't want heavy thoughts right now. I want to get on Sandburg's case. I raise my eyes until my gaze meets his, and I make sure that there's nothing but total seriousness in the expression. I see the same expression coming back at me, with a bit of worry, and a bit of confusion mixed in. The concern is most prominent, even more so than the seriousness. I take a deep breath and make a visible effort at bracing myself. Sandburg just fixes me with the same look he uses when I zone out. "Chief, I don't really know how to say this, and I know it might make you uncomfortable to hear, but, well... "Chief, I think you're bad luck." Oh boy, *that* got his attention. "What?" The look on his face is priceless. I wish I had a camera. "Bad luck? *Jim.* Is that what you were trying to tell me?" "Well of course, Sandburg. What did you think I was going to say?" Sandburg is an open book 95% of the time, I've almost never not been able to tell what he was thinking just from the expression on his face. So I'm more than a little surprised - okay, I'm completely shocked - to see a look of regret and - longing? cross his face. "Nothing, Jim. What else would I think?" "Blair?" I hate the fact that my voice is just barely above a squeak at this point. "What are you saying? Do- I- Blair?" Is the kid actually saying - implying - what I think he's implying? Oh, god, I certainly never expected *this* when I started this game. "Blair please-" He looks away, ducking his head until his face is hidden by his hair. "It's nothing, Jim. Really." His voice is low, and shaky and I can see him start to tremble. I hear a breathless sound escape him. Jesus Christ, how did this happen? That's when it hits me. He's not upset. It was one of the first things Blair tried to teach me. Reading emotions, he argued, was something every cop needed to know how to do, and my Sentinel abilities would just make it a hundred times easier. Right? Over a course of two weeks he dragged me around, trying to get me to read the emotions of more than a hundred people, most of them friends of Blair. I got to be pretty good at it, too. And I can tell for certain, that Blair's not upset right now. His heartbeat is wrong, first of all. There's a difference, and I'm hearing it. Also, there's no scent of tears, or just the overall... aura - I did *not* just use that word - that I've come to notice around people who are sad, or unhappy. And then there's the sounds. Those breathless half-sobs aren't anything of the sort. The damn kid's trying not to laugh. "*Sandburg-*" He gives up the charade and dissolves into laughter. "Oh, man, the look on your face!" I shake my head and lean back in the chair. "You little-" "Oh, hey," Blair objects, beginning to get himself under control. "You started it." There's nothing to say to that, so I don't bother trying. "Not bad for an amateur." "Amateur?" Blair asks, doing a pretty fair job of looking outraged. "What do you mean, 'amateur?' I had you going." A smirk at him, knowing how much he hates when I do that. "A pro would've made me sweat it out for a couple of days, minimum." Blair snorts. "You let me off the hook pretty fast." "Because you're an amateur," I say patiently. "I decided to go easy on you." "Right." I clap him on the shoulder as I walk by on my way to the sink. "Don't let it get to you, kid. You'll learn." Blair shakes his head, still giggling a little, a wide grin still plastered across his face. "Yeah. I have a feeling I will. It's what I'm gonna learn that worries me, man." "Well, you've already mastered venditsu - the art of using an opponent's vending machine against him." A wadded up paper napkin narrowly misses me. "Oh *ha ha*." "I'll have you know, not everyone can master venditsu as quickly as you did. Most us us, it takes a decade of hard studying and training." "Uh-huh." "With the Monks." "Monks?" "They *are* the last known masters of the art. They came from the Tibetan mountains a quarter century ago to pass on their learnings to the worthy students of the Cascade PD." Blair's sitting sideways in his chair, a wide grin on his face, looking like he's totally willing to play the game. "How long did it take you to learn?" "I haven't learned," I say mournfully. "Maybe in another year or two." "Not such a great student after all, hmmm?" "It would appear, that to be a master of venditsu is not my immediate destiny.' Blair shakes his head and doesn't say anymore as I return to the table. For a minute or two neither of us says anything as we finish dinner and begin to clear the table. "Doesn't matter anyway," he says offhand as he passes me on his way to the sink. "I'd rather have a mighty Sentinel guarding me than all the great masters of venditsu." And the nest part? I know he means it. End