Quiet
Clarity, a Sentinel/Guide connection, by Glacis. Rated
PG for language. Copyright on characters to Pet Fly et al, inspired by
"One Clear Voice" performed by Peter Cetera, no infringement
intended. Lyrics appended at the end, applicability of particular verses left
up to the reader to determine, if s/he cares.
Everyone has
an anchor. His was just a little more literal than most.
Usually it
was the heat of skin under his fingertips, lighting his way through the chaos
of his senses when they went out of control. Once in awhile, it was the warm,
musky scent that led him back. But sometimes, the worst times, that wasn't
enough. When he was locked inside his body, lost inside his head, it took more.
It took his
Guide's voice.
He didn't
want to think what might happen should he ever lose his anchor.
The white
noise generators weren't working. He hadn't slept in three days. He was biting
the head off anyone stupid enough to attract his attention. He'd zoned out
eight times in the last thirty six hours.
It was
getting bad.
Simon
wouldn't, couldn't send him home. There was too much work to do, and Jim
Ellison was at least functioning on a basal level. He was juggling five open
cases, all less than a week old, not yet dry enough to consider back burner.
And all the other detectives were just as busy. Spring had hit with a
vengeance, and the bad guys were out there making merry while the sun shone.
God only knew the sunshine wouldn't last long in Cascade.
Jim had made
it through two stakeouts and one shoot out without killing himself or anyone
else on the right side of the law. He figured it was plain dumb luck. If Blair
wasn't back at his side soon, he didn't know how much longer he could hold on
to what was left of his sanity.
It was
hanging by a frayed thread as it was.
He hadn't
really understood just why it was so important for Sandburg to head off to the
wilds of back hills Tennessee for a week, but since the kid hadn't had a break
in nearly three years, and had suffered the loss of several good friends during
that time, Jim couldn't really blame him for needing the time to recharge his
batteries. He just hadn't expected the absence to hit him this hard. After all,
he hadn't zoned in months, thought he had it under control.
Didn't
realize he was using Blair's heartbeat as a metronome to send him to sleep at
night. Hadn't figured out that the reason he hadn't zoned wasn't because he
had it so far under control, but because his Guide was doing a damned good job
of making sure he didn't need to worry about it. Jim had stopped thinking about
why Sandburg was really beside him, subconsciously stuffing the mystical stuff
that he wasn't particularly comfortable with down until he could focus on what
a good partner the kid was becoming in a cop sense of the word. Clues, back-up,
improvising in the face of bad guys, watching his back, yeah, that sort of
thing Jim was comfortable with Blair being there to do.
He'd
forgotten that all those things were just icing on the cake. Blair was a
shaman. A guide. An anchor.
Without him,
Jim was adrift in the cacophony of his own thoughts, not to mention drowning in
the noise and confusion that surrounded him.
Four
more days.
Surely he could hold on for four more days.
He had to.
Jack Kelso,
hurt yet again.
Janet.
Hal Buckner,
his old advisor.
Genevieve.
Emily Watson.
Brother
Timothy. Brother Christopher. Brother Marcus.
Maya.
God. Maya.
His poor, confused Naomi.
They were an
honor role of sorts. People who had been killed or otherwise fucked up by his
attempt to be too many things to too many people. And not doing a very good job
at being any of those things to any of those people.
Innocent
bystanders to the train wreck that was his life.
Staring down
at the
Janet's
body, prone beside her car, a Chopec arrow in her
back, sacrifice to his need to know. Jack, fallen half out of
his wheelchair, bleeding from a sniper's bullet, for the same reason. His friend Roy, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and
was bludgeoned to death for his moral convictions. Emily, who didn't
even know what was coming before death caught her in
her own office. Hal, who should have known better, and had paid for it, with
his life. Genevieve, who had already paid so much, and sacrificed the hope of
anything more. The good brothers, who weren't quite as
good but were much more human than he'd realized, who'd died with violence they
should never have had to face, once they'd escaped from it the first time.
Maya. Twice
bitten, too damned stupid to be shy. Was he ever going to learn?
And
what about his mother? Naomi still couldn't quite figure out how her son had so
thoroughly gone over to the pigs, even though Jim was the exception to her
definition of 'pig.' Usually. Until
Blair got shot at again, or kidnapped, or doped up, or chained up, or beaten
up. Then she'd rant and he'd defend, and Jim would go blithely on his
merry way completely unaware that Blair was taking up the cudgel in his honor.
And
for what?
To be considered a cop.
Which,
of course, he wasn't. Simon made sure he knew that. Although it had taken him
aback when the Captain had apologized -- apologized -- to him --
and made sure, in his own rather awkward way, that things were all right
between them.
Sure they
were. But he still wasn't a cop. He was an anthropologist. Sort
of. Hadn't been doing a very good job of that, either.
Dr. Stoddard had returned from
That tiny
voice was getting louder.
It had driven
him out of the loft, out of the Precinct, out of the University, out of
Cascade. If he didn't find an answer to satisfy it, he feared it would drive
him completely out of Jim Ellison's life. And if that happened, he wasn't sure
just what he'd have left.
Which
totally sucked.
Because he
wasn't sure what he had right now. And if he didn't figure it out, and answer
that shrieking little voice, he had the ugly feeling his life was going to
explode.
They
had cornered the drug runners at an abandoned barn deep in the woods outside
Cascade. Jim struggled to hear what was going on inside the darkness of the
cavernous building, trying to block out the breathing, rustling, heart-beating,
goddamned noisy cops all around him, trying to piggy back his sight onto
his hearing like Sandburg had taught him, cussing under his breath at the lack
of his Guide, then wincing at how loud the words felt on his abused ear drums.
"Four of
them, sir," he grunted at Simon, trying unsuccessfully to think through
the headache that was threatening to blind him. "Maybe five, I can't get a
fix on it."
Hand on gun,
gun out of holster. Safety off. Crouch, oh, yeah, he
was already crouched. Couldn't see through the darkness.
The leaves stank of mold and decay. The gun oil was clogging his sinuses. His
skin was itching. Was he cold? He couldn't tell. The world was fuzzing out.
Heartbeats. All
around him. Everywhere. Was he talking to
Simon? He couldn't tell that, either. His mouth was moving, he thought. But his
head was imploding, and he couldn't hold on to it any longer.
The heartbeat
he needed to hear just wasn't there. He slid into a maelstrom of noise, seeking
the one noise he needed to guide him out of the storm. Not finding it, he began
to shut down, devoting more and more of his concentration to the one thing that
he was missing, not aware of his actions. He was acting on an instinct older
than time, and his time had just run out.
Banks stared
at him, concerned at the pallor of his best detective's face. Ellison had been
acting a little weird ever since Sandburg left to go on his retreat or whatever
the hell it had been. Jim hadn't had one of his zone episodes, or whatever the
kid called it, in a long time, and Simon thought he had it under control. He
had the vague idea that it was a little like some sort of epileptic seizure,
that Jim and Blair had worked out some kind of exercises or something to
control them, and that the crisis was past. Staring hard at his friend, he had
the uneasy feeling he'd gotten complacent a little prematurely.
Ellison
looked like shit. Before he could follow that thought up with a question, Jim's
face went completely blank. Thinking the detective had heard something
threatening, Simon whipped around to stare at the entrance to the barn. Sure
enough, the pushers were heading out.
"Great
work, Jim!" he tossed over his shoulder, eyes glued to the figures rushing
the entrance. He came up in firing position, shouting orders to his team as he
went. The first shots took the four suspects by surprise, and there was little
return fire, with only one casualty on the side of the criminals and none among
the police. Simon went over the top of the overgrown stump he had been using
for cover and oversaw the surrender of the suspects. The bust went down like
clockwork, and the three living suspects were rounded up and locked down with
dispatch.
Turning to
congratulate his detective once more on a relatively clean bust, he realized
that Ellison wasn't beside him. Thinking about it for a moment he realized he
couldn't remember Ellison coming out from cover when he did, either. Leaving
his men to their Mirandizing, he half-ran back to the
stump he'd been hiding behind. What he found made him drop his fresh cigar and
reach out with both hands to his friend.
Jim was laying curled in a fetal position, hands cupped over his
ears, eyes clenched tightly shut. He was breathing shallowly, and there was no
color in his face at all. When Simon's hands touched his skin, it was cold,
with a clammy feel to it. He was obviously in shock, but Simon had a bad
feeling there was more to it than simple shock.
Making a quick
decision, going on gut instinct and hoping like hell it wouldn't backfire on
him, he yelled out, "Brown! Come here!"
The other
detective looked up and came over at a run to join his boss. "Sir?
Jim?! What happened?" He looked over at Simon, crouched over Ellison.
"Don't
ask. Trust me on this. Grab his feet. I need to get him into my car."
Simon moved to shove his hands under Ellison's armpits, shifting the man
preparatory to lifting him. Brown stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Shouldn't
we call an ambulance? Looks like he's been hit."
Simon glared
at him, and Brown moved automatically to wrap his forearms under Ellison's
knees, helping the Captain hoist him up. "He hasn't been hit," Simon
ground out. "This … happens once in awhile. Just help me get him to the
car."
The
suggestion remained unvoiced but strong that Ellison had some sort of seizures,
and Simon knew how to deal with them. Brown shrugged, not understanding but
quite willing to follow orders, and the two men manhandled Jim's inert body into
the passenger seat of the car. With curt thanks and an injunction to stay at
the scene and direct clean-up, Simon pointed the car toward Cascade. Maybe,
once Jim was back in the loft, he would come to himself. Simon turned the
heater up to melt, shot a worried glance at his friend, and stepped on the
accelerator.
One thought
ran unceasingly under his worry. Where the hell was Sandburg when you needed
him?
The deep blue
green of the mountain forest wasn't holding the answers Blair was searching
for, and the soothing he'd expected to find for his soul was strangely absent.
Closing his eyes, palms flat on his knees, face lifted to the sunlight
filtering through the clouds, Blair concentrated on the sounds and the scents
of the earth all around him and sank into a light meditative trance.
His center
was off kilter. He was out of place. Out of time. Out of sorts. Slowly, so slowly he didn't realize it was
happening until it was a completed action, he moved on the rock until he was
facing Cascade. His head tilted to one side in a characteristic listening pose.
His heartbeat slowed, and the blood in his veins quieted.
Finally, he
could hear.
The first
thing he heard was fear. Not of himself, nor of Jim, but of what he might do to
Jim in his ignorance. From the beginning he had been relying on instinct,
experience and study, combining the three in an odd amalgam to feel his way
through the minefield of Jim's senses. When it had been the excitement of a
dissertation subject, a living Sentinel to examine and explore, the fear had
been edged out by scientific curiosity.
Then the
relationship between them had developed. The Sentinel became, simply, Jim. The
study mutated into friendship. The friendship developed into love. His mind
attempted to flinch from the unremitting honesty of the clear, quiet voice
ringing through his soul, but it was held fast by the power in the answers it
heard.
He had much
to fear. Incacha had named him Shaman, but in his
heart he felt like a fraud. His Sentinel, his friend, his love was putting his
life into his hands, and those hands were slick with the sweat of indecision
and ignorance. He was so afraid of the choices he had to make. He had to choose
his path … he would have thought 'find' would be the appropriate word choice,
but he had found his path when he found his Sentinel. Now he had to choose
which way that path would lead. Toward further
responsibility? Toward more choices he felt incapable and unprepared to
make? Or toward freedom?
Everything
stilled.
Freedom.
It had been
his grail his entire life, the legacy of a family of two with ties to none but
themselves. But it was an incomplete equation. Made incomplete by the
unexpected inclusion of a variable he never would have chosen, and yet had,
willingly.
Freely.
The voice
rose, singing, deeper and more resonant with each slow pulse. Cutting through the confusion, through the fear, through the lack
of confidence, to lay bare the truth at the center of his soul.
There was no
freedom without choice. There was no choice about love. His love was his
freedom, and within that freedom there could be no fear.
He was home.
His eyes
gradually opened, the light in them reflected in the easy smile stretching his
lips. There was no choice to make, as his heart and soul had made it for him
months before. It was about friendship. It was about trust. It was about love.
And it was about listening to, and trusting, the small clear voice ringing
through him, that would guide him as he would Guide Jim.
Jim needed
him. Equally as important, he needed Jim.
Stretching
into the sunshine, finally aware of the spring wind that was cutting through
him like a knife, he found himself laughing. Sitting on a rock in the middle of
the mountains in March freezing his ass off just to hear himself
think, to hear what he should have been able to hear in front of a nice blazing
fire in the loft sprawled on the couch next to Jim. He unkinked
his back, shook the pins and needles out of his legs, and headed for the rental
car. He had a plane to catch. Time to get off his ass and get
home. Finally.
And wouldn't
the big guy be surprised when he showed up three days early.
Jim was
curled up on the couch, an afghan draped over him, tucked around him to keep
off any draft. Simon sat on the coffee table next to him, staring into his
face, clearly worried.
He kept
talking to Ellison, as he had seen Sandburg do on the few occasions he'd
witnessed a zone out. The other man was less chill and pale than he had been
when Simon had first brought him home, but there had been no other improvement.
Cursing the kid once more for taking off and not leaving a contact number, he
bent closer and kept talking. He'd stay the night, and if Jim wasn't any better
in the morning, he'd take him into the hospital. He didn't want to do it, but
he had no idea what else to do.
Everything
was fuzzy dark and closed off. He couldn't smell anything, wasn't aware of his
tongue, or his ears or his eyes at all. He floated in a cold place, a dark
place, searching, frightened, a little angry, a little panicked. There was
something he needed, something that was missing, but he couldn't find it and
couldn't remember what it was that he should be trying to find.
There was a
buzzing around him. It was a dim thread of light in the fuzzy darkness. It
looped around him, circled him, shot off to the side. It never came close
enough for him to touch it, or for it to touch him. It was vaguely familiar,
and not at all threatening, but it was not what he needed. He ignored it, and
kept searching.
Somewhere in
the darkness, there was a thin keening cry, a rasping breathy tortured sound
that hurt. A flash went through him … a cat … bleeding … crying … its tongue
was lolling out of the side of its mouth. Blood was trickling from its
nostrils. Its eyes were open. Its skin was flayed from its body. Its paws were
scrabbling, scratching at the air around it, scratching at itself, flaying away chunks of fur, strips of flesh. Its eyes were
wild, searching. Lost.
The flash
disappeared. The buzzing light brightened, then with a single flare, dimmed to
the point of near nonexistence.
He saw, felt,
noticed, turned from it.
It was not
what he needed.
He was deaf
to the cry behind him. It was not what he needed to hear.
As the
airplane was circling for final approach to Cascade International, Blair felt
his chest suddenly clench. His vision narrowed, his breath caught in his throat
as his lungs constricted. Sweat broke out on his face and down his body, and
his muscles twisted in a full blown panic attack.
Something was
way wrong, here. There was a compulsion in him,
it had him on his feet before the plane finished taxiing. Had
him out the door practically before the steward could open it. Screamed
through his throat at a cab driver, threw money at the front seat, forget the
carry-all, all hell was breaking loose and he was going to be too late if he
didn't get there.
Unaware of
either the hesitant look on the driver's face or the nearly two hundred dollars
he'd thrown at the man, Blair huddled in the back seat, arms curled around his
midriff, hair hanging in his face. His fingers dug into his ribs, causing
bruises, as he stared unseeing at the sunset painting the clouds orange over
the Sound.
"Hurry,
man, gotta hurry, gotta get
there. Hang on, big guy, hang in there, Jim, I'm coming, it's
gonna be okay, just hold on, Jim …" The litany
continued for the short forty five minutes it took to make it through the
outskirts of Cascade and onto Prospect. Judging by the tightness in his chest
and the trembling making its way down his limbs, the trip had taken a lifetime.
Not
acknowledging the half-hearted offering of change from the driver, Blair threw
himself out the door of the cab and staggered at a drunken run into the
building. He didn't hear the acceleration as the cab pulled away, or the
exclamation of the neighbor he pushed past on his way up the stairs. Words were
tumbling from him compulsively, trying to push back the darkness he could feel
pressing all around him, knowing, somehow, that he was throwing out a lifeline
and saving his own life in the process.
He didn't
have his key, couldn't remember where it was hidden, didn't give a flying fuck.
Blair hit the door with his out-thrust foot, breaking the latch and causing it
to slam against the counter. He never slowed down. He didn't even see Simon
standing guard over Jim, gun drawn and pointed defensively at the broken door.
The darkness was suffocating him. He was drowning.
"Hold
on, hold on, hold on hold on holdonholdonholdon--"
Simon watched
in slack-jawed amazement as Sandburg burst through the door with a commando
kick that would have warmed the cockles of any Army Rangers' sergeant's heart.
He was on his feet instinctively, weapon out and
primed to meet the threat, but the 'threat' didn't even acknowledge him.
Muttering something that sounded like an incantation under his breath, Blair
ran full tilt into the apartment, hurdled the coffee
table and landed full length on top of Jim.
It would have
been funny except for the sheer heartbreaking urgency in the way the young man
burrowed into his unresponsive partner. Shaking hands shoved the afghan aside,
strong arms wrapping around Ellison's broad chest, sturdy legs worming their
way around Ellison's, as Sandburg buried his head under Ellison's chin and
spoke directly into the hollow of his throat. Simon wondered, for an instant,
if he should suggest that talking into the detective's ear might do more
good, but he held it back. He didn't understand the connection between these
two -- might never understand it -- and he wasn't about to interfere now.
He slowly holstered
his gun, backed away slightly and lowered himself into the armchair. His eyes
were locked on the near-frantic movements as Sandburg seemed to do his
damnedest to envelop Ellison completely in his presence. Simon hoped it would
work. He had the oddest thought that if it didn't, he was going to lose two
friends tonight.
The darkness
was deepening. He was adrift. He thought he should care, but he wasn't aware
enough to recognize the thought as such. The dim little thread of light was
gone. The keening was back, and he listened to it intently, wondering vaguely
if that was what he was missing.
It wasn't.
He started to
relax, letting go, giving himself over to the current.
Then he heard
it.
It was very
small. But it held a crystal clarity in the stillness
of his mind that he recognized and responded to instinctively. It was a whisper
of light, a single note reverberating through him, until everything around him
shivered at t the same pitch. He went completely still, closed off everything,
everything except that one clear tone.
It fit.
The missing
component that he had been searching so hard for had returned. He heard it
clearly, in the warm pure tone, in the steady thumping rhythm lying securely
over him like a blanket, in the strong rushing harmony snaking out along his
arms and legs, anchoring him as he had needed so badly to be anchored. Drawing him back from the darkness.
The confusion
disappeared.
He was home.
Finding his
body again, feeling his bones and his muscles and his flesh and his skin, he
lifted surprisingly heavy arms up to loop them around his anchor, anchor him in
turn. Sighing out then breathing in slowly, he was surrounded by the scent of
home, of security, of safety and earth, grounding another sense back into
reality. The scent was strong enough to taste, and he did, sorting through
residual fear, haste, contentment, belonging, urgency, and triumph. With a
final supreme effort, he opened his eyes and gazed down at a tangle of sable
curls, broad shoulders, muscles bunched as long arms held him tightly. Down the
sweep of back, over the mound of rump, to the strong legs entwined with his own. In the back of his mind, a question formed,
but the feeling of contentment and fatigue washed it back into a far corner.
Time enough for that, later. Right now, all was right, he was home, the kid was
back were he belonged. They could sort the details out later.
Jim nuzzled
his chin against the soft curls, tightened his hold on his Guide, snuggled
deeper into the couch cushions, and fell sound asleep.
Blair could
feel the moment when Jim found him, felt the reconnection with every atom of
his being. Something deep inside clicked, and his center settled right back
down where it belonged. The quiet voice he'd heard on the top of a mountain in
The whisper settled into the same cadence as the rise and fall
of the chest beneath him, and sang him to sleep.
Simon Banks
stared at the unlikeliest partners he'd ever seen, and sighed deeply. No, he
didn't think he'd ever figure out what the hell was going on. But then, he didn't
really need to know. They'd figured it out, that much was obvious, and that was
what was important. He didn't think he needed to worry about another week like
the one they'd all just suffered through. Something important had happened here
tonight. And he had a sneaking suspicion it was only the beginning.
Rising
quietly to his feet, moving softly so as not to awaken the sleepers, he went to
the door and turned out the light. Stepping into the doorway, he blocked the
door as best he could and made a mental note to give Jim the morning off to fix
the lock. All in all, it had been a hell of a week. He shook his head,
retrieved a fresh cigar from the case Daryl had given him, and headed down the
stairs. Should be interesting to see where it went from here, he thought with
an internal grin.
In the
darkest corner of the loft, there was a rustle of movement. A battered, weary
panther padded over to the two figures wrapped around one another on the couch.
A velvet wet nose touched the fingers twined around
one another, held tight between the ribcages, long whiskers flicking once,
twice. Then the strong legs folded and the big cat lay down, shifting to settle
its weight against the front of the couch. Ears twitching to sounds only it
could hear, it rested its head on its crossed paws and drifted off to sleep.
**f*i*n*i*s**
One Clear Voice
The whole world is
talking, drowning out my voice.
How can I hear
myself with all this noise?
But all this
confusion just disappears
when I find a quiet place where I can hear
One clear voice,
calling out for me to listen,
One clear voice,
whispers words of wisdom.
I close my eyes 'til
I find what I've been missing.
If I'm very still, I
will hear
One clear voice.
I'm always searching
for which path to take.
Sometimes I'm so
afraid to make mistakes.
From somewhere
inside me, stronger than my fears,
just like the sound of music to my ears, I hear
One clear voice.