Blair Sandburg was...down. Jim could feel it in the air; Jim could almost smell it. It was that
nondescript Sandburg *down* that wasn't quite depressed and wasn't irritable, but still managed
to make the kid drag around the loft like half of himself until the mood wore off, or got smacked
off of him by some new adventure.
The down times were part and parcel of the Life With Sandburg experience, just a vicissitude that
Jim had accepted when he gave up his independence. Blair cooked, Blair played irritating music,
Blair had a smile that worked on him like a kidney punch, Blair kept weird hours, Blair dated
women that were obviously all wrong for him, Blair moped around every now and then. It was
Blair.
It was Blair, Jim told himself. Just Blair. The kid -- the *man,* Jim corrected himself sternly --
the man never changed. Never had, never would.
And still Jim kept finding excuses to prowl the house, keeping Blair surreptitiously in his sights.
Checking. Monitoring, just as shamelessly as Sandburg, not all that long ago, had watched and
monitored him for any slight twitch of his senses or his stability.
Just Blair. Jim had raked him over the coals every way, with every sense he knew how to use,
and there was nothing -- other than that bland and familiar *down* -- going on with Sandburg.
He looked the same, smelled the same, sounded the same, was the same, was exactly and in every
detail Blair Sandburg. Jim's Blair Sandburg. A bit down, but undeniably himself.
It took almost twenty-four hours for the pieces to fall into place, while Jim was standing idly in
the shower. Because...something *should* have changed, shouldn't it? The idea was like
sandpaper across the inside of Jim's chest. He hated to admit it, but in this particular case, Blair
was being just a little...too...stable.
Something had happened to Blair, to both of them, and the old Blair -- *old Blair?* what the
*fuck?* whatever happened to never had, never would? -- but the Blair Sandburg that Jim knew
would have spent the last day and night stuck to the ceiling by the centrifugal force of his own
excitement. But the man in Jim's house was so damned mellow that it was beginning, truthfully,
to piss Jim off.
He got out of the shower like a man storming a beachhead. Jim had a mission, and he had a
strategy: fix Sandburg, and beat Sandburg's ass until he was fixed, respectively. It was strangely
exhilarating, really. The Sentinel of the Great City's first official act of heroic altruism. He was
ready.
"Hey, Jim," Sandburg said without looking at him when Jim strode into the kitchen. "Want a Pop
Tart?"
It was as good an opening line as any. "No, Sandburg, I don't want a goddamn Pop Tart."
Sandburg glanced over his shoulder, wide-eyed. "O-*kay.* Sheesh. What's the matter with you
this morning?"
All right, maybe that had been a little strong, right out of the gate. "Nothing. Nothing, I was just
-- I was thinking about cooking a real breakfast, that's all. Belgian waffles?"
Sandburg's eyes softened into something that looked a lot like pity. "Sure, Jim, that sounds nice."
After a carefully timed diplomatic pause, he added, "How are you feeling today?"
"I'm fine. Look, if you don't want waffles, just say so. I'm not too fragile to take your pastry
rejection."
"Okay, A) it is not an insult to take an interest in your general well-being shortly after the death of
somebody you cared about, so get that pissy look off your face, and B) I'm not sure a waffle is
technically a pastry. I'm thinking not, actually."
"Are we going to have another bitch session about my inability to have healthy relationships with
breakfast food? Because I think that would be fun." He freighted the words with as much
sarcasm as the law allowed, faintly certain even as it was happening that this op was in serious
trouble.
But after a brief, puzzled pause, Blair anted up with the first real smile Jim had seen from him in
the past twenty-four hours. The smile gained momentum like an avalanche, and before Jim knew
what was happening, he was being attacked and hugged. "You're a hundred percent, man, you're
a hundred percent," Blair laughed. "You do the waffle thing. Go crazy."
Which was how Jim Ellison ended up making breakfast instead of saving the world. The waffles
turned out pretty well, though.
By the time he was serving the first batch, Jim had resigned himself to the inevitable: he would
just have to ask Blair how he was feeling. It lacked finesse, but maybe the sheer novelty of the
situation would startle Blair into spilling his guts already, so that Jim could figure out for sure
what he was here to make Blair stop doing, or start doing, or whatever. Jim watched Blair nod
his approval of the waffles as he scarfed them down, and for an endless, awful moment, he could
feel himself *becoming* his father, eating those interminable dinners with his sullen family,
breaking the silences with such dogged attempts at communication as, *What did you boys learn
in school today?*
"So how's life as the Shaman of the Great City?" It was a stupid thing to say. Jim *knew* it was
a stupid thing to say. His only hope was that it was *such* a stupid thing to say that it would
prompt Blair to save his pathetic ass by taking over the conversation. The only thing worse than
having reason to suspect that he was becoming as much of a bastard as his father, Jim knew, was
having reason to suspect that his father hadn't been as much of a bastard as he'd always believed.
Having a family was, quite frankly, hard fucking work.
Blair took no pity on him, however. Blair just chuckled, and kept eating. Jim picked at his own
waffles, stretching the hope that Blair was merely composing his response until he'd stretched it
way past the bounds of reality. Blair probably had never spent this much time preparing his
thoughts before blurting them out in his entire life -- all combined. "Are you just not going to
answer me?" Jim managed, a little tightly, but not entirely combative. He hoped.
"What, that was an actual question? Why -- aw, man! Aw, Jim, you aren't -- you took that
*seriously?* That whole...way of the shaman thing?"
"Well...yes. Didn't...you?"
On the positive side, Blair's *down* mood seemed to be a thing of the past. Then again, Jim
could have lived without being laughed at this morning, which Blair eventually seemed to be
picking up on. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, man. It's just -- Jim, come on. You think it really works
that way? 'You wanna be a shaman?' 'Sure, cool.' 'Here you go, wear it in good health.' No
way, man. There's a whole set of preconditions and initiatory experiences -- you're either born to
it, by heredity or by some particular mark or omen -- being born with an intact caul is a really
common one -- or you train for *years* under another shaman, usually both."
"What are you telling me, Sandburg? Incacha didn't know what he was talking about, but you
do?"
It was a question with no right answer, and Blair caught on to that right away. "Hey, I'm not --
jeez, Jim, way to twist things around, man. Look, I didn't know Incacha as well as you did, but
he seemed to know *you* pretty well, and maybe the thing is that he knew you'd fall apart
without him--"
"Well, hell, Sandburg--"
"Please, you fell apart. But maybe he thought that if you had some way to hold on to the idea
that he could keep guiding you after he was gone, you'd, you know, hang in there."
"That's your theory."
Blair rolled his eyes. "Well, fuck me, Jim, what's your theory? I'm a shaman now? I got my
honorary degree and I'm all ready to go? Jim, it's just me, man. I'm not some kind of -- spiritual
authority all of a sudden or anything like that. I mean, that's...that's nuts."
Suddenly, Jim had no more stomach for saving the world, and as for Sandburg, if he'd had a few
bricks and a trowel, Jim would have been happy to wall him up in the spare room and let him die
there. "Fine," Jim growled. "I'm sure you're right. I mean, you're the fucking expert, right?"
"Jim--"
"No, hell, what would the rest of us know about anything? You know me, Sandburg, just tell me
what to believe, and I'll get right on it."
"Come on, Jim, come back to me, here. Don't get yourself all worked up."
Jim picked up his own strawberry syrup-stained plate and threw it as hard as he could against the
wall; the shattering made his ears hurt, but the way Sandburg jumped and looked horrified was
compensation enough. "Why the fuck are you doing this to me, Sandburg? Don't you fucking
understand that this is what we've both been waiting for?"
He leaned back in his chair, giving Jim a steady look that was as much wary as it was interested.
"Say more about that."
"More? What *more* do you want? *Sentinel.* *Shaman.* I thought you wanted to be my
*partner,* Blair. I thought you wanted in."
"Not enough to lie to myself about it. Not half enough to lie to you."
"Are you scared?" It sounded uncomfortably like a taunt. Why did it come out wrong, every
time Jim tried to do that thing where he let people know they should be able to talk to him? Bad
enough that it had always come out wrong with Carolyn, but with Sandburg, who must have
demonstrated the technique for him a hundred and fifty times in the last two years?
But rather than offended, Blair just sounded resigned. "Jim, I'm realistic. I know you're inclined
to take the word of an actual shaman over some geek with a library card, and normally I'd be
right there with you on that, but.... Look, I don't know *what* Incacha had in mind, I'm not
going to speak to his motives for saying what he said. But, please, Jim, you have to believe that I
know what the way of the shaman is. It means being an intermediary between the living and the
dead, being able to travel the spirit world and defend yourself from its hazards at will; it means
living a life that's almost totally liminal, never quite part of the tribe but never able to remove
yourself from it. There's elements of transgressive gender and social behavior, ecstatic rituals,
altered perceptions of reality, a complicated network of debts and favors that you owe to various
spirit beings, and debts and favors that you can call in from them, too. You do *not* just fall into
it, Jim. It's a whole life, it controls everything you do, everything you are. And if I somehow
*did* fall into it, don't you think I'd be able to tell? Don't you think I would feel...something?"
Damned if it didn't make sense, too. Sandburg always made way too much sense for Jim's peace
of mind, but this time Jim wasn't inclined to cede as much ground as usual to the *realistic* thing
to do. "*I* felt something."
Sandburg's expression softened, the hint of a smile appearing at the corners of his lips and eyes as
he reached out to cover Jim's hand with his own. "What you felt, Jim, that was just *trust.* Hard
as this may be for you to believe, it's not all that mystical an experience. But that doesn't mean
it's not important."
At long last, a chink in Sandburg's intellectual armor. He was *wrong* about this -- he was
wrong, and Jim could prove it. "I had a vision...."
"Man, you have visions at the drop of a hat. I swear, I just stick a pair of earphones on you and
tell you to visualize your safe place, and you have this life-altering transcendental experience. If
*anyone* has a pipeline to the other side around here--"
"It wouldn't have happened without you. What's the matter with you, Chief? I thought you were
the kid who wanted to be Batman when he grew up. Here you may have some kind of -- some
kind of power, just handed to you on a plate, and you can't even be bothered to check it out."
Abruptly, Blair stood up with the plate of half-eaten waffles in his hands. "You know what, Jim?
Forget it. I don't even want your waffles anymore; I have a lot of things to do this morning."
"You're blaming the *waffles* for this?"
"No, I'm blaming *you* for serving me pity waffles! Jim, you have got to quit this. You've just
got to *stop.* I don't want your waffles, I don't want your body, I don't want your superpowers,
I don't want any of this shit that you keep trying to give me because it'll make me happy."
"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do to make you happy if things that make you happy piss
you off?"
On his way around Jim headed for the dishwasher, Blair slowed down just long enough to thump
Jim's chest with the back of his hand. "Just lighten up, man. You try too--"
Jim caught the hand and hung on to it. From the way Blair's eyes widened, he might have been
hanging on a little hard, but right now Jim had bigger things on his mind. He'd apologize later.
"You don't try hard enough."
"Come on, Jim--"
"No. No, you stand here, and you tell me what you want."
"I've already told you that, man. You know my priorities. I told you, I want to stay with you, I
want to keep being your partner, I want to stay with the department for as long as I can swing it.
Jim, let go of me."
"Make me."
The look of shock on Blair's face would have been funny under almost any other circumstances.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Come on, Sandburg! You love bossing me around. Tell me what to do."
"Let go of me!"
"No!" Jim knew he was yelling, and he hoped that Sandburg could just look at him in that way he
did sometimes and know what was really going on -- maybe see through his bluster and into the
void of confusion and old guilt that seemed to be biting deeper into Jim month by month. "Not
until you admit that things are different now!"
"Nothing is different, Jim! I have *nothing* for you! Whatever you want, I don't feel it, I feel
just like I always did, I'm not your fucking shaman!"
Jim pulled on his arm, jerking the side of Sandburg's open hand against his chest, once and then
again. His vision was going haywire, losing all sense of distance and depth, and Jim could hear
that horrible ringing in his head, the constant rush of wind and heartbeat that had almost driven
him insane, not once but twice.
*Can't you see that this is killing me?*
It was a zone-out, or something worse -- he was hearing his own voice from farther away than
even a Sentinel should be able to hear it. Years away. He could feel blood thrumming under the
soft skin of Blair's palm as Jim's thumb pressed into it, but it was Incacha's voice he heard,
speaking to him in Quechua, saying, *I will not permit it. You will listen to me, and you will
live.*
Blair was wrong. He was so terribly, fatally wrong. He wouldn't say these things, if he
understood what it was like to be a Sentinel, and to be alone.
*Can't you see?*
*I can't. I can't.* Jim could remember the keen taste of the gunmetal on his tongue. He
remembered the bones of Incacha's fingers as they pried his hand away from the trigger. Those
bones had felt as though they'd taste like metal. *Just let me die....*
*I need you to live.*
So simple, with Incacha. There had been no explanations, no tests, none of the answers that Blair
always seemed so obsessed with digging up, somewhere amidst the allergies and the zone-outs
and the visions and those minor disasters that Blair always tagged with the dryly scientific name
*reactions.* With Incacha, it was always, Do it this way, because I tell you to. Live through this
because I need you to.
*Don't tell me to calm down!*
*I'm not! I need your emotions up, and I need them open!* Blair's hand, harder than gunmetal,
smashing into his chest, punctuating his demands. So simple. Live through this.
Because Blair needs you to.
Still disoriented, Jim reached forward, hoping to hell that Blair was where he ought to be. He
was. Jim's arms closed around him, and somehow he was moving and not moving at the same
time, and the one sense he had completely on-line was smell. It smelled like Blair was crying.
Later, God only knew how much later, he could hear Blair's talking to him, his voice cracked and
soft. "--and of course Devereaux thought they were all just borderline psychotics, but that's
Devereaux, right? Always the charmer. I mean, I'm not going to deny the relationship between
shamanism and certain forms of, you know, yeah, disorders, we can call them that, right? Like
epilepsy and schizophrenia, because sure-- Hey. Hey, Jim, are you back?"
Jim stirred again, his body obeying him a little more adroitly this time. His senses checked in one
at a time, letting him know that he was on the kitchen floor, with his head on Blair's chest and
Blair's arms draped loosely around his shoulders. "I'm back," he said, and his jaw felt not quite
hinged correctly. "What did I miss?"
"History of anthropological interpretations of shamanism. I was just about to get to Levi-
Strauss."
"Sorry to interrupt."
"Nah, forget it. It's all pretty thin until you get to Eliade. How do you feel?"
"Like an idiot, but thanks."
Blair dismissed that with a horsey little snort. "You needed it." With a little shock, Jim
recognized that Blair's fingers were digging comfortably into his neck. "He's dead, man," Blair
said softly, bending his head a little lower over Jim's. "You don't have to, you know. Bounce
right back."
"You want to know why I went up on the roof with you?"
"Because it was the right thing to do?"
He felt himself shaking a little, and then realized with relief that he was laughing. "No. No, that's
not even remotely why."
"To find the people who killed Incacha."
"Nice thought, but no."
"Okay, then tell me."
"I did it to shut you up. Because you were yelling at me, and I just wanted you to stop."
After a little pause, Blair started to chuckle, too. "There you go. That can be my superpower.
I'm so goddamn irritating that you'd rather go out and find some new way to risk your life than
hang around and listen to me talk."
How could Blair not see it? After all these years, shouldn't it have been obvious? But then, the
whole communication thing would be so much easier if more things were as obvious as they really
should be. "Of course that's your superpower, Sandburg. You think just anybody can order me
around like you do?"
"Guess not, man. Guess not. Hey...Jim?"
"What?"
"I really think it's time we talked about these visions of yours. Something's going on with you,
man. You've got something."
"I can't give this one to you, huh?" he tried, and it was half a feeble joke, half an even more feeble
truth.
Blair squeezed his shoulder warmly. "Man, I wish you could, you know? I wish I could tell you I
had something like that for you, but I don't. I told you, Jim -- I have your *trust.* That's what I
have. And if that, or possibly my incredible capacity for obnoxiousness, gets you to do the things
you have to do to take care of yourself, then there you go. That's the partner you've got."
"I don't know, Chief. You sounded...you *sounded* like him. I thought...."
"Well. I guess I know you pretty well, too."
Jim took stock of the situation. Sandburg was no longer down; he sounded fondly indulgent in
that superior way that Jim sort of liked. On the other hand, he hadn't made much headway
on...God, whatever it was he'd walked into this hoping to talk Sandburg into. Why had he even
bothered? Sandburg did what he did; he never changed. Jim might have just saved his energy and
eaten the Pop Tart. "Hey...Sandburg?"
"What?"
"Did you dump my waffles on the floor?"
"Well, yeah, I guess I did. While you were, you know, *assaulting* me."
"Oh, grow up. I didn't hurt you."
"Okay, you didn't hurt me. And I'm sorry about the waffle thing, even though I just dropped
mine and you, technically, threw yours and broke the plate. They were great. I shouldn't have
taken our fight out on the waffles."
"They weren't pity waffles."
"I know."
"The rest of it.... I mean...none of it's pity."
Blair's fingers brushed lightly down the side of his neck. "I know," he repeated, huskily. "That
was a stupid thing to say."
Honesty, honesty. Communication. In this situation, what would his father never, ever have said?
"I just.... It's weird. That you could walk away, and I never can."
Under his ear, Blair's chest rose and fell in a long sigh. "If you say so, man." And then he
laughed for no apparent reason, and tightened his arms briefly around Jim. "Whatever you say."