Title: The First Stand

Author/pseudonym: Kel

Fandom: The Sentinel

Pairing: implied Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg

Rating: G

Status: new/complete

Archive: WWOMB, of course

Series/Sequel: Absolutely Not

Disclaimers: The characters do not belong to me. They belong to Pet Fly Studios. I am making no money from this; I am doing it for sheer love of the characters and my own personal fulfillment.

Summary: A trip and a need for thinking causes one lover to doubt the other's intentions.

Warnings: Gives away character backgrounds, otherwise it's harmless.

The First Stand
By Kelly

I couldn't believe it when I read the letter left for me on the dresser. My lover had gone. I didn't know what to think; was it for real? Was it a cruel joke, a hoax, or had he really gone for good? The last line said "I will be back," but I knew better than to hold my breath.

From the first time he kissed me and held me in his arms, I knew it couldn't last. But I deluded myself, saying that he had surprised me before by loving me, he would surprise me again by staying around and staying with me.

Now, though, I hold the proof of my self-deception in my hands and I can't understand it. If things had been going this wrong for this long, I couldn't understand why he hadn't said something to me before, instead of just leaving. In my deepest fears I had expected this, but I never truly prepared myself for it.

We'd only been together a little while, friends for longer, and I had honestly thought he needed me as much as I need him. But I guess not; because I'm still here and he's the one who's gone. Damn him. And damn me too.

I look down at the letter again, and I still can't understand the words that are printed there in his hand. *I am sorry I have to do this; I have to go away for a little while. There are a lot of things in my head and I have to think them through. I love you, my dearest, and I will be back.* There is no signature, no salutation, just those words on a sheet of paper left on the dresser for me to find. I want to curse him with every breath but the pain inside keeps me from saying those words. I would scream if I thought it would do any good.

But it won't do any good; it won't bring him back to me and I'm not sure now that I want him back; the bastard walked out on me once and what's to keep him from doing it again? Nothing, that's what. And that's even assuming he does keep his word to come back. He won't find the same lover he left, that is for sure. He is going to find someone who doesn't depend on him half as much as I did before. He is going to find someone who can take care of himself.

You just take your time, my lover, and wait and see who you find when you come back.

-----------------------

A week has gone by and nothing, and then in the mail today, what do I get? Another letter. Not a phone call, a letter. This time he did at least put my name and address on it. Again, no salutation. Big surprise--he never was that big on my name anyway. No big thing. "I have been doing a lot of thinking, all of it about you. You are never far from my thoughts. I will be home on Friday; will you be there?" Again, no signature. Then again, I don't need one; who else would the letter be from, and I know his handwriting as well as my own.

I am almost tempted to throw the damned letter away, but instead I fold it up carefully and stow it in the box with the other letter he wrote me, and some other small mementos I packed up and away. Things that reminded me of him. Maybe I will put them back out, maybe I won't.

A week, and a lot has happened with me. I cannot go into detail now; perhaps later, when nothing is hanging over my head, I will be able to go back and detail what's changed, but things have. I think he is going to be surprised as to what he finds when he comes back on Friday.

Listen to that. Already he's saying jump and I'm already asking how high. Never again, I promise myself that. I will be here when he comes home, but after that, all bets are off. And I'm not letting him fuck me into forgetting this time; this is too important. But damn, I miss him. I didn't know how much until now, reading this letter from him. He's been thinking about me; never far from his thoughts, he says. How can I believe that? Should I believe it? If I do believe it, I'm buying into his line, just like I always do. But if I don't, then it's calling him a liar, and if there is one thing I know about my lover, he is not a liar. He never has lied to me, and I don't think he would start now, not about this. Or am I fooling myself again?

-------------------------------

He is due home tomorrow, and I still have not decided if I believe him or not. I will know for sure the moment I see his eyes. His soul is in his eyes, and that's the one thing he has never been able to hide from me. His soul.

It's why I love him so. And yes, I can admit that. I love him, I loved him while he was gone, and even when he comes back, I will still love him. I will always love him, and will not be able to get him out of my system. I will go to my grave loving him. And the bastard that he is, I know he knows it. I used to think, he felt the same way. Now, though, I am not sure.

But I will wait and see his eyes.

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<
He is laying in bed watching me as I write, and I know he's dying to know what it is I'm saying. Those eyes of his could see, but he won't look. He's got more honor, more respect than that for me. I asked him for privacy to write, and he gave it to me.

We talked. For the first time ever, we actually talked. Sat down and conversed. He told me about his mother leaving, his father never loving him, never being good enough. He told me about his eighteen months in Peru, the things he'd done as a Ranger. All the things that used to keep my lover up nights, he confessed it all to me.

That is why he went away, he told me. He could not bear the thought of losing me when I found out that he wasn't as perfect as he pretended to be, and he had to know if he could live without me. And he couldn't, he told me. He found out that no matter what my reaction was, he had to tell me the truth, had to show me the man inside the Sentinel, and let me judge for myself.

Sitting here, I still cannot believe that he thought I would not accept him as he is. I knew half of it before he told me, and the other half didn't surprise me at all. But he still thinks that I'm this gentle, sheltered creature, and he cannot let me know what a vile thing he is. I wish that there were something that I could say to show him that he is not that, nothing close to it, but I know that he will not listen to me, even if I do say it. But I said it anyway. I told him that it did not matter to me, because I know who he is inside, and that is who I love.

I know it took a lot of courage for him to--in his eyes--come clean and risk losing me, but a part of me is angry and resentful that he couldn't trust me enough to tell me what he was doing and didn't know me well enough to know that I didn't care, that he is all I want.

And a part of me is angry at the resentment because I know I have no right to be--I know the kind of man my lover is, and in his eyes, the magnitude of the things that he did far outweighs anything else he can think of. In his eyes, only I had the power to grant him the absolution he needed. And only in that absolution, could he finally free himself of the guilt of loving me--not because he loved me but because a man who had done the things he had done was not worthy of love or to be loved.

The anger is not only towards the resentment but also towards myself, for doubting him.

I met him at the door; I waited until I heard him coming up the steps; he is not the only one who has learned to listen for things. I heard him coming up the stairs and I met him at the door, waiting for him to slip his key into the lock and waiting for him to open the door, making sure I would be the first thing he saw.

His eyes almost sparked as he saw me, they turned from a dead gray to a live cobalt. I hope never to see his eyes that dead again; they frightened me, in the moments before they lightened up seeing me. Those were the eyes of the man I found in the hospital; dead eyes of a dead man who was just walking around and waiting to be buried. But I watched his eyes come alive, and I can't hope to catalogue all of the things that I saw in his eyes. I saw him drop his bag and fall to his knees, his arms wrapping around my waist as he asked me to forgive him.

It disturbed me to see him on his knees; I asked him to get up and then pulled him up, and made him come over to the couch with me. On that couch I played lover, Father Confessor, and Absolver. I only had to say one word, "why?" And that one word opened the floodgates; I heard things from my lover that I never thought to hear before. How he felt guilty for loving me because he was not worth it; how he was dirty and tainted because of the things he had done, the innocents he'd killed in the Army, the fact that he was never quite good enough for his father to love, and that he was a bad little Jimmy because he made his mother go away.

Is it possible to hate someone that you've never met? If it is, I hate Jim's mother and father. I hate them for what they did to him, the insecurities it gave him and for their inability to care for anyone but themselves. Now he thinks that he's not good enough for anyone to love, despite what I tell him. They did a good number on him and I hate them for it. Because it's not just messing up his life, now it's messing up mine.

Is everything forgiven? Yes, for now. What I saw when I looked into those dead eyes scared me, and I realized that only the sight of me brought the life back into them; how can I not forgive that?

Maybe one day I will let him read these pages, let him know what thoughts I had while he was gone. Or maybe I won't; he doesn't need to know that I doubted him too. Maybe I will burn these pages… one day.

end