WAITING

I can still see him walking away from me, through the doorway to the left of the receptionist's desk, the nurse leading him gently by the arm. His soft, reassuring smile is largely for my benefit. It's hard for him to do, because the bandage over his left eye --- his beautiful, blue left eye -- extends down the side of his face.

As his lips whisper so softly only I can hear the words, "It's going to be OK, Jim. Trust me," I try to return the smile. I don't make it. I'm about to say, "Coming from you, Sandburg ..." but I can't. The phrase sticks in my throat, along with other important things I've never taken the time to tell him.

So much noise here. Medical equipment, phones ringing, CNN running in the background acting like white noise, cars moving around in the parking lot, elevators opening and closing, and all the sounds that people make. Sitting, standing, milling around, erratic heartbeats, disjointed conversations, deep, calming sighs, and even a quick prayer thrown in here and there, for good measure.

It's taking all of my control not to muscle my way into the ophthalmologist's examination room to be with him.

But I was ordered not to. In a role reversal that would make everybody we know in the Cascade P.D. laugh -- if this weren't so damned serious -- Sandburg told me to sit out here and wait, in a "Stay in the truck and call for backup!" tone that I usually reserve for him.

So, I'm out here, out of touch, out of the loop, just plain out of luck. Out here with the other ‘left behinds.’ Husbands, wives, relatives, friends, lovers and one or two disinterested, pre-arranged, designated drivers.

I fall someplace in that ragtag, motley group. I just don't know where, exactly.

The accident that happened, a week ago today, was yet another in the ongoing series of catastrophes labeled "The Price Blair Jacob Sandburg Pays for Getting Tangled Up with 'Cop of the Year' Jim Ellison." This kid's got balls. Don't let anyone tell you different. He's been the best partner I could ever have. Even if it's 'unofficial.' He's smart, thinks on his feet better than any 10 people I know, watches my back like a hawk, keeps me focused and on track. That last part's a full-time job when you're a Sentinel, like me, and have five heightened senses to deal with day in, day out.

Our paths crossed three years ago at Cascade General Hospital. Who'd have thought the one human being in the world -- literally -- who could help me figure out how to control these 'gifts' when they were driving me crazy would be living less than 15 minutes away from my loft?

Think about the odds on that. How could I not take the chance with him, even though my first impression of anthropologist and bullshit artist, Blair Sandburg, wasn't favorable. ("You're losing me, Chief." ... "Are you out of your mind?" ... "I'm out of here!" ... "Why did I let you drag me out here?" ... "I'm not helping you trawl for coeds, Short Eyes.") Uh, no, not too favorable.

But somehow, it clicked. "We" clicked. He moved into my home, my work, my life, and, I'm not ashamed to admit it, my heart. He and I are a formidable team.

But, being a Major Crimes detective's a tough, dangerous, sometimes thankless way to make a living. I'm doing it because, as a Sentinel, I was born to be the watchman of my 'tribe' and I can serve and defend the 'village' of Cascade best by being a cop.

Sandburg's reasons for being here in my 'Dirty Harry' world are different. At first, it was to get access to his doctoral thesis subject, his 'Holy Grail' -- me. And then it all changed. We've grown together. We're good together. Better than good.

Over the past few years, the 'win' column of my arrest record has gotten longer and longer -- it's the best on the force. However, the wild stories that go along with those arrests have also grown, so much so, that I've heard several Metro detectives say they'd pass on being permanently partnered with me. (And I'm talking veterans who've made it through some of the toughest situations you'll ever imagine, including guys who survived guerrilla warfare, for God's sake.)

But, Sandburg has stepped up to the plate, again and again. Now, it's like second nature. I turn, he's there. I'm in trouble with these damned senses, he fixes it.

Doesn't sound like much? Well, you're talking to, how did my little 'Professor' phrase it, the "Poster Boy for control freaks everywhere." That little bit of wit and witticism earned the kid his first swat to the back of that unruly head of long hair he sports.

Jesus, I'm dying to find out what's happening in there.

Dying. Interesting choice of words. See, in our relatively short history together, Sandburg's died for me, and because of me. And come back. (I used to joke that Cascade's the most dangerous city in America. It also seems to double as Resurrection Central.)

Think I'm some kind of miracle worker with off-the-chart senses and the ability to raise selected individuals from the dead? Sorry, I'm just an over-protective bastard who went after what was his. (Blair calls me his 'Blessed Protector.' I don't think it's necessarily a compliment.) It was the worst moment of my life, and I'm not exaggerating. Desperately leaning over Sandburg's drowned body that day at Rainier University, frantically trying to hear something, anything, a heartbeat, a rasp of breath, I couldn't believe that he was dead. A Guide would never do that to his Sentinel. How would I have lived without him?

So, Blair Sandburg, the man with the worst luck in the entire known world (or at least the 48 contiguous states) came back. If it had been anybody else, Sandburg would have given me the Big Kiss-off as he spit out the first mouthful of foul, algae-intense water from the fountain in front of Hargrove Hall.

But not Naomi Sandburg's son. Blair was back as my partner as soon as he was able, despite the considerable wear and tear on his body, not to mention his psyche.

This latest fiasco wasn't anyone's fault. Well, technically, it was the bad guy's fault. Just the price of doing business when you're a cop. Except Sandburg isn't a cop. See, his cardinal sin was being at the right place -- by my side -- at the wrong time. Like always.

'See.' Something he may not be able to do again through that left eye. That beautiful, blue, left eye.

***

It happened so fast. The armed robbery perp we were chasing a week ago cut through the Gellini Company's warehouse at Fifth and Wills, and came up with the brilliant idea that throwing cleaning solution into my face would slow me down.

Only my heightened sense of smell -- not to mention danger -- saved it from being a lot worse. I detected whatever it was (bleach, lye, solvent, doesn't much matter now) before I saw the caustic liquid flying in my -- our -- direction.

If I'd been a half-a-second faster, I would have gotten my larger body between it and

Sandburg. It might have prevented what happened from happening.

Half-a-second between being OK and being blind in one eye. One beautiful, blue, left eye.

How could Sandburg be so calm this morning? Maybe he's just getting used to it. After you've been roughed up, beaten, shot, drugged, what's a little sightlessness among friends? (Is that the price of doing business these days? How many body parts do you have to sacrifice before you can get your God-damned Ph.D.? Or get a tight-lipped, anal-retentive, hard-ass detective, like yours truly, out of your life for good?)

Hell, that's all so much crap. It was suffered in the name of 'friendship.' That's what Blair told me some time ago. And that's also why the big-deal research junket to Borneo with his mentor, Dr. Eli Stoddard, became the first offering on the altar of broken careers. It was followed by a string of other missed opportunities. Now, it's to the point where his higher-ups have just about stopped asking.

And still, I saw that it was the way he wanted it.

In those beautiful, blue eyes.

I promised I wouldn't monitor his vital signs, listen to his conversation with the surgeon, track the removal of the bandages and the eye examination.

It's killing me. I'm scared this time. Is this the thing that will make him leave me?

I need to see myself through my roommate's eyes again. Both of them.

I know, I know. Dr. Carstairs said there should be no permanent damage, that very little -- less than a few drops -- of the corrosive came in contact with Sandburg's eye. And my quick action probably saved the day. But was it enough?

I'll never forget those screams. Agony, pure and simple. They continued as I literally pried Blair's hands away from his face, picked him up, and raced toward a sink in the corner -- I'd zeroed in on the sound of the dripping faucet in the darkness of the warehouse. I flushed his face with water, talking to him all the while, as much to reassure myself as him.

I tried turning my hearing down, but Sandburg in that much pain made all of my control dials stick in the 'open' position.

His heart rate was spiking, his skin temperature was fluctuating, his blood was pounding through his veins. The smell of tears mixed with water and minute traces of chemicals assaulted me as I pulled out the cell phone from my jacket pocket to call for an ambulance.

Pocketing the phone, I held onto Blair with my left arm, and used a clean coffee cup that was luckily sitting on a nearby shelf to ladle more cool water into and around his eye, which had swollen shut. A few burn blisters were already rising on his temple and cheekbone.

The only 'lucky' thing that I thank whatever gods watch over dumb-ass cops and their unfortunate partners was that I'd somehow gotten my hand between the bulk of the solution and Sandburg's face when Jackson lobbed it at us. (Milt Jackson, the low-life sleaze, heist man who Rafe and Brown snared on his way out of the building.) The liquid caused the skin on the backs of my fingers to feel as though it were sizzling, like the worst sunburn you could ever imagine. Son-of-a-bitch, did it hurt.

But what hurt worse were the few, gasped words: "Hurts ... Jim ... make it stop ..."

"It'll be all right, baby ... uh, Blair ..."

Blair. 'My' Blair ... Christ.

As he was onloaded into the ambulance, still holding onto my good hand, I 'encouraged' the EMTs to get us the hell to the hospital emergency room A.S.A.P., and have their best 'eye' man or woman waiting for us, I realized that I needed to see myself through those beautiful, blue eyes again. Both of them.

I needed to see the man I've become. All because of this 'neo-hippie, witchdoctor punk' who's made me ... shit, I can't believe the guy with the million dollar sense of sight couldn't see it. What did Doctor McCoy (the Star Trek one, not the Sandburg one) say to Zephram Cochrane? "A blind man could see it with a cane." That cloud thing had cared for the castaway scientist and protected him all those years, but the big, buff jerk couldn't see the forest for the trees.

Man, oh, man. Talk about living in glass houses. It's not about friendship anymore. It's about love. He's loved me for a long time. Blair Jacob Sandburg, who could choose anyone on earth to love, loves me.

And I love him. James Joseph Ellison, who's been on the shelf so long, my ass has ridges on it, loves Blair Sandburg. I love his intelligence, his wicked senses of humor, his compassion, his kindness, and his stubborn streak that's a mile wide. I even love the fact his diet consists of foods that could double as toxic spill. I love him for the best friend a man could ever have, and the only Guide this Sentinel will ever want.

And something else. I love him because he's made me ... happy.

I have to tell him.

Even if the worst happens, it'll still be OK. One thing about Sandburg -- he can 'see' more through one eye than most third world populations can with all their equipment intact.

Maybe he already has, and was just waiting for me to grow up. Wouldn't that be a real kick in the butt? (If you say it's what I need, well, I won't argue with you.)

Hang on. I hear Blair. He's coming through the door toward me. No bandages, but a

1,000-watt smile shining from his face that could light up this drab-as-dirt waiting room like a Roman candle going off in the dead of night.

"It's OK, Jim. It's OK." His lips and his eyes -- those beautiful, blue eyes -- shout it out to me. I stand up, practically trampling the people nearby as I grab him roughly by the arms, pull him toward my taller body, and into the mother of all bone-crushing embraces.

As I kiss the top of Sandburg's head and hold him close, I whisper, "I love you, chief. And I'm glad you're all right."

I don't care who the fuck sees us.

With those beautiful, blue eyes, my Guide sees his Sentinel -- the man who will love him forever.

And that's all that matters.

***