What is Past is Prologue

Title: What is Past is Prologue
Author/pseudonym: black fungi
Email address: oldblackfungi@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Pairings: J/B, B/m

Status: In-Progress
Date: 06/02/06
Archive: Yes
Archive author:
Archive email address:
Series/Sequel:
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times
Author's website:

Disclaimers:
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:
Do note the following for easier reading:
*...* - Indicates words are stressed (bold)
//...// - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)
[...] - Indicates mind-speak

Summary:
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings:

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ACT II: Mind Games


-- Wednesday, February 4th 1998 --
-- 1120hrs --
-- Cascade Park --


"I don't wanna do it!" Wisps of hair flew over his face as he shook his head stubbornly. Folding his arms across his chest, he willed the unruly tendrils away from his eyes with a hearty puff and looked at Jim squarely in the eyes. "I won't do it, and you can't make me, Jim!"


For the eighth time that day, Jim sighed wearily. He had heard enough of his partner's obstinate refusal to participate in this simple exercise, and he was goddamned sure the rest of the guys in blue had too.


"It's just a tin can."


"Oh yeah? Maybe this time it's *just* an empty can or empty bottle, then it'll be *just* a paper outline of a person, and the next thing I know, I'll be *just* shooting guys off the street," the younger man explained hurriedly, his hands flying in swift animated gestures. "And my karma's *way* uncool with that. *Now* can we skip?"


//For Christ's sake! Do you have to analyze everything to death?! They're *cans*!// Jim was beginning to feel a throbbing in his temple, a sure sign that a headache was being born.


The Annual Police Obstacle Race had started off surprisingly well. Blair had good-naturedly joined in, and despite the absence of police training, he was holding up under his own steam better than most of them here. But it was the marksmanship exercise that had Wonder Boy stumped.


Jim's eyes caught a couple of rookies sniggering at the far end of a picnic table, probably thinking what a wimp his friend was. He knew Blair was no wimp. Hell, Blair was probably the only person he knew that could take out an armed terrorist with a *vending machine*, but this little episode was not going to score an 'A' with the good guys. //The faster you finish this, the faster we can get the hell out of here with what's left of your reputation.// He was 101 percent certain now that they were talking about his young friend: Being a sentinel has its few advantages. His eyes shifted back to his friend who was staring mutely at the cans a hundred and twenty yards away from them. //Maybe I need a new approach.//


"Kid, you go to carnivals often?"


"Yeah... if there's one around.." Blair turned away from the cans to look at Jim curiously with a tinge of suspicion at the change in conversation. Not that he didn't trust Jim, but like most good cops, they have an annoying habit of sneaking up on innocent civilians like himself. //Jim is a *great* cop and a sentinel. What chances have I got against him?// "And?"


"And what do they have there?"


"You mean at the carnival?"


Jim nodded.


"You haven't been to a carnival before, man?"


Jim only smiled his smile which Blair recognized as, 'Humor me, Sandburg.'


//Okay, Jim, I'll humor you this time.... and *every* other time.// Taking a deep breath, Blair recounted all the stuff there were in all the carnivals he had been. ".. and there's a lot of squalling kids for one thing, not that I'm like *totally* against noise pollution 'coz it's a carnival you know, it's expected and hell, you can't get a better carnival to go to without a scream; and there's lots of huge contraptions to stimulate the adrenaline like the House of Horror, the Viking and Rollercoaster rides which I've been meaning to question the effects on your senses up there, that is if I can ever pull you away from work, and gods forbid, enough junk food to last a lifetime and shoot an artery or two and there's games to --"


"Games," Jim spoke out suddenly, silencing Blair's monologue. "You like games, Sandburg?"


"Sure. Don't you?"


Jim chose not to hear the question or answer it. This wasn't about him. Knowing Blair, he could turn the whole conversation given an opportunity, and Jim was making sure he wasn't giving any. "Great! So let's play a game."


"A game?" Blair couldn't help but sense an impending doom.


"A game. You played one of those games where you have to squirt water right at the bull's eye to get a stuffed toy before?"


Blair nodded, not daring to hear himself speak. He was almost certain there was a trap hidden somewhere, and the growing panic he felt didn't exactly boost his mental skills.


"Well, now we're going to play a similar game. Different rules though." Jim turned Blair around so that the ten cans were in full view. "All you have to do is shoot those cans there, and if you do knock *one* down, you won't get a stuff toy." Jim then turned him to face the snickering rookies to his left. "No, kiddo, you won't get a stuff toy, but you *will* get to rub it in their faces, which is a whole lot more satisfying were you to ask me. So are you game, Chief?"


//Oh shit! Why didn't I see that before?// Blair winced. //I'm making a dumb fuck outta myself - and Jim - with my stupid, *stupid* sheep whining... *Right* in front of the whole fucking precinct too. They're never gonna lived it down - Jim and his *sissy* partner, too fucking afraid to shoot harmless cans. Jeez!// "A game?" His voice was soft, and to Jim, it sounded so pitiful in his confusion and fear.


"Just a game, Sandburg. Just a game," Jim reassured him, patting his cheeks gently as if dealing with a slightly demented child. //That's it Sandburg. It's all a game...// He placed the gun into the smaller hands and guided him to face his targets.


"It's just a game," Blair muttered, "It's just a game." //I'm gonna stop being such a whiny piece of shit in front of all his cop buddies and shoot those fucking cans.// So Blair shot, the sound almost deafening. Again and again, until all he heard was an empty click. For every cursed blast, Blair could hear a distinctive scream in his mind and it clawed viciously in his gut.


Ten out of ten. //That oughta keep their mouths shut.// He felt that he should be shouting at the top of his voice for his perfect score, but at that moment, he could feel only revulsion for allowing himself to be led into a 'Killing Exercise'. "I hope you're impressed 'coz I'm gonna lose my breakfast any second now." He dropped the gun and fell unceremoniously on his butt.


"You're really terrified of guns, aren't you?" Crouching in front of Blair, Jim teased; only his eyes betraying the genuine concern for his friend.


"No, not exactly. Just that I don't like them very much." He squeezed his eyes shut and vigorously rubbed his temples as though the very act would erase the memory.


//Yeah, and you're one hell of a shooter, kid.// Jim flashed a proud smile at his friend, which went unnoticed. "Hey, you okay?"


"Jim, I think I'm gonna --" Vomit spewed out suddenly onto his shirt. "Shit.... *This* is not good." Without opening his eyes, he spoke, "You wanna leave this place, man? 'Coz it ain't a bed of roses here."


"C'mon, Chief. I think that's enough exercise for one day."


********************


-- 2105hrs --
-- Prospect 852, Loft --


After Jim helped Blair clean himself, they stayed for the rest of the evening. It wasn't Jim's idea. If it were up to him, he would've hauled Blair's sorry ass back home. But Blair had insisted, pleaded with his lost puppy look. As long as Blair was okay, Jim didn't think it would hurt. Somehow that little prep talk on carnivals and revenge had changed his mind on leaving, and Jim was feeling guilty for unwittingly pushing Blair into thinking he had shamed him for creating a scene. It worried him too that his best friend felt so strongly about using a gun.


He wondered if Blair's reaction had anything to do with the Golden incident two years ago. The poor kid had lived with months of flashbacks, night terrors and psychiatric visits after. There were times then when Jim believed the ride was long over, that it had totally broken his friend, but Blair surprised them all when he bounced back to his old self. //It couldn't have been that. Could it?// He didn't believe it could. Still, he had spent the entire drive back home trying to get Blair to talk to him, subtly steering the conversation to that one incident. Blair had assured him that 'oh, he was cool' - whatever that meant - but Jim could not *not* sense pain beneath his words. Maybe it had been too soon, too painful a memory for his young guide to share with him, so the worried sentinel shelved the thought of grilling him.


When they were safely in the loft, Sandburg had the dibs to the toilet. There was no point in arguing; Blair in a vomit-stained shirt was all the smell a Sentinel could take.


While Blair was busy making himself feel (and let's not forget smell) *human* again, Jim skimmed through Palmer's forensic reports. He didn't want to actually, not when he had unfinished business with Blair. Truth to be told, he rather be spending his night coddling his friend out of his 'oh-I'm-cool' mental anguish, but he figured Detective James Ellison needed to make some new headway; A few harmless minutes on it wouldn't hurt. Plus he promised Rafe and H that he would bring the files over within the hour.


So like it or not, there was no escape from this 'chore'. A *very* nasty chore, judging from the pictures. //Whoever has done this to this kid is one sick bastard.// His stomach lurched at the sight of a picture of a heavily mutilated body. The victim was only fifteen, but that wasn't why he felt the bile rose up in his throat... It was his uncanny resemblance to his partner - the hair, the face, the height and even his personality (an assessment offered by his friends). A dead ringer. Pardon the pun.


The previous team from Vice assigned to this case tried to cover all the bases, but there was nothing to pin on the case - anyone the kid shouldn't have pissed. Zippo. They didn't rule out possible random killings, especially with all this millennium shit fermented in the public's minds. His parents however had thought otherwise. Being parents that they were and unfortunately having tremendous influence on the senate, the mayor had Captain Simon Banks appointed his best team on it. *That* meaning Jim and Blair.


//Snuffed without reason... Even I find that tough to swallow...// Jim shivered for effect. //Think I need a drink.//


Jim walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and frowned in disappointment. //Whose turn was it to stock up? It's practically bare in here!// Last Friday, they had 'Briyani' and Jim helped Blair buy the spices when it was Blair's turn to shop for groceries. But he couldn't remember if it was last week or the week before. For that matter, he couldn't remember if he did any shopping for the whole of last month. //And it's no wonder... I haven't been grocery shopping at *all* since Christmas. Oops...// Jim grinned sheepishly.


"Might as well go shopping and hand in those reports," Jim muttered aloud, speaking to no one in particular. He strode to the hall, picked up the reports and was about to get his jacket when the phone rang.


"Ellison."


"Sandburg please," a deep curt voice answered.


"He's occupied right now." Jim couldn't contain a grin when he heard Blair's gurgled voice singing Sinatra's 'My Way' under the blast of shower. "Who's calling?"


"Michael, sir. I'll wait. Tell him it's urgent."


"In a minute." Jim placed the receiver on the table and yelled, "Sandburg! Your call!"


Sounds of the faucet being rapidly turned to cut the water off and Blair groping for his towels were audible to the sentinel's sensitive hearing. A crash was then heard, followed by a loud 'Ouch' and a muttered curse.


The crash brought Jim outside the bathroom, and he knocked on the door. "You okay in there?" His friend could have an accident at the most unsuspecting places. Jim swore he would have a cardiac arrest if Blair didn't at all step into the hospital in a month. It was not an unusual thing. For all his fancy moves, Blair was always tripping over something, loosing his footing and falling. It wasn't because he was clumsy. //God, no one moves like Sandburg. His slightest motions are like a dancer's, weaving a mystic tale out of an ancient book. Supple, graceful, erotic and sometimes sad. Yet now and then, tangled in that woolly head of his, Mr. Co-ordinate Blair isn't.// Being with him out in the field didn't help either, Jim duly noted.


"Chief? Tell me you didn't give yourself a concussion," Jim joked, trying to repress the panicked urge to knock down the door when Blair didn't reply the first time.


"Nah.. Stub my toe there," Blair called out from the shower, in reassurance. "Tell her to give me a sec."


Trust Sandburg to believe the womenfolk's falling at his feet. Jim gave a smirk as the panic wore off. He shook his head, disbelieving. //Well, the womenfolk *are* falling at his little feet.// Jim couldn't blame the women for lack of self-respect. //They know a good thing when they see one, and damn if Blair isn't the best thing that could happen in their world.// Even when things didn't actually work out, Blair had shared a part of himself, and that gift was, to Jim, more than enough. But some women didn't like to be brushed off lightly. An image of Samantha came to mind and craved a grin on his face. Nothing like a woman scorned.


//Yeah, Sandburg, the *divine* answer to all women's prayers... But not today, Chief..// "It's a he," Jim corrected, then turned to the receiver to inform the speaker that Blair would be right with him in a *few minutes*. For all the man's intelligence, Blair's understanding of the time frame was *very* much different from the normal population. Then again, his partner wasn't exactly normal.


"Oh?" The surprise in his partner's voice was quite evident, and Jim didn't need sentinel senses to hear a faint tinge of disappointment. A muffled 'Who is it?' was heard; Blair was furiously drying his riotous, wet hair with fluffy towels and his speech was somehow caught in the action.


//I would like to know that too, Sandburg. You have too *many* guys calling over for comfort. *My* own personal comfort to be precise.// "Some guy - Michael. Says it's urgent."


//Okay, so 'many' is stretching a wee bit but *three* in fours months is really cutting it too close.// The first was Richard Peterson. Oh, he met the jerk in person all right. Richard was not much older than him, Jim supposed. Built like him, Richard could almost pass for an older brother, and he wasn't at all that unpleasant to the eye... That last thought didn't blend well with the sentinel. No offense to all Richards, but he really was a dick. His rude manners left little to be desired, but it was his cocky attitude that he *believed* he actually owned the little fella that had him hopping mad. He kept putting his paws on Blair where *they* shouldn't be, taking Blair to places where he shouldn't *have* and most of all, he kept Blair away from home, night after night, with that silly excuse of needing Blair's help on his project. Jeez, his senses were swarmed by the odor of pheromones emitting from Richard when he met him, 'studying' with Blair in the library. Blair, the ever 'observer', was strangely oblivious to Richard's amorous advances. It took a 'civilized' man-to-man talk for Richard to quake in his pants and leave. Jim grinned at the thought.


A mathematician at Rainier, Ian MacLaine, was second in line. No, Jim hadn't met him, but from Blair's description of him, he wouldn't be any different from his scruffy young partner. Ian was strictly a 'phone-guy'. //He'll be one helluva guy for a long distance romance.//


Then there was Dr. Norman 'as-in-Bates' Williams, Daryl's dentist. One harmless visit to the dentist, courtesy of Simon and POWW!! Norman came sniffing at Jim's loft.


Unlike Richard, Jim just couldn't find any fault with Dr. Williams. He was clean: no drugs involvement, no dark childhood to speak of, no criminal record. He had even been granted a plate by the mayor himself for helping a police officer nab a child molester. Norman was as sweet as they come. His mannerism was perfectly charming and sincere with none of the insolence of Richard's. With an IQ of 172, they didn't have much problem in the communication department either. They never seem to run out of things to talk, and Jim, not having well-read in certain areas, was unwittingly left out of their conversations. As much as Jim hated to admit it, Norman would be a suitable mate for Blair. But Blair's door just didn't swing both ways, and they both parted amiably. //If for some reason Blair decides to make a 180 degree change in his sex life, Norman would be 'it'.// Jim thought grimly. //And now there is some young pup named *Michael* on the phone asking for Blair and calling him *Sir*.//


He didn't mind if Blair-chases-anything-in-a-skirt Sandburg opted for (or secretly led) an alternative lifestyle. Of course, he'd be startled at first, but he was sure he'd come around. //The kid's a darn hippie. He's probably done a few things that would have my ancestors turn over in their graves.// Hell, it wasn't his business to mind in the first place. It was just that Blair had a knack for choosing 'poor' bedmates and getting himself hurt in the process. Jim didn't like that. If it were physical hurt, the hospital could fix him up, but Jim didn't think he could help much if they wounded his friend's heart. Not after Maya... No, he didn't like it at all.


"He sounds like a very polite young man," Jim commented lightly, hoping that the irritation he felt wasn't projected into that single sentence.


"He pulled a *Sir* on you, didn't he?"


"Which is more than I can say for your manners," Jim muttered under his breath when he heard a gurgle of laugh choking out of Sandburg. Taking on a more nonchalant tone, he asked, "Who's this Michael anyway?"


"I don't know a *Michael*. Probably Dave's student." Clad only in a white bathing robe and a white towel over his damp hair, Blair emerged from the bathroom.


"Dave?" //Oh swell Sandburg... They're all popping out of the woodwork!//


"Yeah, Professor David Hemming. You remember Dave, don't you? Tall, dark - the one who offered me a ride home from the airport when you were sick?" At the look of confusion persistently etched on Jim's face, Blair shrugged and waved it way as unimportant. "Anyway, I covered some of his Anthro 101 classes when his wife went into labor last week. 23 hours, man." Blair gave a whistle of admiration as he skipped his way to the living room. "That must be one helluva torture for one woman to go through. Dave wanted Rachel to have a cesarean birth but 'no thanks to Mr. Blair Sandburg', as quoted by Dave himself," Blair remarked in mock guilt, "the wonderful, intelligent Mrs. Hemming opted to go au naturel. 23 hours! And I wonder why they call females 'The Weaker Sex'?"


Blair paused a while, gathering his thoughts before shooting in pure gusto, the bounce in his steps became more pronounced. "The mom and baby are safe, and Dave never look happier. They've asked me to be her godfather. Isn't that so great? And they named their little bundle of joy after me!!! Me! Blair Sandburg! There's this little tyke named after *me*!! And I'm gonna be her godfa-- What?" Noting the grin on Jim's face, he stopped and reached out for his nose and began to dab it with one end of the towel. "Do I have a smudge on my nose or something?" Seeing no evidence of stain on the towel, he continued, "Sentinel or no sentinel, I *know* I cleaned myself very well."


It was fairly entertaining watching his partner fizzled in his enthusiasm becoming a 'Godfather'. //God, Blair is going to spoil the child rotten. I hope the Hemmings know what demon they've created out of Sandburg.// But he doubted *Michael* was having an equally joyous time waiting on Blair. Not that he cared anyway. All that raced in his mind now was his best friend being... //Cute.// Standing there in his virginal white robe, he looked... //Good enough to eat. I mean if the audience is into that kind of thing, and I'm *not*. Oh Jeez...// Jim carelessly gestured at the phone in his hand, slightly alarmed by the sudden train of thought.


"Oops.. uh, thanks Jim." Embarrassment colored his cheeks. Blair took the phone and settled himself down on the couch, the towel over his head providing a blessed screen to Jim's scrutiny.


"Anytime." Jim chuckled in understanding, his earlier discomfort conveniently forgotten. Draping his jacket onto his arm, he walked to the doorway, meaning to let himself out.


The sound of a turning doorknob made Blair's head shot up in Jim's direction. Taking note of Jim's clothing and finally realizing that his partner was going off to 'somewhere', he let out a quick apology to the speaker on the phone, and then, covering the mouth piece with his hand, he asked, "Where are you going?"


"We run out of beer, and it's my turn to run down to the mart, remember? You need anything?"


"Yeah, I got a list on a couple of-- " Blair started to stand up but plopped back to his seat. "No, wait. *Way* too much trouble. Maybe we could go together later?"


"Sure." Jim was already throwing his jacket onto the couch and making a beeline, up to his room. "Just be quick; I promised Rafe and H, I'd drop Palmer's forensic reports within the hour. And if we're quicker, we could have dinner at Tony's new restaurant."


"I'm fresh out of dough, man." The younger man's face pulled in disappointment. "If you want to, you can go ahead. I can always whip up my--".


"--My treat. For making an ass out of those rookies. Waddya say?" Jim smiled his megawatt smile at him. //Kid, you couldn't make me prouder of you...//


Blair made an OK sign with his fingers and hid his face under the towel again as he felt a deep flush returning to his cheeks. Then he turned his attention to the speaker on the phone. "Hello Michael? Sorry to keep you waiting, man."


"I'm surprised." The voice sounded amused. "Whatever happen to Mr. Every-fucking-second-counts?"


(Continued in part 3)