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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//Michael?? Damn fuck!// It had been some time since Blair heard from that voice, but there was no mistake about its owner. His relaxed posture involuntarily stiffened and without the usual mirth in his voice, he asked icily, "What do you want?"


Above in Jim's room, the sentinel was momentarily startled from his report reading. That sounded ugly. Bitter even. An everyday sentence, yet all disgust and pent-up hatred thrown into those four simple words could melt even the hardest of steel. No, it was not like anything that would spout out from Blair's lips. Gentle Blair. //*That* was definitely not Gentle Blair speaking. That was a really upset Blair.// The temptation to listen to the conversation was great, but Blair wouldn't appreciate his eavesdropping on him. //But what if..// He began to tune up his hearing but blur the actual words, only listening to the patterns of his partner's steady heartbeat and the soothing drone of his voice. Should Blair need any help in the verbal department over the phone, Jim would be more than ready (and *happy*) to assist. He'd make sure no one upsets his Guide again. //*Surely* Blair has nothing against that. After all, I'm his Blessed Protector.// With that firm resolution in mind, he flipped open the next page and continued his reading.


"Nothing. I'm in town, and I'm just calling to say hi. Can't I say hi to an old friend of mine? Renew old ties? Reminisce the--"


"Look Michael," Blair cut him off, annoyed, tired and confused at this unwarranted phone call. Superficial... It sounded too superficial, and for someone who could read well between the lines and pick up the slightest hint of emotion, that felt as though someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. //If Jim only knew that I knew Richard had been carrying that affection of his, *way* over his head...// "Let's not shit around, okay? Guys like you aren't exactly the most agreeable student to teach in the communication class."


A long pause, then a hesitant question: "Are you doing anything next Friday?"


"Lay me the time and place. Any other instruction?" Familiarity. *This* he could handle, and it was all coming back to him - Michael would inform him where and when he should be and then brief him on his business. Maybe if he was feeling nice, he'd say 'okay' to whatever, or maybe he should just say 'fuck it'. Yeah, and let them mess with his life all over again. //Same old, same old. Why did I ever think things would be different?//


"No... I mean are you *available* next Friday?"


"I'm sure that day would be made *available* to you, Michael." Blair almost took a sneering tone. //Don't fuck with my mind, Michael. You and the whole of Section One fucked with my life once, so don't you start fucking with my mind. I can fucking do that on my own.//


"I didn't ask for you to clear your whole schedule, Blair. I just want to know if you have anything planned."


"Now, that's odd. Why should I be doing anything next *Friday*? Or any *other* day for that matter?" A slight note of exasperation slipped out. It took Blair every ounce of control not to scream his seething fury and tear all his hair out. "It doesn't matter if I have classes or if I have to run down to the station or I'm just planning a quiet suicide, you know that. And I know Section would feed them some shit to let me off the hook for a few days or so. Oh, I'm *sure* you've *planned* things out for me, haven't you, Michael? So why bother to ask?" Blair hissed. //What right do you have to ask?!!//


"Jesus H. Christ, Blair! You make it very hard for a guy to ask you out on a date!"


//Oh oh...Date?? Sweet Goddess, I think Thy humble servant is finally losing it. And I don't mean *me*...// When he finally got his jaw off the floor, he swallowed. "Date?" Blair squeaked. //Shit! Did Jim catch that?// His eyes reluctantly traveled upwards to Jim's room, half- expecting Jim to appear by the rails and bellow what a bunch of queers he dragged into his life! Not that it was any of Jim's concern, but he lived under the man's roof, for God's sake! Two harmless weeks turned out to be three years in all. If a man is uncomfortable in his own house, then it's not a home to begin with, and the very last thing he wanted was Jim freaking out on him! Sleeping out in the streets is not a viable option either.


"Umm, yeah... I mean, no. Not a date *date*, but you know, movies... a walk... a simple dinner, perhaps? And uhh, they set a place for me here, and I was thinking if you want to come over? I mean after our dinner... That is if you'd agree?"


//Sounds like a date to me... But if he said it ain't...// "Yeah..." Blair bit his lips, uncertain. He hated being thrown off balanced. //What the hell am I getting myself into this time??// "Yeah, sure. That'll be great. When did you say it'll be?"


"Friday. Next Friday." Michael sounded oddly relieved. "I know it's only a couple of days away and you might have other --" He stopped in mid-sentence, then cleared his throat and tried to continue. "If you can't make yourself available, it's -- I'm not demanding that you --" After three consecutive tries, he let out a whisper of expletives, too soft to hear. //Fucking pitiful. How do I make myself understood to Blair without being a wishy washy excuse for a man?// "This is not an order, Blair."


"This is not?"


"No", the answer came quickly and firmly.


"*No*?" //They set up a place for you here in Cascade, so that means they obviously know I'm still here, and you're coming to see me on your *own* time? Yeah, and did I forget to mention my mom's the Queen of England?//


"I was instructed to pick up a merchandise in Cascade. No more."


The same eerie silence followed as before as Blair's mind tried to process this other side of Michael. //If this isn't a date, then I guess this must be one of those male *bonding*... Umm... Michael's out *bonding*? On his own time no less?// The last time they *bonded*, Blair ended up at the other corner of the earth with the Spetsnaz troops in line for target practice and he was at the *wrong* side. Of course, he could argue that Michael was just acting under orders then, but was he a fucking fool to think that it would be any different now?


"Friday? As in next Friday?" //Ok, that settles one of the many mysteries in this universe.//


A muffled yes was heard.


"Could you hold on a sec?" Without waiting for an answer, Blair threw the phone on the couch and whizzed to his room.


"Chief, you're through?" Jim called out from upstairs.


"Won't take a minute, Jim," Blair answered in a rush while trying to dig through the papers on his bed. He remembered placing his planner there... or was it in his bag? Or on the floor? A quick scan on the floor made him groan. It was practically cluttered with papers and books. Blair made a mental note to clear the mess after his shopping and dinner with Jim later, but for now, he gotta find that damn book!


Minutes later, Blair was flying out to the living room with a blue notepad, tucked under his left arm. Cradling the earpiece between his right ear and shoulder, he flipped the pages in a blur, muttering the word 'Friday... Friday... Friday...' like a mantra.


The flipping stopped. Friday, the 13th. Trust Michael to choose a *date* for a date. It wasn't because he was superstitious, but having a one-to-one with Michael on a believed-to-be-a-Black-Karma day couldn't be a good thing.


Blair broke into a smile when he discovered his Friday was void of his usual activities. No stake out. No class. Dave promised to cover all of his three classes that day since Blair took six of his last week, and Blair figured he could spend his Friday on his dissertation. //...and maybe come down to the station and help Jim finish up some paperwork. Who am I kidding? Jim would make me do *all* the paperwork. I'll probably finish it by midday. That'll leave the rest of the day to myself.// "Friday's cool."


A moment later, the smile turned to a scowl. "You know I can't afford that kind of shit. One fucking meal will cost me half my pay check!"


On the other side of the line, Michael gave a mental smack on his head. Michael loathed reminding his old friend time and again of Blair's sizable Swiss account. Ah, that was one secret //among a *few* others...// that Blair guarded from the public's knowledge. For almost eighteen years, each month, Section had without fail, wired in generous amount of money. //The kid's a fucking millionaire by now.// 'Blood money', that was what Blair had once said. To Michael, money is *money*, but the stubborn anthropologist would hear none of it which raise a few questions about his spending habits like 'How the hell did he get that kind of money to live the life he lived then?' Oh, he wasn't suggesting Blair was frivolous with money, but he led a fairly comfortable life compared to most people.


No, Blair didn't own a car or a house or a yacht, and if Michael remembered well, most of his clothes looked like they were pinched from the Salvation Army. He preferred good old beer anytime but would not hesitate to pop a 1423 for a friend's birthday. He rarely dined in fine restaurants, but when he did (and it was usually with company), he always insisted on picking up the tab. He didn't have a plastic, but he carried sufficient cash and if that was lacking, his credit seemed good enough everywhere. Good enough for him to pick up an $11,700 Incan artifact off an antique store to donate it to Rainier anonymously.


Oh, fuck 'comfortable'! There had been more than one time that Michael suspected Blair had had his hands in his *bloody* pool of money up to his elbows. How else would you explain it?


Now it seemed his young friend had acquired the taste of 'sheer simplicity', making it through the day by strapping his wallet and his stomach, if Michael guessed correctly. Either that or a certain James Ellison had taken that financial weight right out of his hands. No, he didn't think so, but it wasn't his business.


"It's on me," Michael spoke quietly and prayed Blair wouldn't make such a big deal out of it. If this was the same Blair seven years ago, his pride would have put up a big fuss over money matters, but the young man could only mouth a soft 'Oh' in surprise. //James Ellison must have impressed a stronger influence on Blair than I thought.// "Friday at the Ritz. I'll pick you up at 2000hrs sharp. Dress code formal."


A soft click told Blair that their conversation was terminated. Michael was never one for good-byes, and he was all business. //Michael, if this is another one of your survival test, I'm gonna fry your fucking ass and have it for supper. I have enough test for today.// Blair shivered as he remembered their little outing earlier that day.


Frankly speaking, he was secretly hoping it to be a test. Michael's taking personal time-out (outside of Section's orders) was unheard of and to Blair, downright scary. He could never handle unpredictability from Michael. Not anticipating his moves would mean being unprepared for the shit Michael would heap upon him, and being unprepared would result in a deadly situation. One has to be sharp and wary about him. The alternative would be suicide; he hadn't even reserved a plot for himself. Come to think of it, having his remains scattered across Lake Tuba wasn't a bad idea either.


Carefully placing the receiver back to its cradle, Blair scribbled a new entry in his planner and whispered "An old friend", knowing his sentinel would hear him. Oh, he *knew* Jim was 'hearing' out for him. Privacy was one of the few sacrifices living with a sentinel. Blair hadn't mind it, especially when Jim had once told him that his heartbeat was like a beacon, an 'anchor' to the real world. It had made him feel safe, secured to Jim in this unlikely bond, and if Jim had been listening closely, he would know the call had troubled him.


Light footsteps descended down the stairs. Blair turned and found his friend sitting on the coffee table, staring at him intently. //Now that's a first.// Blair let out a silent chuckle. //I think we got our sitting arrangement swapped.//


"You okay, Sandburg?"


Blair gave a weak nod and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and then rubbed his face.


"You looked--"


"Surprised? Stunned? Shocked?"


"No. You looked tired." //Like you've aged a few years.//


"No kidding man," he mumbled incoherently, his hands still covering his face.


"Chief? Is there something I should know about?"


"About Michael?" Blair lifted his head, wide innocent orbs meeting concerned blues of his friend. "No.. it's nothing.. I - I guess I haven't seen him for some time and old memories come flooding back to me. Not so nice memories, you know? The kind you rather do without..." With a wistful expression on his face, he slumped his back to the couch and let his eyes shut. It was one of the things he hated. There was little he could keep a secret from his sentinel, especially when his eyes were like windows to his soul. No, he didn't want Jim to know... not now. And if he wanted to keep his friendship with Jim, he knew not ever...


Jim managed to steal a hint of pain clouding Blair's eyes before he had them shut. Part of him wanted to scoop the young man into his arms and offer him comfort and refuge from his pain. Another part of him wanted to shake him hard for not trusting him to share his hurt. //Maybe I can shake him hard enough out of it. No, Blair wouldn't appreciate me nosing into his affair and I'll probably break a few of his bones to boot. Now *that'll* really upset him. He'll come out to me when he trusts me on it.//


From the corner of his eyes, Jim glimpsed an entry in Blair's opened planner - Friday, February 13th 1998. The ink was fairly wet, and in the column 2000hrs, the small writing read 'Michael?? Ritz??'. //February 13th? Only a day away from - None of my business... Remember that, Jim...// Smacking his hands onto his jeans-clad thighs, he stood up, walked away to get his jacket, then asked, "So are you coming?"


"Like this?" His eyes snapped open, large as saucers and his arms outstretched. "You gotta be kidding, man. The mart's crawling with single clawing females; Do you want me to die young?" Blair exclaimed in mock horror, then managed a laugh as he tried to duck a flying throw pillow.


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


-- 2250hrs --
-- Section One --


She watched him finger a piece of paper almost lovingly. No, it wasn't just a paper, she corrected herself, but a photograph. From where she stood, outside his office, she was unable to discern the picture but she was confident it featured a certain long-haired...// *hippie*? How in the world does someone as classy as Michael end up with a... tree- hugging hippie?//


She swore her eyes must be playing tricks on her - she had a quick look of the photo as Michael was picking it up off the floor after it accidentally fell out his wallet almost a month ago. Given her eidetic memory, it was hard not to brand that image on her mind. //So Michael got a case for a man; why should *that* bother me?//


But a tiny voice screamed insistently, saying it was just not possible. It was not the fact that her mentor/lover kept a photo of man in his wallet that had thrown her off the map or that he had it bad for a hippie. Of course, the last thing she would think to find in his closet was his being bi, but the thought of Michael actually romancing a 'person' - be it a *man* or *woman* - was like taking a trip to bedlam.


"Blair Sandburg, anthropologist. I looked him up." A voice beside here made her spun to face the speaker. He tapped the end of a pencil on his temple. "If you're wondering who he is, that is."


//Anthropologist?// It didn't ring any bells. Granted Michael's life was quite an enigma, it still did not explain the obvious infatuation. "Anthropologist?" She could not keep the skeptical tone out of her voice. "How the hell does Anthropology fit into all this?"


"Yeah, I know," the young man nodded, taking that as an agreement in opinion. "I wonder what's with all the hung ups about it. I mean, once you get pass the naked men and women, Anthropology is just --" he stopped and stared blankly into space.


"Just what?" she prompted.


"I don't really know," he answered thoughtfully as he chewed on his fingernails. "I couldn't get pass the naked men and women." That earned him a friendly but hard slap on his shoulder. The young man winced, then pretended to glare at her. "I could make your next mission a bitch, you know that, don't you?"


She rolled her eyes in reply to his weak threat. "C'mon kiddo. Out with it."


Resigned that he couldn't, for a second, scare the daylights out of her, he sighed. //Sometimes it's tough being the brains in Section; Everyone thinks you're a wimpy cybergeek... Which is not far from the truth,// he quipped to himself. Unlike the other operatives, he was never placed in any situation where he had to fend for himself. A usual day would see him behind the glare of a computer screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Any other day, he would be sitting unscathed in a van, fitted with lots of amazing techno-gadgets and guiding strategic missions with the other operatives through portable communication sets.


Once, Michael had proposed that he be taught some art of self-defense so he could better protect himself, and the man had actually forced a gun on his hands. //God, I hate guns.// Not only he lacked the mandatory skills of self-preservation on the field, but the idea of simply holding a gun had him hyperventilating. //This is no fun; I think I've just shot my self-esteem, or lack thereof, to hell.// He grimaced.


And the woman operative was still looking expectantly at him.


"Code name's Adrian," he muttered depressed, wishing a retreat behind the safe wall of the screen. At least there, he felt invincible, safe and shielded from judgmental eyes. //These people ain't God, but they sure do a fair impression... in more ways than one...// Glancing at the operative, he knew it wouldn't be anytime soon before she would let him off the hook, and he gave a mental groan.


She drew her breath sharply as she heard him speak, disbelieving his words. //One of us? No... It couldn't be!// She shut her eyes and in doing so, let the image of that young man whom she had only a brief look, burned in her mind. A smiling young chap with his hands holding up a peace sign came into view. He was wearing a blue rumpled sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans. There wasn't anything extraordinary with the way he dressed, but the blue of his top brought out the color of his eyes, making them seem almost like glowing sapphires. The soft rays of light played with his halo of long, brown curls, adding an almost ethereal quality. She figured the picture must had been taken with the sun directly behind him to achieve this effect or she might just have to consult the dictionary for the word 'Angel'.


And there was something about the way his lips curled up into a smile - a little suggestive, with a touch of sensuality and unfeigned innocence all rolled into one.


All in all, he was aesthetically pleasing to the eye and he didn't seem at all threatening. As a matter of fact, she thought Blair was a far cry from 'a killing machine'. Even a blind man could see he radiated too much love and respect for life to rob another out of it. //Guys like him don't do that. Guys like him don't fit.//


A small voice in her head snapped back: And *you* do?


Startled for a moment, she violently shook her head. //No. But I'm here, aren't I?// As she pieced two and two together, a horrifying thought came to her. //Maybe Blair was like her. Trapped without a choice.// If Blair was exactly what she thought him to be, then this life could be eating into his soul. He could kill himself for letting himself be thrown into this game. Then again, he might already be dead. She shuddered.


"Nikita?"


"Yes?" She answered and opened her eyes and found the bespectacled man looking at her strangely. "You were speaking about.. Adrian?" She asked and blanched visibly as she uttered the name.


"Yeah.." Something must have clicked because he was quick to add as he misread the distress on her face. "Ah gee, Nikita.. not *that* Adrian. He's got the wrong err.. equipment." A faint blush colored his pale cheeks. "He was one of us... Was... Is... I don't know actually." He shrugged as he adjusted his orange-tinted glasses. "He was here before many of us. One of the original elite members, I was told. And he was *good*. Word has it that Blair was molded for the next man in Operations' shoes."


The last comment had her baffled, and she narrowed her eyes as she shot a look at him, thinking he was pulling her leg. "He didn't look like the right material. I mean, have you seen him? The guy's practically a poster boy for World Peace. Is he under cover of sorts?"


"Must be one helluva cover," he muttered under his breath just audible enough for her to pick up. "He's been cruising around being *Blair* for five fucking years, and there's no mention of 'Recall' anywhere. I say he left Section One for good."


"What do you mean he left?" Her voice suddenly took a bitter tone. She remembered her feeble attempt to 'disappear'. Operations was good at his word. "Nobody leaves!"


"Apparently *he* did. Before him, I thought all those who left were either terminated during an operation or canceled."


"He just walked out and leave? Operations didn't stop him?" //Oh god... he *left*... if he could escape, maybe... oh god!//


"I don't know if Operations did or didn't... What I could get was bits and pieces from the elders. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to penetrate Section's security this time. They had his files clamed tight. After that fucking 1986 incident, I couldn't even squeeze my way past Level Two." He snarled in anger. "Whoever Blair may be, he must be a helluva pawn to be kept under wraps."


"Birkoff, you weren't an operative in 1986." A hint of a frown marred her expression as she tried to follow his words that was somehow difficult now - the idea that someone had escaped Section nagged at the back of her mind.


"My point exactly." The younger man smiled sheepishly. It wiped the frown from her face and won a small laugh out of the waif-like operative.


Just then a pony-tailed man in his late forties passed by, and he caught enough of the conversation to interject his own opinion. "Don't pay any attention to him, sweetie." He indicated Birkoff with a jerk of his chin and continued as he made a circular motion with his finger in the air just about the temple level. "He gets a wee bit irrational when someone takes away his toys."


"*Do not*!" Birkoff huffed in annoyance.


"Tell that to the president; you spent half your life here bitching about its security. And about your so-called ex-operative, you shouldn't have spun an old wives' tale about it." The older man shook his head in mild disapproval. //Jesus Birkoff, are you creating a mutiny here? Operations'll have your head if he knew you're going around calling up false hope on his people.// "You and I both know there's no such person."


"You're saying this Blair person doesn't exist at all, that Michael created him out of nowhere?" Nikita asked incredulously. "That's tough, Walter, even if it's true. I never tag Michael for a sucker for fantasy."


"That kind of talking is gonna get you creamed, sweetie. All I'm saying is this -- " Walter turned to the younger man expectantly. Birkoff sullenly answered 'Blair Sandburg' and was rewarded with a smile before Walter turned his attention back to Nikita. "This *Blair Sandburg* fella is as real as the hot-dog guy at the 57th street. He might even be an anthropologist as Birkoff speculated."


"*That* was a *fact* and for your information, *I* don't speculate." Birkoff rudely interrupted him and walked off.


Walter sighed as he watched Birkoff's retreating back. "As for the part about his being an ex-operative, I say it's bullshit. You know the rule: you check in and you don't check out... unless you're sixty feet under. Last time I checked, the rule still holds, and it wouldn't do you good believing otherwise." He turned to face her and made his eyes hard, hoping to drive the point home. "And you better believe it, Nikita. You better believe it."


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

(Continued in part 4)