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: 06/18/06

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

In vino veritas - In wine, truth



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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Blair's head whipped up to the direction where the other voice was and saw Jim's head stuck out halfway through the door. Alarmed, he snapped his head to the seat where Adrian was. The creep had conveninently vanished. So... did it mean Adrian could come and go at will or was it *his* will, *his* unconscious wish that had summoned Adrian from the depths of his mind? As Adrian had said, they would probably figured this projecting thingie in a jiff, but until then, he wondered if Adrian was going to return anytime soon. Like *now*. Gawd, he sure hoped not.





"Chief? You okay?" Jim repeated the question.





Aware that Jim would probably think something was up if he took a minute too long to answer, Blair gave an over-enthusiastic nod, motioned his friend into the room and blabbered his panicked ass in Sandburg-like-fashion about getting the hell out of this joint.





"--I heard you talking to...?" The befuddled detective cut him short and looked around as he entered, surprised that he found no one inside beside Blair, then sank onto the chair. "Whom were you talking to?" he asked, slightly concerned for his guide's mental health.





"No one." The answer came easily. "I just like to think aloud."





"About yesterday's exercise?" Jim pushed. The concerned look gave way to a major frown on his face when his sentinel's hearing caught a sudden hitch in his friend's breathing.





Blair shook his head. //Did Jim notice I was gone a good deal more time than necessary? Does he even suspect I was the one who fired the shots? That I killed -- No, I didn't kill them. Blair couldn't kill them.// The thought that he could, sent his heart pounding with guilt. Guilt which he could neither contain nor deny, yet to accept it as his would mean he was no better than the man he tried his hardest not to be. To accept it as his - that he had in fact killed - would mean everything that Blair wasn't. And Blair wasn't a killer. He didn't kill.





//But you just did. All seven of them,// a voice spoke to him.





Surprisingly, it wasn't Adrian's; Just his conscience. It was *just* his conscience, and he thought they were on the same team! 'Oh, to be plagued by it!' he could almost hear Adrian's dramatic wail.





Again, Blair shook his head, harder this time. //It wasn't me. It couldn't have been me. *I'm* Blair. Blair doesn't kill. It was--// He stopped as he felt a sudden cold, numbing pain stabbed his chest like ice picks. He feebly grasped that despite all his conviction, the next word he was unmistakably about to say starts with an 'M' and ends with an 'E', and he shivered at the certainty. Then just as suddenly, the dreaded feeling lifted away from him as he felt large warm hands clasped over his.





"I know I'm not as good as you are at people skills..." Keeping his hands atop the smaller ones, Jim continued in what he hoped to be a soothing voice to his skittish young friend, "...and I don't minor in psychology, but that wasn't normal and I doubt it's healthy."





"It's nothing, Jim--"





"--No, it's not *nothing*, Sandburg. It can't be nothing when you practically puked half your guts out after the exercise. And you know what, buddy? I heard you trying to psyche yourself using that Autogenics crap when you cleaned up after yourself. You're not trained for this, and if you have a problem with guns, you could've at least talk to me."





"Well, *excuse* me, detective." Blair pulled his hands away, half regretting the loss of comfort Jim's hands had given him, and said frostily, "I'm a little sensitive about this right to 'play God'. It's not everyday your *best friend* puts a gun in your hands and expects you to give a stage performance."





"It was a game, Sandburg, albeit a very impressive performance you gave there, but it was *just* a game. Don't you get it? A game. You didn't shoot anyone."





"Same difference."





"C'mon, Sandburg. It's not like it's your first time that I--"





"Shut up, Jim," the younger man said quietly. No, he didn't need to remember the Golden incident right now; Thank you very much. "Shut up before I say things we both regret."





For the longest minute, silence reigned between them. Jim guessed that they had reached an impasse at this point, and he thought it'd be better to move to a new, safer subject. They both knew there was nothing they could work out now, not when Blair was so obviously 'uncool' with it. Jim honestly still didn't understand why Blair could kick a big fuss over it, not after he fucked the whole precinct with those shots. And certainly not after he repeatedly assured Jim that everything was okay and had Jim almost believed him.





And if it was a matter on the Golden incident as he had suspected, he had thought that Blair would want to talk it out with him. After all, wasn't getting touchie-feelie about your inner self, thoughts and problems more in Blair's department?





"You and Michael..." he started, then caught himself when Blair frowned at him. //Oh great, Jim. 'Michael and Blair' is a *new*, *safer* subject? The kid's probably thinking you're pushing for a fight.// He was surprised though, how odd the term 'Michael and Blair' sounded in his head. It had always been 'Jim and Blair' and rightfully so.





"You and Michael," he tried again, reluctant to put it to rest now that he started the ball rolling. "How did you two meet?"





"Fate."





"How long have you known him?"





"We shared notes."





"A student from one of your class? I haven't met him, have I?"





"No and no." Blair knew Jim wanted more answers from him, but he wasn't about to comply. Despite Jim's self-reproach that he was not good at people skills, he was - in Blair's fair judgment - good at reading people. And he didn't want Jim to read anything about him that he didn't want read.





"A boyfriend?"





That unexpected question had startled him, and he flinched involuntarily. He imagined that Jim had long suspected his sexuality, but to have it slammed in your face at the worst time possible... Man, he felt shitty enough. He wanted to snarl and say it was none of his business, but he didn't want to hurt his friend (however nosy he might be). "He wasn't anyone I know," he said dryly, hoping to clue to Jim to quit pushing it.





"Did this 'no one you know' hurt you, Blair?"





"You know, seven years is a long time to hold onto hurt." The words spilled before he could completely engage a lock on his mouth. //Great, now I'm suffering from diarrhea of the mouth.//





//Michael... In vino veritas. Three years of friendship blown to smithereens after a night of drunken pleasure.// Blair grimaced at the memory of their parting.





They had been the best of friends in college, kind of like him and Jim were. Though Blair didn't hang around Michael a great deal as he did with Jim, they spent whatever time permitted together which wasn't much since they were both buried to their asses with studies. Blair first noticed Michael during an Anthro class, seated at the far corner of the room, squinting at the whiteboard. He'd probably shown up late, hadn't brought with him his glasses and couldn't find a front seat, Blair had thought then. Since Blair was no stranger to the frustration (and headache that would surely come), he had shared his notes with Michael. //Okay, so it was more like shoving the goddamn notes in his hands and speeding out of the class when my brains finally logged on to what I had actually done.//





Being away from Section had left him pathetically out of sync.





It was true that he could easily produced altered personalities to fit his missions, but in the end, he knew he would return to Section again with the cool demeanor slipping back in place. Being away from Section and not going back had meant one thing: letting his soul lay bare outside the walls he constructed years ago to protect himself from the others.





It was the same walls that made him an alien to the real world - a world of the ordinary. A world where you make and live with your own choices. A world where trust and respect are earned; a decision, *yours* to give. A world where simple sharing was a gift and a habit he was not accustomed to.





And that incident with Michael was the first of their many sharings.





Blair found out that they shared the same dorm building and his room was a couple doors down away from his. It was a good thing since Michael had a microwave and a small TV while he won a VCR through a lottery - they spent many Monday nights munching popcorn and watching rented videos. They shared rides in Michael's car, and Michael had been generous enough with his Ford to loan his keys to him whenever he needed to check up on Naomi. They shared stories of their childhood (after much prodding from Blair) and though Blair hadn't much to boast, he could always spin a tall tale to amuse his friend. They shared words of comfort when one was hurt and joys when one found a glimpse of heaven.





They were good together. *Too* good. Perhaps that was the problem.





They had gotten along so well, they didn't have anywhere else to go. And the morning after the night putting away three six-packs, a large pizza and two bottles of champagne to celebrate Michael's birthday, they found themselves wrapped around each other naked with the smell of sex in the air. Michael had leaped to his feet despite the pain in his head he must have, just to distance himself away from him. He tried to apologize for his behavior, babbling about how he should have known better because he knew Blair's low sap tolerance, but Blair figured the situation must have scared and revolted the hell out of him that Michael turned and ran without a stitch on his back.





The moment the door slammed shut on his way out, Blair retched on his bed and cried... not out of humiliation or homophobic disgust but a twisted feeling of guilt and pain - he felt he had lost something precious to him all because he couldn't hold his drink. A wuss - that pretty much summed up what he thought he was. A blubbering wuss who couldn't keep his dick in his pants after a few miserable shots.





He wanted them to be as what they had been to one another, and he knew that going on like a leaky faucet was not likely to solve the problem. After he set his thoughts (and heart) straight, his brains formulated how to mend the broken bridge between them. He didn't know what they were going to do about that one night, but he was optimistic that they could work it out over some TV... a planned dinner perhaps and a good, long, honest talk - minus the bed - about what was going between them. He was optimistic all right until he found a thick manila folder in his mail sometime in the same afternoon.





Inside was everything there was to know about Michael. *Everything*. *Fucking*. *Little*. *Thing*. And the glaring fact that he was a working for Section, sent to spy on him pushed his panic button and changed all his plans. Blair immediately confronted Michael with the truth. He wanted to understand, gods, to have an inkling of his friend's thoughts and feelings, to want Michael to redeem himself, even if they were lies... but the man said nothing, no excuse for all his accusations. Blair tried yelling, pleading, reasoning, but not even his tears could move him.





Michael was not even sorry for it.





He left Cascade and Michael the next day, and when he returned, Michael was gone.





It had hurt knowing his best friend had heaped lies upon lies for three years - that he omitted his connection with Section. But if Blair had been totally honest with himself, that wasn't really the reason why he left.





He was afraid.





He was afraid because Michael meant so much to him, and he could not take it if they ended up no more than fuck-buddies.





He was afraid that Michael would never really become the friend he was before, that they could not put that one night of folly behind him. Michael was straight. At least he had been when the notes on his sexual lifestyle were written. Being sexually involved with another man could seriously screw up one's perspective of oneself.





He was afraid that everything special he thought they had together was a farce, but mostly he was afraid he was losing his heart to him.





No, he was afraid that he *had* lost his to him already. Michael was everything, and Blair would've done anything, everything he would ask of him: Even going back to Section. The thought that someone could wield that much power over him frightened him.





//In wine, truth... It took an inane amount of alcohol and the mother of all fucking hangovers to realize I had a thing for Michael. Damn, if I'm not fucking pathetic!//





He had taken the time away from Cascade to study the contents of the folder given to him and had gone as far as to crack into Section and FBI databases to check its legitimacy of his habits and his personality: They never came close to the man Blair thought he was. Six months after the separation, Michael had called him up to give him a list of addresses he needed to be and when. Section had required Blair's help to flush out terrorists and was quick to give their assurance that they had not forgotten their solemn word to honor their contract. He hadn't care if Section honored the contract six ways to Sunday - whether he was in or out then. All that went spinning in his mind was that that familiar voice over the phone didn't sound at all like the Michael he knew.





And when he met Michael to fulfill that 'favor', he knew now for certain that his fear was true: It was all playacting.





The *real* Michael was practically married to Section One - he never care shit about the people around him, much less his 'so-called' best friend, Blair Sandburg. Bonding was a word non-existing in his vocabulary. He was the 'perfect cold stonewall', yet if it served his advantage, he was able to 'mimic human emotions flawlessly that would've the Hollywood directors screaming for an encore', quoted by Madeline herself in one of his files.





It was all playacting. Three fucking years of playacting.





"Seven years *is* a long time to hold on to hurt, Jim," he repeated, and because he could see that Jim needed some convincing and that Jim was apt to fly into a protective rage if he didn't, he continued, "And it's not good for the soul, you know?"





Blair paused, then spoke again, "He said he got a place here in Cascade, but I don't think it's permanent. Cascade's a very long way from his work, and he couldn't possibly get the time off away. I bet he's gonna fly here next Friday, see me and fly off. We didn't exactly close that chapter when we split. Which is good, his coming to see me and the opportunity for closure, I mean. It's good." His voice dropped as he came to the end of his speech until it was no more than a faint whisper, making it almost self-hypnotic, a meditation trick he learned to survive in this insane world.





It was the first in a long time since he thought of Micheal and their past together and what it meant to him: Betrayal; Deception; and Love. Those words had caused a tightness in his throat earlier as they ran over and over in his mind. An overwhelming anger and hopeless frustration warred within him, and he could feel his control over the conversation slipping. It was more of an unconscious effort that he had invoked that meditation trick, and all his skills created an aura of calm that he could stand within, a refuge from useless rage - the only legacy of reminisce. "Closure's good."





The sentinel didn't know much about closure, but he knew one thing: "Well, *distance* is good." //The further you are away from my guide, the better.//





"Yeah, distance is good too," the younger man echoed. //We wouldn't have parted, Michael if we had practiced a little distance. Section wouldn't have whammed me with your files, you could've continued your charade and I could continue being blissfully ignorant and we could both be happy. I wouldn't have cared less.// Reflecting on his friendship with Jim, he thought there was nothing different with it compared to his with Michael... except now, he knew better than to cross the line where friendship never strayed. He heard the old saying, 'Best friends makes the best unions'... but it sure made one helluva lousy parting. Ouch...





//God, I could win a prize for being morose,// Blair scolded himself and gave a mental kick in the ass for ruining a perfectly good meditation in less than five seconds. He reinvoked his skills, and as soon as the last of his melancholy lifted, he realized that Jim was not confined to his bed as he was.





"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked accusingly.





Jim's eyes narrowed with suspicion at the sudden change in conversation but then decided to play along and explained, sounding as irritatingly bland as egg custard, "I was discharged. That bullet that took me down gave me a scratch and a couple of stitches on my scalp." He turned his head so that Blair may inspect the wound closer. "No concussion though. Other than a headache, which I dialed down, they thought it's okay to let me go. Oh, and Dr Lorden said you'll get 'your ass out of this joint' the day after tomorrow."





"So *I* can go home like Saturday?"





"Yup, that's what the doctor said."





"I just don't get it. A bullet grazed your scalp, giving a whole new meaning of hairbreadth, and you're on your feet in what, less than twelve hours? And I'm gonna be stuck here until *Saturday?" Blair sat up on his bed abruptly, meaning to voice his frustration at the injustices of the world, but he stopped short, a little shaken and held onto his head with both hands as though he feared the slightest motion would displace his head away from his body. "Oh man. That was stupid."





"Chief, you're okay?"





"You have that on record or what?"





"Huh?"





"You ask me again if I'm okay and I'm going to--"





The older man bit back a chuckle. "Yes?"





"Just shut up, Jim." This time he heard a snort and felt himself drawn into a warm hug; a gentle hand stroked his back while the other fussed with his riotous curls. If there was one thing he hated more than a blessed-protector mode, it was the mother-hen mode. He tried twisting away from his partner with slow deliberation while holding his head. When his world tilted 270 degrees and his vision began blurring, he knew he pushed too far. "Uh oh...There's a bit of gravity here."





Jim urged him back to lean on his chest and then carefully disentangled his hands from his hair. The younger man had moaned his reluctance but gave in after a few soothing words. Then Jim let his fingers lightly graced the smooth forehead and massaged his throbbing temples, driving away the pain. "Better?"





Blair started to nod but decided against it. //I think my brains would appreciate less abuse for one day.// "Yeah. Thanks." It felt so right, so safe in his arms that he felt himself slipping into a trance. "Can we stay like this for a while? I mean it's all your fault I got this major ache in my head," he said sleepily as his eyes fluttered shut.





"Anything, Chief."





He wasn't sure if he felt a kiss planted on his head, but being there in Jim's arms made everything all right with his world, and it didn't matter one bit if he had to spend another night in the hospital. He didn't care if Jim decided to kiss him full on the mouth, there and then, foolishly forgetting his own lesson on 'friendship and boundaries'. Smiling, he floated blissfully into the arms of sleep.





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





"God, you look like shit."





Blair opened his right eye just a crack to see Simon looming in his face, then let it shut. It was, in his opinion, not a very pleasant view: Simon didn't look very happy; He didn't look so hot either. "I was shot. What's your excuse? And in case you've forgotten my name, it's not God, although 'God' has a nice, potent ring to it, you think?"





Simon frowned, trying his best 'I'm-not-an-amused-captain' look on him, but it was hard to ignore the lopsided grin on the cheerful observer. So he gave in and laughed. "I was doing a little tap dance of my own on the Palmer's case. Unfortunately, the mayor wasn't buying any of it, but I did shed a few pounds for my trouble."





"Ahhh... You came all the way down here for dance lessons? I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm way out of commission here. We can set for an appointment if you really need one. I can show you how to trip the light fantastic, man," he said, dragging the last word out to three syllables.





"I don't doubt you could, Twinkle-toes, but what I really need is a circus," the larger man drawled, then turned to Jim, who had his shoulder propped against the wall and a smile playing on his lips.





To Simon, Ellison was the very epitome of contentment. When Jim got himself hitched to Caroline, Simon had thought that marriage would remedy his gruff detective, but it was this little whirlwind who crashed into his life that mellowed him into a more agreeable disposition. He knew that Blair was more to Jim in more ways than one. Blair was a guide, a teacher and a best friend to his best friend. Secretly, he wondered if Jim and Blair were lovers as rumors made them out to be. They certainly behaved more like old married couple than any married couples he knew.





The rumors were false, of course. Blair was a confessed table-leg; his score rate with the women over the years would put some amorous heads of state to shame and Jim? Given his strict, almost homophobic upbringing (all thanks to William), Jim would likely suffer an apoplectic shock upon mere contemplation.





//Whatever that takes place outside the office is their business, but damn if the kid's not good for him,// Simon thought, smiling.





"Any leads to the kid's murder?" Jim asked after giving Blair a quiet sentinel scan of his vitals. The kid was relaxed, hovering somewhere between sleep and consciousness.





"We've got a break last night." The words rapidly blanked out the humor in eyes. "It seems our killer's a veteran in this field."





"Nothing turns up on our database search."





"There was a slightly different MO." Simon grimaced heavily and handed Jim a thick folder. "Our killer has been making headlines since 1992. They called him 'The Puppeteer' then." He faltered, shot a cautious look at the young man on the bed and then at his detective. Jim nodded, prompting his captain to go ahead. The slow regular breathing told the sentinel that Blair had slipped back into sleep.





"The Puppeteer strangled his victims to death," Simon continued as Jim perused the documents, "and bore holes, each a quarter of an inch in diameter at the joints. He slipped metal lines through the holes and hanged each victim at a tree like a puppet."





"In case you haven't noticed, that *definitely* does not match our MO," Jim said, his brains juggling the auditory information and the printed words before him.





"No, but like our killer, the Puppeteer first started by slicing off the fingers of his victim's right hand."





"That's a long shot, Simon. How many sick scumbags you know that don't do that?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.





"How *many* sick scumbags you put away that keep those fingers in the victim's freezer and return later to finish the job?"





(Continued in part 7)