Guidelines PP: Chapter 1
Mar. 16th, 2006 04:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lit_gal
Once upon a time, an enthusiastic grad student developed a funny little theory that said a Guide, like a Sentinel, was a biological imperative. That didn't go over well with the United States Sentinel Program. Guidelines: Beginnings
When Sentinel and Guide started working together, Blair had to figure out which Regulations worked, and which accounted for the difficulties Jim suffered, difficulties that made his senses more of a handicap than a help. Guidelines: Regulations
Eventually the Sentinel and Guide had to open up to each other and learn to work as a team. Guidelines: Don't Ask, Don't Tell.
Well now the guys are getting on with what passes for a normal life, but the USSP isn't done with them, and they aren't done with the USSP.
"Man, it is too damn early to get up," Blair complained as the sound of the alarm cut through his sleep. "Too damn early."
"Sandburg, it's the same time we get up every morning," Jim pointed out as he pushed himself up on one elbow and arched his back until it made a satisfying popping sound. Blair just seemed to burrow deeper into the blue sheets, one arm reaching blindly for the alarm on his side of the bed, and Jim felt a flash of guilt at the sight of the white bathrobe tie still around his Guide's wrist.
After a couple of months of working together, he knew Blair would never hurt him. Hell, the man would insanely throw himself between Jim and any possible danger, a tendency that left the Sentinel wanting to lock Blair up somewhere safely out of the way. But no matter how often he tried, he couldn't bond without fear clawing up his backbone and throwing every sense out of balance. At least, not without physically tying his partner down.
"Yeah, yeah," Blair muttered unhappily. "But every other morning I have something I want to do, like that Pakistani Independence Day celebration at the mosque. But am I going? No. I get to do the annual misery of the teaching staff in-service. Fuck." Blair finally pushed back the sheets, and glared at the alarm clock before reaching over and hitting it with far more force than necessary.
Jim had to suppress a smile at the tangled mess of hair and stubble that now groaned and stretched until bones popped. Wrapping an arm around Blair, he pulled the man to his chest, lowering his mouth to the juncture of shoulder and neck so that he could taste his guide. The morning after they bonded, Blair's skin always had a strong, salty musk to it that made Jim's senses snap into focus. Beneath his hands, Blair's muscles relaxed into him, and Blair let his head drop so that Jim could taste more of the skin, lapping up the pheromone-heavy dried sweat that coated his guide.
As he licked and nipped his way over the flesh, the scent grew stronger from the moisture. Working his way around to the front of Blair's neck, Jim felt his Guide's large Adam apple under his lips and he sucked gently at the skin. But he couldn't reach as much as he wanted, so he scooted back a bit, rolling Blair onto his back and then straddling his guide so that he could reach the other side of the neck as well.
Blair obligingly rolled his head to the side and Jim started tasting the new skin. When he reached the fleshy part of the shoulder, he bit down just hard enough to feel his teeth press into the skin, and Blair humped up into him, the smell of new musk and the dried bonding scent blending into a pheromone cocktail that nearly overpowered Jim as he sucked until he knew he would leave a mark behind. Fortunately, Blair never seemed to mind his habit of marking his guide.
When Blair's erection lengthened and hardened under him, Jim could feel his normal morning stiffy soften in reaction, and he cursed his own screwed up psychology. He released the now purplish skin and rested his forehead against Blair's shoulder.
"Man, we totally have time for a quickie. I will not mind being late for Dr. Edwards." Jim looked up to find Blair holding out the end of the white fuzzy cloth tied around his wrist.
"Blair, I'm so sorry," Jim said as he took the fabric in his fingers, feeling the nubs in the fabric with his thumb.
"Don't even go there," Blair warned him, "I don't have a problem with this. I just have to be careful going into the bath store because terry cloth is becoming an embarrassing turn on these days," he joked.
Jim looked up at his partner's open face, and he couldn't derail the guilt he always felt after having to tie his partner. Yes, he understood that Blair trusted him and, therefore, didn't attach any 'wrongness' to the act, but Jim felt like he betrayed Blair every time he couldn't trust his partner enough to let go of the fear and pain of his past.
"Man, I can hear your guilt. You can't control your body's reactions to certain stimuli, and that's okay. As a Sentinel, your sensory memory is far more developed…"
"Sandburg, the Sentinel thing does not give me a right to keep making excuses," Jim said as he rolled away from his guide. Grabbing his robe from off the railing, he headed for the stairs.
"Damn cranky Sentinel," Blair muttered, and Jim couldn't avoid hearing that if he wanted to. The more they bonded, the more Jim found he couldn't give Blair privacy in the loft even if he wanted to. The man's every move registered on Jim's senses any time they were in the same building.
Jim turned the television on as he pulled breakfast steaks out of the refrigerator. Blair would give him shit about the fat and cholesterol, but Jim felt like steak and he didn't feel like listening to Blair's version of the food pyramid which seemed to include Adzuki Beans, Quinoa, Jicama and a dozen other weird foods without including good old fashioned steak and potatoes. Of course, Jim knew that he was exaggerating since Blair did occasionally love a thick, juicy steak, but he also felt cranky enough that his own exaggerated frustration with his Guide felt good.
When Blair finally wandered downstairs, Jim ignored the staggering steps and the wave of lust that followed Blair to the bathroom. Grabbing for the remote, he turned the volume up so he wouldn't have to listen to Blair taking care of his morning erection in the shower.
By the time he pulled the steak pan off the burner, he could hear Blair's frustrated grunts as he fought his hair into a neat ponytail.
"Man, I am so going to cut all this off one of these days," Blair complained as he came out of the bathroom in a blue shirt and dark blue jeans.
"Don't you dare," Jim threatened with a mock scowl, and he still found himself amazed at how laid back Blair could be, laughing at the threat that would have sent any other guide to a commanding officer to file an official complaint about an overbearing Sentinel.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't have to wash the miserable stuff. The only reason I don't cut it is because when it's short the damn stuff poofs out like a Brillo pad."
"Then I *really* don't want you cutting it," Jim said as Blair came over and looked in the pan suspiciously.
"Steak?" Blair asked, a single eyebrow raising.
"You don't have time for a sit down breakfast, professor," Jim answered as though he had chosen out of courtesy rather than a feeling of pissiness that he really didn't have a right to feel.
"Uh-huh," Blair answered dubiously, but a knock at the door proved Jim's point and he left Blair to slap together a sandwich while he went to answer it. He pulled open the door and narrowed his eyes at the nervous man standing there.
"Teller." Jim said the name through clenched teeth.
"Ellison." Charlie tried to use the same intimidating tone, but he failed badly, especially since he wouldn't look Jim in the eye.
Taking a deep breath, Jim checked the various scents drifting off the man. After a moment, he was convinced that any illegal smoke smell was too old to pose Blair any risk.
"So, ready for Dr. Edward's famous threats and intimidations?" Blair asked before shoving about half the sandwich in his mouth so he would have both hands free to shrug into a tweed blazer.
"I can't believe I got suckered into teaching a class. This is monumentally unfair. I have to get up while the morning news crap is still playing." Charlie's self pitying whine left Jim unmoved, but Blair made muffled sympathetic noises through the sandwich as he grabbed his briefcase and then pulled the sandwich out of his mouth.
"Your Arch 105 students loved you," Blair said as he headed out the door, a brief lingering touch on Jim's arm the only farewell.
"That's because I lost their term papers and passed them all," Charlie pointed out as he followed.
"That's crap and you know it," Blair protested as Jim shut the door behind them. He continued to listen to half the conversation as he could hear Blair's voice all the way down to the street even as Charlie's voice became part of the background. For not the first time, Jim wondered why his guide had chosen Charlie as his closest friend, and while Jim did appreciate the fact that Charlie had put his neck on the line for both of them, he worried that a man with as many problems as Charlie could only pose a long term risk. Gritting his teeth, he realized that he just had to trust his Guide to ask him for help when that day came.
And that idea finally made Jim face the fact that he now had to go to work without his guide. He'd served a two week suspension while Blair went to work at the precinct, and he had never admitted how much of that time he spend gripping the table trying not to chase his partner down. And while they sometimes spent hours apart at the precinct, Jim could always track Blair somewhere in the building while he worked. Now he had to try and not let that absence interfere with his work.
The USSP had ranked his ability to work independent of a guide as one of the lowest on record, one reason Jim had been grateful when he finally crashed out of the program. When he had a guide, he clung to them. He found himself increasing agitated without them. But now that he had bonded with Blair, he would have one guide for the rest of his life, but that didn't mean he could ask Blair to give up his entire life for his Sentinel. Nope. Jim clenched his teeth and ordered himself to get through the entire day without Blair. Then, when they both got home tonight, he could bond until his Guide passed out from exhaustion. That was a plan.
Jim walked into the bullpen already feeling irritable, that crawling feeling that something was wrong running down his spine, but if he gave in and called Blair forty-five minutes into his first day at work, the man would know something was wrong. Jim could call his guide many names including annoying, persistent, and salacious, but he couldn't call the man stupid.
He barely had time to sit down before Simon's large shadow fell over his desk. "Jim, I got an official memo from the USSP this morning."
"Wonderful." Jim stabbed his computer with his pencil and fought the urge to break something. Of course the USSP would stick its nose in when he wanted them as far away as possible.
"I'm more worried about how closely they are keeping track of your schedule than I am worried about any warnings they have about your senses." Simon pointed out as he sat heavily in the chair normally reserved for suspects. Jim looked up at Simon, trying to figure out the guarded expression.
"Warnings?"
"They said that you are likely to become either emotionally unstable or unable to control your senses if Blair isn't at the station with you," Simon admitted in a low voice. Jim felt like laughing. He'd been emotionally unstable and without any control over his emotions for so long that the insult hardly seemed worth the cost of the fax paper. If Simon hadn't already decided he had emotional issues, a report from the USSP sure wouldn't change anything.
"How the hell did they know you were coming in alone today?" Simon demanded.
"It's orientation for all the TA's at Rainier; it wouldn't be hard to figure that out," Jim answered absent-mindedly. The teaching guides wanted to play a psychological game, prove that they could watch his every move, but Jim hardly felt threatened by bureaucratic shit heads when Blair had already made his choice to stand by Jim, no matter how messed up Jim was. And Blair knew better than anyone just how deep his angry, self-destructive streak really went.
"So, what are they talking about with your senses?" Simon finally asked.
"I'm fine, sir."
"Humor me, then. Is this document just made up?" Simon slipped a report in front of Jim, sliding it across the wood, and Jim had to restrain a cringe as he saw the official USSP stamp on it. Glancing through the text, Jim remembered signing this reprimand. It came from his brief pairing with Luis, who had even less patience than Cassie.
In condemning words, it described a Sentinel who became a non-functional liability when the guide removed himself for even brief periods of time. Jim remembered the out of control feeling, trying to keep himself focused on some training task while desperately searching the environment for some sign of his missing guide. He sighed and considered how much to tell Simon.
"No, it's not forged," he finally admitted. "When I was in the USSP, especially at the end, I had a lot of trouble with control. If my guide wasn't around, I had spikes and zones."
"Are you safe to go on the streets, Jim? I don't want a detective who zones in the middle of an investigation." Even though Simon's voice didn't condemn him, Jim still stiffened under the suggestion that he couldn't do his job.
"I'm fine, Simon. Part of my problem was that I didn't trust the guides I was working with. I expected them to disappear and I concentrated on trying to keep track of them instead of focusing on the job."
"And you trust Sandburg?"
"Absolutely. And that's why I'm fine on my own." Jim didn't mention the lingering discomfort because compared to his reactions in the past, he really was fine.
"I hate this sentinel crap," Simon said as he leaned back, but Jim could see the tension go out of the man.
"Yes, sir," Jim agreed. In fact, before Blair, he would have said that it wasn't worth the aggravation.
"So, this is basically an underhanded attack to try and make you uncomfortable enough so…" Simon paused as he waited for some sort of response, but Jim didn't know what to say. "What? So you go back into the USSP?" Simon finally asked.
"Maybe." Jim pushed the damning paper back toward Simon. "Maybe they just want to discredit me in general so that I can't show how successful a Sentinel can be outside of the program," Jim said as he considered the attack. General Kern probably wanted him back inside, but these guides just wanted him gone, and he really resented this political shit.
"I'd rather have a frontal assault than this subterfuge," Simon complained as he thumped the paper that sat between them on the desk.
"I'm there with you, Simon. I'm just glad Blair is handling this better than I am. Do you realize that they still haven't returned his confiscated possessions or replaced his social security card? If you hadn't bent some rules to get him the job here at the precinct, he wouldn't be able to rent an apartment or open a checking account or even get a job."
"Yeah, just as well. If the kid did get a job somewhere else the commissioner would have a fit. The man is frighteningly cheerful when someone mentions Sandburg's name." Simon rolled his eyes, and Jim had to smile at the gesture.
The commissioner had a sour reputation and a preference for ripping subordinates into pieces. Half the department worshipped Blair for taming the man's temper, and the other half resented the outsider who had the commissioner wrapped around his little finger, but then Blair had much of the department enthralled. Rafe turned to him for dating advice; he traded recipes with Taggart, and the man had the patience to listen to Ricardo's ex-wife complaints, which put Blair at the top of the man's will—if the man had anything left once his ex-wives finished.
"So, Blair's handling this harassment okay?" Simon asked. "We might be able to put some pressure on them with some of the paperwork issues, like the driver's license."
"He's amused by it. When I talk to him about it, he goes off on dominance displays and illusionary power bases. However, it still makes me nervous having Teller drive him around, so if you could put some pressure on the Motor Vehicle Department, I'd owe you a favor."
"I can do that. I'm just glad that the kid's handling this well and not trying to take on the whole USSP." Simon stood up, but when Jim didn't answer, his voice grew a little sharper. "Jim?" he asked. Jim kept his head down. He didn't know much of Blair's plans, but his inability to tune his Guide out meant that he heard more than Blair probably realized. "He isn't, is he?" Simon asked a third time.
"Not directly," Jim admitted.
"Is this something I should worry about? You two have given me enough gray hairs already."
"I'm not sure the USSP would worry even if they did know," Jim said as he rubbed his hair and tried to loosen tight back muscles. "He's been working with a woman he knows back east, Victoria Vinstein."
"The writer?"
"You know her?" Jim looked up in surprise.
Simon laughed, "I have a son, remember? You can't officially call yourself a parent until you've bought your kid at least two Vinstein books. She writes historical adventures."
"Well Blair's talked her into writing about Sentinels." Jim watched Simon's confusion and tried to hide his amusement. He probably had a similar expression when he'd heard Blair's scheme.
"And this is his form of taking down the USSP?"
"Just don't use that tone of voice in front of him," Jim warned his boss with a laugh. "I made that mistake, and I spent nearly an hour listening to him talk about cultural mythos and the transmission of values through children.
"So he's counting on these kids growing up thinking that the USSP is doing it wrong because it doesn't match what Vinstein wrote about in some historical fiction book?" Simon didn't even try and hide his disbelief. "Are you sure he's not breathing too much of the air over at Teller's place?"
"Hey, it makes him happy, and it means he isn't leading an anti-USSP parade, so I'm happy."
"If it works for you two...." Simon shook his head disbelievingly before changing the subject. "So, any progress on the Hahn murder?"
Jim felt his back tighten even more at the mention of the unsolved case.
"Don't give me that look. It's my job to ask," Simon sighed, "but Jim, you can't catch every killer. Besides, I have a new case for you. Let's take it into the office."
Jim logged out of his computer before following his boss into the office at the end of the squad room. He already had eight open cases, but three qualified for the cold case files, and Jim supposed he had to give up on them at some point. Maybe some recovered gun or unrelated investigation would give him a lead later on, but from Simon's grim expression, Jim guessed this new case would be taking up a lot of time in the near future. Settling into a chair across from Simon, he took the folder Simon slid across the desk.
A quick scan made his guts tighten. "Vice?" he demanded incredulously. "Come on, Captain. Don't do this to me. Rafe catches the vice cases."
"And if we needed to get into an upscale club or pass him off as an expensive hustler, I'd put Rafe on the case again. These people... well, you know these people, Jim. Rafe wouldn't stand a chance of getting close." Jim studied the names and pictures in the file. A few were familiar, but most were new.
"And what's my story for being gone for two years?" he asked as he tried to avoid growling his frustration. If Simon's glare was anything to go by, he hadn't managed to keep his tone neutral.
"The usual one. You went down south and got picked up for minor narcotics use. It fits with your back story."
"And if I'm on parole for narcotics, I'll avoid them in case my parole officer asks for a urine test."
"Exactly." Simon nodded. "Now the victim was a known breeder for the pit bull fights. He's been picked up three times, but only one cruelty to animals charge managed to stick. He was picked up again two nights ago, and this time vice had the case locked up: video tapes, breeding records, a training ring, and nearly sixty dogs. Fielding was on the verge of talking when his lawyer showed up, a lawyer he shares with Wallace, Hanes, and Esposito."
Jim looked down at the faces in the folder. He remembered Hanes, an insecure man with light brown skin and dark brown eyes. Hanes had handled the receipts for both the pit bull fights and the cock fights when Jim had worked vice before. Wallace and Esposito were new. Wallace was a fat man with dark hair and dark eyes that made Jim think briefly of Jabba the Hut. Esposito was sharp featured and even though he could only see a bust in the mug shot, he could tell the man was muscular from the squareness of his shoulders.
"So we think the lawyer told the other three that Fielding was ready to roll on them." Jim commented as he studied the pictures carefully.
"That's the theory. Vice got the call since it was their witness floating in the harbor, but killing a witness is our territory, and I want to know who ordered the hit," Simon just about growled. "So, since you have history with Hanes, I want you to check out a few of the clubs tonight."
"And if someone saw my news conference a few months back?" Jim asked dubiously.
"Then wait a couple of days until that peach fuzz you call a beard comes in. Trust me, I remember you when you worked vice, and I wouldn't have been able to ID you from the news conference," Simon said confidently, and Jim had to take the man's word since he knew the captain would never put a member of the unit in danger.
He just really hadn't wanted to put on that personality again, the cold, dangerous façade he'd used when working Vice had bothered him more than he had ever admitted. Jim picked up the file and headed back to his desk.
"Sandburg, it's the same time we get up every morning," Jim pointed out as he pushed himself up on one elbow and arched his back until it made a satisfying popping sound. Blair just seemed to burrow deeper into the blue sheets, one arm reaching blindly for the alarm on his side of the bed, and Jim felt a flash of guilt at the sight of the white bathrobe tie still around his Guide's wrist.
After a couple of months of working together, he knew Blair would never hurt him. Hell, the man would insanely throw himself between Jim and any possible danger, a tendency that left the Sentinel wanting to lock Blair up somewhere safely out of the way. But no matter how often he tried, he couldn't bond without fear clawing up his backbone and throwing every sense out of balance. At least, not without physically tying his partner down.
"Yeah, yeah," Blair muttered unhappily. "But every other morning I have something I want to do, like that Pakistani Independence Day celebration at the mosque. But am I going? No. I get to do the annual misery of the teaching staff in-service. Fuck." Blair finally pushed back the sheets, and glared at the alarm clock before reaching over and hitting it with far more force than necessary.
Jim had to suppress a smile at the tangled mess of hair and stubble that now groaned and stretched until bones popped. Wrapping an arm around Blair, he pulled the man to his chest, lowering his mouth to the juncture of shoulder and neck so that he could taste his guide. The morning after they bonded, Blair's skin always had a strong, salty musk to it that made Jim's senses snap into focus. Beneath his hands, Blair's muscles relaxed into him, and Blair let his head drop so that Jim could taste more of the skin, lapping up the pheromone-heavy dried sweat that coated his guide.
As he licked and nipped his way over the flesh, the scent grew stronger from the moisture. Working his way around to the front of Blair's neck, Jim felt his Guide's large Adam apple under his lips and he sucked gently at the skin. But he couldn't reach as much as he wanted, so he scooted back a bit, rolling Blair onto his back and then straddling his guide so that he could reach the other side of the neck as well.
Blair obligingly rolled his head to the side and Jim started tasting the new skin. When he reached the fleshy part of the shoulder, he bit down just hard enough to feel his teeth press into the skin, and Blair humped up into him, the smell of new musk and the dried bonding scent blending into a pheromone cocktail that nearly overpowered Jim as he sucked until he knew he would leave a mark behind. Fortunately, Blair never seemed to mind his habit of marking his guide.
When Blair's erection lengthened and hardened under him, Jim could feel his normal morning stiffy soften in reaction, and he cursed his own screwed up psychology. He released the now purplish skin and rested his forehead against Blair's shoulder.
"Man, we totally have time for a quickie. I will not mind being late for Dr. Edwards." Jim looked up to find Blair holding out the end of the white fuzzy cloth tied around his wrist.
"Blair, I'm so sorry," Jim said as he took the fabric in his fingers, feeling the nubs in the fabric with his thumb.
"Don't even go there," Blair warned him, "I don't have a problem with this. I just have to be careful going into the bath store because terry cloth is becoming an embarrassing turn on these days," he joked.
Jim looked up at his partner's open face, and he couldn't derail the guilt he always felt after having to tie his partner. Yes, he understood that Blair trusted him and, therefore, didn't attach any 'wrongness' to the act, but Jim felt like he betrayed Blair every time he couldn't trust his partner enough to let go of the fear and pain of his past.
"Man, I can hear your guilt. You can't control your body's reactions to certain stimuli, and that's okay. As a Sentinel, your sensory memory is far more developed…"
"Sandburg, the Sentinel thing does not give me a right to keep making excuses," Jim said as he rolled away from his guide. Grabbing his robe from off the railing, he headed for the stairs.
"Damn cranky Sentinel," Blair muttered, and Jim couldn't avoid hearing that if he wanted to. The more they bonded, the more Jim found he couldn't give Blair privacy in the loft even if he wanted to. The man's every move registered on Jim's senses any time they were in the same building.
Jim turned the television on as he pulled breakfast steaks out of the refrigerator. Blair would give him shit about the fat and cholesterol, but Jim felt like steak and he didn't feel like listening to Blair's version of the food pyramid which seemed to include Adzuki Beans, Quinoa, Jicama and a dozen other weird foods without including good old fashioned steak and potatoes. Of course, Jim knew that he was exaggerating since Blair did occasionally love a thick, juicy steak, but he also felt cranky enough that his own exaggerated frustration with his Guide felt good.
When Blair finally wandered downstairs, Jim ignored the staggering steps and the wave of lust that followed Blair to the bathroom. Grabbing for the remote, he turned the volume up so he wouldn't have to listen to Blair taking care of his morning erection in the shower.
By the time he pulled the steak pan off the burner, he could hear Blair's frustrated grunts as he fought his hair into a neat ponytail.
"Man, I am so going to cut all this off one of these days," Blair complained as he came out of the bathroom in a blue shirt and dark blue jeans.
"Don't you dare," Jim threatened with a mock scowl, and he still found himself amazed at how laid back Blair could be, laughing at the threat that would have sent any other guide to a commanding officer to file an official complaint about an overbearing Sentinel.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't have to wash the miserable stuff. The only reason I don't cut it is because when it's short the damn stuff poofs out like a Brillo pad."
"Then I *really* don't want you cutting it," Jim said as Blair came over and looked in the pan suspiciously.
"Steak?" Blair asked, a single eyebrow raising.
"You don't have time for a sit down breakfast, professor," Jim answered as though he had chosen out of courtesy rather than a feeling of pissiness that he really didn't have a right to feel.
"Uh-huh," Blair answered dubiously, but a knock at the door proved Jim's point and he left Blair to slap together a sandwich while he went to answer it. He pulled open the door and narrowed his eyes at the nervous man standing there.
"Teller." Jim said the name through clenched teeth.
"Ellison." Charlie tried to use the same intimidating tone, but he failed badly, especially since he wouldn't look Jim in the eye.
Taking a deep breath, Jim checked the various scents drifting off the man. After a moment, he was convinced that any illegal smoke smell was too old to pose Blair any risk.
"So, ready for Dr. Edward's famous threats and intimidations?" Blair asked before shoving about half the sandwich in his mouth so he would have both hands free to shrug into a tweed blazer.
"I can't believe I got suckered into teaching a class. This is monumentally unfair. I have to get up while the morning news crap is still playing." Charlie's self pitying whine left Jim unmoved, but Blair made muffled sympathetic noises through the sandwich as he grabbed his briefcase and then pulled the sandwich out of his mouth.
"Your Arch 105 students loved you," Blair said as he headed out the door, a brief lingering touch on Jim's arm the only farewell.
"That's because I lost their term papers and passed them all," Charlie pointed out as he followed.
"That's crap and you know it," Blair protested as Jim shut the door behind them. He continued to listen to half the conversation as he could hear Blair's voice all the way down to the street even as Charlie's voice became part of the background. For not the first time, Jim wondered why his guide had chosen Charlie as his closest friend, and while Jim did appreciate the fact that Charlie had put his neck on the line for both of them, he worried that a man with as many problems as Charlie could only pose a long term risk. Gritting his teeth, he realized that he just had to trust his Guide to ask him for help when that day came.
And that idea finally made Jim face the fact that he now had to go to work without his guide. He'd served a two week suspension while Blair went to work at the precinct, and he had never admitted how much of that time he spend gripping the table trying not to chase his partner down. And while they sometimes spent hours apart at the precinct, Jim could always track Blair somewhere in the building while he worked. Now he had to try and not let that absence interfere with his work.
The USSP had ranked his ability to work independent of a guide as one of the lowest on record, one reason Jim had been grateful when he finally crashed out of the program. When he had a guide, he clung to them. He found himself increasing agitated without them. But now that he had bonded with Blair, he would have one guide for the rest of his life, but that didn't mean he could ask Blair to give up his entire life for his Sentinel. Nope. Jim clenched his teeth and ordered himself to get through the entire day without Blair. Then, when they both got home tonight, he could bond until his Guide passed out from exhaustion. That was a plan.
Jim walked into the bullpen already feeling irritable, that crawling feeling that something was wrong running down his spine, but if he gave in and called Blair forty-five minutes into his first day at work, the man would know something was wrong. Jim could call his guide many names including annoying, persistent, and salacious, but he couldn't call the man stupid.
He barely had time to sit down before Simon's large shadow fell over his desk. "Jim, I got an official memo from the USSP this morning."
"Wonderful." Jim stabbed his computer with his pencil and fought the urge to break something. Of course the USSP would stick its nose in when he wanted them as far away as possible.
"I'm more worried about how closely they are keeping track of your schedule than I am worried about any warnings they have about your senses." Simon pointed out as he sat heavily in the chair normally reserved for suspects. Jim looked up at Simon, trying to figure out the guarded expression.
"Warnings?"
"They said that you are likely to become either emotionally unstable or unable to control your senses if Blair isn't at the station with you," Simon admitted in a low voice. Jim felt like laughing. He'd been emotionally unstable and without any control over his emotions for so long that the insult hardly seemed worth the cost of the fax paper. If Simon hadn't already decided he had emotional issues, a report from the USSP sure wouldn't change anything.
"How the hell did they know you were coming in alone today?" Simon demanded.
"It's orientation for all the TA's at Rainier; it wouldn't be hard to figure that out," Jim answered absent-mindedly. The teaching guides wanted to play a psychological game, prove that they could watch his every move, but Jim hardly felt threatened by bureaucratic shit heads when Blair had already made his choice to stand by Jim, no matter how messed up Jim was. And Blair knew better than anyone just how deep his angry, self-destructive streak really went.
"So, what are they talking about with your senses?" Simon finally asked.
"I'm fine, sir."
"Humor me, then. Is this document just made up?" Simon slipped a report in front of Jim, sliding it across the wood, and Jim had to restrain a cringe as he saw the official USSP stamp on it. Glancing through the text, Jim remembered signing this reprimand. It came from his brief pairing with Luis, who had even less patience than Cassie.
In condemning words, it described a Sentinel who became a non-functional liability when the guide removed himself for even brief periods of time. Jim remembered the out of control feeling, trying to keep himself focused on some training task while desperately searching the environment for some sign of his missing guide. He sighed and considered how much to tell Simon.
"No, it's not forged," he finally admitted. "When I was in the USSP, especially at the end, I had a lot of trouble with control. If my guide wasn't around, I had spikes and zones."
"Are you safe to go on the streets, Jim? I don't want a detective who zones in the middle of an investigation." Even though Simon's voice didn't condemn him, Jim still stiffened under the suggestion that he couldn't do his job.
"I'm fine, Simon. Part of my problem was that I didn't trust the guides I was working with. I expected them to disappear and I concentrated on trying to keep track of them instead of focusing on the job."
"And you trust Sandburg?"
"Absolutely. And that's why I'm fine on my own." Jim didn't mention the lingering discomfort because compared to his reactions in the past, he really was fine.
"I hate this sentinel crap," Simon said as he leaned back, but Jim could see the tension go out of the man.
"Yes, sir," Jim agreed. In fact, before Blair, he would have said that it wasn't worth the aggravation.
"So, this is basically an underhanded attack to try and make you uncomfortable enough so…" Simon paused as he waited for some sort of response, but Jim didn't know what to say. "What? So you go back into the USSP?" Simon finally asked.
"Maybe." Jim pushed the damning paper back toward Simon. "Maybe they just want to discredit me in general so that I can't show how successful a Sentinel can be outside of the program," Jim said as he considered the attack. General Kern probably wanted him back inside, but these guides just wanted him gone, and he really resented this political shit.
"I'd rather have a frontal assault than this subterfuge," Simon complained as he thumped the paper that sat between them on the desk.
"I'm there with you, Simon. I'm just glad Blair is handling this better than I am. Do you realize that they still haven't returned his confiscated possessions or replaced his social security card? If you hadn't bent some rules to get him the job here at the precinct, he wouldn't be able to rent an apartment or open a checking account or even get a job."
"Yeah, just as well. If the kid did get a job somewhere else the commissioner would have a fit. The man is frighteningly cheerful when someone mentions Sandburg's name." Simon rolled his eyes, and Jim had to smile at the gesture.
The commissioner had a sour reputation and a preference for ripping subordinates into pieces. Half the department worshipped Blair for taming the man's temper, and the other half resented the outsider who had the commissioner wrapped around his little finger, but then Blair had much of the department enthralled. Rafe turned to him for dating advice; he traded recipes with Taggart, and the man had the patience to listen to Ricardo's ex-wife complaints, which put Blair at the top of the man's will—if the man had anything left once his ex-wives finished.
"So, Blair's handling this harassment okay?" Simon asked. "We might be able to put some pressure on them with some of the paperwork issues, like the driver's license."
"He's amused by it. When I talk to him about it, he goes off on dominance displays and illusionary power bases. However, it still makes me nervous having Teller drive him around, so if you could put some pressure on the Motor Vehicle Department, I'd owe you a favor."
"I can do that. I'm just glad that the kid's handling this well and not trying to take on the whole USSP." Simon stood up, but when Jim didn't answer, his voice grew a little sharper. "Jim?" he asked. Jim kept his head down. He didn't know much of Blair's plans, but his inability to tune his Guide out meant that he heard more than Blair probably realized. "He isn't, is he?" Simon asked a third time.
"Not directly," Jim admitted.
"Is this something I should worry about? You two have given me enough gray hairs already."
"I'm not sure the USSP would worry even if they did know," Jim said as he rubbed his hair and tried to loosen tight back muscles. "He's been working with a woman he knows back east, Victoria Vinstein."
"The writer?"
"You know her?" Jim looked up in surprise.
Simon laughed, "I have a son, remember? You can't officially call yourself a parent until you've bought your kid at least two Vinstein books. She writes historical adventures."
"Well Blair's talked her into writing about Sentinels." Jim watched Simon's confusion and tried to hide his amusement. He probably had a similar expression when he'd heard Blair's scheme.
"And this is his form of taking down the USSP?"
"Just don't use that tone of voice in front of him," Jim warned his boss with a laugh. "I made that mistake, and I spent nearly an hour listening to him talk about cultural mythos and the transmission of values through children.
"So he's counting on these kids growing up thinking that the USSP is doing it wrong because it doesn't match what Vinstein wrote about in some historical fiction book?" Simon didn't even try and hide his disbelief. "Are you sure he's not breathing too much of the air over at Teller's place?"
"Hey, it makes him happy, and it means he isn't leading an anti-USSP parade, so I'm happy."
"If it works for you two...." Simon shook his head disbelievingly before changing the subject. "So, any progress on the Hahn murder?"
Jim felt his back tighten even more at the mention of the unsolved case.
"Don't give me that look. It's my job to ask," Simon sighed, "but Jim, you can't catch every killer. Besides, I have a new case for you. Let's take it into the office."
Jim logged out of his computer before following his boss into the office at the end of the squad room. He already had eight open cases, but three qualified for the cold case files, and Jim supposed he had to give up on them at some point. Maybe some recovered gun or unrelated investigation would give him a lead later on, but from Simon's grim expression, Jim guessed this new case would be taking up a lot of time in the near future. Settling into a chair across from Simon, he took the folder Simon slid across the desk.
A quick scan made his guts tighten. "Vice?" he demanded incredulously. "Come on, Captain. Don't do this to me. Rafe catches the vice cases."
"And if we needed to get into an upscale club or pass him off as an expensive hustler, I'd put Rafe on the case again. These people... well, you know these people, Jim. Rafe wouldn't stand a chance of getting close." Jim studied the names and pictures in the file. A few were familiar, but most were new.
"And what's my story for being gone for two years?" he asked as he tried to avoid growling his frustration. If Simon's glare was anything to go by, he hadn't managed to keep his tone neutral.
"The usual one. You went down south and got picked up for minor narcotics use. It fits with your back story."
"And if I'm on parole for narcotics, I'll avoid them in case my parole officer asks for a urine test."
"Exactly." Simon nodded. "Now the victim was a known breeder for the pit bull fights. He's been picked up three times, but only one cruelty to animals charge managed to stick. He was picked up again two nights ago, and this time vice had the case locked up: video tapes, breeding records, a training ring, and nearly sixty dogs. Fielding was on the verge of talking when his lawyer showed up, a lawyer he shares with Wallace, Hanes, and Esposito."
Jim looked down at the faces in the folder. He remembered Hanes, an insecure man with light brown skin and dark brown eyes. Hanes had handled the receipts for both the pit bull fights and the cock fights when Jim had worked vice before. Wallace and Esposito were new. Wallace was a fat man with dark hair and dark eyes that made Jim think briefly of Jabba the Hut. Esposito was sharp featured and even though he could only see a bust in the mug shot, he could tell the man was muscular from the squareness of his shoulders.
"So we think the lawyer told the other three that Fielding was ready to roll on them." Jim commented as he studied the pictures carefully.
"That's the theory. Vice got the call since it was their witness floating in the harbor, but killing a witness is our territory, and I want to know who ordered the hit," Simon just about growled. "So, since you have history with Hanes, I want you to check out a few of the clubs tonight."
"And if someone saw my news conference a few months back?" Jim asked dubiously.
"Then wait a couple of days until that peach fuzz you call a beard comes in. Trust me, I remember you when you worked vice, and I wouldn't have been able to ID you from the news conference," Simon said confidently, and Jim had to take the man's word since he knew the captain would never put a member of the unit in danger.
He just really hadn't wanted to put on that personality again, the cold, dangerous façade he'd used when working Vice had bothered him more than he had ever admitted. Jim picked up the file and headed back to his desk.
