Archive of Our Own

Still looks wrong, Ellison

The loft isn't bare any more, but it's not right. Something's still not in its place, something's missing, something's still wrong.

Yeah, Sentinel of the Great City, you know why it's wrong. You made it that way.

But you've done all you can for now to fix it, haven't you? You've put everything back in its place, everything.

Sandburg's stuff, everything you boxed and made him haul away, it's all been brought back from the six friends, Connor (yeah, and your ears are still ringing from the blast she gave you, for all the dialing down you did) and from his office at Rainer. You may not recall every detail of that day and packing it all up and telling him...

The knots in your chest tighten - pain and worry and panic all mixed in with emotions you can't even put a name to. Don't think about that, don't think about what you said to him and his face when you said it. That you have perfect recall on, no matter how good you are at repressing. Just... don't.

Anyway, you may not clearly recall packing it up, but some part of the Sentinel knows every item, every stitch of clothing, every book and paper and artifact and... just every damn thing that went into the boxes and where it was before it went in. Right down to the pen under the bed, the earring dropped behind the table, the not very clean coffee cup, and the dirty paper with chicken-scratch notes he's probably completely forgotten scratching, wadded up behind the jumble in his bookcase. Yeah, they're all back right where they were - the pen, the earring (you'll tell him about it later, so he can get it out but right now it needs to be there) - and the... well, now very clean cup. And the re-wadded up paper.

And the books, in exactly the order Sandburg had them in. Somehow, though you couldn't recall the titles to save your life, you know exactly which book was where and on what shelf, and at what angle they were leaning. And all the photos and bits and pieces, from that weird Patagonian fertility thing he insists is for good luck (not that it's working, has he noticed that?) to the Peruvian charm bracelet that lost most of its charms before he left Peru. You just know.

And no, no matter what he has said too many times, you are not anal-retentive. It's probably a Sentinel thing, and one of these days, months... decades, you'll ask him about it, when you can even talk about this whole damned nightmare again.

Okay, so all his stuff is right where it should be. At least, you think it is, and it's not what's giving you the feeling of being wrong.

The rest - the furniture and everything of yours that you hauled out and down into the basement, you've hauled up again and put back precisely, and you do mean precisely as in to an inch, where it belongs. That one rug, you've shifted it seven times.

Maybe eight's the charm.... nope.

And it's not just the rug. It's more than that, it's... something. And you have to get it right, you have to get it perfect, like it was before this all happened.

Not that you're doing this to pretend it didn't happen, you know too well it all did, and nothing's gonna change that, no amount of obsessing over inches and earrings is gonna do it. You're not doing this to pretend, you're doing it because you can't stand the knots and the pain and the feeling that something's missing, something you can't let go.

It's not like any of the stuff got lost along the way, either. You may have been out of your throwback head when you cleared the place - and you do mean cleared, even Sandburg doesn't know how thorough you were, right down to the washcloth under the sink, the single hair he left on the shower soap, the odd shoelace on the wardrobe floor -

Oh and yeah, the wardrobe -

And the bed -

And the side table -

And the shelves. And... okay, you were out of your head, but not enough to actually throw out your stuff, let alone his. Nope, most of the Sentinel may have been roaring to trash, break, even burn, but the bit that Sandburg pokes fun at (again, not anal-retentive, just systematic, organized, rational) packed everything in exactly ordered, clearly labeled boxes and either made him take them, or stacked them down in the basement in exact places, and exact order. Right down to the earring and paper and shoelace.

Okay. Not the hair, and not just because you threw it out, along with an aging Poptart and six pieces of an empty Starbucks cup. Even a throwback has to have some standards. Everything else, yeah, it's back where you - or Sandburg - or entropy, for fucks' sake - had it when you went on this mental trip to hell and madness and death and back.

But something's still missing. Something....

"Hey Jim."

Blair's at the door, looking at you with big, calm eyes and a slightly wary smile.

He looks good: a bit pale, but then who wouldn't be after what he's been through? Who wouldn't after being thrown out of his home, trying to live in his office, trying to make his Sentinel - you - see sense and meet him partway, being cornered by that woman somewhere he should have been safe (don't think about how much safer he would have been here, Ellison, just don't) and then being fucking murdered on his Sentinel's watch. And then... brought back.

Most people wouldn't be pale, they wouldn't be smiling. They wouldn't be setting foot in the loft or anywhere near you again, and that's not just because they'd be dead.

Dead, and then not dead. He ought to be terrified of it and of you.

He looks around, eyes widening. "You got it all back, man? Thanks, I was wondering..." He stops, and you don't quite know what he was going to say next. 'Wondering when I could collect it all?' 'Wondering if I was even coming back?' 'Wondering if Jim would want me to come back again?' You'll never know, because he just shrugs and walks inside, slower than he usually does but not like he feels unsure or unwelcome, more like.. every other day.

That's good, that's a start. You feel one of the knots in your chest untangle a little.

"Yeah." Your voice is a little rusty, and you clear your throat and try to speak casually. "I think everything's pretty much back where it should be." No, you know it is, to the half-inch, remember?

Except that rug, and you are now itching to tug at it, but don't.

"Really, Jim?"

"More or less. I... didn't want to fuss too much." Liar. "Maybe you could check later that I haven't missed anything or put it somewhere you don't want it. You know how it is."

Yeah, he knows, and the smile grows a little. More of the knots ease off.

"Coffee?"

"I'll make it -"

"Nah, you sit down and rest. Want something to eat?"

He looks at you, and you know he is thinking... and he's right. His food wasn't in those boxes, and yours wasn't in the basement. It was a wrench at the time, a battle between the lizard brain Sentinel and the not-anal-retentive modern cop, but in the end you didn't actually pack up his seaweed and algae-crap thickshakes and frozen tongue-and-tofu mix, that went in the dumpster. Along with your steaks and salad and Twinkies.

Most of the food, yours, his and both, went in the dumpster.

And yeah, you had to spend a fortune today stocking it all up again.

"What've we got?" He speaks lightly, carefully careless, meeting you partway.

"Steak, salad, Twinkies." You see his eyes widen. "Tongue, tofu, seaweed, your algae stuff..." No, you didn't try and make the shakes, not anal-retentive remember? - but you bought the makings.

Hey, maybe that's what's missing. Maybe you should have.

Not.

"Oh, and beer."

Blair laughs, and it feels good. You feel good.

"I can order in pizza." You're trying not to mother-hen, and not to make it so damn obvious you're trying not to mother-hen, and you're not fooling anyone. Oh well... "Or Chinese. Thai. That is, unless the doctor said -"

"Pizza and beer would be great, man."

He sinks into a chair, sighing slightly, and quirks an eyebrow at your sudden, not at all well hidden concern. "I'm fine, Jim."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. What happened..." and he pauses, just long enough to let you know he will want to talk it out some time. Like you thought earlier. One of these days, decades, centuries. "Hey, it happened, man, and it was a mad trip. But now I'm fine. We're gonna be fine." He looks around. "You know, this is cool, this is amazing. It looks like you put everything - everything - back just where it was."

"Pretty much." Well, not the algae-crap shake. And the old Poptart. And the Starbucks cup. And that damn single hair.

"And just where it was, that's... something."

"Yeah." All but the rug, which is still half an inch out, but somehow it doesn't matter so much. "I'll get you a beer."

"Thanks man." He takes it, and pauses. "Is this new too? Did you really throw beer out?"

"Well..." Yeah. You did. You're not gonna admit it, though. "What do you think, Sandburg?"

He laughs again, and the last knot dissolves in something like peace, and you know what was missing. Sure, the case is open - Barnes has fled, you've got to find her, go after her, stop her, and you've got to do it without Blair, so he can stay here safely. And then you've got a lot of working stuff out, making that meeting partway go all the way, maybe even - you'll hate it but you'll do it - talking about it before next century. For now, though...

Blair was what was missing, and so just for tonight, something's not wrong.

You might, however, make sure when he showers tomorrow, there's still just one single hair in the soap. For the Sentinel's sake.

Just till the Sentinel can't stand it any more.