The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of  
Paramount, UPN and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright  
infringement is intended. No profit is being made.  
  
This story is the property of the author.  
  
This is the second story in my "Blessed Protector's Thoughts  
On..." series. You don't need to read them in any particular  
order.  
  
Spoilers for the episode Blind Man's Bluff.  
________  
  
A Blessed Protector's Thoughts on Blind Man's Bluff  
  
  
  
I'm staring again.  
  
Blair's giving me another one of those tolerant, knowing  
looks. I shrug and turn my attention -- some of it, anyway --  
back to dinner.  
  
This camping trip was a good idea. I know I need the down  
time after everything that's happened and whether he'll admit  
it or not, Blair needs it too.  
  
Ever since the Golden Incident -- that's what we're calling it.  
The Golden Incident. Capitol letters -- ever since he's been  
quiet. Withdrawn. A couple of times I've been tempted to try  
and tease him out of it. You know, "Who are you and what  
have you done with Blair Sandburg?" But I don't. This isn't  
something he can be teased out of. This is going to take time.  
For both of us.  
  
It's been a few weeks since I talked him down from his  
Golden-induced high and I can still remember every sound  
and smell. At the time, my main focus was Blair himself; the  
sound of his heart, beating far too quickly to be either healthy  
or safe, the scent of adrenaline and fear, his hair, soft curls,  
damp with sweat against my cheek. His breathing, getting  
slower, and slower until even I could barely feel it. That's  
what sticks in my mind when I think back.  
  
My nightmares fill in the rest. The other officers, who I could  
hear but not see, ready to do whatever they had to in order to  
keep Blair from causing any real harm. How many guns  
aimed at my best friend? Far too many. And the look on  
Blair's face... I never saw it. Never knew if it was fear or pain  
or shock or confusion. Believe it or not, that's one of the  
things that bothers me the most. I have the crazy feeling that  
if I'd just been able to see what was on Blair's face I would  
have been able to help him more.  
  
But I didn't and I couldn't.  
  
"You zoning, Jim?" Blair looks worried now. I wonder how  
long I've been caught up in my thoughts.  
  
"No," I assure him. "I'm just thinking."  
  
He mutters something about bad habits and gets up to rifle  
through his pack. I ignore him and finish off the last of my  
dinner, setting the plate and fork aside to be washed later.  
  
Blair returns holding something clenched in his fist. I catch  
the scent of something sweet. Sugar. I lift an eyebrow.  
"Marshmallows, Chief?"  
  
He hands me a stick, a point already at one end.  
"Marshmallows, Jim."  
  
I shake my head, but take the stick. "I haven't roasted  
marshmallows since, well, it must be at least thirty years."  
  
"Too long," he says decisively. He rips the bag open and   
places two of the soft candies on the end of the stick, then  
hands me the bag. I take one, mostly to humor him, then  
place the stick in the fire. We sit in silence for a minute or  
two, watching the flames dance around the candies. Blair  
removes his just as it turns golden brown. It comes apart on  
his hands and he pops one half into his mouth.  
  
I leave mine in until it has caught fire. I pull it from the  
flames and watch as it burns to a blackened crisp. "You going  
to eat that?" Blair asks with a grin. "Or are you waiting for it  
to break down into it's basic atomic components?"  
  
I give that the silence it deserves, blowing the flames out and  
pulling the gooey mess from the stick. It tastes like I  
remember, sweet and acrid at the same time.  
  
Blair grimaces and places the second candy on the stick.  
"How can you eat that, man? Why don't you just eat the  
ashes?"  
  
I reach for another marshmallow. "Too dry."  
  
He laughs. Not a lot, but he hasn't laughed at pretty much  
anything lately. Knowing that I managed to cheer him up,  
pull him out of his musings, even if only for the moment, I'm  
almost ridiculously glad. One day I'll figure out how he got so  
close to me.  
  
"You're staring." Blair is starting to look concerned. "You've  
been doing that a lot lately. "Anything I need to know?"  
  
"No. It's nothing like that, Chief." The second marshmallow  
is starting to blacken in the fire. "Just thinking."  
  
He doesn't ask about what. Doesn't need to. I doubt either of  
us have been thinking about much else over the past few  
weeks.  
  
Weeks. And I can still hear the respirator, forcing air into his  
lungs. I can still smell the Golden from the pizza that sent 
Blair into his demon-filled realm. Every time I look at him I 
relive a hundred sensations and feelings. I revisit a hundred 
fears. 
 
But I can't not look at him. He almost died while I was blind 
and now I'm trying to, to make up for it, I guess. I couldn't 
see him while he was dying, so I have to see him now, to 
reassure myself that he's alive.  
 
The marshmallow at the end of my stick falls into the fire. 
Blair grins and hands me another. 
 
 
 
end