Mirrors by Calie

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Notes: This story takes place during the middle of second season. Thanks to Joanne and Linda H. for their invaluable comments and advice. First posted in September 1999.

I barely feel the sting of her hand when it slaps my cheek, or the microscopic beads of blood welling to the surface of the pinprick gouges left by her nail tips. My pain is much deeper, and I turn away before she can see the hurt in my eyes.

The thought is tinged with both pride and bitterness. How else could I have survived military training, the crash in Peru, Covert Ops, Vice duty, this job... the ugliness I see everyday, the needless suffering, the cruelty, the hate....

But even I can't pull off a miracle. Her sister is gone, killed yesterday in a shocking moment of violence during a mugging gone horribly wrong. I push aside my own lingering grief for the young woman who once a part of my life. It's a tragic, wasteful scenario that's all too familiar to me. There was no time for family and friends to prepare for the loss, to accept the grim reality of her death.

As much as I want to, I can't help her. I try to explain, to calm, as I've done with so many crime victims before. I reach out my hand to her and tentatively touch her arm, willing her to understand.

"Carolyn, I'm sorry, but you know how this works. Wendy was killed in Seattle, not Cascade. There's nothing I can do --"

She abruptly pulls away from me, her shout drawing more stares. We're standing in the middle of a crime scene at the outskirts of Cascade. I suppose she tracked me here through her former colleagues at the station, but I'm too drained to care. My mind is numb from the strain of this latest case, a five-year-old boy who was brutally assaulted and then left for dead at the bottom of a ravine. Yesterday, he was playing catch with his father... today, he's gone, yet another useless loss of a promising young life.

Heedless of the other police officers surrounding us, she assails me again, propelled by her grief and anger.

"That doesn't matter! You could get involved if you wanted to. It's you -- you don't care because it's not a big enough case for the hot-shot detective, not high-profile enough to enhance your career... she was just a regular person, no one famous... but... but she was my sister... and your sister-in-law, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Of course I care about what happened. But this is outside of my jurisdiction -- I can't just barge into the middle of their investigation. I've already talked to the detectives assigned to her case, and they're doing everything they can. Believe me, I know how hard this is for you, but there's nothing I can do."

She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears and makeup, her expression achingly vulnerable.

"No, that's not true, you... I've seen you pull miracles out of the air, do things no one else can. You have some kind of gift for detective work, you know you do, and you can find out what happened. Go back there, tell them you want to help... please... can't you do that for me... for Wendy?"

My gift... my unwanted, useless gift. What good is any of this sentinel crap if I can't use it to help the people I love?

Openly crying now, she turns her back to me, but her tearful words still reach my ears with stabbing force.

The sense of impotence I feel now is so much worse than any temporary physical lapse. It's a soul-deep feeling of utter helplessness, an inability to fix everything for someone I care about. Because despite this agonizing confrontation, I don't forget that this is the woman who once shared my dreams and laughter and love... the woman I pledged my life to... the woman I promised to cherish and protect, forever.

I rub my aching temples, wishing I could simply erase this entire day. My only consolation is that it can't possibly get any worse.

I see him now, out of the corner of my eye, standing there with that worried, expectant, helpful look on his face. When did he get here? He was supposed to be teaching today, cloistered in his safe, sterile academic world, debating abstract theories and dry scientific facts. Instead, here he is, right in the midst of my own personal hell.

I don't need this now, the probing, the questions, the analysis. I don't want to be pinned down and examined like a flatworm in a freshman bio class, the subject of yet another of his unending tests.

But he approaches anyway, mindless of my silent plea for solitude. I hold up my hand to halt him in his tracks before he comes uncomfortably close. "Sandburg, go back to your car."

He stares at me a moment, evaluating my words, reading my body language, gauging my mood. Why can't he just listen and leave me alone?

Instead, he steps closer. "Look, Jim, I heard what she said. She's just upset, I'm sure she didn't mean to --"

I turn my back to him and walk toward my truck with long, hurried strides, intent on leaving him behind. At the edge of the parking area, a female officer is leading my sobbing ex-wife into a squad car, presumably to drive her back to her hotel or wherever she's staying. Carolyn's loss of control tells me just how much she's hurting. I hope she calms down by the time she returns to San Francisco.

I finally reach my truck, yank open the door and push myself inside, releasing a sigh when I realize I've entered an oasis of relative safety. Soon, I can leave here and go home, where none of this can touch me. But as I am about to turn the ignition key, my hand is stayed by the click of a door lock and squeak of a hinge to my right. I look up, incredulous, to see Sandburg swing open the passenger door and slip inside.

I stare at him in amazement for a few seconds before I find my voice. "What the hell are you doing here? I told you to go away!"

He holds my gaze steadily, not flinching as my voice rises. "Because I'm your friend."

He smiles sadly, like a teacher disappointed in his student's answer. "Sorry, but you know I can't do that."

"I'm fine. I don't need you right now." For a fleeting second, I question the accuracy of that declaration.

"Jim." His smile broadens, the teacher detecting the flaw in his student's logic. "If you saw me bleeding on the side of the road, you'd help me, right?"

This is too much. I narrow my eyes and harden my expression, a technique guaranteed to deter any sensible person from further contact.

I'm not sitting here through another one of his irritating, didactic lectures. "Look, Sandburg, you heard what I told her. There's not a damn thing I can do on this case. You're not a cop, but even you should be able to understand that."

He recoils at the sarcasm, but his eyes stay locked on my face. I feel like I'm suffocating; I've got to get out of here. My arm muscles tense as I reach for the door handle. "That's how it is, and if it seems a little cold, then that's tough. This is the way I am, and if you don't like it --"

I look up, annoyed by the interruption, to meet his wide-eyed, thoughtful gaze and guileless expression. God, he looks so much like a kid sometimes....

Here it comes, the endless barrage of questions. I wonder if he's this annoying in the classroom. "You know why."

I sigh deeply, hoping to convey my irritation and impatience. "It was a logical job choice after the military... all I could do, really, after --"

A glimmer of humor dances in his eyes. How can he be so cheerful in the face of my anger? "That's the LAPD, genius. Are we done now?"

I don't answer, because we both know this is untrue. I was comfortably managing expenses long before he came along.

"Just answer the question." Despite his innocent appearance, he sounds remarkably like a seasoned cop interrogating a suspect. Has he learned that from me?

"Okay, if it will get you out of here faster. So you could write your thesis on sentinels --"

I hesitate before answering, feeling like I'm stepping onto a minefield. Does he mean the police work, or something more?

Maybe at first, I wanted him around to help me with this sentinel thing. But now, after all we've been through, even without my senses... my stomach turns at the prospect of losing what we've built together... what we've become to each other.

A light tap on my arm pulls me away from my thoughts. "Uh, no, of course not, you know that."

I search his face for a clue, silently conveying my sincerity. He nods, apparently satisfied with my answer.

Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck as vivid images from those horrifying days slam into me. Too close, both times were just too damn close....

Somehow, my tongue unsticks from my desert-dry mouth. "Because I'm a cop... it was my duty...."

Even as I say the words, I know they're a lie. No case ever affected me as deeply as the times when his life was endangered. He deserves to hear the truth.

A look of satisfaction crosses his face. "You know, Carolyn may have been your wife, but she doesn't know everything. I've been watching people all my life. Do you want to know what I see?"

His intense blue eyes pin me in my seat and my hand slowly drops away from the door. I'm so stunned that I can only nod in return, wondering exactly when he gained control of the conversation.

"I see a man who hides himself because he cares too much. A man who sometimes acts like a machine so he can function in a cold environment -- who does what the job takes, even at risk to his own soul -- but never loses his humanity. I see someone who's brave and compassionate, with more loyalty than any ten men I know. Someone who would lay down his life for a friend in an instant, without a second thought."

I stare out the windshield, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. He always sees the best in people, especially those he cares about. It's one of the things I admire most about him.

"Chief...." I pause to clear my throat. "You make me sound like some kind of super-hero. But I'm not -- I'm only human."

Surprised, I look back at him. He's wearing the triumphant expression of a teacher whose student has finally achieved a long-awaited breakthrough. He radiates confidence, both in his assessment and in me.

I want to be that honorable man he described, the one he so clearly admires and respects. I want to, so badly, that for maybe the first time ever, I yield to temptation and see myself through his eyes.

But like the clashing reflections in a funhouse Hall of Mirrors, that noble image is distorted by darker portrayals painted by those who knew me best. I turn away from him and stare blindly out the left window as the memories engulf me.

The soldier who efficiently buried the bodies of the men under his command after he failed to save them.

The cop who slept with his partner's girlfriend instead of providing backup during a deadly ambush.

The tough-as-nails detective who coolly and methodically handles the most brutal crimes, without ever allowing himself to be distracted by emotion.

I'm confused by the wave of sadness that floods me, embarrassed by the ache in my throat and the burning in my eyes. It's not my nature to wallow in self-pity. Long ago, I accepted the truth about myself.

I jump slightly, so lost in thought that I forgot he was sitting next to me. Displaying his usual uncanny insight, he seems to know exactly what I'm thinking, what demons are circling in my mind.

"Only a few people see the real Jim Ellison. Me, Simon, maybe a few others. But you hide yourself from almost everyone, even from Carolyn when you were married. So they never really understand you, or see beneath that tough-guy mask you wear. And when they get too close, you run away...."

I need something to drink; it's uncomfortably warm in the truck. Before I realize what I'm doing, my hand pulls on the door handle until the latch releases with a soft click.

The quiet voice continues, undeterred by my futile attempt to escape. "See, just like you're doing now. But you can't run away from yourself, no one can. You always carry yourself with you, wherever you go. Man, you have to accept yourself, who you are, or you'll never find any peace."

Now he's reciting some kind of New Age bullshit he learned from Naomi. How can that possibly apply to me? I'm almost out of the truck before I'm struck by the realization that what he's saying seems to make a strange kind of sense.

"No one's perfect, and no one expects you to be either. Face it, Jim, you're not such a bad guy. I mean, come on, do you think I'd waste almost two years of my life on you if you were?"

I hear the smile in his voice. I feel the warmth radiating between us, a connection that wars with my instinctive desire to flee. It's no contest; our bond is stronger, tugging at my heart and soul, pulling me back until I twist in my seat to face him.

"Sandburg, go get in your car, because I'm not driving you back here later to pick it up." My tone is stern, but I can't suppress my own grin. "You can follow me."

He laughs then, the musical sound of it washing over me like a soothing balm. "Afraid I'll get lost?" A hand waves in my direction, forestalling my inevitable response to our long-running joke. "Never mind. I'll meet you at home."

He hops out of the truck, and I watch him cross the parking area until he disappears behind one of the large police vans. Before I turn the ignition, I glance at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I see the same man I always see: thinning hair, washed-out blue eyes, world-weary expression.

The hardened face of someone who's lived through too many years of pain and loss.

But then something amazing happens. As I look closer, the image seems to blur, the features shifting and mutating into something else. What finally emerges is the face of a decent man bound by duty and honor... a warrior whose training and experience are tempered by a core of mercy and compassion... a guardian of the weak and innocent.

And to my growing astonishment, I'm comfortable with this new man, this fresh image. Somehow, it fits... it feels right. For several minutes, I luxuriate in the deep contentment and pride that gradually fills me.

I pull out onto the road, grinning when I see his car tucked closely behind mine. As we drive toward home, I swear I can hear the sharp, clear sound of a thousand shattering mirrors.