Endurance Read online

  Disclaimer: No money made, and none of the characters are mine, alas. They belong to the folks at Pet Fly and Paramount. No point in chasing after me in hopes of cash, trust me.

  Author's Notes: The Muse, bless her heart, planted this one in my head some time ago. Then she shifted it to the bottom of the pile and sent me scurrying off on some longer stories. When I came up for air, this one came with me. I hope you enjoy it. For those of you at all familiar with my propensity to write 'long', you'll be as pleased as I am to know that 'short' is apparently also still in my working vocabulary. ~g~ Feel free to check out the final note at the end and touch base with me if you'd like.

  Dedication: To Sharon, to keep her ff quota filled -- and because I know she can identify with this one. ~g~

  Endurance

  by

  K. Ryn

  [email protected]

  .

  Endurance -- n. (1) power or habit of enduring; (2) ability to withstand prolonged strain. Stamina, resilience, staying power, hardiness; perseverance, persistence, fortitude, tenacity; durability, longevity.

  Jim Ellison was certain he'd never been in so much agony.

  He knew, in his heart, that his assessment probably wasn't accurate.

  Surely there had been worse pain after the chopper crash in Peru.

  It was just that the mind had the unique ability to discard the memories that it couldn't deal with...

  Until it was faced with them again.

  His eyes burned. His skull reverberated with the pounding of a headache so severe it made his teeth hurt. If he'd been prone to cliches he would have compared his dry mouth and tight throat to a desert, but he was already feeling the affects of going for hours without so much as a drop of water, so he avoided any thoughts that suggested heat, sand and burning sun. The hunger pangs that were ravaging his stomach were best ignored as well. There was no hope for sustenance in the near future. With a regretful sigh, he turned his head slightly to the left and a bolt of pure fire shot up his spine. It blossomed into an explosion at the base of his skull, then plummeted downward to send a tingling message of anguish through his aching legs.

  The Sentinel shut his eyes and instinctively reached out with his senses for his Guide -- reassured that he was still holding his own by the soft, steady pace of the younger man's voice as it droned on, revealing one carefully kept secret after another.

  Jim shifted slightly against hard wooden confines of his chair, but there wasn't enough room for him to find any relief for his cramped limbs. He took a shallow breath and then another before opening his eyes again, anxious to see how his remaining companions were fairing.

  They were three now. There had been five of them at the beginning. They'd lost Joel Taggert before the end of the second day -- Henri Brown half-way through the next. The Sentinel's eyes rested on Rafe, whose head had been jerking up and down like a marionette's for the last hour. The young detective had struggled valiantly to hold on, but as Jim watched, his eyes closed and his chin dropped to rest against his chest.

  And now we are two.

  He shifted his gaze from Rafe's still form and met Simon Banks' pain-clouded stare. It staggered Jim to see that his captain was hurting as much as he was. Of all of them, the Sentinel had been sure that Banks would survive this torture out of pure obstinate pride, if nothing else. With a single look, the two veteran cops exchanged the grim knowledge that it was almost over.

  A slight increase in his Guide's heartbeat drew the Sentinel's attention. He looked across the room and caught the worried gleam in his partner's eyes. Jim managed to force a smile, and saw the younger man's concern abate a bit before his gaze shifted away and he began answering questions again.

  The world slid out of focus for a fraction of a second, and Jim's eyes fluttered shut. He was awake again in an instant, silently cursing himself for letting down his guard. He had to remain strong. There was nothing left now, but honor.

  Drawing on all the stiff-necked stubbornness that his partner always teased him about, Jim focused a steely-eyed stare on the windows at the far side of the room, he tried to recall just how he'd gotten them all into this mess.

  It had been a quiet three weeks. Unusual in the annals of the Cascade PD. Unheard of since Blair Sandburg had become Jim's partner. Spring normally brought all the violence, that had been hibernating under the cold, wet Northwestern winter, bursting forth in full bloom.

  But this year was different. March had come in like a lamb and stayed that way. Gentle warm breezes caressed the city and soothed the negative vibes that had often turned friend into foe.

  There had been no crimes of significant proportion. No bank robberies that degenerated into hostage situations. No serial murderers drenching the streets and alleys with blood and dismembered corpses. No bombs hidden in obscure places, threatening innocent lives.

  Even the uniformed cops assigned to parking duty had found the meters filled and their ticket books barely touched by the third week of the month.

  January and February had been rough, with far more cases than bodies to assign to them. At the end of the first week of quiet, everyone had breathed a collective sigh of relief. The stressed, exhausted detectives of Major Crimes -- Ellison in particular -- had been more than grateful for the break. They'd taken the time to regroup, slowly grinding their way through the accumulated paperwork -- filling out the reams of forms and reports that meant closure to their end of the battle.

  The tension that had permeated every waking moment had eased even further mid- way through the second week of calm, although many of the detectives had found themselves holding their breath, waiting for the other 'shoe' to drop. Cops were suspicious by nature, and they had all acknowledged that the peaceful interlude was only the calm before the storm.

  It was at that point that Simon had hauled out his list of personal pet projects. Being the good manager that he was, he'd seen the opportunity that so seldom presented itself and had put the active minds and hands of the men and women under his command to work with a vengeance. By the end of the second week, the department would have passed inspection by the toughest drill sergeant. Jim's keen eye could hardly find a speck of dirt or a stray piece of lint.

  Even the paperwork had been finished. All of it. That monumental milestone in itself had been cause for celebration. The Friday night get-together at Miller's pub would go down in the records as one of the rowdiest parties that the department had ever 'not' sponsored. And the best attended.

  Only three men had held back from jumping headfirst into the festivities.

  Banks had stopped in for a short visit. He'd allowed himself one drink over his normal limit and had spent the rest of the time surveying his troops with a critical eye. A little downtime was a good thing, but too much and the edge that kept them alive and alert in a crisis would dull. He'd made a mental note to schedule everyone for some sessions at the firing range, made his excuses and headed home.

  Ellison had favored them with a rare appearance, after having been badgered by Rafe and Brown for the preceding two days. The normally stoic detective had actually been sighted cracking a smile and laughing at a joke or two, but he had said his good-byes after two beers.

  Sandburg had been a no-show. His absence had been the only damper on the whole event.

  It was also the reason that Ellison had left early.

  Monday of week three had found everyone surly and at odds. The only partners that Simon hadn't counseled by the end of the day were Sandburg and Ellison and that was because Jim had wisely taken a vacation day, citing personal business. The department's observer had never made an appearance. His calming influence had been sorely missed.

  The spirits of the group had risen again on Tuesday when the practice sessions that Simon had arranged became an enthusiastic com
petition. Rafe had been declared the winner by default -- Ellison had taken another personal day and missed the fun and games.

  Wednesday had dawned clear and bright. The tall tales had started to fly, circulated and compounded by increasingly bored detectives who were much better suited to riding the streets than their desks. Ellison had a court date and had exhibited his normal pre-trail grouchiness. Sandburg had never shown.

  On Thursday, Simon had been forced to write a memo detailing the proper use of department supplies -- there had been a significant increase in the number of paper airplanes in the bullpen wastebaskets. Coffee intake had risen to an all time high and the donut girl was doing a brisk business.

  By Friday, boredom had reached an all-time high. And the tall tales had grown taller.

  "Thirty-six hours? You can't be serious!" Taggert sat back in his chair, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  Sitting to the left of Rafe's desk with his feet propped up on Henri's, Jim grinned at Joel's outburst, but kept his own doubts about the accuracy of the story Brown was telling to himself.

  "I am serious. We sat three straight days on that stakeout. Existed on stale coffee and donuts, but we got the perp," Brown finished proudly.

  "Yeah, Henri we did, but you need to finish the story," Rafe chuckled. "Tell them what happened when the suspect decided to make a break for it."

  "Rafe, I don't think that's..."

  The younger detective waved aside Brown's protests. "We did do the full 36 hours -- with no relief. It was during that nasty flu epidemic. Remember when we were so short handed? Man, my butt was flat and I needed coke bottles to prop my eyes open by the time we were finished. The dealer we'd been waiting for finally showed. We followed him for a couple of blocks. Everything was going down by the book, until some joker decided to run a stop sign. We almost backended the guy we were following. Of course, he made us and took off running. Henri started to get out of the car..."

  "Rafe..."

  "Keep a lid on it, Brown," Joel glowered threateningly. "Sounds like we're just getting to the good part."

  Rafe's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, you remember that Henri said we'd had nothing to eat but coffee and donuts? That was the truth. Problem was that Henri had been dumping the cartons on the floor. When he tried to get out to chase the suspect, he caught his feet in the boxes. It was quite a sight. There he was -- lurching down the street, screaming at the top of his lungs, gun in one hand, strawberry and cream-filled donuts squishing with every step."

  Joel's laughter erupted in a huge guffaw and he practically doubled over in his chair. Jim saw the pained expression on Henri's face and his own grin widened.

  "I don't remember that entry in your official report, detective," Simon observed as he crossed the room to join them. He perched on the edge of Brown's desk, and took a sip of coffee while eyeing them all curiously. "So what's the story topic for today, gentlemen?"

  "Endurance," Rafe explained with a grin.

  "And who's ahead?"

  "Well, Henri had the lead before Rafe supplied the punch line, Simon," Joel answered, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  "The duration of the stakeout was the important element of the story," Brown growled and turned to Jim. "Ellison, you're the acting referee. What's your call?"

  "I'd give you five points for the thirty six hours and deduct one for each donut you destroyed in the pursuit." Jim deadpanned.

  His summary judgment had them all talking and laughing at once. Even Henri's eyes sparkled and he took the good natured razzing with ease.

  "Okay, Rafe, it's your turn," Joel declared. "We've already heard about the stake-out so it's got to be something different."

  "Hey, it's not my fault Henri stole the best story."

  "Enjoy the hot seat, Rafe," Brown smirked. "The clock is running..."

  "hmmmm... hot seat, clocks... oh yeah. Did I ever tell you about the time I did an undercover shift for vice? We were doing round the clock surveillance on the exotic dance clubs down on King Street. I was the one who got tagged to go inside and scout out the layouts. Had to dress in drag..."

  "Rafe, the topic is endurance, remember? Not endearment..."

  "Hey, endurance also means tenacity, Henri. You know, the ability to stick with something and not get sidetracked..."

  "If I need a dictionary, Rafe, I'll consult the one at Ellison's desk. Get on with it."

  "All right, all right, now, where was I..."

  The Sentinel let the younger detective's excited voice fade into the background. His gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on the living, breathing, reference Guide that was seated at his desk.

  Sandburg had blown through the doors of Major Crimes several hours earlier, begging sanctuary and a quiet place to work. Ellison had barely had time to nod before Blair had plopped down in Jim's chair. The detective had gone to the break room for a cup of coffee, fetching one for his partner as well. By the time he'd returned, his personal whirlwind had turned his neat working space into an disaster zone. The anthropologist's laptop was open and humming. Books and papers were stacked haphazardly on every available surface and several chairs had been pulled closer to function as temporary bookcases for the rest.

  Jim had sighed and resigned himself to the loss of his desk for the duration. He'd cautiously edged one stack of books aside -- careful not to start an avalanche of epic proportions -- and placed the coffee he'd retrieved within easy reach of his young friend. Blair had flashed him one quick, brilliant smile of thanks before diving back into his backpack for more materials.

  Laughter rippled through the group of detectives and Jim tuned back into their conversation long enough to realize that Rafe was just wrapping up his tale -- something about high heels, a hot tub and a pimp with a Rolex. He did a quick scan of his memory and decided he'd heard enough to render his verdict. He gave Brown the bad news and Rafe cheered.

  "Guess I'm up," Joel murmured, and immediately launched into a story about one of the cases he'd worked on when he'd captained the bomb squad.

  Jim found himself easing out of the conversation again. He glanced at his fellow officers. He knew a fair amount about each, and respected them all, but he found himself thinking that their stories, as interesting as they were, fell far short of the mark.

  Endurance... They should try living Sandburg's life for a little while, he mused, shifting so that he could see his Guide out of the corner of one eye. Maybe then they'd really understand the meaning of the word.

  While the rest of them had been indulging in the slower pace of the last three weeks, there had been no such respite for Blair. The observer had simply traded one set of stressful and demanding schedules and responsibilities for another.

  March, in the world of academia, meant mid-terms.

  To the unenlightened, it was a week or two when papers were due, tests were given and the class load was light.

  To the Sentinel, it was a hellish nightmare during which he watched his Guide drive himself to, and past, the point of exhaustion.

  There were tests to prepare, tests to proctor, tests to grade, grades to post. Then there were the papers for which Blair pushed the envelope even further. He practically lived in the cramped space he called an office -- keeping his door open from the crack of dawn until late at night so that he could be available to each student, all of whom seemed to share a propensity toward procrastination. Papers, that once turned in, had to be read and graded -- all within a ridiculously short span of time.

  Tests and papers times two, because he was teaching two different classes, each with at least 80 students.

  Tests and papers times three, because there was also his own work to consider. Besides his teaching responsibilities, Blair also had his own classes to attend, papers to write and tests to take.

  Often papers times four, if he were writing something for one of the myriad Anthropology journals or publications in order to meet the department's "publish or perish" doctrine. Murphy's Law tende
d to be in full blown action where the grad student was concerned, which meant that the deadlines for submission tended to fall within the same March madness.

  Then there were the meetings -- all scheduled by someone with a great deal more time than common sense. Department meetings, meetings with his advisor, meetings for all the special committees that Blair had either volunteered for, or was volunteered for by some well-meaning professor.

  Even with Blair's seemingly endless energy level and an uncanny ability to pack 48 hours of activity into 24, the weeks of stress took their toll. In an attempt to meet the insane schedule and overwhelming responsibilities, sleeping and eating quickly fell to the bottom of the priority list, and with it the younger man's health.

  Jim had suffered through the insanity of mid-terms four times since he'd met the anthropologist. The last round -- the fall semester -- had been the worst. Unlike the current state of affairs, their caseload had been crushing, demanding the constant use of the Sentinel's senses. His Guide had stubbornly remained at his side, which had further strained the already crazed grad student's existence.

  Both ends of his life playing out at full intensity at the same time had been too much for even Blair to handle. The day after all the chaos of the weeks from hell, the detective had returned home to find the younger man collapsed on the kitchen floor, with no memory of what had happened, or how long he'd been laying there. Jim had bundled up his dazed roommate and hauled him to the emergency room.

  The Sentinel had stood in the hall, blatantly ignoring his own set of rules about eavesdropping on private conversations and had listened to the doctor's assessment of Blair's condition. Exhaustion. Dehydration. A dangerous weight loss. Jim had determined then and there that it was the last time he was going to stand by and watch his friend disintegrate right in front of his eyes.

  A change in Joel's deep voice caught his attention and the Sentinel's focus shifted once more. Taggert was explaining how his team had been faced with the challenge of finding and disarming a dozen expertly constructed bombs. Jim decided that the sniper fire that Joel had been dodging at the same time qualified him for first place in their little contest, and filtered out the bigger man's words, drawn back to thoughts of his partner.