Note: This is TV-14, for material not especially suitable to younger readers. Language and violence levels are moderate; if implied crime and other situational content offends you, is against your parents wishes, or is illegal in your locale, read elsewhere. Otherwise, hope you enjoy!

I Shan't Tell.

"Could they have been any more inaccurate?" Blair and Jim had seen the latest explosion movie and were on their way for a early dinner.

"It's not a documentary. Let me guess, you spent three weeks with a neighboring tribe, and..."

"Not that. I meant the action stuff-- I think over the past year" He stopped mid-sentence as his path was blocked.

"Georgie, the hair looks good." Jim figured the speaker was late forties, early fifties. He didn't need Sentinel senses to know Blair was startled. "Aren't you going to introduce your friend?" Jim was distinctly uncomfortable with the appraisal. "Either he makes more than he looks... Or are you keeping him?" A longer sweep of the eyes.

"Do I know you?"

*He thinks he might?*

"I'm hurt. But I suppose there were so many. What ever happened to you Georgie, it was like you left the planet. You were a talent." He took out a business card, and slipped it into the watch pocket of Blair's jeans. "Bet you still are." As he left, Jim could hear him mutter. "Maybe he really was 20. Hasn't aged much."

"Uh..." Blair turned briefly and Jim could barely believe the hard eyes belonged to his Guide. He decided they'd hit a drive-thru and then he'd get to the bottom of this back at the loft.

"Chief."

"Jim, I'm sorry about that." He stalked to the fridge and pulled out two beers. Sitting down, he turned to sorting through the food.

"Georgie?" He mentally winced as Blair looked up. "Just tell me what's going on."

"You can't just drop it." He'd answered his own question, not needing the fixed jaw that proclaimed Jim's unmovable-object mode. He stalled by playing with his food and taking a long draw on the beer.

"I tell you this, you've got to swear you'll never talk. Not Simon, not Naomi. Especially not Naomi. Nobody."

"Blair..."

"And you won't bring it up with me."

"Who was that?" Jim wanted a better handle on this before he made such promises.

"I'm not sure." He dug out the card, glancing at it. "Guess he's Nick Austen." He threw the card down. It was a nearly-black plum, with a small embossed logo and then the name, address and phone in the corner. Blair pulled on his beer again and got up for another.

"What does you having been twenty have to do with this?" He watched as Blair drained the first beer in a final gulp.

"Did he say anything else?" What might Jim already know, or think he knows? He opened the second beer.

"Just that you hadn't aged much. Blair, start talking. Unless I have to, I won't say a word to Simon."

"Naomi. Man, you've got to promise. No conditions." Jim thought about what Sandburg could want to hide from his mom more than Banks.

"Done."

Naomi had left him with a friend to go hitching across Europe. When the new boyfriend moved in, Blair left and ended up in New Orleans.

"It was a lifetime ago, and I was stranded in the Big Easy."

He had just gotten into town before dark, and was trying to find either some food or a place to crash. He wasn't too picky about which, figuring he had enough money for one or the other but not both. Visions of washing dishes nearly made him miss the mugging happening up ahead.

Fifteen, Blair was small and barely weighed anything. Still, he had to do something. Fortunately, the noise he made scared them off before they saw him. "Lady, you okay?" He started to pick up scattered items and hand them to her.

"Now, as you might expect, it's expensive down there and jobs, legal ones, either are menial or specialized."

"Thanks to you, cher. Little young to be a sailor?" Blair could tell she was being polite--while the seabag was standard surplus, he'd added a bandolier strap that even in the dark of the street lamps screamed fourth world. "Looks like you just got into port. Can I buy you some dinner?"

It wasn't until the restaurant that he realized Contessa was a guy. By that point the food was ordered, and he wasn't going to be rude. Best he could tell, 'she' was behaving like a matron, and unless he got fresh, Blair would play along with the pretense.

"To skip the details, I became a torch singer. Everybody at the club called me Georgie. Nick must have worked there, because the customers shouldn't have known."

The contessa was in a lather when she'd found out. "Blair, honey, why would you do such a fool thing?" It was the only criticism directed towards him, and afterwards they did not speak of the matter. However, it was not uncommon for him to find songbooks left open in the music room. Otherwise, what he did in those hours, simply did not exist in the house.

"When was this, and what do you mean by a torch singer?"

"Decade or so. Just what you think. I started in the chorus, but a headliner took ill shortly after."

"Where was Naomi during all this?" What the hell was a sixteen year old doing alone in New Orleans?

"Jim, don't go there. You promised."

*She doesn't know any of this.* Somehow, the thought made Jim even madder. *She gets all protective of a grown man, who she didn't know where was at sixteen.* He had trouble 'hearing' that.

"Just how did this happen?"

"Frankly, I don't remember. Someone told me about the job, and there was a quick audition. The money was good, even with the chorus. I thought George Sand was a fitting name, but it ended up Georgie Sands. As a main act, I was making four hundred a week plus tips."

"Chief, stop beating around the bush. What was Nick going on about?" And why would he think Blair was twenty? *He'd thought he was even younger.* Jim felt nauseous. "What sort of club are we talking?"

"An expensive gay club. Whatever anybody else was doing, I just sang and danced. Nothing else." Having finished his beer, he went to his room and closed the door.

Jim tried to work it through his mind. Why would Sandburg take a job like that? *But he left it. Eventually.* And was never tempted to take another like it, despite the money. Just to be safe, he threw the card in a drawer upstairs.

"Where's Sandburg?"

"University. He'll be here eventually."

"This one is big. Huge even. Weapons, drugs, animal parts."

"Excuse me?"

"Rhino horn, ivory; there's a market and it lives in Africa, it's coming through Cascade. Mostly it's redirected to China, where the weapons are being shipped from on their way to South America."

"And the cocaine ends up on American streets. So, anything about the brokers?"

"We think they are working out of a club so exclusive we can't get in the front door, let alone the backroom. This is a photo." Jim focused in on the door.

"Jim, what is it?"

"Run a check on a Nick Austen. I want anything you can find." Ellison headed out to catch Blair.

"Poaching. In Cascade?"

*Damn it.* Jim had missed Sandburg, and now he was in Simon's office. Ideally, Jim could get inside without having to involve Georgie. At the very least, he wanted to assure Blair he hadn't said anything to Simon. He entered the office.

"Jim, you hear about this case? Simon, why isn't the FBI, ATF, DEA or somebody taking this?"

"They've been too busy trying to cut off the supply flow to go after the brokers. We've established their suspected location." He set down some surveillance shots. "Jim, good call. He owns the building. So far his file is coming up too clean. Records is still working." Simon turned to Blair. "Sandburg, best we can tell it's a private club. Can you come up with something, as our closed society expert?" Before Blair could say anything, Banks hustled both men out the door.

"So, you recognized somebody from the photo?" Blair followed the taller man, looking through the pictures.

"Something like that, Chief. What are you thinking about the club?"

"Can you see an insignia or anything?" Blair handed the photos over. "They've been working on a new search engine with a graphics interface. Maybe I can find an article about it, human interest or gossip column."

Jim waited to answer until they had gotten into the truck. "I recognized the logo. It's the same one as on Austen's card. Can you think of a cover to get me inside?"

"Jim." Blair paused for a moment. "You're built wrong even if you could dance. I mean in tails."

"Then we think of something else."

"I could get inside." Jim just looked back at the younger man.

"I can do this." *I don't want to, but that's not good enough.* Any one of the operations should have been big enough motivation; combined, he couldn't ignore his ability to do something.

"I'm not sending you in alone. Officially, you are still an observer."

The truck cab was preternaturally quiet.

"I think Georgie can get you in. Just a matter of playing on Nick's assumptions. Are you sure about this?"

By the time he and Contessa had finished supper it was late. "You won't find anything at this hour. I have plenty of room. Clean sheets and a large tub. I trust you not to take liberties with my hospitality." In hindsight, he would wonder what made him accept, but at the time he simply was tired. As it worked out, it was not a bad decision.

The suite confused Blair. While it was not large, the formality of a sitting room and bedchamber strongly contrasted with entire apartments he'd stayed in over the years. Eventually, he'd learn the look Contessa had at his reaction meant 'Welcome to Civilization. First time in the South?'.

"Tell him it's George. He'll know. George from New Orleans." Jim could hear the scramble for the phone once the secretary said who was calling. He tuned out the rest of the conversation. Clearly this was part of Blair's past that he hadn't wanted refreshed.

"Jim, it's scheduled. Pick a name, one you don't care if you never hear again. Trust me, after this case you won't want to. I've got some errands; try working on your persona, chump jobs you know."

He was stalling. He wasn't even sure why. *It's just bleach.* Last time, he had shaved his chest without much thought. He read through the instructions one last time.

What had been described to Hattie, the cook and maid, as a short visit, stretched out indefinitely. He'd always remember the expression of shock Contessa had seeing him on the roof replacing shingles. She had told him earlier in no uncertain terms that being a dishwasher or the like was beneath him as long as he stayed. "I am not running a boarding house." He had come to an arrangement with one of the horse carriages in order to earn some pocket money, giving the man a longer break. But it still left him living off someone's goodwill, which experience told him was fickle.

Other than the lemonade left in his room, there was no discussion. His Northern ways were accepted with a blind eye. It got to be a real art form, Contessa mentioning to Hattie some repair to consider hiring a workman for, and Blair overhearing it. Though they paid no attention to his labor, meals and drinks would appear right on schedule.

"Chief, you about done in there?"

"Yeah, be just a bit." He washed off his chest, the hair blending in with his skin. Toweling off, he put his shirt back on. "Sorry about that, but it takes time to process." Blair headed for his room, and looked over the photocopied sheet music for the audition. They were all songs he'd sung many times, though none were his favorites. Those were in French.

Jim, simply put, was amazed. Blair, currently sullen in the passenger seat, really could sing. They were old songs, ones he didn't recall ever hearing, though at least one sounded like Cole Porter. "Chief,"

"I really don't want to talk. Sorry, Jim." Blair looked out the window. In a way, he'd almost hoped he wouldn't make the cut. From here on out, Jim was going to be witness to secrets nobody knew. Things he kept even from himself.

High school was tough. Blair had spent at lot of time either home schooled, or in alternative structures. Invariably, he was wildly ahead in certain areas and had skipped others. Socially, he was never on the same page. Enrolling himself proved rather irregular, but they didn't complain when he paid his book fees and assorted charges with a hundred.

The other students were more of a problem. He had managed to schedule himself out of P.E., for which fact he was doubly grateful when he learned wrestling and football were included. But it remained that he was a Northerner and a shrimp. And too good at school for his age.

"Supper." Jim almost laughed as Blair started to head for the kitchen only to find the food was on the table. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No. Jim, it's hard to explain." Jim just kept looking at him. "Georgie used to be me, just a name to hide behind."

"And now?"

"Revisionist history. I mean, I wasn't Georgie, not who Nick thinks Georgie was, but now I'm playing into a whole identity, someone who has never existed. Someone based on me, who shares my past. It's real weird."

Jim could only imagine how strange it was. *He was sixteen. And now he's replacing himself with this undercover version.* "Blair, what was it really like?"

"Work. Show up, do my stuff and leave. Polite chit chat, pecking order stuff. Like the station." Blair could tell Jim didn't understand. "Hey, cops aren't the only closed society. I was the new kid, and I didn't pay my dues. There was some jealousy, concern, resentment... I went from the chorus to my own limelight after two weeks. On only talent and looks."

Blair pulled on his jeans quickly, double-checking the bathroom, assuring himself it was no more of a mess than usual. He'd put the shaving off until the last moment so as not have time to waffle; it had helped.

"Ted, I can't be late."

Jim headed downstairs, checking if Blair was okay. *Nervous* That made two of them. He wasn't sure his cover would hold. Blair said he could pretty much act like a rock, if possibly a possessive one. The idea was to get people used to him being backstage, so he wouldn't be noticed snooping around.

"Right, George."

Damn this was annoying. Who designed these things? *Jim is going to have to help.* He wished he'd figured that out before getting half dressed. Stockings and tap pants was not a way he wanted to be remembered. "Ted, I need some help here." As Jim started to laugh he shot a glance that could have frozen magma.

Jim worked at cinching the stomacher. "Put on weight, Georgie?"

"Who'll be talking in ten years?" Blair shooed him off to finish getting dressed. *At least I didn't have my boobs on already.* Once they were shifted right he got poured into the first dress of the evening. With a level of practice he'd almost forgotten, he applied his face, powdering down his arms and the exposed parts of his chest and shoulders. The truly hard part was getting the wig over his pinned down hair. He'd had it cut so very short back then.

Jim looked up from the car magazine he'd brought to read. "Georgie?" It was only his Ops training that kept him in character. Because right now Blair, student, guide and partner was nowhere to be seen, though Jim could still hear him.

"Chantelle. Remember that, Teddie." Jim shook his head once he could no longer hear the rustle of the gown. It was just too weird seeing his roommate as a blonde chanteuse.

They were both quiet as they drove back to the loft. Several times Jim thought to say something but then decided against breaking the silence. Blair was clearly deep in thought, processing reactions or reliving memories. Jim had found a vantage point from which to observe the stage, and wondered how strange it must have been to be passed down a dance line at sixteen.

Blair had thought the looks he sometimes caught at the Bleu Note were bad. But not being able to see the audience was worse. Much worse. As an anthropologist, he had all sorts of theories to explain why; in the end it was just creepy. Watched, unable to watch the watcher watching.

He got out of the club around two thirty and school started at eight. Classes ended after three and he needed to be backstage before nine. His habit came to be an afternoon nap, shave, and early supper, finishing any remaining homework before shaving again and taking his morning nap.

"Chief." Blair noticed they were back at the loft, and undid his seatbelt. He followed into the building.

"Going to crash right away?" Jim opened the door, and then locked back up.

"Think I'll catch a shower." He headed into his room for some sweats.

"Blair," Jim wasn't sure what more to say. "Never mind. See you in the morning." He headed upstairs, knowing they'd need to have a talk eventually.

They'd been undercover for a week, and Jim was seriously worried about Blair. The normally ebullient man was downright laconic. At the loft, with Jim. At the club, Georgie bubbled and Chantelle feinted. "Chief, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Sandburg, start talking. Something is bothering you, and I'm not up to playing twenty questions."

Blair looked over, about to tell Jim to just drop it. Under the frustrated anger there was concern. "It's nothing. Really." Jim looked at him harder. "Okay, man, you don't give up. Face it, you're going to treat me different, now that you've seen Chantelle."

"You're right." Blair double-taked. "Because I'm going to wonder what other parts of your past you managed to hide. Chief, how the hell did you keep this from Naomi?"

"What?" This was not how he figured the conversation would go. "It's not like I tell her everything. She's not my parole officer, and neither are you." He stalked off to his room.

*That went real well.* He hoped anger counted as an improvement, but he wasn't convinced. *Too pat.* He leaned toward the closed door. "Blair, look. I'm just trying to figure out why you were on your own at sixteen." Jim knew he couldn't have managed.

It was stupid; he knew it was stupid, but it didn't help. Why was it bothering him so much more now? Somehow it hadn't meant a lot in the Crescent City, even though that should scare him. Back then he hadn't told Naomi because he didn't want to worry her. It had been his decision to leave her friend's place. Landed on his feet. He'd done okay before, and she hadn't caught on.

*You're older. And people still treat you like a kid.* Hell, his girlfriends did, so why shouldn't a bunch of cops? Actually, that wasn't quite true-- enough close calls had earned him some credit with the police. Okay, to be honest, maybe even a little respect. Which Jim had to be losing fast.

The actual surveillance was going smoothly, now that 'Ted' was a common sight backstage. He needed something, preferably an actual meet, to link the brokers with the contraband. Unfortunately, that was taking time.

Jim wanted this case to be over. Between the comments about Teddie he overheard, and the encompassing calculation, Jim was losing his patience fast. Meanwhile, Blair was becoming increasingly distant, not even coming up with good excuses when his various girlfriends called the loft.

About the only time since the case had started that Blair was vaguely his normal self, was on the runs to the hospital to deliver the flower arrangements sent to Chantelle. Flirting with the nurses in the pediatrics and cancer wards, the anthropologist wasn't up to his usual standards, but he got them to distribute the flowers all the same.

Jim hadn't noticed the grin on his face as they drove back to the loft.

"What?" Jim was startled by the direct question from his Guide. It was his curious, somewhere-there's-a-secret, tone.

"Hum." Usually he liked to play this a little longer, but under the circumstances thought better of it. "Glad to see you back among the living, Chief." Blair gave him a wide-eyed, confused look. "The world renowned Sandburg charm. Previously unseen by the medical profession."

"Very funny. Considering the condition I'm usually in." *Topped off with a hospital gown.* "Maybe I should bring the EMTs and ER nurses some flowers?"

"Hey, good news. The bust should go down next couple of days" Jim expected Blair to come out of his room for that. *No response.* "They have to pick their time, get tight evidence." That time he heard a faint 'whatever.' "You okay?"

"Thanks."

Jim moved away from the door. *Maybe if I actually listened, I'd know what to say.* Blair was the one good with teasing out motivation. *Making people 'process'.* Hell, Darwin could get him to talk. *Eventually, he'll get tired of my cooking.* He went off to fix dinner.

New Orleans was the longest he'd stayed in one place. Sure, once or twice Naomi decided to stay in the same area longer than six months, but she went through several living arrangements on those occasions. He'd gotten out in late spring and it was nearly winter. And still he was staying at Contessa's. Everything he could manage was repaired, and had been for awhile. Slipping money into Hattie's grocery fund got him a scolding from the large woman, and a thorough interrogation as to his food preferences.

Blair was settling into a routine. And it scared him. If you belonged, you were tied down. You had something to lose. He had to leave, before he was too attached. To his room--damn, he really needed to move on. He'd never thought of anywhere as his before. Sometimes he shared another kid's room, or was put up in a spare bed. Other times he just camped for the night, someplace out of the way. Or people would move in with them; it was so much the same he really couldn't tell the difference.

He had to wait until semester end. He wanted his transcript and grades. Fortunately, that wasn't as late as up north. Leaving a couple days before Christmas would make rough travelling. He'd head to one of the communes, touch base with Naomi.

"What part of 'supper's ready' don't you understand, Chief?"

Jim smiled as he walked back to the truck and got in. "That's it. They've got photos and tape linking the brokers with the merchandise, and a few of the buyers too." He pulled into traffic after buckling up.

"Hum."

*And he thinks I zone.* "Chief, I just talked to Simon. They've got them in booking already."

"Chantelle's retired? Again."

Jim schooled away the grin at the inquisitive and hopeful tone of his Guide. "You can hang up your heels and get back to your girlfriends' lipstick." *About time things get back to normal.*

He had really been a schmuck. Leaving a note, saying he was 'bad at good-byes, but it was time to move on'. Oh, at the time it had bought off his conscious, propping it up on the gift he put in the music room. For awhile he'd sent postcards from his more exotic landings. Sent film of places Contessa wished to visit a few times. He never put a return address on anything. Not of anywhere he could be contacted. *'Good-bye?' He wasn't even good at 'hello'.*

"Thought you wanted to go to the poker game."

"Just a second." He finished with the pen and propelled out of the room. "Miss a chance to separate cops from their money? Think Simon feels lucky?"

*'Is he going to lose big?'* Jim started laughing. "Come on, Chief."

Blair tossed the envelope into the mailbox on the way to the truck. One with a return address for a change.

Finis

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