"You what?"
Beverly Sanchez had an annoying habit of running the tip of her tongue over her front teeth when she became irritated with someone. Jim knew now wasn't the best time to point that out. They were standing in her office. It was early, that time of morning when all a person could think about was where to snag a fresh cup of coffee.
"I need the afternoon off," Jim repeated firmly. "It's important."
"So is the Gearhart case, Jim. Or are you forgetting?" she fired back. "You're on the list to testify after lunch."
Jim worked to stay calm. It was already a proven fact the two of them knew how to shout at each other. He didn't want a go there again. "I'm sixth on that list, Beverly. You know, the number that follows five? We've both seen Gearhart's lawyer spend two days on a single cross direct. And that was for a minor witness. Now, I need to take some personal time, and it has to be this afternoon."
Jim left a few minutes later, muttering under is breath as he walked back to Major Crime, "Sure, if I'd been a father of three kids and a working wife, no problem!" He stabbed the button to call the elevator. "Like a single man isn't supposed to take personal time."
Steel doors slid open to reveal Simon Banks chomping on an unlit cigar. "Get that subpoena business cleared up?"
"Yeah."
"I'm on my way to a meeting. Tell the kid 'hi' for me." Simon ordered as they rode up to start their work day.
"Slight problem, Detective."
Of course there is, Jim thought. Why expect anything to go right this week?
"What's wrong?" Jim paused, willing to have this conversation right in the middle of the hospital corridor.
The doctor had appeared out of a side door. Jim was on his way to Blair's room. He knew Blair hadn't felt well when he'd stopped by on his way to work that morning.
"Mr. Sandburg appears to be running a slight fever. He's nauseated. I believe he's coming down with the flu," the short man informed him, fiddling with the stethoscope draped around his neck.
"Wonderful." Jim took a deep breath. "Is he still being released today?"
"Certainly." The doctor smiled. "We don't want the flu spread to the other patients. Seriously, it has the makings to be a doozy of a virus. He won't be very comfortable over the next few days."
After thanking the man, Jim went to retrieve Blair and take him home. He was running late. Beverly had insisted on a 'quick' chat after lunch. He should have known better; attorneys were paid by the word.
"Hey," Blair said weakly from the bed.
"Hey, partner, ready to head home?" Jim closed the door behind him. The room was tiny, barely large enough to contain the single hospital bed. Blair looked pretty much the way he had that morning. Only now, Jim could see the faint glow of fever on his cheeks. The normally bright blue eyes were dull and filled with pain.
"Ummm, no… I don't think so," Blair answered, grabbing the hand rail and trying to roll over onto his side. He looked like he'd been sleeping. His hair was limp and dirty. Jim could still pick up a faint scent of the mud from the cave.
"Relax, Chief." Jim moved to his side and kept him down easily with only a hand. He took a moment to place a palm on his friend's forehead. Not too high, but still a fever. "I'll pack your things together. Then we'll get you into those sweats."
"It's not fair, Jim," Blair moaned as he limped into the loft on crutches, making a beeline for the couch. "My karma is kicking me while I'm down, man."
"No, Darwin." Jim grabbed a shoulder and redirected his roommate. "You're going to your room."
"I want to be out here," Blair whined.
Jim had faced killers. He'd hunted down and captured drug runners. He could even say 'no' to a cute Brownie selling boxes of over-priced cookies in front of Safeway.
Looking into Blair's fever flushed face; his resolve tumbled like a house of cards. "Okay, just let me cover the sofa with some bedding first."
Tylenol and juice, rearranging pillows and wet washcloths, cleaning out the bucket after Blair threw up, urging him to eat dry toast; Jim's night was hell.
The doctor had been right; Blair's flu was a doozy.
At Seven-thirty the next morning, Jim stood uncertainly in the open doorway watching Blair sleep fitfully on his futon. Three buckets were on the floor within reach. A rack of juice bottles and an entire box of saltines on the desk top. He had Tylenol and stronger pain pills, next to the cordless phone.
God, he didn't want to leave.
It wasn't just the flu, Blair was recovering from a bullet wound to the upper leg and the flu.
Still, the Gearhart case was important. Jim crossed over to the bed and checked one last time. The fever was under control now.
"J'm?" Exhausted blue eyes peered up from beneath a nest of snarly curls.
"I'm leaving for court, Sandburg. How do you feel?"
"Trashed." Blair pushed the majority of the dank locks from his face and managed a weak grin. "Gotta work?"
"Yeah, and I want you to stay down, understand? Only move off this bed for trips to the head. Then right back." He pointed to the desk. "You've got fluids, medicine and crackers. Do you want anything else before I go?"
"Nah." He was drifting back to sleep.
"I'm going to leave my cell on. You call if anything comes up, got it?"
Blair chuckled faintly, his eyes still closed. "It's already come up, man. That's part of the problem."
Taking a second to arrange the blankets to resemble something that remotely looked like a bed, Jim briefly chewed his lower lip and checked the inventory one last time.
"Jim… go already… I'm fine."
"Riiight."
Blair knew he was in trouble. Normally he loved the heat. He lived for the warm days in Cascade, cherished the sun and any opportunity that arose to wear cutoffs and sandals.
But this was different. He body was cooking. His skin burned. Someone had turned up the inner thermostat in his brain.
If he could move, he would crawl to the balcony or at lest throw open the window. Each time he tried, he was hit with such a wave of dizziness it stole his ability to tell the floor from the ceiling. Sleep seemed the only escape and then it only provided weird dreams of old Foreign Legion films.
"Jimmm."
Who would have expected Attorney 'Million-dollar-suit' to run through the prosecutor's witnesses with all the speed of a downhill racer? Jim was actually on the stand.
Of course, does the guy keep up his tempo? Does he give Jim a break and finish?
Hell, no.
Suddenly he finds a billion and one questions to ask.
Jim checked his watch for the umpteenth time and rubbed his forehead, which the judge must have taken for a headache because she called a short recess.
Or, more likely, the attorney was given her a headache too.
Jim nearly raced for a phone. It was a few minutes after eleven. Dialing the number to the loft, he let it ring until it was obvious no one was answering.
God, what if Blair was too sick to pick up? What if the fever had spiked? He could be critical. He may be minutes away from brain damage.
Jim did the only thing he could possible do under the circumstances.
"Ahhhhh."
Coolness bathed Blair's forehead. He must have finally died and this was heaven. A wet trail evaporated rapidly on his skin as the blessed relief traveled down his face and along his neck. Fingers pulled the neck of his T-shirt down. The coolness traced along each collar bone and disappeared.
Blair moaned in frustration. He wanted that relief back.
"Easy, Sandburg. Let's get this shirt off."
Blair was lifted as easily as a child into a sitting position. He opened his eyes and captured a brief look at his room over a broad shoulder. Rain beat his window. It looked dark outside. Was it already night time? Jim was home? No, not night. It wasn't that dark, just cloudy.
Blair's world became a white-out. His T-shirt was being pulled off. The visual change confused him and he forgot for a moment what he'd been thinking.
Oh, yeah.
"J'm… wha' time iz't?"
"Almost lunch time. You hungry?"
Oh, God. Jim came home. Blair's vision blurred as his befuddled brain tried to grasp what must have happened. That buzzing sound must have been Jim trying to call. Only, Blair didn't pick up. Now Jim was here and not in court and he would be in trouble and that bad guy would get off and Jim would be in serious shit with Simon.
"Nonononono," Blair moaned in frustration, his cheeks becoming cooled by tears.
"Hey, hey. Settle down."
Blair was lowered back down onto his bed. The room was so dark. Jim was just a large shadow sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Jimmmm," Blair said, hating his slurred attempt to get his point across. "Go ba'k. Simon'll be pissed. Go."
Unbelievably, Jim was chuckling at him. "It's okay, Sandburg. No one's in trouble. Does your leg hurt? Do you need a pain pill?"
The soothing coolness was back. God, the relief! It felt so good. Blair forgot all concern as he closed his eyes and let Jim chase the heat away from his head and chest. Please, let this go on forever.
Blair woke a few more times during the day. Each time Jim was ready with a cool bath and a sip of juice. After one such return to semi-consciousness, Jim had a couple of crackers for him and a pain pill. The room was still dark. Blair could hear the storm lashing at the window outside.
Blair felt safe and cared for, but the price was too much. He tried without success to get Jim to return to work. It was hard to make a clear argument, though, that wash cloth kept returning and before Blair could get more than a few sentences out, he had drifted off to sleep again.
The pain pill kicked in and Blair gave up, barely awake to feel the attention anymore. Finally, some eternal mechanism kicked in and Blair started to shiver. Jim pulled the blankets up to his chin and patted a shoulder.
"Okay, that should take care of your fever, Blair. Get some sleep."
Jim hurried through the downpour and up the stairs, not willing to wait on the elevator. His part of the trial was over. The judge had granted the State's motion to release him around three-thirty. The lousy weather cost another half an hour drive time.
He shoved the key into the door and entered the loft.
"How is he?" Jim didn't wait for an answer, quickly crossing over to Blair's room.
The door was open and he went in. The room was dark. Blair was on his side, injured leg down. He was breathing with ease, not waking when Jim laid the back of his hand on his cheek.
The fever was gone.
Seeing the shallow basin of water and the wash cloth, the open pill bottle, the two empty juice containers and the open box of thermometer strips on the desk, he smiled.
Blair had been well taken care of.
Jim turned to see his substitute filling the doorway.
"Thanks. I owe you."
Simon Banks shook his head, answering in the same quiet voice Jim used. "No, I was the one in debt, Jim. The kid came through for me when Quinn escaped and took me hostage."
They left Blair to sleep. Jim closed the door, knowing he'd easily hear if his friend woke up. "Just Sandburg's luck he catches a flu after all going through all that. Was he any trouble?"
"No," Simon picked up his rain coat and gathered up the paperwork he'd brought with him. "Fever broke about an hour ago. He's going to need a bathroom run when he wakes. I got about twenty ounces of apple juice in him. He can have another pain pill around six or seven. Try and get some real food down. He should be hungry now, maybe some oatmeal."
All that instruction lasted till the man was at the door. Simon turned before leaving, looking one last time at Blair's door.
"Thanks again, Simon. You're a life saver."
"No problem, Jim." Simon stood in the hallway, flipping the collar of his coat up with a free hand. "And just for the record? Tell Sandburg I'm not pissed and I'd never chew up your Jags Cap with your head still inside." Brown eyes twinkled with private humor.
Jim's mouth fell open. "What?"
"Have Blair explain." Simon waved as he walked away. "I'm not going to expect you in tomorrow. Take a sick day, okay? You're going to need it."
End
Merry Christmas!