Toasting in the Hot Tub Read online

  Toasting in the Hot Tub

  A New Year's story. More or less.

  by LRHBalzer

  * * *

  Note: This story follows on the heels of my story "Roasting by the Fire", so if you have time, give that one a read first.

  Warnings: None, really. Smarm, of course, but within context, I hope.

  As far as a timeline goes, it needs to be set in December 1998, which would make it after the episode "Sentinel, Too" (taking place in May 1998) and my two stories "No Center Line" (June 1998) and "And Dream That I am Home Again" (Fall 1998). I personally have put the events of Season Four close to the time they aired, January - May 1999, so this is pre-"Murder 101", etc.

  Merry Christmas, 1999, and Happy New Year 2000! Now journey back a year...

  * * *

  .

  Saturday, December 26, 1998

  1:45 a.m.

  "Come on, Chief, drink some more of this juice." In a room lit only by the fire on the hearth and the blinking lights from the Christmas tree, Jim Ellison sat quietly on the edge of the couch and waited while his friend and partner, Blair Sandburg, swallowed the Tylenol, drank the apple juice, and handed him the empty glass with a half-hearted sigh.

  "Thanks," Sandburg mumbled, shivering, eyes more shut than open, the ends of his shoulder-length hair in damp ringlets from his recent bath.

  Ellison put the glass down and picked up the towel from the floor. "Here. Dry off your hair some more."

  "Any chance of me convincing you I can take care of myself?" Sandburg asked, taking the bath towel that was handed to him.

  "None whatsoever."

  "I can, you know. Really."

  "Right." Ellison waited for the cough, knowing it was coming. Sandburg talked. Sandburg coughed. Sandburg talked. Sandburg coughed. One followed the other, regular as the seasons.

 

  "Argh."

  "Here," he offered solicitously, placing the tissue box in Sandburg's outstretched hand. He watched while the routine continued. Tissue, blow, crumble. Tissue, blow, crumble. Tissue, blow, crumble. Then Sandburg would gather the tissues and put them in the plastic bag Ellison had provided. "Feeling any better?"

  "Actually, a bit," Blair admitted, wrapping the towel around his neck, his head falling back against the couch in exhaustion. "The bath helped. I still feel lousy, but not quite as sweaty and gross. Just pruny."

  "You shouldn't have fallen asleep in the tub. You could have--" His words trailed off, and for the first time that night, he felt awkward. You could have drowned.

  "It was just for a second or two," Sandburg said calmly, then reached for the Tylenol bottle, squinting at the label. "How long before these work?"

  It took Ellison a moment to hear the question, then re-interpret it. "Do you still have a headache?"

  "Yeah. From coughing probably." And the word sparked another cough.

  "Twenty minutes, maybe longer. It'll help the fever, too." He took the pill bottle and stood, crossing to the kitchen.

  "Ever wondered about the whole fever and chills thing?" Sandburg's voice drifted to him. His voice when he spoke was still scarcely a whisper, his throat sore from the virus and the coughing, but it was loud enough for Ellison to hear. "I mean, I'm huddled under these blankets shivering like it's going out of style, but my temperature is elevated. Then a few minutes later, I'm kicking off the blankets trying to cool down."

  "Are you asking me why?" Ellison put the bottle on the counter and returned to the couch.

  "No, not really," Sandburg admitted, shifting to make room for him again. "I know the answer; it just doesn't seem to make sense when it's happening to you."

  Jim nodded, stifling his own yawn. "Can you lie back down? Try and get some sleep?"

  "If I lay down, I'll just start coughing again."

  "You're coughing sitting up, too."

  "I'll cough more if I lie down."

  "How do you know that, unless you try?"

  Blair glared at him, his tone cross while his eyes smiled. "Are you trying to drive me crazy, or does it just come naturally?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Sandburg. It's two in the morning. I think it comes with the hour." He smiled, trying to soften his words.

  With shaking hands, Sandburg pulled the blankets closer around his shoulders. "This is so not cool. I ache in places I didn't know I could ache. I thought the pills were supposed to help. Maybe they were past date or something."

  "They'll work. Give them time."

  A bout of coughing ended with: "If I had known I was going to be sick, I'd have brought my own stuff."

  "Try lying on your side," Ellison said, tugging gently at his arm, relieved when Sandburg didn't fight him, but allowed himself to be rearranged on the couch. Pillows were adjusted, blankets resettled, and Sandburg was half-asleep within a few minutes, the over-the-counter cough medication combined with the Tylenol beginning to work.

  Ellison slipped one hand beneath the blankets and Sandburg's sweatshirt to get an idea of his temperature, but it still hovered around the 102 degree mark. With an ease born of recent practice, he listened carefully to Sandburg's lungs and respiration, satisfying himself that this was still in the 'cold and influenza' category and not pneumonia. Despite the bad chills and fever, the muscle aches and persistent cough, there were no other symptoms. No blood with the cough. No discolored mucus. No chest pain. No shortness of breath. No nausea or vomiting.

  Ellison had become a self-taught expert on pneumonia these past months. It was the thing most feared with near-drowning victims when the lungs had been partially compromised by polluted water. Sandburg had been fine for six weeks after the May attack, then pneumonia had put him in the hospital for almost ten days, and Ellison had frantically learned everything he could about it. Bacterial pneumonia, viral pneumonia, mycoplasma pneumonia. He knew all the symptoms, the progression, the medication, the precautions. He had found out what to listen for, what signified fluid or damaged lung cells filling the air spaces in his partner's lungs, making breathing a difficulty.

  A snap from the log in the fireplace drew his attention to the dancing flames. Ellison left his hand on Sandburg's bare back, rubbing in gentle circles as he coaxed his partner to sleep. A cough or two punctured the room's stillness. Four patient minutes later, Sandburg was snoring softly, Ellison smiling at his own skill.

  Protector of the Tribe. Watchman of the City. Able to put a overactive, hyper, sick anthropologist to sleep in under five minutes.... He would have to add that to his resume.

  He eased the blankets back in place and shifted slightly to stare into the fire again. It had been a long night, but a strangely peaceful one, too. He could feel his own defenses slowly crumbling yesterday as he had relaxed and let himself be swept minute by minute through the hours. The skiing had been wonderful. The air cold, crisp, achingly clean. The sounds had almost a crystalline echo, the steady scrape of skiis over the snow, the slight huff of breath from each man as they moved. The myriad of sounds of snow falling, settling around them. The snow reflecting his dark blue ski outfit and Simon's red one. Stopping and drinking hot coffee from their thermos, staring out across the valley, speaking rarely.

  When they returned from skiing, there had been a frantic few moments when Blair collapsed, but a quick check showed nothing was seriously wrong. A more thorough exam, once Ellison's coat was off and his hands had warmed up around the outside of a hastily made mug of coffee, had confirmed that Sandburg was breathing fine and had slipped from unconsciousness into a restful sleep. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to decorate the tree while the kid slept, surprising him with it later. Sometimes the smallest things brought such laughter
to Sandburg, that Ellison (and Simon Banks) would go out of their way to bring it about. Laughter was healing, Sandburg always said.

  It was easy to get lost in the multicolored flames, the darting tongues of fire flickering into the darkness. An hour passed as Ellison contemplated his life. Beside and behind him, sprawled in exhausted abandon, Sandburg lay sleeping, his beard-rough face still etched with the signs of fever and cold, cheeks flushed pink above the pallor, dark circles beneath his reddened eyes. Ellison reached out and touched the warm forehead. Despite the casual way he had handled the situation, he had not forgotten that Sandburg had been quite sick when they found him in the afternoon, his mental state confused, slightly delirious, feverish and cold. His partner had spent the evening sleeping or trying to sleep, too spent to do anything else. The influenza symptoms lingered even now, easing slowly, but the twelve hour mark had passed with no further progression into viral pneumonia with its increasing breathlessness and high fever.

  Ellison let a peaceful smile drift to his chiseled features, softening his eyes, as he watched Sandburg's breathing ease. The lungs he had been monitoring so carefully all night, breathed in and out, exchanging air smoothly, no longer troubled by the looming threat of congestion.

  Seven months now he had listened to Sandburg's lungs, analyzing each rattle, each hint of trouble. Three times he had taken him to his doctor to confirm an infection, and two of those times he had been right. Antibiotics were prescribed, and he waited anxiously until the all clear was given again.

  Drowning did that to lungs. It made them vulnerable. It made Blair vulnerable.

  Which made Jim Ellison vulnerable. And cautious.

  The strange thing was that Blair had listened to him. Had gone to the doctor when he said to, had taken the medication without complaint, as if he acknowledged Jim's concern and his right to be careful.

  A deep breath was inhaled and exhaled, a slight cough following it, but Blair didn't awaken. Ellison watched him silently, one hand still resting on the curved back.

  Go to sleep, Ellison, he instructed himself. Let him sleep.

  But he sat for another thirty minutes before relinquishing the moment. With a resigned sigh, he carefully stood from the couch, reaching back to adjust the blankets, tucking them securely around the sleeping man. He wondered at his actions sometimes, wondered why he treated Blair so gently when he was asleep and ill. Maybe because there was within the man, the child. The son. The younger brother. The one to be protected. There was within the young man, the old soul. The teacher. The wise man. The scholar. The one to be listened to.

  The friend of his heart.

  * * *

  7:00 a.m.

  It was still dark when Ellison rose from his bed and crossed down the hall to the living room. The fire had gone out, and while the room was warm enough, the symbolic warmth was missing. The tree lights still blinked on and off, lending a visual stillness to the room. Sandburg was sound asleep, half curled on his stomach, one arm hanging down to the floor.

  He sat on the edge of the couch, gently touching Sandburg's forehead, then the back of his neck. Just the trace of a fever. Breathing was steady, clear. Lungs still uncompromised. Ellison tucked the arm back to the body, adjusted the blankets yet again, and returned to his bed.

  * * *

  9:30 a.m.

  Jim Ellison looked up from his book as his friend and captain, Simon Banks, entered the living room. "Morning, Simon."

  "Hey, Jim." Simon yawned, dropping the towel from around his neck to the countertop as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the half full carafe. "Need a refill?"

  "Thanks." Jim put his book aside to get up from the armchair, but Simon interrupted.

  "Stay there. I'll bring it to you." Simon started to walk through the living area, when he spotted the sleeping man on the couch, buried beneath several thick blankets. Footsteps exaggerated, he crossed the rest of the way to Jim with silent steps, hardly making a sound on the wool carpet. "How's the kid?" he whispered as he poured the coffee into Ellison's mug.

  "Oh, he'll be fine. Fever's down at the moment. He coughed a lot last night. Had several bad spells."

  "I heard him. You sure he's fine here? If we have to, we can drive back to Cascade, despite this snowfall. My car's got chains--"

  "He's fine, Simon." Ellison sipped at the too-hot coffee, wisely placing it on the end table beside his chair. "He's been asleep for a few hours now. No coughing."

  "Did you sit out here all night?" Simon asked, staring at the few wisps of hair poking out from beneath the blankets, all that identified the under-the-weather anthropologist.

  "For a while. I went to bed around midnight, got up at 2:00 a.m. when he had the coughing bout, then went back to bed an hour or so later. He's been asleep ever since."

  Simon chuckled as he returned the empty carafe to the kitchen. "I guess if you're going to be sick, having a nurse maid around to keep an eye on you is the way to go. Ever have a dog, Jim?"

  Ellison followed him into the kitchen. "Why?"

  "My mom always said, 'If you want a pet, you have to take care of them.' Surely a little dog would be less trouble than Sandburg."

  Jim didn't smile. Instead he leaned back against the counter, his voice lowering as he spoke. "Jokes aside, it scares me sometimes, thinking about this year -- I wake up with the image of him lying dead at the university. His face waxy, gray-- No heartbeat--"

  Simon shifted uncomfortably as Jim's voice trailed off and the man seemed caught in the terrifying memories of that overcast May morning. "He's alive now," he murmured, trying to remind himself as well.

  "He's fine," Ellison repeated, quietly. "It's just a fever." But the images stayed in his mind. "Or I think of how I felt when he was missing, when he was kidnaped. Finding him in that trailer, the way he rolled out of it, into my arms when the door was raised, and he smelled of death. I remember the smell."

  "So do I." Banks looked down at the food he had placed on the counter, the edge already taken from his appetite.

  "But he's alive."

  It was Simon's turn to walk out of the kitchen and stare down at the young man. Jim watched him, feeling along with the captain, knowing the ache that they would always live with. Blair stirred, and Simon reached down and adjusted the blanket.

  "What can we do," the captain asked, quietly, "but keep on walking, one foot after the other?"

  "I don't know," Ellison replied. "I wish I knew."

  * * *

  * * *

  December 31, 1998

  11:40 pm

  Simon took the bottle of far too expensive champagne from the fridge and placed it on the tray. Jim had bought it. Jim who groused about money and overindulgence had picked up one of the most expensive champagnes available in the store. And paid for it, without a second thought, without blinking as he signed the VISA slip.

  "Three tall, elegant, plastic glasses: check. New Year's themed napkins: check. Ridiculous party hats: check. Those loud obnoxious whistles: check. Extra large bowl of chips, bowl of cheesies, bowl of pretzels: check. Natchos, fully loaded --" ~ping~ The microwave went off. "Check."

  Whistling, he collected the hot platter and added it to the already crowded tray. He was going to enjoy this.

  He paused, tray in hand, before leaving the kitchen, then went back for a little candle holder that Blair had brought with him, but not yet lit. It was appropriate. More appropriate than anything else on the tray, for it truly symbolized his feelings and expectations for the new year. He carefully put it in one of the big pockets of his robe, along with the votive candle and some matches.

  The phone rang and he reached across to pick it up. "Hello? Daryl -- Hey, everything all right? ... Just calling to talk to your old man? ... Well, Happy New Year to you, too, son. ... Yes, we're having a great time.... Yeah, they're fine, other than Sandburg having a head cold. Hey, something funny happened. You know that new red snowsuit of mine? ... Well, Sandburg woke up, all feverish and out of it and thought I was
Santa Claus. No shit. ... My reaction exactly... So where are you? I can hear a party happening..."

  * * *

  11:45 pm

  Jim sat on the edge of his bed in his room, the door shut, fists clenched, trying to control the palsied shaking. He'd been about to step out the bedroom door and head up to the hot tub on the upper balcony, when the sudden reaction to a passing thought had hit him, knocking him to his knees.

  "I can't do this."

  He had mistakenly thought back to the previous New Year's at Joel's house, standing on the balcony with Sandburg. He had been so relaxed and calm, enjoying the party, being with friends. Things had been great between the two of them after a wonderful Christmas and a relaxed holiday. He had had such optimistic hopes for 1998. Such grand plans.

  And he'd made such cruel promises.

  Ellison held his drink loosely in his hand, staring out across the city lights, then glanced down to the young man beside him. "Any regrets about this year, Sandburg?"

  "Overall? No. I could have done with a few less injuries, I guess."

  Ellison laughed, turning his head to look at him again. "Me, too. Less car crashes, as well." He stood taller, listening to the laughter inside Joel's house. "Thirty seconds."

  "It was fun. This year," Sandburg said suddenly. "I'm glad I was part of it all."

  "I'm glad you were with me," Ellison replied, turning Sandburg around so he could see the fireworks, then he rested his arms over his partner's shoulders. "Countdown. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven."

  Outside the neighborhood was waking up as people came out on their doorstep, banging on pots and pans, blowing on noisemakers.

  Sandburg leaned back closer to his partner, turning his head slightly to talk over the noise as they were joined on the balcony by the other party-goers. "Jim, I want to say thanks. It's been a good year. I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else."