"You're dead." Jim retreated from the elderly woman back-lit in the doorway.

"Jimmy, let me explain," she pleaded. "William probably-."

"He lied," Jim blurted out.

"-didn't know how to explain our separation." Grace Ellison stepped out onto the tiny landing. "Come inside."

"Just forget you saw me," Jim demanded, before turning away and backtracking toward the parked jeep and his sleeping partner.

"No, wait!" She caught up halfway across the small yard, moving faster than her age suggested. "The woman on the phone said you needed help."

Thank you, Naomi. It wasn't enough they were drowning in life's crapper. She dumps this shit on them, Jim thought bitterly.

"Listen, she had no right to involve you." Jim gently disengaged his mother's hold. Her pulse bounded under his thumb. He could see every damn silver hair on her head, translucent in the moonlight. "I can't get you involved."

"Rubbish," she answered, her aged face firm with resolve. "You need help. I can feel it."

The truth snapped out before Jim could hold it back. "Lady, I needed you a hell of a long time ago. So did Stephen."

Grace took the blow like a prizefighter. "Then let me help now. Or are you still too stubborn to accept any?"

She had guts, Jim had to admit as molten anger rose from his core. He needed to get away before that anger erupted.

"Jim?" The plaintive voice drifted in the night air, followed by a shuffling stagger.

"Sandburg," Jim muttered, focusing into the night and spotting his barefooted guide stumbling along half a block away. Jim ran.

Blair's eyes were closed, his balance nonexistent. He fell to his knees. Jim reached his side and hoisted him to his feet.

"You were gone," Blair accused. He wobbled drunkenly. His hair had corkscrewed and matted from long hours of rubbing against the blankets. Pale and dirty, he looked like a survivor from a California mudslide.

"I didn't leave you, partner." Jim kept one arm tight around Blair's waist, feeling the fever through his shirts.

Grace Ellison - or whatever name she used now - drew close, uninvited. "He's sick. Let's get him inside."

Jim didn't want to obey. He didn't want to stay in this woman's presence a second longer than he had to, but with an armful of sick roommate to consider, his own wishes seemed petty.

They needed her help.

So cold.

Why couldn't Jim just use the furnace once in a while? No wait, that was wrong. They weren't in the loft anymore. They were in the jeep. Only Jim had left him alone and Blair had been determined to find him.

Blair blinked at his new surroundings, clutching the edge of a woolen afghan that circled his shoulders. He sat in a hard chair. Bright colors rose to the ceiling. They looked warm and fuzzy. When did colors grow fuzzy? He squinted. The colors turned into skeins of yarn.

"Drink this."

This was water. Blair took a swallow and turned his head before Jim could give him more. "'nuff," Blair mumbled, seeing a woman for the first time and liking her smile. "Hi."

"Hi there," the woman answered.

She was old but still a beauty. Blair's mussed brain tried to picture her face without the soft wrinkles. She would have been drop-dead gorgeous. Jim's thumb and finger pushed their way between Blair's lips.

"Open up, Chief."

Smooth and long, the pills were tasteless. The rounded edge of the ceramic mug bumped his teeth. Jim could be real pushy sometimes. The water washed down the medicine. Blair closed his eyes, just for a moment. He'd been sleeping way too much the last couple of days and he knew Jim really needed a partner who pulled his own weight because they were in some serious trouble, but a few more minutes of rest wouldn't hurt. Those pills would kick in and he'd take a turn behind the wheel.

Yeah.

Jim caught his friend just as he slumped forward, his head inches from hitting the edge of a small table. Sickly odors rose in waves off Blair's neck and shoulders. This was not good. The cold medicine would help a little, but they needed to bring the fever down. Jim hated having to ask, but he had no choice.

"Can you help us?"

Grace Ellison gathered up her purse and a hand-knit cardigan. "Come on, I know somewhere safe."

In minutes Sedona was just a cluster of lights in the rear view mirror. Jim followed the white Cadillac into the gently rolling, pine covered hills. Blair slept in the back seat. The Caddy's tail lights flashed and Grace turned onto a smaller two-lane asphalt road with broken edges. The road climbed higher, passing small cabins with outbuildings and fenced corrals. Farther still, the cabins no longer appeared in the headlights. The road twisted and climbed up the mountain side. The pine trees had long needles that littered the forest floor. The road changed to gravel.

After thirty minutes, the brake lights glowed and she turned left onto a narrow road. Jim flinched, expecting the large granite boulders edging both sides to scrape its sides. The caddy passed unscathed. Grace parked before a handsome two-storey home. A bright floodlight mounted on a pole turned on, activated by their arrival. They had electricity.

Somewhere out in the desert night, a coyote yipped. Another answered, sounding much closer. Grace stood at the cabin's door with a key in the lock by the time Jim had Blair standing, yawning and leaning weakly against the side of the jeep.

"Jim, whatz `appening."

"Nothing, just stopping for the night." Jim guided him forward. The scent of pine sap, warmed by a day of high temperatures, perfumed the air. The desert solitude acted as a balm to Jim's abraded nerves.

"I manage a chain of vacation homes," Grace explained, standing by an open breaker panel on a wall. "This one's the most remote. It's yours as long as you need it. Hot water, septic, and a full kitchen. No phone, though." She flicked a switch and Jim could hear a distant hum. She closed the panel and moved to a wall thermostat. "Give the water heater thirty minutes. I've got a box of food in the trunk. Nothing fancy. Tomorrow I'll bring you some fresh produce and whatever medicine you need."

Jim eased Blair down onto a sofa where he immediately flopped sideways, tucking his hands close and drawing up his knees. Dried mud flaked off and littered the cushions. Jim cringed. "Will anyone wonder where you're going?"

"No, I come and go as I please. I have full time employees for the yarn shop." She cast a worried look at Blair. "I'll bring in the food."

Jim moved toward the door. "I'll get it."

"No," she ordered. "You stay with your friend. It's a small box."

She was gone before Jim could insist. He studied the house.

The main room was spacious. An upper balcony reminded him of the loft. Open beams of peeled logs supported the roof above them. A small fireplace of river stone adorned the far wall. The kitchen was behind an island center. Jim could see an old-fashion looking stove with red enamel along the back wall. The furniture was solid and worn, the stuff that a person would expect in a vacation home. Puzzle boxes and thick hardbacks underneath the coffee table waited for a rainy day.

Grace walked in with a lidless box and set it on the kitchen island. She looked at Blair then at Jim. "Are you hungry? I could fix something simple."

Massaging his neck, Jim considered her offer. He did feel a few hunger pangs, but the lure of sleep slipped to the front of the line. "No, it's late. I'd rather just get Sandburg settled."

She nodded, her slender hands pausing in their task of emptying the box. A row of cans and boxes lined the counter top. A whirling noise sounded from the kitchen and an unmistakable sound of a cuckoo bird called in the midnight hour.

And suddenly Jim was a child again, standing in a large kitchen. His mother, dressed in an evening gown of midnight blue, was setting out a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk. The babysitter was running late. William Ellison had already stormed outside to warm up the car, bitterly complaining about how his career was being screwed over by an eighteen year old college twit who didn't know how to get to work on time.

The cuckoo clock had hung on the wall above the breakfast table.

"... be back tomorrow with aspirin for his fever. What else do you need? Jim?"

"What?" Jim blinked and the young woman was replaced by the senior citizen walking toward the door.

"Are you all right? Did you hear me?" Grace asked, her hand on the doorknob.

"I'm fine, just tired," Jim answered on autopilot. He searched his recent memory. "Aspirin. Maybe some orange juice? Do you need any money?"

"We'll talk tomorrow," she said before leaving, closing the door softly.

Blair hogged the sofa, leaving a narrow space above his head for Jim to sit. There were beds to make and bags to carry in from the Jeep. Jim wondered if he had the strength. Blair grunted unhappily. Jim rested a hand in his partner's sweaty and matted hair. Blair settled quietly except for stuffy whistle sounds as air pushed past restricted sinuses.

"Mmm," Blair vibrated softly. "Kay... no, pecans `n ... later, Steph."

"Blair?" Jim turned, smoothing locks back to see his partner's face. "You in there?"

"No more cookies."

With a weary grin, Jim patted a flushed cheek. It was time to get Blair into a real bed anyway. Jim suddenly froze.

Cookies.

Pecan.

He used to call his brother Steph when they were little.

Shit, Blair was tapping into his own childhood.

With a sharp pat, almost enough to be categorized as a slap, Jim watched Blair's eyes fly wide as he woke with a start. "Wha... hey!" Blair protested, bringing a dirty hand up to rub his cheek.

"Come on, sit up," Jim ordered brusquely, tugging on Blair's shoulder to get him sitting.

Blair moved as if plagued with advanced arthritis. He groaned, leaned forward at the waist and swallowed rapidly. "Don't feel so hot, man."

"Deep breaths," Jim instructed. "I'm not going to be happy with you if you make the cabin smell like vomit."

True to his nature, Blair responded to the brisk, clipped orders with his own matched determination. Jim waited until Blair could sit up straight. He offered a pathetic smile of apology, as if being sick was some weakness he'd brought on himself. "Okay, I'm good to go. What's next?"

"Oh, yeah. Look at you, ready to run a marathon," Jim mocked. He shook his head, feeling mildly guilty. "Think you can manage some stairs?"

On wobbly legs, with Jim taking up the rear and keeping the younger man from pitching backwards, Blair mounted the steep staircase to the upper floor. Heated layers of air lay trapped under the ceiling. A large queen-size bed and a fold-up roll away already held clean sheets and blankets. Jim nudged Blair toward the larger bed.

"Can you get undressed?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "Bathroom first."

It was tucked into a corner of the upper loft, just a toilet and a narrow bathtub behind a door. A pedestal sink hung outside the bathroom, against the wall like an afterthought. A pine shelf filled with towels hung on the wall overhead.

While Blair was in the bathroom, Jim rolled the folded bed out and opened it up. Alert for mice droppings and finding none, he nodded with approval. Grace managed a decent rental. She must have a service out regularly for cleaning.

"So who was that lady?" Blair asked as he emerged from the bathroom, leaving the light on behind him and stumbling toward the bed.

Jim caught him before he could crawl in fully clothed. "No, Wilbur. Let's get some of your mud off first."

Blair shook his head. "Too tired." He tried twisting free and leaning toward the mattress. "Not going to shower."

But Jim towed him back to the sink, taking a washcloth down. "I'm not asking you to. Thanks for teaching me to dial down my sense of smell, by the way," Jim teased to keep Blair from getting pissed. He ran water in the sink and tossed in a washcloth from the shelf. "Come on. Get those clothes off."

Blair stripped to his boxers. Deep bruises, purple with splatter patterns of broken blood vessels and puncture wounds decorated the younger man's body and tempered Jim's impatience. Blair's eyelids were at half mast. He swayed in his stocking feet. Jim wrung out the cloth. "You'll probably feel better. And it will help bring your fever down." He held out the cloth.

Blair took the cloth and made feeble attempts to wipe down his arms, leaving long muddy streaks as he moved the dirt.

"Here, let me." Jim tried to take the washcloth back. Blair was moving too slowly. Now he wished he had insisted on a shower.

"I'm doing it," Blair mumbled, cranky and peeved. He swayed on his feet, coming dangerously close to falling over and denting his skull against the sink when he tried to bend down to swipe his leg.

Jim settled for holding his guide up during the spit bath. He watched the white cloth turn Kansas-mud brown. "Let me at least rinse it off." He pried the cloth away and squeezed it under flowing tepid water. Latte colored water swirled down the pipes for a full minute. "Here." Jim handed it back.

But all Blair's energy seemed used up. Eyes closed, he looked asleep on his feet. He never peeped when Jim gently finished the job by cleaning his guide's face and neck. Tossing the cloth into the sink to deal with later, he led Blair back to the bed and folded down the bedding. The sheets had a yellow flower pattern. Blair poured himself in, unconscious before Jim could draw the sheet and blanket up.

The room's windows slid sideways with heavy screens to keep out flying bugs. The cool desert air made Jim sigh with pleasure. He stripped, got a clean cloth, repeated the spit bath procedure over his own weary and bruised body and crawled onto the smaller bed to sleep.

Muffled cries pulled Jim from his exhaustion. He shifted on the mattress and threw an arm over his eyes, missing his sleep mask. Sunlight flooded the room.

"Please." A gasp of pain and a moan followed.

Lifting his head, Jim realized the noise was coming from the bigger bed. Blair was caught in a nightmare.

Three guesses what it was about and the first two didn't count.

"Chief." Jim climbed out of bed, crossed the room and leaned over to gently shake Blair's shoulder. Sickly, moist heat wafted up making Jim's nose curl. Blair's fever was up. "Come on. Wake up."

"No, don't." Blair lifted a hand and tried to push away invisible enemies. His face was wet with tears.

The clear sound of a car drifted in through the open window. Jim recognized Grace's Cadillac and checked his watch. They'd both been asleep for over eight hours. Blair was waking now, blinking without focusing on Jim's face.

"Hey, how you feeling?" Jim asked.

"Jim?" Blair sniffed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "N-not so hot, man. Where are we?"

"We're safe." Jim went to the sink and filled a plastic glass with water, bringing it back and watching Blair sit up and accept it gratefully. "We're in northern Arizona."

Swallowing the last mouthful, Blair handed the empty glass back. "Remember a woman."

"Yeah," Jim said, unsure how much he wanted to admit.

Outside a car door slammed.

"Your mom arranged it."

Blair was kicking his legs free from the blanket. "Naomi set this up? She's okay? You talked to her? Whoa, head rush," Blair explained as he stood with Jim's help.

"Jim?" Grace's voice floated up. The front door's hinges squeaked and a brighter patch of sunlight made the dust mites swirling in the air glow for a brief second before the door closed again. "You awake?"

"We're up, Grace," Jim answered. "Be down in a second."

"How's your friend?" she asked from below.

"Stinky," Blair muttered. "I need to shower, man."

The thought of Blair standing long enough to shower brought visions of head injuries to Jim's mind. "Bath."

Blair agreed.

After making sure Blair was safe in the tub and had the required tools for the job, Jim found his clothes from yesterday and dressed. He joined Grace on the main floor. She wore designer jeans and a silk, short-sleeved pullover. Her hair was tucked into a stylish roll that flowed up the back of her head. He'd forgotten how tall she was.

"I brought some eggs, milk, cheese and pastries. How about an omelet?"

Hunger pains stabbed his gut. He nodded. "Thank you."

A small paper sack sat on the countertop. Grace nodded at it as she pulled a glass bowl out and cracked an egg against the rim. "That's a general antibiotic. Your friend..."

"Blair."

"Blair is obviously fighting a sinus infection."

Jim picked up the bag and took out a small bottle. It lacked the normal pharmacist label. Twisting off the cap, he looked inside. Small white pills half filled the vial. "How did you get this?"

"Don't worry. It won't be missed." She used a fork to whip the eggs, adding milk without measuring. "Blair doesn't have allergies, does he?"

"No." Jim mentally amended the answer, `at least not to medicine.'

She nodded. "It wouldn't hurt then. But it's his call."

Jim knew how Blair felt about western medicine. His partner would rather dissolve a leaf under his tongue or medicate amid a cloud of burning sage. Jim had seen the greenish mucus and agreed with Grace's decision. "You're sure this isn't going to get you into trouble?"

"I'm a nurse, LPN. Retired, but I still volunteer." She dropped butter into a hot skillet and let it sizzle while she grated cheese onto a cutting board. "I have some very understanding doctor friends. They're discreet."

Jim cupped the medicine bottle between his palms and sat down on a nearby stool, one of four that lined the kitchen island. Grace had become a nurse. Somehow that fit. His earliest memory of his mother was watching her take care of others.

So why had she stopped taking care of her sons?

Egg batter danced as it spread over the skillet. Grace smoothly poured the entire bowl's contents then set it aside and picked up a spatula. She watched the eggs cook, intent on her task, ignoring Jim's hard gaze as if afraid to catch his eye.

A thud from above caused Jim to excuse himself and hurry back up to the room. He tapped on the closed bathroom door before pushing it open. "You okay?"

Rubbing soap from his eyes, Blair nodded. One hand gripped the edge of the tub, his hair plastered to his head and neck. "Slipped."

"Don't try standing up."

"I didn't," Blair snapped back.

"Maybe I should-"

"I'm fine." Blair shivered in the warm room. "Go away."

Jim relented, content with recognizing his bullheaded partner. Blair must be on the mend to be arguing with him again. "Don't stand up, Sandburg. I mean it. You call me for help."

"I got it," Blair grumbled. He sneezed as he ran a wash cloth over his arm and shoulder. "Get out of here, okay?"

Back downstairs, Grace was adding the shredded cheese to the first omelet. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine." Jim returned to the stool. A plate, fork and folded napkin had been arranged on the countertop for him. Coffee dripped from a coffee maker, its potent fragrance greeting him like a lost friend. Yet Jim felt out of sorts, angry even. Jim didn't want to feel welcome. He resented having flashbacks to his childhood caused by these domestic touches.

He held his tongue. They needed this woman. They needed a place to heal and make plans.

Grace had been working silently as Jim warred with his feelings. She slid the finished breakfast onto his plate with ease. "Should I start another for..."

"Blair," Jim supplied, adding out of habit, "Thank you."

She set to work.

The remains of breakfast on a bedside stand, Blair scooted down on the bed, stretched out and pulled the covers up. "I'm going to puke."

"No, you're not." Jim picked up the plate with a frown. "You didn't eat enough to warrant it."

Blair pulled the covers over his head. "Feeling too crappy to fight with you. Go away."

The fight had been mostly over some bottle of pills. Jim had pulled it out of his pocket. There was no way Blair was swallowing unknown drugs. So he had a cold, or flu - whatever - his body would work through it.

A bolt of pain traveled through his middle. Blair curled with a groan. He swallowed hard, unable to ignore the funny taste on his tongue.

Jim appeared at his bedside. "Blair?"

"Shi-" Blair slapped a hand over his mouth as the first muscle contraction hit.

The bathroom was almost a step too far, but with Jim holding him up, rushing him across the room in a semi-controlled stumble, he made it in time. The conglomerate of eggs, cheese and juice was not a particularly pleasant sight to behold so Blair trusted Jim to keep him from falling face first into the toilet and screwed his eyes shut. His head pounded and his muscles forgot how to keep balanced.

This had to be the worst flu he had ever experienced.

After having his face washed like a two year old and rinsing out his mouth, Blair let Jim support him back to the bed. He bit his lower lip to keep from groaning. His gut hurt. He listened to Jim's footsteps growing fainter, too tired to watch his friend walk away, too exhausted to even tell him thanks.

"Sandburg, swallow this."

Jim was back.

After forcing down two aspirin with a swallow of water, Blair pushed the water glass away. It was starting again, almost instantly. With absolute authority, Blair's body rejected the fluid and carried the medicine back up. Blair had just a second's warning, the same time it took Jim to pull him to the edge of the mattress so he could use a small, plastic trash can.

"God," Blair muttered afterwards. "Make it stop."

The water glass was back. "Rinse."

`Jiim..."

"Just rinse and spit, Sandburg."

It did feel better. Blair fell back against the pillow, spent and miserable. Sleep. He just needed to sleep and give his system a chance to reboot. A woman's voice confused him for a second. He opened his eyes. Jim was talking to an elderly woman standing at the top of the stairs. Who was that? Then he remembered what Jim had told him. For a second he was curious, then a muscle spasm hit hard above his navel and he rolled away to face the wall. He didn't care if half the population of - where were they again? Arizona? - walked through this bedroom. Blair was going back to sleep.

Grace had gone for more medicine.

Jim explored the cabin. He had already unpacked the jeep, even spent a few minutes checking under the hood. The oil had the texture and look of pond sludge. He made a note to find a lube shop once they were on the road. Looking up toward the loft, he listened to the rasp of air movement. Blair was breathing through his mouth again. His heart rate was steady. Jim could smell the sour sweat all the way downstairs. Even though the upper room was well into the eighties now, the man in the bed shivered. Jim had opened a window, making sure Blair was properly covered first. The arid air felt and tasted off, perfumed by the sturdy green Manzanita shrubs that sprinkled the landscape.

He paced, worried.

He had already scouted the land around the cabin. The terrain was riddled with high desert foothills covered by birch and Pinon Pine trees, their greenery contrasted against the reddish colored cliffs. He remembered seeing a friend's vacation pictures, but had never personally visited. He knew folks came to Northern Arizona to view the Grand Canyon. Sedona had grown to become a luxurious destination area, offering everything from golf to spas.

Glancing at his watch, Jim extended his hearing. Judging the nearest paved road to be a little over three miles away, he only listened for sounds of vehicles within that radius.

There, the Caddy was coming back.

Grace parked next to the jeep. She gathered up a large brown bag as Jim opened her door. "My doctor-friend was in. He's written another prescription based on Blair's symptoms."

"You're sure he's not suspicious?" Jim took the bag. More than medicine, it was filled with groceries again, cool to the touch.

Grace led the way into the cabin, walking with confidence. "He's curious, that's all. I trust him."

Jim had no choice. Blair couldn't be moved like this. It would likely draw too much attention to them. He set the bag down. Grace began to unload it. She handed Jim another small white sack. The box within contained a foil tray of long horse-sized pills.

"Sandburg is going to love these," Jim said with dread.

"No way."

Jim sighed. He sat on the edge of Blair's bed, the box of suppositories in hand. "Chief, it's the only way to get the medicine inside you long enough to stop the vomiting. You're becoming dehydrated."

"No," Blair answered mulishly. His face was white, except where the stubble of beard darkened his jaw. His eyes looked sunken.

Jim resolved to win the fight. "Stop being so damn stupid."

"I'm not shoving-"

Jim cut him off. "It's no big deal. It doesn't hurt. I had to work a few weeks at the army hospital during training and I did this all the time."

The younger man blanched. "You are not helping me!" he blurted out in a loud, shocked voice.

Any other time, Jim would have laughed out loud. Except the situation was serious and Jim was well beyond joking. His habit of grinding his teeth when pissed kicked in. Blair was going to take the damn medicine, even if Jim had to-

"Jim," Grace called from the top of the stairs.

He hadn't even noticed her approach.

She walked to the bedside with a confident look and nodded at the box. "Let me talk to Blair. Why don't you take a breather?"

Blair looked almost relieved when Jim stood up. "Yeah, a walk. I can do that." He handed his mother the box and left.

The midday heat did wonders to Jim's bunched shoulder muscles. Rolling his head side to side to further loosen up, Jim followed a path that trail-headed near the cabin. He kept watch for sunbathing rattlers. The exercise calmed his nerves. Reaching a particularly pleasant shady spot with a nice view to the south of reddish-brown rim rock canyon walls, Jim paused and leaned against the rough tree bark of a handy pine. The tree seemed willing to bear his worry as well as his weight.

"You've got to get better, Sandburg."

Never one for thinking out loud - military officers frowned on chatter in the field - Jim tested the silence. Arizona seemed to invite the conversation. The rocks and trees waited patiently.

"Your parents are going to fix this. We are getting our lives back. Maybe not like before, in Cascade, but we're not going to run forever."

An energetic bird with black and white feathers, wearing a black bandit mask over a bright orange head swooped in to perch on a nearby branch. Jim smiled. He really did have an audience now.

"And when this is over, we're going to make the government reimburse us for all this shit and take a month, maybe a full year off and have a real vacation," Jim added.

The bird cocked its head, eyes knowing. `What about your mother?' it seemed to ask.

Jim didn't want to think about that. "Somewhere where I can surf maybe. Sandburg can learn too. I'll teach him."

The bird flew off.

When Jim returned to the cabin, Blair was asleep. Grace was in the kitchen washing dishes. A large pitcher of ice tea waited for him on the counter. Pouring a glass and downing half its contents, Jim pulled the stool out and sat.

"Try feeding him when he wakes. Nothing too heavy, maybe toast," Grace suggested as she set the clean frying pan in a metal rack to drip dry.

Jim could see the water start to evaporate, further reminding him they were far away from home. "Did he take the medicine?"

She nodded. "He did. He settled down after you left. I think he was just embarrassed."

"It's stupid," Jim groused before gulping down more tea. "We've been together too long for that childish crap."

She pulled the plug and ran the washrag under the faucet before wringing it out and wiping down the area around the sink. "I know I have no right to ask, but you two are an unlikely pair."

Jim finished his drink. He wanted to tell her to butt out. That she had no business in his life. She had no standing in his world.

Except his best friend was sleeping upstairs, hopefully on the road to recovery, all because she had helped. Jim pushed his irritation down as best he could. "He may look like a flake, but he's solid."

She pierced him with a look of disapproval. "I never suggested otherwise." She folded the washcloth over the neck of the faucet, a habit that Jim recognized as his own. "I have to go. I'll be back tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

Jim stood and pulled out his wallet. "Can you bring us back some motor oil?"

Blair woke to darkness and the dying rumble of thunder.

Still feeling like road kill, he extended an arm, fingers touching the bedside lamp, and spider-crawled for his glasses. They weren't there.

When had he last used them?

It was useless. Blair couldn't remember. Maybe Jim forgot and left them behind at Robert and Eleanor's Kansas farmhouse. He shivered and tucked his arm back under the warm covers, wondering how the desert night could turn so cold. After a few minutes of ignoring the pressure of a full bladder, he slipped out, swayed uncertainly for a moment in the darkness before getting his bearings.

And walked right into Jim.

"Shit!"

"Hey, Chief." Jim kept him from falling. "I thought you heard me."

Taking a second to check his heart hadn't jumped out and fled in terror, Blair blindly patted the thin T-shirt covering Jim's chest. "A-a nightlight wouldn't be a bad thing right now, man." Blair jumped as a flash of lightening threw the bedroom into stark relief and ruined whatever night vision he'd had.

"Yeah," Jim answered before guiding him forward. "We lost power."

Jim sounded far away and Blair realized his ears were blocked. Wonderful, this flu was doing a number on him. Reaching the bathroom, Jim left him alone long enough to take care of business. When Blair opened the door, Jim held a flickering yellow light. The candle cast Jim in odd shadows. He set the jar holding the short, stout, white candle down by the lamp.

Blair washed and dried his hands on a small towel before returning to bed. "Where's Grace?"

"No idea," Jim answered briskly. "Said she'd be back tomorrow sometime."

Blair settled back into the warm bed, unable to stop shivering. He recognized the stoic Jim-signs even in the candle light: sight downward turn of his mouth, tense muscles along the wide shoulders and the way he flexed his fingers.

"You don't like her, do you?" Blair asked point blank, a tactic that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't. "Why, man? She's nice. She's helping us and she doesn't have to. I don't know how Naomi knows her, coz I don't remember her at all. But she's nice."

Blair didn't know what to think when Jim gave him a funny look.

"Go back to sleep, Sandburg."

"Why not?"

"Because you're sick."

"But you're the one that said my fever broke last night."

"So, what, you want to relapse? Let's see if you keep your breakfast down first." Jim checked the kitchen one last time. The dishes were dried and put away. The counters were clean. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing. His work here was done.

Now if he could only get Blair back up into that bed. He realized too late it was a mistake letting him come down to eat. Now he sat on the stool, hands clutching the counter's edge like he expected Jim to pry him away.

Jim sighed. "I'll bring down a pillow and a blanket. You can rest on the sofa."

"Just a short walk. I want to look around."

Bracing both arms out straight on the breakfast bar and leaning over the stove top with his eyes narrowed, Jim used his best Army Captain glare. He spoke slowly. "You are sick. You need to rest so you can get well. Then we will drive on. Which element of this reality has you confused?"

In spite of Jim's personal track record of striking fear into two hundred and fifty pound marines, the little goober snickered.

"Well, most of it, because I feel fine today," Blair answered with a cheeky grin.

The sound of an approaching car cut off Jim's retort. Striding to the large picture window, he pulled back the lined curtain. Grace was back. She unloaded another grocery sack, fresh fruit sticking out from the top. Jim took the bag from her at the door.

"You're looking so much better." She smiled upon seeing Blair.

"Hi, Grace!" Blair greeted her happily. "I'm a hundred percent."

"More like thirty-two," Jim muttered as he started to unload the bag. Two wrapped rib-eye steaks waited at the bottom of the bag for him. His mouth watered at the thought. "Did I give you enough money?" he asked her.

"You did," she answered, busy checking Blair's forehead with her hand. "I had the man put the motor oil in the trunk."

"Thank you." Jim folded the bag. "I figure we'll be moving on either tomorrow or the next. Depends on Sandburg."

Grace looked surprised. Her eyes caught Jim's gaze over the top of Blair's head. Jim broke the moment, ducking his head as he stowed the folded bag under the kitchen sink.

"I never got to ask how you knew Naomi," Blair suddenly asked.

Jim shook his head. Grace caught the movement. "Well -"

The cuckoo clock picked that second to announce the hour. Both Jim and Grace glanced up at the ornate time piece in unison. The small wooden bird appeared briefly as the doors hinged open. Just as the last note ended and the doors swung shut, Jim felt his skin tingle.

"Blair," he whispered.

The clock had taken a full thirty seconds to toll eight times, long enough for Blair to fall into a light trance. Grace hadn't noticed. She wasn't prepared when Blair sagged sideways on the stool. Jim couldn't move fast enough. The sound of Blair's head hitting the floor made Jim wince as he knelt beside his guide.

"Sandburg." Jim slid a hand under an ear, tilting his head to keep his neck in line as his other hand gently checked each vertebra. Everything felt okay.

Blair blinked in surprise. "Ouch."

Grace was at his side, ready to assist. She checked Blair's wrist, expertly finding his pulse.

"How many fingers?" Jim asked, holding three digits up before Blair's nose.

"Let me up, I'm fine." Blair pushed off the floor with his free hand, gently twisting out of Grace's hold. He groaned and probed his skull where it had smacked the floor.

"What happened?" Grace asked, concerned.

Jim knew. "It's this flu," he lied, helping Blair stand. "You're going back upstairs. No arguments."

Blair didn't argue. He let Jim drag him up the staircase. Grace stayed below, giving them some privacy.

"I was in a big house," Blair muttered as Jim propped him on the edge of the bed.

Jim lifted off Blair's sweatshirt. The morning temperature was already too high for anything but a t-shirt. Blair's arms bonelessly flopped back to his sides.

"You don't have the energy for these visions right now, Blair. Forget about it, just rest."

"So sad, man. So much anger..."

"Shh, no more talking." Jim rolled Blair onto his back, head on the pillow, eyes already closed. He lifted Blair's feet and lined him straight then arranged the light blanket to his liking. "Sleep."

To Jim's relief, Blair did.

Grace was in the back of the house, in the small utility room off the kitchen where an apartment-sized stacked washer and dryer were kept. Jim found her folding their clean T-shirts.

"You don't have to do that."

She laid the T-shirt down. "I like to keep busy. Is Blair okay?"

"He should be fine. Just needs more sleep."

An awkward silence followed.

"Did you get any breakfast?" Jim asked. "I could make something."

She shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you."

Here they were, reduced to clipped attempts at a cordial relationship. Jim felt out of his league. "Coffee then? I have a fresh pot."

She seemed as eager for something in her hands as Jim. "That would be nice."

Pouring coffee, finding milk and artificial sweetener filled the void and for a few minutes Jim didn't have to search for polite conversation. Grace sat at the breakfast bar. The windows were open, drawing in the last of the cool morning air. In a while Jim would close them to keep out the heat. The lined drapes would beat back the sun.

He set a spoon out and watched her fix her drink while he sipped his own coffee black. "This is a nice place. Let me know how much we owe you."

She gave him a stern look. "I though I made myself clear. I want to help. I may not know what's happening, but Agent Sandburg made it clear you have done nothing wrong."

Jim sipped his coffee and contemplated the fact that hearing the words `agent' and Sandburg' spoken together hadn't caused him to snort aloud. Grace was giving him an invitation to talk, that was obvious. Jim had no plans to fill in the blanks. Whatever his feelings for this woman, he didn't want her life in danger. As it was, she was already risking more than she realized.

"Blair just needs to get back on his feet. We'll move on when he's better."

She looked up at the clock. "That seemed more than just a fainting spell."

"He's fine."

She stirred her coffee, eyes still on the clock. "That was the only thing I took from your father's house. It was a wedding gift from my grandmother."

God, Jim did not want to hear this.

Grace's eyes roamed the room. "I lived here when I first came to Arizona. This was her place."

A deep pain pricked Jim's soul over her choice of words; her grandparent's place, not Jim's great-grandparent's place.

"I need to work on the Jeep," Jim said briskly, setting the coffee mug down. "You mind keeping an eye on Sandburg?"

She nodded. "Certainly."

Jim wiped the last of the oil from his hands and eyed the jeep with frank appraisal. They needed to think about getting a new ride. That fire in Montana was taking its toll on the body. The license plate he'd switched might be reported as stolen by now. State-to-state communication between law enforcement had improved. Even simple APBs were shared near the borders.

Maybe they could part it out to a junk yard.

Jim looked up as the front door opened and Grace emerged from the house. She wore a wide brim straw hat to shade her face. "I have an appointment. Blair's still asleep."

Jim nodded. The sun was high in the sky, the temperature near the upper nineties. The jeep had its oil changed, belts checked and spark plugs cleaned, giving Jim time to cool off. He no longer felt the urge to punch his fist through the wall. "Thanks."

She reached into her purse for car keys. "I'll be by tomorrow. There's soup on the stove for Blair. Some fresh bread warming in the oven."

She was gone. The dust kicked up from the large car swirled around Jim's legs as he walked back to the house. Inside, it smelled like a bakery. She'd thoughtfully closed the windows and drawn the drapes for him. The house was cool.

Jim checked the soup, turned down the heat and headed upstairs for a shower.

Blair was still asleep. He'd rolled over, closer to the edge, his right arm draped over the edge of the mattress. The pillow under his face had a wet spot from drool.

The shower was heaven. No hot water was required. Jim enjoyed the shivering effect on his skin as it sluiced away the sweat. He shaved under the showerhead and pondered his need for a haircut. Emerging a solid fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist, Jim felt human again.

"Hey," Blair greeted, struggling to sit up on the bed. His eyes were hooded with too much sleep, hung over by his illness.

"Hey, yourself. How do you feel?" Jim pulled on his last pair of clean boxers and a sleeveless t-shirt.

"Hungry." Blair smacked his dry lips and sniffed the air.

They ate two bowls of the homemade soup apiece, filled with chunks of meat and potato with roasted garlic. Blair stuffed his face with thick slices of sourdough bread.

"If you keep this meal down, I'd guess your flu bug has done its worst," Jim commented with a wry grin.

"Mmm hmmm," Blair mumbled as he chewed.

"Good, we can get back on the road."

Sitting straight, Blair swallowed to speak. "We're leaving? How come? Let's find jobs and stay here for a while, man. The weather is warm and Grace seems nice."

Jim shook his head, gathering up his bowl and ice tea glass to take to the sink. "I'm thinking Mexico." Running water and squirting dish soap into the sink, Jim listened to the shocked silence behind his back.

After a long pause, Blair spoke in a hush. "Mexico?"

"Yeah."

Another long silence.

Concentrating hard on washing the already clean spoon a fourth time, Jim finally set it on the drain board and turned around to lean against the kitchen counter. The kitchen window opened to the shaded side of the house and didn't require drapes. Bright sunlight filtered into the room, leaving Blair with the washed-out look of the recently sick. He sat slumped over, his shoulders slumped, eyes on the soup bowl as he listlessly stirred its contents.

"Just until Naomi give us the all clear, Chief," Jim added.

"Sure." Blair pushed the bowl away.

Leaning over the breakfast island, Jim gathered up his bowl and spoon. "Do you want more juice?"

"No." He offered a worn smile. "Thanks, anyway."

"Why don't you go lie down?"

Standing, Blair shook his head and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "My bedsores have sores."

"I saw some paperbacks under the coffee table."

"Maybe," Blair answered as he wandered over to stand by the sofa. He looked lost. "A Jags game would be nice."

"TV would be nice," Jim added.

"Yeah, we must be too far away to get a signal." He glanced around the cabin as if seeing it for the first time. A yawn surprised him. "Any idea where my glasses might be?"

Jim absentmindedly chewed his lower lip in thought. He had no clue. "Ummm. I could check the jeep..."

"Nah, forget it, man."

Making a point of not watching to see what the younger man would do next, Jim returned to washing up, his thoughts on what they would have for supper later on. Checking the cupboard that held the dry goods, he found what he needed for an easy marinade. After the rib-eye steaks were bathing in a tray with steak sauce and lemon juice with bits of chopped onion and crushed garlic, Jim checked on Blair.

His friend had sprawled out on the sofa, a paperback inches from his nose.

Okay, what else? Jim spotted the colander filled with the fruit Grace had brought. She'd overdone the groceries, bringing a full bag with her on each visit. A container of plain yogurt was in the door of the icebox. Jim started a fruit salad. When he was finished, Blair was asleep, the paperback resting on his chest, one hand still folded behind his head.

Finding a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer, Jim went up to their bedroom and found his oldest pair of jeans. He came down a few minutes later wearing his new shorts and tennis shoes with no socks. He felt like taking a walk.

Blair woke to the sound of the cuckoo clock. For the first time in days, his head no longer pounded, his eyes didn't feel sand-blasted. Maybe he was getting better.

If only he had some energy.

The cabin was still comfortably warm. He set the book he'd been reading aside and sat up. "Jim?"

No answer. After using the small toilet off the kitchen and washing up, he poured a glass of apple juice and eyed the salad on the top shelf before closing the refrigerator door. Two steaks marinated under plastic wrap next to it. His partner had been busy.

Sipping and savoring the sweetness, feeling more awake than he had all day, he wandered around the lower level. He really liked this place. Strolling out the back door, he breathed in the perfumed desert hot air and stretched. He walked barefoot over the reddish clay-colored ground, careful to avoid the dried up, brown vegetation and any thorns it might hold. The back yard was natural, no expensive landscaping. A broad-leaf prickly pear cactus was the most interesting feature.

The house had been built under the towering face of a canyon wall that rose straight up. Walking around to the corner, Blair could see the entire land was a maze of these walls, forming deep dry arroyos worn by wind and water over thousands of years. He checked for snakes before gently easing up on a flat boulder, perfect for sitting cross-legged while meditating.

Blair allowed a private grin.

What a view. He could see for miles; red and brown layers painted the cliffs under a sapphire blue sky, white, feathery clouds that promised no moisture, tough looking pines and birch trees that managed to survive in spite of the harsh arid climate.

When he closed his eyes, he could still see the colors.

Would Mexico be like this?

It saddened him to think of leaving the States, and made him angry. Yeah, he was a traveler, but it was one thing to plan a vacation, another thing entirely when you were forced to flee. But he knew what Jim would say. That last brush with trouble had been too damn scary. And every time they used a stranger's hospitality, it put those who helped them in danger.

Which directed his thoughts to Grace.

Who was she? How did Naomi know her?

Blair recalled his vision from that morning, during breakfast.

"Sandburg."

Blair's eyes snapped open. Jim was striding down a path that wandered between stubby brush and razor-sharp edged tufts of grass. "Hey."

Jim nodded toward the house. "You shouldn't be out in the sun."

Flexing stiff legs and realizing he'd been sitting longer than he had originally thought, Blair scooted off the boulder. "You know," Blair said, "some cultures find sunshine a valid part of healing. In fact, it's been proven to help bones. Not only that, but researchers are finding cancer mortality rates lower in these sunny regions."

Jim kicked the sand from his shoes before leading the way back into the kitchen. "Riiight."

"It's true." Blair paused in the middle of the kitchen, enjoying the cooler temperatures. He stretched. "I'm grabbing a shower."

Jim had his head in the refrigerator. "When you're done, we'll talk about leaving tomorrow."

"Jim." Blair crossed his arms. "I really think we should hang here a little longer. I've been thinking about that vision I had when Grace was here."

"Keep it to yourself, Sammy-the-psychic." Jim turned, closing the icebox door with more force than needed. He carried the ice tea pitcher to the counter and got down two glasses.

"What? I can't even talk now?"

"Of course you can talk." Jim frowned as he poured. "Don't be so melodramatic."

Blair's mood was changing from irritated to pissed. "Jim, all I'm saying is Grace needs our help. She has issues, okay? I could feel them."

"For God's sakes, Blair. Give it a rest." Snatching up his tea glass and leaving the other for Blair, Jim escaped into the living room. He dropped into the chair next to the sofa and toed off his sneakers, showing a line where the dust ended around both ankles.

The wiser part of Blair's brain said shut up and wait until Jim was in a better mood. And he probably would have listened had Jim not continued his rant.

"We're not on some goodwill mission, Einstein. I'm trying to keep us from both spending our lives in damn cages."

Blair lost it, stalking Jim to the living room. "So what? We run and hide? What kind of life is that? Why can't we help people along the way? We have the means, Jim. There has to be a greater purpose here than just tucking our tails between our legs."

Taking a deep breath, Blair lowered his fists from his sides and forced himself to calm down. "Look it. All's I'm saying is a few more days can't hurt. Let me talk to Grace. She's hurting deep down, seriously sad. She's been so nice to us. She needs someone to talk to."

Jim rose in one smooth movement, tall muscular frame vibrating like a thoroughbred racehorse penned in the starting gate. "Butt. Out." He leaned forward, getting right in Blair's face and spoke with clipped, angry words, "Keep your freakish, mutant abilities to yourself for once. Got that?"

Blair reeled back, stunned and hurt.

Mutant?

Numbness inundated his chest and gut. Realizing his mouth could trap flies, he closed it with a snap. A brief flash of something - remorse? contempt? - it was hard to tell, rocketed over Jim's face. Blair turned away, his thoughts freefalling.

"Sandburg."

Blair held up a hand. He made for the stairs. "I'm in the shower."

"Damnit, you know I didn't mean that," Jim ground out, still angry.

Keeping his eyes on the stairs, Blair nodded. "It's cool."

He couldn't escape fast enough.

Shit.

Jim palm-scrubbed his face hard. When was he going to learn?

Upstairs, the shower started. If he really pressed, he could listen over the sounds of the water, but he didn't.

The realization of how badly he'd screwed up hit hard.

`Why didn't I just admit who she is?'

Jim knew why.

Blair would become a one-man army in the cause to reunite mother and son. And Jim didn't want to play. Resisting the urge to hurl the half-empty iced tea glass at the wall, Jim returned to the kitchen to find some aspirin. He fought the childproof cap before swallowing three white pills.

He checked his watch.

It was too early to think about dinner, but he needed something to keep his hands busy, and his mind off his faults. Taking two potatoes that Grace hadn't used for the soup, he scrubbed the skin, pierced them with baking nails before slathering on butter and wrapping one in foil for Blair and set his on the baking pan bare. He liked scooping out the cooked part and munching the crispy skin with an unhealthy helping of butter.

He wandered around the main floor listening to the water pipes supplying Blair's shower. When the water shut off, Jim panicked. It was time to clean the grill. He called himself a coward as he scraped charred bits of food off the wire rack with a long-handled tool he had found. There was a red and black barbecue out back, briquettes and lighter fluid in a narrow shed tucked under the eaves of the house. He listed several reasons he didn't deserve Blair for a friend while he laid out the briquettes in orderly rows.

Making sure the cooker was well away from the side of the house; he doused the pile of black pillows with lighter fluid and tossed on a match. Flames licked up through the grill.

After he was sure the white edges of the briquettes were not figments of his imagination, he squared his shoulders, straightened his back and went inside. His plan was simple; beg for forgiveness.

He climbed the stairs with resolution and found he'd been granted a reprieve. Blair was sound asleep on his bed, his hair still wrapped in a towel.

Jim went back outside to poke at the burning charcoal with a stick.

During the night Blair threw up again, which was unexpected because he'd never eaten dinner. Jim listened to his friend being sick in the bathroom. No bolting from the bed followed by a mad rush, Blair had calmly woken up, walked across the room, and closed the door.

The door reopened. Blair closed the door behind him, leaving most of the sour smell trapped in the tiny room for the ceiling fan to deal with and returned to bed without a comment.

"Do you want anything?" Jim asked as he watched his friend settle the blankets around him in the darkness before lying down.

"No, thanks."

When the early sun revealed the beginnings of another hot day, Blair had a low grade fever. He drank juice, gnawed half heartedly on toast before rolling toward the wall with a yawn.

The plan to leave that day was scrapped.

Frustrated, Jim committed random acts of housework. The windows sparkled, the corners of the floor hid no dirt, and the countertops smelled pleasantly of orange cleaner. Tired of his blitz clean, Jim made a sandwich from thin slices from the steak he'd been unable to eat last night - Blair's still waited for him in the refrigerator.

He checked on his partner who was still asleep. His hand hovering above Blair's forehead, Jim declared the fever gone. Perhaps they could pack up this afternoon and leave. Feeling ancient, Jim descended the staircase. He wrapped his lunch in a paper towel, grabbed a water bottle and headed outside. He'd get some exercise, clear his head and find a shady spot further up the canyon to eat lunch. He liked the view it offered. A solitary rock formation, shaped like a rooster's comb, rose out of the flat desert floor.

A bird, similar to the one Jim had seen earlier, rode a warm air current to earth and landed a few feet away. Jim pitched out a corner of his bread and watched the small creature investigate it. They enjoyed their meal in quiet companionship. Halfway through his sandwich Jim heard the familiar sound of Grace's large car. He leaned back against the solid tree trunk and chewed his steak.

Somewhere during his life he'd stopped thinking of her as his mother, just Grace. It was beyond weird to see her now and compare her with his memory of those years when she had lived with them. He had mental pictures of her packing lunchboxes - he had Bonanza and Stephen had Flipper - and planning Dad's work-related dinner parties. There had been rare moments of family unity, and Jim had guarded those memories in his heart like the national treasure. He had caught the chicken pox. The doctor had fussed because the spots actually got into his mouth. Jim remembered the way Grace... his mother... had remained at his side for days, feeding, reading, soothing, keeping a small boy from getting scared.

Sadness filled him. Damn. It never failed. His brain tried to reconcile that memory of his mother with the memory of waking up to learn she disappeared from his life without explanation.

Enough.

Jim stood and briskly dusted off his shorts.

During the walk back to the cabin, he made plans. They'd pay Grace for whatever they owed and head south. Blair was probably good enough to travel, if not today then first light tomorrow.

The Cadillac was parked in its normal place, looking dusty and overdue for a bath. He entered through the kitchen and found Grace at the stove. The ageless scent of tea filled the place. She was making another batch of ice tea, starting with steeping several tea bags over a low flame into a concentrate she diluted later with ice water.

"Morning," Jim greeted as he tossed the empty water bottle under the sink and washed his hands.

"Good morning." Grace wore dark tan shorts ending at her knees and a soft button-up blouse that looked expensive yet well worn. "Blair told me you two were leaving."

"That's right," Jim answered. His senses sought out his partner and found him upstairs. "Thought he'd sleep all day."

"I found him in the kitchen."

"I hope you got him to eat."

She nodded and turned off the flame. "He didn't want to at first, but I tempted him with a fresh fruit smoothie. He took it up with him. Even took all the berries I made it with."

"Good." Jim watched her pour dark amber tea into the pitcher. "He got sick again last night and had a fever this morning."

"I didn't feel one," she said, shrugging sheepishly, as if admitting a minor transgression. "Once a nurse, always a nurse. He said I reminded him of you."

Jim's gaze fell on a small purplish spot on his previous pristine countertop. His senses responded, acting on their own accord. Smell piggybacked sight and he sniffed the summery scent of fruit. What was that? Jim dipped a finger and licked. Grace twisted a tray of ice cubes and began pulling them out one at a time to drop into her ice tea pitcher.

"You made a smoothie?" Jim asked suddenly.

"A yogurt and fruit drink, with blended ice," she answered.

Jim pulled the trashcan from under the sink. A pint sized plastic carton with a hinged lid sat on top. "Not blueberries?"

"Yes, he said he loved them. They were washed." She was talking to herself as Jim bolted from the kitchen.

Jim could hear Blair scrambling for the bathroom before he could make the top of the stairs, the bathroom with a lock on the door.

"Sandburg!" Jim bellowed.

The door slammed.

Shit. Jim pounded it with a fist. "Open up. Now!"

"Jim, calm down," Blair answered through the door.

The door had a hollow core. Without thinking, Jim rammed it with his shoulder and the frame splintered. The edge hit Blair's shoulder and he fell backwards to land onto the closed seat of the toilet.

"What were you thinking?" Jim shouted.

Blair bolted back to his feet, his expression hard and mean. He shoved, catching Jim off balance. "Stop pushing me around, Jim!" Blair shouted back, his face red.

Jim blocked the access to the stairs with his body.

"You are not this stupid," Jim demanded. "Tell me you didn't eat them."

"Jim?" Grace stood uncertainly at the third stair from the top, her hand shaking as it gripped the hand rail.

"I don't have to tell you anything," Blair shouted back. He took a step forward and tried to shove Jim a second time.

Jim braced hard and curled his lips back into a feral grin when Blair failed.

"God damn you!" Blair swung a fist.

"Blair!" Grace snapped.

At the last possible second, Blair terminated the punch. His eyes widened with shame. He drew a shattered breath and turned away.

Jim's anger died in self contempt. What the hell was he trying to prove here?

"Sandburg," Jim whispered. "How much did you eat?"

"All of it."

"Oh, God." Grace swayed. "He's allergic?"

"Sort of," Jim admitted.

Blair looked miserable.

Jim closed the front door, muffling the sound of the departing Cadillac. It had taken imaginative explanations, a promise to fix the bathroom door, carefully worded assurances and repeated guarantees that no more fights would break out to get her to leave. The fact that she still blamed herself was evident. That couldn't be helped right now. Jim had other problems to worry about.

Like guides who have taken total leave of their senses.

Deep in examination of his thumb nail, Blair didn't look up. Jim stood, uncertain for a moment how to proceed. Screaming had nearly gotten him punched out. Time for a new tactic.

"Was it to get back at me?" Jim asked. "Because of what I said yesterday?"

That was answered with a quick shift of gaze, then back to the thumbnail. Blink and miss it.

Jim pressed on. "I said I was sorry. What, that doesn't cut it with you anymore?"

"See?" Blair sprang up, suddenly vocal and animated. "You turn it around so you're the wounded party here. You called me a freaking `mutant'!"

"I know!" Jim yelled back. "I screwed up! I can admit that. What's the deal? When did you start hurting yourself to punish me for being an idiot? When did you get so thin-skinned?"

Color leached from Blair's face. His eyes eclipsed with bottomless darkness. The fight seemed to evaporate. "You..." He swallowed and shook his head.

For a second Jim thought he was fighting to breathe and he got scared. "Chief?"

Inhaling harshly, Blair forced the words out. "You... are the last person... I have left. You leave and-"

Jim cursed. "You imbecile." It was Jim's turn to shake his head. "I'm not leaving. Not without you, anyway."

Blair looked unconvinced.

Shit. Jim slowly wiped his mouth. Perhaps it was time to come clean. He felt like a kid confessing to swiping a baseball card from a corner store, unsure now why he had done it.

And maybe that's what was so `off' about these last few days. From the moment he had seen Grace standing in that doorway, Jim had felt caught in some time loop from his childhood. Blair's underlying insecurity had to be caused by what Jim was feeling. He shook his head. "This is my fault, Sandburg. I forget that we're hard wired together."

Expectantly silent, Blair said nothing.

Jim pressed on, feeling lost in an unfamiliar territory. He paced the length of the room. "I haven't been totally honest with you. Grace is not an old friend of your mother's."

"Naomi wouldn't send us to a total stranger," Blair reasoned, sounding weary.

At least they had stopped screaming at each other.

"I agree." Jim stopped. He tilted this head back and searched the high ceiling as he considered his words. "Grace is my mother."

Blair's eyes bugged out. "What?"

Flipping his hand casually, Jim repeated himself. "Grace is my mother. She left us when we - me and my kid brother - were young."

Blair pointed at the closed front door. "Grace... that woman that just left here, is your mother," he asked, as if testing his words for a proper fit.

"That's right."

"And you didn't tell me."

Jim exhaled loudly, puffing his cheeks. He offered his best `I'm clueless' expression' and a timid smile.

Digging his hands deep into his hair and lifting his face upward as if to gaze toward heaven, Blair cursed quietly. "Damnit, Ellison. What am I going to do with you?" he asked finally. Tight shoulders slouched. He crabbed sideways to drop onto the sofa.

Jim waited for Blair to process. He'd probably make a few cracks about how repressed and fear-based some people could be and they'd move on.

But Blair was silent, too silent.

Nearly comatose.

"Sandburg?"

No answer.

Jim squatted down in front of the sofa. He laid a hand on Blair's arm. No response. His head back, his eyes closed, Blair didn't appear asleep. Jim lightly patted a pale cheek.

"Blair?"

"Mmm?"

"What's wrong? Open your eyes."

Blair obeyed, to a point. He peered back through twin slits of blue. "You're all glowy."

"I'm glowing? Is everything glowing?"

Blair lazily looked about the room, not moving his head. "Yeah. Wazzup?"

Jim tried not to panic. "Let's lay you down." He quickly shifted and repositioned Blair, doing all the work.

But the new position seemed to frighten rather than help. Blair struggled. "No, no. It's all wrong. Jim, it's wrong. Oh, god, man."

"Settle down," Jim instructed, keeping his own panic tamped down.

"Far away, everything is far away." Blair's fingers were like steel talons on Jim's wrist. "Don't go."

"I'm not." Jim moved to sit at Blair's side. It seemed to help some. "You need to lie down."

Blair didn't resist so much this time, as long as Jim's arms were around him. Blair let Jim push him down until he was more or less draped over Jim's legs.

That's when the seizure hit.

The memory returned in spades.

Jim had snatched the back sofa cushion next to him. He used it to the best of his ability to keep Blair from getting hurt. But you can't restrain a person in a Grand Mal seizure. Not the massive type Blair had just experienced. It hadn't lasted long, maybe three minutes at most.

It only seemed like a lifetime.

Jim waited for a second seizure, knowing sometimes they occurred back-to-back. His training on epilepsy was minimal. The army did cover it because the condition was sometimes caused by trauma, something they often saw. But why Blair? This had to be that damn ice-pick-brain surgery he had allowed back in Washington.

He used the hem of his own t-shirt to wipe a trail of saliva from Blair's mouth. His friend remained blessedly still in post-ictal stupor. Jim's own hands trembled as he lifted Blair carefully by his shoulders so he could move out from underneath. He used the cushion to prop Blair comfortably on the sofa arm and straightened the younger man's arms and legs. Eyes closed, Blair showed all the life of a string-less puppet.

Jim sat on the coffee table, his knees pressed against the sofa and waited.

When the narrow light beam from an upper window reached the base of the floor lamp next the sofa, Blair groaned. Jim leaned forward, watching the eyelids twitch.

"Sandburg? You there?" Jim checked the other man's carotid pulse, finding it within normal range and strength.

"Nnnnugh."

Confusion often followed seizure. Jim tried not to think the worst. Blair would be fine. His body would process the effects of the blueberry and he'll be back to normal.

Blair sniffed, rotated his head toward Jim and opened his eyes. "Mornn..."

Jim forced his worries aside. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

Blair yawned, his jaw cracked. He closed his eyes again. "Mixin' parkway... vacuum the cable, man," he muttered.

"Riight." Jim stood up. His back protested stiffly and he bowed his spine to force a stretch. "Why don't you sleep a while?"

"'kay." Blair began to snore.

When the sun sank, Jim covered Blair with a light blanket, ate Blair's steak cold, and climbed the stairs to sleep.

Fire that shrink-wrapped skin to bone, wind that tossed Jeeps around like feathers, running until lungs wanted to burst from use, all these thoughts wove in and out of Blair's head like a net snaring his reality. It was unpleasant. Blair wanted it to stop.

He opened his eyes and saw a strange room. Spikes of fear speared his chest.

"Jim?" He rose painfully on one elbow, rolling on his hip to look for his roommate.

"Coming, Sandburg," a familiar voice called from above.

This was not the loft. Blair traced his dry lips with his equally dry tongue. Jim appeared, jogging down a set of foreign stairs. He wore boxers and a muscle t-shirt. The room was dark, as though a bad storm had moved in and covered Cascade entirely.

"You okay?"

Hell, no, Blair wanted to say. He was not okay; he was starting to freak out. He couldn't stop looking around the strange house. "W-where? Am I? What's happenin'?

"Wait a sec." Jim held up a hand, walking by him to go into an attached kitchen. A refrigerator light cast a bright yellow light on the linoleum floor at Jim's bare feet. Jim was back with a chilly water bottle. He twisted off the cap before offering it.

The water chased away the dryness, but didn't clear the confusion.

"We're staying in a house in Arizona. We're safe. What do you remember?" Jim asked. He perched on the edge of a coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"My head hurts," Blair admitted.

"Understandable."

"What happened?"

Jim paused. "What do you remember?"

Blair rubbed his forehead, fighting the irritation growing. Was Jim purposely being a jerk?

A cuckoo clock sounded from the kitchen.

"Grace," Blair blurted out suddenly.

Jim smiled. He slumped a little, as if some weight had been lifted from his shoulders and patted Blair's knee. "Hungry?"

Stirring the lumpy, taupe colored Cream of Wheat absentmindedly, Blair cleared his throat. "You know, man. You can't keep this up. I'm remembering more and more about yesterday. You said Grace is your mother. You told me that. So tell me the rest."

"Finish eating first," Jim answered patiently, like a damn parrot.

"I'm starting to get pretty pissed off." Blair's eyes narrowed as he turned to the man sitting on the stool next to his. "Didn't you say I needed to stay calm? If that's the plan, it's not working." He pushed the half-eaten bowl of cereal away and leaned back from the breakfast bar.

Hunger strike.

"You're acting about five years old," Jim told him. "You realize that, right?"

"Tell. Me. What. Happened." Blair crossed his arms for good measure.

"You had a seizure."

"What!" Blair's heart did a full triple somersault, hitting every rib on its tumble.

Jim sat calmly, spooned porridge into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Blair wanted to shake him. But... if Jim could remain calm, maybe this wasn't so bad.

"Seizure?" Blair could hear the squeak in his voice. "Are you sure? Shouldn't I remember it?"

"I'm sure and no, most often a seizure patient doesn't remember them."

"I'm not a seizure patient."

Jim lifted one eyebrow. "You are now. Want to tell me why you stuffed a pint of blueberries into your cake hole?"

Blair ground his molars and fumed, recognizing `high and mighty' Ellison had arrived again. "You go first, why didn't you tell me Grace was your mother?"

Neither man spoke. Jim finished his porridge and let the spoon clatter into the bowl. He propped both elbows on the countertop and formed a steeple with his fingertips. Blair watched him flex his digits like a spider on a mirror doing pushups.

"I should have seen the breakup coming," Jim said as if they'd been in the middle of some lighthearted conversation. "She and my old man were barely speaking with each other, except when they were at a dinner party. Pop was all about work."

Blair didn't breathe; afraid the distraction would shut Jim up.

"Her eyes were always red when we got home from school. She never said anything. Then one Saturday, we woke up and she was gone." Jim picked up his bowl, reached over and took Blair's half full bowl and stood up.

"How old were you?" Blair asked quietly when Jim was at the sink and it looked like he wasn't going to get any more.

"Eleven, maybe twelve." Jim shrugged. "Stephen wouldn't stop crying. Dad was pissed. The neighbors gave us funny looks a lot. Once I heard Pop on the phone with her, trying to get her to visit us."

Blair tried to picture it. He couldn't.

"She never came back," Jim said after the bowls were rinsed, washed, and draining on a dish towel next to the sink. He turned, leaned against the sink and folded his arms. "Then, about six months later, Pop said she was dead, killed in a car crash somewhere in Florida. Stephen finally stopped crying himself to sleep."

"Why would your dad lie like that? Say she was dead?"

Jim scratched the bridge of his nose. "Maybe he thought we needed closure, I don't know."

Closure.

Because a mother refused to come and visit her own sons. Blair thought about Naomi. She would have moved heaven and earth to get to her son. The real difficulty was merging Jim's version of his mother with what Blair had felt when he'd picked up the old memory from Grace. Granted, Blair had been sick with a fever at the time, but he clearly picked up her deep affection for Jim.

"Your turn," Jim said.

Blair looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"You said if I went first, you'd tell me why you ate the blueberries."

"Oh." Blair crossed his arms, figured he looked stupid that way, dropped them and didn't like that either. He stood up, suddenly restless and feeling trapped.

The living room drapes were open. Sedona landscape, raw and prehistoric looking was on display in the early morning light. The view clarified his thoughts. "I was being stupid. I got it in my mind I could control it. Pick the memories I wanted to forget."

"You know you can't." Jim had entered the living room and stood a few feet back, off to one side.

Blair could feel Jim's gaze on him before he turned to share the view. "I know, but I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time."

"You were pissed at what I said."

"I thought I got to tell this."

"So, talk."

One edge of Blair's mouth curled. Jim was a huge advocate of tough love. This would be as close to an apology as he was going to get. Still, it was Jim saying it and that made it enough.

"Yeah, I was pissed. But I'm okay now."

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Jim stepped up to stand at Blair's shoulder. "I guess I lost it a little when you started to talk about her past."

"See, Jim. That's just it." Blair turned to face his friend. "She really, really cares for you. I could feel it, man. She was sad about something, but it wasn't you."

"I don't know, Sandburg. She did a decent job of cutting all ties with us." Jim pierced him with a sad look. "She had every legal right to shared custody. Why didn't she take it?"

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