We're pinned down in a candy store.

I want to laugh at the absurdness of it, getting killed in a turn of the century sweet shop. We're huddled behind a marble-topped counter and Jim is all cop-mode, crouched and deadly with his hand wrapped around his gun like it was the last line of defense. Hell, it is. What am I thinking?

And me, I'm one breath away from wetting myself.

Okay, I have to give myself a break here, I'm kinda, sorta...

Shot.

"Be ready," Jim whispers to me. "I can hear them moving again."

Oh, god. I'm gonna die inches from chocolate and almonds and not going to get a taste. I bit down hard on my lip and try not to giggle. Must be blood loss effecting my brain. I want to think I'm better than this.

"Backup is coming. We'll be fine," Jim says.

Yeah, sure, whatever man, because I'm really starting to fly apart, thought you should know. Your roommate is a wuss. Is that possible? Can a body self-destruct from fear? How does Jim stay so calm? I huddle in a tight miserable ball of gooberness and close my eyes.

No, the darkness is even worse. My eyelids pop open. I want to see them coming. These creeps that conduct their shady business deal in the middle of the night, in a stupid candy store, for pity sake. I'll never be able to enjoy a stolen moment with my stash of Almond Rocha again.

Which I suddenly realize is a pretty stupid thought because I'm going to be dead in a few minutes and that makes me close my eyes tightly and press up hard against Jim again, only to remember I don't like darkness, so my eyes snap open again and I gasp as a clattering metal sound comes from somewhere in the building.

"Easy," Jim whispers in that calm, totally together voice of his. He even manages to reach around with his free hand and cup his hand around the back of my neck and give me a reassuring squeeze.

Somehow it helps. It helps a lot and I'm a tiny bit less scared. I realize his palm is warm and dry. Go figure, not a drop of sweat, because Jim is not scared. I'm like yang to his yin, terrified to his strength, pitiful to his bravery.

I could never be like Jim. Great, let's add a dollop of shame to the fear, cover, shake hard and watch the fizz blow the Blair-container apart.

"Just a little bit longer, Chief. You're doing fine," Jim adds, squeezing one last time before he withdraws his hand.

Damn, I'm a mess. Oh, wonderful, here come the tears. Yeah, I know this hole is hurting. Feels like a bucket of shattered glass from a broken car window got packed into my shoulder. Jim having to drag me halfway through this old building didn't help much. Still, can't I leave this world without the morgue guys saying, `Oh, look! Sandburg was crying before he died. See? Dried tear marks on his face.'

Stupid technicians, anyway. Too damn good at their job.

Okay, my anger is weird and I realize I'm getting a little fuzzy around the edges. Perhaps in the middle too.

I think I'll go to sleep now. Sorry, man. I really am a piece of work.

I can't believe how close...

The coffee looks like the sludge that comes out of the truck during an oil change and I'm still drinking it, like a trained dog. Sandburg would probably have a name for it or point out that caffeine is a drug and laugh it off.

He can't now, because he's asleep.

"How's he doing, Jim?" Simon asks as he silently enters the hospital room.

I thought I had smelled damp wool mixed with Cuban tobacco. "He's good. Be waking up soon. Still raining?"

"What else does this city ever get?" Simon leans against the foot of the bed and peers at Blair pale face. "He's so still. It's not natural."

"I know. Sort of scary." I can't tell my boss how scared this whole episode had left me. "Shit, Simon. They just opened fire, how'd they even know we were in there? I never would have taken him in."

Simon pins me with an indistinguishable look. Is he thinking of pulling Blair's ride-a-long in view of my incompetence? Hell, I wouldn't blame him. Sandburg is probably going to run to the hills the second he gets out of this hospital room.

"I came to tell you. We just finished inventorying the factory. It was crammed full of surveillance technology, like in a science fiction movie. The IT guys are drooling. The Feds are already knocking at our door. I think they're going to mow right over us and take this one from our hands."

Wonderful, we investigate a simple car jacking ring and end up walking into spookville. I don't really care about the case anymore. Funny that. There was a day I'd hunt every last one down. Not now. Let the east coast suits clean up this mess.

"Owwww."

I knew he was waking up. "Blair?

He crakes open on eye and searches until he spots me. "Choc...olate?"

"What?" I lean closer. I must have heard that wrong. Could have sworn he said-

"Did we... score any... free candy?"

Blair lifts one corner of his mouth, just enough to strain his dry lips without cracking them. I make a note to bring him a tube of Chapstick. "No, Junior. You're already too slow to dodge those bullets. We don't need you fat, too."

His pain-filled eyes light up and he blurps a quick, contemptuous snort. I don't know why we rib each other so much. I know we get some weird looks from others, even Simon. But Blair and I just fall into this with ease. Our own version of male bonding. So much is nonverbal. I catch the hand reaching for me and squeeze.

"You `kay?" he whispers just before he goes back to sleep.

"Yeah." I tell him. "Everything's good."

He's peeling garlic in the kitchen and my mouth is watering.

"How much longer?" I ask.

"You mean after I get all this ready? By myself?" Blair answers me. "Forty-five minutes."

He's trying to sucker me into helping, but I'm not budging from my perfect view of the game on TV. "You're the one who insisted we cook tonight. I wanted to order a pizza."

Blair makes a big act out of shuddering, but twinges his mostly healed shoulder and sucks in his breath. I pretend not to notice. The guy gets all pissy when he thinks I'm treating him with kid gloves.

"You know, I told you once that you should shoot the lard directly into your arteries," he quips. "Now I'm thinking you've got some type of codependency thing going with fast food restaurants."

I answer, eyes glued to the set, "And I've been keeping tabs on the number of people that still don't join you for dinner. It's sad, Chief." I need to behave or I'm not going to get any of those roasted winter vegetables he's fixing. The steaks are marinating and I've got my BBQ tools clean and ready to put to use.

The play ends with a disappointing incomplete pass and we go into half time. I haul my ass off the sofa and shuffle into the kitchen to help.

"Thanks, man." Blair doesn't look up from his work. The large handmade bowl is six inches deep with cubed potatoes. I grab the bag of pearl onions. "No, Jim. Do the squash."

"I'm fine," I tell him, suddenly stubborn. "I was cooking before I met you, I can manage."

He shoots me a worried look, but shuts up about it and soon we're working side by side, chopping and filling the bowl. The game comes back on but I watch from my seat by the table. Simon is coming over and we really should be on time with this little off the cuff dinner party.

Did I mention I wanted Pizza?

My eyes start to water. Without thinking I rub a corner with my thumb.

Pain explodes across my vision. My sinuses fill with acid and I'm blinded with agony. I think I said something, or screamed. I'm not sure.

Strong hands are pushing me away from the table and I stumble, but I'm caught. I don't think about the fact Blair is still healing as he muscles me into our bathroom. I'm still bellowing, trembling, sweating and I'm totally freaked out. How can I go from normal to a whimpering mass in seconds?

I hate having this Achilles' heel. I despise myself when these sentinel traits blindside me. Pun totally intended.

Blair's got his hand cupping the back of my neck. He's calm. His hand is warm and dry and much of my panic evaporates. I'm guided, fully clothed to stand in the bathtub and warm water sluices over my face. Blair's standing with me. He's got some of his special soap he insists I use because he checked it out and its sentinel safe. He's rubbing it into my hands, giving careful attention to each pad of my fingertips. I lift my face to the water. Already the pain starts to fade.

Now he's got a washcloth and he's cleaning my face, like a little kid. I can hear he's talking to me. I expect to hear an earful about how I didn't listen to him, but I don't. He's sharing some joke that Brown told him a few days ago when he got permission from the doctor to work half days. I listen to his voice; just listen to the way he pronounces his words and breathes at just the right times to keep talking effortlessly.

Finally, I can take the cloth from his hand and make noises that don't sound like a newborn calf. "T-thanks, Blair. I've got it. Go dry off."

"Can you see?" Blair demands. And I know if I give the wrong answer, he's not going anywhere.

I nod. "It's fuzzy, but good enough to see you're soaked." He looks like one of those yappy dogs, the ones with the thick coats of fur that shrink to twig-size shapes during a bath. "Go."

"Okay," he says with a tentative grin. "If you're sure. I'll just... get us some dry clothes."

He still looks like he wants to stay and I'm floored once again by his abilities to defuse these little sentinel situations with ease. I want to tell him how important he is. Hell, I should be thanking him every morning when I wake up. But I'm so pathetically weak and he's so damn strong. I give him a gentle push. "Dry clothes? And dry not to drip all over the place," I remind him.

Of course Simon walks in the door right then. He shakes his head, like he catches us in the shower all the time, and releases a weary sigh. "Don't tell me this means we're ordering pizza after all."

End

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