And Dream that I am Home Again

by Lois RH Balzer

  Ellison closed his eyes, feeling a sense of peace creep over him finally, a lifting of the weight he hadn't realized he was still carrying. Blessed Protector, indeed. Who just crawled into whose bed for reassurance?

  He opened his eyes again, wondering if he should leave, but the thought was too difficult to hold on to and he went to sleep instead.

  * * *

  Blair moved his leg, bumping the cast on the wall behind him. "Ow." His foot hurt. Not a nice way to wake up. "Ow." His hands grasped the sheet as he felt his mattress suddenly shift beneath him. "Huh?"

  He cracked his eyes open long enough to see Jim's shadowy figure disappearing from the room. Blair was trying to figure out why Jim was there and more importantly, why he had left, when a moment later Jim was back with some water and his pills.

  "Can you sit up?"

  "Yeah." Blair tried, but coordination seemed to have fled in the middle of the night. He could get his eyes open, but only for brief glimpses of his surroundings. "Uh, actually--"

  Jim helped him sit up enough to swallow the painkillers and gulp down the glass of cool water. "Easy," Jim warned, taking the glass away from him. "You were thirsty. Want some more?"

  He shook his head, wanting only to go back to sleep. "Is it still night?" He let his eyes stay shut, relieved when Jim situated him flat on the mattress again.

  "Three o'clock. Just after."

  Blair groaned. Hours to go yet. "Sorry."

  "No problem," Jim said quietly, laying back beside him.

  "You don't have to stay." There was no response, so he turned his head, prying his eyes open to see Jim in the dim light that came through his window. "You okay?"

  "Yeah." If the response wasn't convincing, what Jim added clinched it. "We can talk about it in the morning."

  Which meant, of course, that Jim Ellison was not okay. But Blair had no brainpower left to deal with it. Drugs one; Sandburg nothing.

  "Stay?" he asked, saying the only thing he could just as sleep won the battle.

  The light pressure of Jim's hand on his arm was answer enough.

  And then the pain drifted away.

  * * *

  Ellison woke four hours later, smiling at the morning sunshine visible through the side window. He had made it through the night without any more incidents. His eyes dropped from the eastern window in Sandburg's room to rest on his partner's face, traces of pain visible on his features even in the relaxed sprawl on the bed.

  Carefully, he got up from the bed and crossed the hall to the bathroom, using the facilities and washing his face. Coffee. He started to make their morning java, when he remembered there was no milk. And they both took milk in their coffee. Sandburg took a lot of milk, even opting for a latte when there was a choice. It was no real bother to throw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and head downstairs. He could get a pint or a quart of milk at the bakery below them. They always had something in the deli section along with the juices and sodas.

  Half way down the first flight of stairs, he felt himself slow down, each step reluctantly following the last.

  Milk. I'm just going to get milk. He's fine. He's safe.

  He's alone.

  Ellison paused on the stairs, holding on to the banister.

  This is ridiculous.

  He deliberately walked down to the ground floor, ignoring the rising panic, the increase of his heart rate, the difficulty in catching his breath.

  "Hey, Detective." Rosy looked up as he entered the store. "How do you always know just when the bread is just out of the oven?"

  His shaking hand grasped hold of the metal handle on the glass refrigerated display case, tugging the door open and grabbing the milk he needed. "I'll take this and some . . . raisin bread."

  "Raisin?" She looked puzzled and he realized the fresh bread was the whole wheat.

  "And a loaf of whole wheat, of course," he added quickly, gasping slightly to get enough air in his lungs. "I'm in a bit of a rush, Rosy. I'm waiting for a phone call."

  "Sure thing, Detective." She handed him the bread and waved him off. "I'll put it on your tab."

  "Thanks." He rushed out the door and up the stairs, taking two at a time.

  "Jim?"

  He could hear the door to the loft open, and Sandburg's distressed call combined with the sound of his guide limping down the third floor hallway above him, the walking cast thumping on the flooring.

  "Jim? Where are you?"

  "Coming!" he called out, hoping his voice would carry. He was at the second floor heading for the third when the door at the top of the stairs opened and he knew without being able to see that Sandburg had emerged onto the landing.

  "Jim? Is something wrong? What's happening?" his guide asked, sounding panicked as he tried to see over the railing.

  "I just went to get milk," Ellison called out, still climbing the stairs quickly.

  "Why?"

  Then came the sound he hadn't wanted to hear. The sound of the cast slipping on the cement stairs. The startled grunt, followed by a gasp of pain.

  Ellison rounded the final corner in time to catch Sandburg in mid flight as he tumbled down the stairs, then rolled with him down to the next landing, doing his best to shelter the younger man from the worst of the fall. They landed in a tangled heap against the corner of the stairwell, Ellison moving out of the way quickly to see how his guide was.

  "Ouch," Blair mumbled, staring at his foot, the frame of the walking cast bent. "Ouch," he repeated. "Jim, it's pressing against my foot. It's pinching something. Ouch!" he said louder, pulling at the cast, getting in the way of Ellison's hands. There was an elaborate set of catches and velcro holding the walking cast in place, and Ellison's fingers moved quickly, trying to straighten the bent buckles that were putting pressure on the injured ankle.

  "Just take it off, okay?" Blair asked, panting in pain as he lay sprawled against the stairs, a faint sheen of sweat on his face.

  "I've undone a few of the clasps. That should ease the pressure."

  "No, just take it off my foot."

  "Let's let the doctors decide that."

  "I want it off. I don't need it."

  "The doctor in Seattle said to wear the walking cast for a week, to give your ankle support--"

  "I won't walk on my foot. Take it off."

  "Sandburg, you--"

  "Take it off!"

  "Okay, okay." Ellison began to undo the latches he had just straightened.

  "It's pink, Jim," Sandburg muttered. "Why is it pink?"

  "It's more of a salmon color--"

  "It's pink," Blair pronounced gloomily, reaching for Ellison's arm as the sentinel finished and hauled him upright. "Why, Jim? Why'd you do that? Did you think it would be funny?" Blair shivered.

  "Why did I do that? Why do you think I'm responsible for it?" Ellison leaned his guide against the railing and jogged down a few stairs to collect the plastic bag with his groceries.

  "Simon said so."

  "He did, did he?" The detective glanced up at Sandburg, still in obvious pain from his fall. "Well, maybe I okayed the choice, but you were the one who wanted pink. You said white was too dull. You wanted something with more color in it."

  "What? You're saying that I chose pink? I think not. That is so not a thing I would do."

  Ellison sighed. He was helping Sandburg up the stairs and they still had five stairs to go. "Did I mention you were high on drugs at the time?"

  "No." Sandburg paused mid-hop. "I was?"

  "You were."

  "So... what? What did I do?"

  "You insisted you wanted pink. I suggested white and you started crying. I told the intern to go ahead and put a pink one on."

  "I wasn't crying."

  "Crocodile tears."

  "Are you sure?"

  "My blue shirt still isn't dry."

  "Do I want to know the rest of this story?"

  They had reached the door, and Ellison could feel Sandburg's growing shivering. He helpe
d him into the loft, steering him to the nearest chair. "Nah, the story only goes downhill from there. But one good thing -- you did get the intern's phone number."

  "Yeah?" Sandburg said, with a laugh, though he was biting his bottom lip to keep it from shaking. "That's me. Always working, right?" He gasped slightly as he sat down.

  Ellison got a throw pillow from the couch and put it on another of the kitchen chairs, elevating Sandburg's leg. "Well, George was a little confused about it, so he may not have given you his real number."

  Sandburg looked up at him, pain forgotten. "George? As in the intern was a guy named George?" The look of panic faded. "This was in Seattle, right?"

  "Right."

  "So... George is in Seattle. Whew."

  "Well, he said if you were into guys, he has this friend in Cascade who he would give your number to."

  "It just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?" Sandburg started shivering again, staring at his foot. "It hurts."

  "The cast was bent on one side, putting pressure on your ankle. Get dressed and we'll go to the hospital here and have them look at it. Maybe they'll say you don't need it at all."

  "Is my ankle broken?"

  Ellison shook his head. "No. Badly strained, though. The walking cast was supporting it." He stood up, hands on his hips. "So what's the verdict? We going to the hospital?"

  "No. No hospital. And no more drugs, okay?" Sandburg took the afghan Ellison handed him and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  "Do they make you feel dizzy?"

  "No, they ruin my social life. Get real, Jim. George??"

  Ellison lightly whacked him on the side of the head, feeling a smile on his own face. "If we're not going to the hospital, you should be back in bed. It's still early."

  "I'm not tired right now."

  "You will be as soon as you take your meds."

  "I'm not taking them. No hospital. No drugs."

  Ellison stood again, arms crossed over his chest, doing his best to look firm. "Okay, here's my counter offer. No hospital, but you take your meds. Or the other way, we skip your meds and you go to the hospital and let the doctor decide."

  Sandburg frowned, obviously trying to think his way out of that one, which only proved how tired he really was when he came up empty.

  "Come on, Chief. In bed, take your meds, and have a nap while I make us a nice breakfast in about an hour and a half. Simon will be over later this morning."

  "How about I take my meds and don't have a nap? I'll be fine."

  "George, George, George of the Jungle..." Ellison sang, bringing the two tablets over to his partner.

  "Okay. Good point," Sandburg said quickly, swallowing them. "Maybe a short nap might be in order before Simon gets here. I don't want to say something that scares the man."

  "Too late, Sandburg," Jim said, taking the empty glass and setting it on the table, then helping his roommate into his bedroom and into bed.

  "Jim?"

  Ellison stood in the doorway, turning back to his partner. "Yes?"

  "Sorry about reacting that way."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When you weren't here, when you were downstairs. Sorry about freaking out and everything. I'm not sure why that happened."

  Ellison said nothing for a long moment, wondering whether he should just walk away from it all, or admit that he was just as unnerved as Sandburg by what had happened. "I'm not sure what happened either. I . . ." His voice trailed off as words fled.

  "Same thing?" Sandburg asked quietly.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "Oh." Sandburg seemed to drift, then he smiled sadly, staring off into the distance. "Remember what I said about the water being warm?"

  It took the sentinel a few moments to place the comment. A month before, when Blair was in the hospital after drowning in the fountain at Rainier, they had discussed their joined dream and Blair had said, "Come on in, my friend. The water's warm."

  "I remember," Ellison said now, and touched his guide's forehead.

  Within minutes, Sandburg was asleep.

  * * *

  Ellison paced the loft, around the table, past the stairs and the stereo, to the balcony doors, skirting along them, then cutting through the living area and around the coffee table, to the kitchen. Around the island, past Sandburg's room, back to the table, then repeating it.

  In six of the twenty-four trips, he was in the jungle.

  In two of the twenty-four trips, he was the black jaguar in the jungle.

  In sixteen of the twenty-four trips, he was just a frustrated detective, worrying about his partner and worrying about his own sanity.

  Twice, he almost woke Sandburg up to demand an answer, to insist that his guide explain what was happening. Each time, he had stopped in the doorway and stared at Sandburg's exhausted sprawl on the bed, the too pale skin, the bruises and the dark circles beneath his eyes. So maybe it was okay to morph back and forth from the jungle. That's what it felt like, like the morphing special effect he'd seen on TV and on the movies. The weird shift from one shape to the other. From Cascade to jungle. From man to jaguar.

  He stood motionless in the middle of the loft, hands at his side, arms held out from his body. Air currents swirled lazily around him, sliding over his bare arms and bare legs, the khaki shorts he wore the only clothing. With a shimmer the room began to shift, colors bleeding, running, changing to another hue, another shape.

  "No," he whispered, halting its progress. He was really too tired for all this. Tired of fighting it.

  Ellison closed his eyes and walked to the telephone, punching in Simon's number, then belatedly looking at his watch. It was four in the afternoon. Of course, the sun was still up. Why did he think it was later?

  It wasn't so much that, as he had absolutely no idea what time it was. Middle of the night. Middle of the day. The sun should have been a clue, and when he started looking for clues, there were there. He was fairly certain he'd zoned. He would have had to, because the time didn't make sense. How much time had he lost over the afternoon? An hour? Two? Maybe even three? He remembered breakfast, but not lunch. Had he eaten lunch? No new dishes in the sink. Had Simon come over? He couldn't remember. He carried the ringing telephone to the fridge and withdrew a bottle of water.

  Simon answered the phone in his office at Major Crimes. "Banks."

  "It's Ellison."

  "Jim. Sorry I haven't gotten over there yet. Is everything okay? How's Sandburg? Is he getting any sleep?"

  So, Simon hadn't been there yet. "We're okay. He's been asleep most of the day, on and off," Ellison said, twisting the cap from a bottle of water.

  "Drugged or just worn out?"

  "Both. Doc said he needed the rest, so I've just let him sleep. Woke him to take his pills and eat something, but that's it." Ellison crossed the room and dropped down wearily into the living room chair. He had positioned the yellow chair to sit in the path of a ray of sunshine, so he could soak up the meager warmth while still getting the best of the draft from the balcony doors. "How's Rafe?"

  "They're letting him out tomorrow. I saw him this morning and he's in good spirits. Henri's hovering, and Connor is back in town, so he's got two people fussing over him."

  "Sandburg wanted to go see Rafe today, but he fell asleep at the table this morning, so I think he knows he's not ready to go traveling yet. The trip from Seattle wiped him out yesterday."

  "Wiped you both out." There was a moment of silence, then Banks asked cautiously, "How's the kid really doing?"

  The detective leaned forward to rest his forearms on his legs, shifting the phone from his left to his right hand. "He's healing. Hard to say, other than that."

  "And you?" Banks asked.

  Ellison rubbed his forehead, not sure what to say. Not sure what was happening. "Tired. Restless. The usual." He opened his mouth to say more, but ended up saying nothing, shaking his head helplessly.

  Simon had heard something, though, enough to prompt him to ask again, "What is it?"

&nb
sp; "Nothing." Ellison brushed it off with a question of his own. "Did you hear from Bridges?"

  Banks let out a sigh, apparently allowing his question to be sidestepped. "They arrived in San Francisco safely. Bridges has Evan home with him; he said this way he can keep an eye on his daughter, since she'll be over playing nursemaid. He asked about Sandburg, since Evan is having a fair amount of abdominal pain. He said the kid swears it's from the Chinese food, not anything else." Banks chuckled, then when Ellison didn't reply, his voice changed, the earlier polite question now a gentle but firm demand. "What is it, Jim? What's happening?"

  It was Ellison's turn to laugh, but the sound was forced. "You sure you want to know?" he asked, looking up to stare out the balcony window.

  "Try me."

  He was looking out the balcony window. He knew he was looking out the balcony window. But it wasn't what he was seeing.

  "Jim?"

  "Remember when Sandburg was in the hospital here, after he drowned? His vision was affected -- he saw the jungle, remember?"

  "I remember. Is it happening to him again?"

  "Not to him."

  "You?" Banks asked, his voice incredulous.

  "Just a bit. Not much. But a few times, yeah," Ellison admitted, wiping his hand over his face, watching the couch and the television form before his eyes.

  "In Seattle, too?"

  "Briefly, two or three times. More so since coming back here."

  There was a long pause. "What does Sandburg think is causing it?"

  "I haven't had a chance to tell him. He's been sleeping and, well, there's been other things happening that are equally off."

  Banks sighed, but asked, "Such as . . .?"

  "I can't explain it, sir." The sentinel rose and walked to the door of his guide's room, feeling the edginess and the tension in his gut fall away. "It's probably just this whole thing, everything that's going on." He closed his eyes, shutting out the encroaching jungle. "The kidnaping. The kid's injuries. What those bastards did to him." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, blocking the visual memory that was etched into his consciousness.