Jim had kicked him out this year.
But that was a long time ago, he told himself as he dropped to the couch and grabbed hold of the thin blanket. That was seven months ago. Seven months since he had returned to the loft. Everything was back. It was all the same. It was supposed to be the same. He had really wanted it to be the same.
Damn it. He had wanted a tree. And the lights, and the wine, and the wishes, and the good feelings. And he had wanted to buy a gift for Jim, not spend the money on ski wear for himself. He had wanted to see a box with his name on it. Not falling in the icy sludge and being soaked to the skin and being shot at and missing it all. Santa had gone again without stopping at his place.
The shivering was worse. Why wouldn’t it warm up in here? He was freezing. Why had they left him alone without matches?
A noise at the side door. Finally. He stood up too quickly, leaning forward to grab hold of the end of the couch to keep himself upright as a wave of dizziness swept over him.
He lifted his head and watched with horror and hope as Santa Claus opened the door and walked in the kitchen. “Santa?” It was Santa Claus. But where were Jim and Simon? How did Santa Claus get here?
“Blair?” Santa didn’t come in any further, but stamped the snow from his boots, each sharp rap pounding through Sandburg’s head. The red suit swam in and out of focus. Santa took off his hat.
Blair let go of the couch and took a few steps closer. “Santa? I didn’t think you’d come. How’d you find me?”
“What?” Santa reached over and flicked on the entrance way light. “Why’s it so dark in here? And what’s wrong with the heat? It’s colder in here than out there.”
“Santa… I didn’t know you were black. Wow.”
The inky spots merged and the room suddenly got a lot darker, then disappeared altogether.
*
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
Blair groaned and turned his head, seeking the warmth of the crackling fire. Why hadn’t he turned off that stupid CD yet?
“Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”
Actually, he wasn’t quite as cold any more. He was starting to warm up. He could still feel fine tremors running though his limbs, but the spasms that had shook him earlier had calmed.
“Everybody knows, some turkey and some mistletoe…”
Eyes still closed, he sniffed the air. Something smelled good. Turkey? No. Maybe chicken soup. Who was making chicken soup? Besides the music, he could hear voices. Simon, giving instructions. Jim arguing. With a huge effort on his part, he managed to get his eyes to open. He was still on the couch, buried under at least thirty blankets. The fire was blazing, crackling and popping. It was brighter in the room. “Jim?”
Jim must have heard him above the sound of the music and the fire, for he came into sight, leaning on the back of the couch. “Hey. You okay?” Concerned eyes looked down at him, a large gentle hand reached to touch his forehead and the side of his face. “You’re not as cold as you were.”
Simon’s head appeared beside Jim’s and before Blair could get his hands out from under the blankets, another hand was on his forehead. “A little warm now, actually.”
“You think?” Again Jim’s hand touched his face, then around to the back of his neck. “Temperature’s about 99 degrees.”
“Could be the fire. Should we move him away from it?”
“Closer to. He’s still chilled,” Jim announced, hand on Blair’s chest, the slight breeze causing an involuntary shiver.
“How can he be chilled? He has a temperature.”
“That’s not really a temperature.”
“Guys…” Blair tried.
“It’s higher than normal.”
“But his temperature was lower than it should be earlier.”
“Guys…”
“Jim, when we called, the doctor said—”
“The doctor wasn’t here. He was just presenting a worse-case scenario. I’m sure Sandburg is fine. Nothing that some rest won’t cure.”
“Oh, I agree with you there. But the doctor did say we should bring him in if he gets a temperature.”
“Guys…”
“This doesn’t constitute a temperature. Maybe if he’s up to 102 or more, then we call the doctor back.”
“I dunno, Jim. I’m wondering if we should go back to Cascade before this snowfall hits.”
“Simon, he’ll be fine.”
“Guys, I’m fine,” Blair croaked, then grimaced at his voice. “What happened?”
Jim walked around the couch and threw a few logs on the already blazing fire. “You fainted.”
“What?” Blair struggled to sit up, growling as Simon easily raised him and put two pillows behind his back. “I’m okay, Simon.”
“Right…” Simon said. “That’s why you fainted.”
“I didn’t faint. Girls faint,” Blair heard himself say.
“You passed out, lost consciousness, took a header, collapsed into a lump of clothes on the carpet, just missing your head on the side of the coffee table.” Simon adjusted the blankets that had slipped to one side. “You scared the hell out of me, Sandburg.”
“Sorry,” Blair muttered. “I probably just slipped and fell or something. Where were you guys?” he asked, staring up at them muzzily.
“We were skiing,” Jim answered, with a worried smile. “Remember?”
“Of course I remember! We came up here to ski. I just was wondering why you were gone so long.”
“We said we’d be back at four and we were back at four,” Simon said. “What’s the problem?”
“What time is it now?”
“A quarter to five.” Simon stared down at him, hands on his hips. “You’ve been … sleeping.”
“I was unconscious for forty-five minutes?” Blair asked, coughing on the last word.
“No. Jim insisted that you were sleeping, so we let you wake up normally.”
“Oh. You were gone a long time.”
“Well, if we had known you were going to get in trouble, we never would have left you alone for so long,” Jim said, moving aside Blair’s feet and sitting at the far side of the couch.
“I wasn’t in trouble,” Blair insisted. “I was fine.”
“Which is why the heat was off, it was freezing in here, and you didn’t recognize Simon when he walked in, then you promptly passed out.”
Wincing under their scrutiny, Blair shrugged. “I don’t remember any of that.”
“So what do you remember?”
“I was reading my book.”
“What did you have for lunch?” Simon asked, once again out of sight beyond the couch. There were suspicious sounds from the kitchen, pots and pans, banging noises.
“I wasn’t hungry. I made myself some tea.”
Jim leaned back and said to Simon, “That would be ‘Exhibit A’ on the coffee table. An untouched cup of cold tea.”
“I had another cup before that. That was my second.”
Simon laughed. “That was going to be your second. It doesn’t count if you don’t drink it.”
“So what did you eat?” Jim persisted. “Simon and I ate a big breakfast before we left and you promised to eat something.”
“You were both skiing. You needed your energy. I was just sitting here reading. My tea was perfect.”
“But you fainted,” Simon pointed out. The tall captain walked around the couch holding a bowl of soup. “Now eat this.”
“What is it?”
“Chicken soup.”
“Thanks, Simon.” Blair resettled himself, sitting up a bit more. The soup looked good, actually. He really should have eaten earlier, but he had been too tired to make anything. He had planned on eating, he just hadn’t got around to it. Neither argument would hold water with Simon or Jim, so he kept quiet and spooned the soup into his mouth, stopping now and then as a deep cough rattled his chest. Each time, he avoided meeting their accusing eyes. He hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. If he�
��d gone with them skiing, outside in the cold air, exerting himself — yeah, then maybe they would have a case. But he had stayed inside, curled up with a book, and relaxed, and he still was getting the ‘you don’t take care of yourself’ look from them both.
“Santa Claus is coming town…”
He almost dropped his spoon, but held on to it tightly as he slowly raised his eyes and looked toward Simon. Who was standing grinning down at him. “What?” he asked, defensively.
“You called me ‘Santa’ earlier.” Simon looked like a damned Cheshire cat. “Remember?”
Blair scrunched up his forehead, trying to look like he recalled the conversation. “Just joking with you, Simon.”
Simon didn’t answer, but disappeared back beyond the couch. More rustling noises. The music was turned up a crank.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…”
A dark hand appeared briefly, waving in his face and almost making him spill the last of his soup. Jim took the bowl immediately and disappeared out of sight into the kitchen, returning a moment later with some water and two pills. “Take these.”
For a brief moment, Blair thought of trying to out-stubborn Jim, but it was obvious who was going to win any arguments. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He took the water, swallowed the pills, and handed back the empty glass. Jim fixed the blankets as he settled back on the couch.
“Jingle bell, Jingle bell, Jingle bell rock, Jingle bells chime in jingle bell time…”
Simon started whistling. It was bad enough that the CD was still playing, but now Simon was whistling to it. His nightmare would be complete if Jim started singing…
“Dancing and prancing in Jingle Bell Square, in the frosty air,” Jim sang, Simon joining along.
Blair pulled the blankets over his head and went back to sleep.
*
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
Promising himself that the CD would soon be roasting on an open fire, Blair stirred slightly, becoming gradually aware of a gentle hand on his forehead. Now what? A damp, cool cloth replaced the hand, and he reluctantly decided that it felt good, which probably meant he was sick. Damn. This was so not what he had wanted to do for Christmas Day.
“They say that Santa’s on his way…”
His shirt was opened, careful hands rested on his throat, then on his chest. He forced his eyes open to see the top of Jim’s head as Jim the Sentinel bent over him, listening to his breathing, his lungs. A quick glance around showed all the lights out, just the fireplace sending strange shadows across the walls. Blair’s eyes drifted shut. The hands continued to check him out, softly probing his abdomen and belly.
“I’m fine, Jim,” he said, his words slurring.
“Yeah. It’s just a fever.” Jim’s voice was relaxed and deep, gently turning him onto his side, sensitive fingers resting over, then probing his back, his spine, his kidneys. “You’re fine, Chief. The doctor just mentioned to watch you in case the fever was a symptom of something else.”
“I just got sick. I’ve had fevers before.”
“I know.” Jim eased him back and did up his shirt.
Blair turned his head to look out the room again. “What time—?”
“Ten-thirty. You’ve had a good sleep.”
“Where’s Simon?”
“He went to bed already.”
“Sorry I ruined your evening.”
“What makes you think you ruined our evening?”
Blair shrugged, tugging on the blanket. “Gee, Jim, I’m sick. Surely you didn’t plan on that for your evening’s entertainment. I thought we were going to play cards and stuff.”
“We did. Well,” Jim clarified, “Simon and I did while you slept. We ate dinner, played cards for a while, drank a few beers, talked.”
“Oh. Good. I’m glad.” He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.
“Feel left out?” Jim teased. “We’ve got plenty of holiday left, Chief. Your fever’s gone down a bit; I’m sure you’ll be fine tomorrow.” He stood, pulling the blankets back as he did, ignoring Blair’s squeal of protest.
“Ack! What are you doing?”
“You are going to visit the bathroom, wash up, brush your teeth, and then I’m going to tuck you in before heading to bed myself. Go on. I’ll rebuild the fire.”
“You’re serious? You’re making me brush my teeth?” Blair stared up at him in shock.
“Look at it from my viewpoint. If I know you’ve done all this before I head to bed, I won’t have to worry about you getting up and staggering around in the dark, slipping and cracking your head open.”
“It’s still a little weird.”
“Maybe.” Jim shook the blankets out. “Get going. Or do you need help?”
“No, I’m fine.” Blair pulled himself off the couch, wavering unsteadily as he quickly headed straight toward the bathroom. As soon as he had stood up, his bladder had sent urgent messages to his brain. Five minutes later, feeling significantly better, he turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the main living area.
“Strings of street lights, Even stop lights, Blink a bright red and green…”
Except this was one huge Christmas tree. Lights twinkling, a star on top. As he slowly approached it, mouth open in shock, he recognized the decorations from the year before. Jim had brought the decorations with him. The tree was planned. Everything was planned. And when he bent over to look, he saw there was a gift for him underneath the tree.
“I thought we said no gifts,” he protested.
“You’re limping,” Jim said, coming over to him. “What’s wrong with your knee?”
“I bumped it when I fell.”
Ellison groaned. “I missed that. Let’s take a look.”
“Silver Bells, Silver Bells…”
“Jim, there’s a Christmas tree here.”
“I know. Simon and I cut it down. Don’t tell anyone.” Jim got him to sit on a chair, then rolled up his sweatpants to the knee. “Sandburg, why didn’t you tell us about this? You should have had some ice on it.” He probed the swollen, bruised kneecap.
“Ouch! Careful!”
“In the air, there’s a feeling of Christmas…”
“Jim,” Blair said, a yawn interrupting, “this is cool, man. You and Simon did up this tree?”
“While you were sleeping.” Ellison crossed to the kitchen and got some ice from the freezer and made up a cold pack. “Back to the couch, Junior,” he said, returning to the living room. “Or would you rather sleep in your bed?”
“Couch is fine.”
“In the lane, snow is glistening, A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight…”
Jim helped him back to the couch, propped up his swollen knee, and set the ice pack on it. Once he was settled beneath the blankets, Jim brought him the little gift. “It’s nothing really. Something I bought before this trip came up. It was supposed to be a stocking stuffer.”
Sandburg fingered the wrapping paper. “But you wrapped it?”
“Unwrap it. I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”
He tore open the paper. Two pairs of black dress socks. With a puzzled look, he turned his head to see Jim smiling at him.
“About a month ago, you were going out for dinner and you couldn’t find any dress socks. You ended up wearing an old mismatched pair of mine. The next time I was in the store, I grabbed a few pairs so we wouldn’t have that problem again. I tossed yours in the Christmas box,” he added with a shrug.
Blair smiled, his eyes closing. “Can you get my backpack for me?”
Jim glanced around the dark room, spying the backpack by the door. He retrieved it, brought it to Blair, then sat beside him on the couch. “Need anything else?”
Blair opened his eyes again, peering into the backpack, then fishing around inside of it. He found the plastic drugstore bag he was looking for and handed it to Ellison. “I bought you a card.”
Jim took the bag and removed a car
d from it. “Holiday Wishes for My Mother,” he read.
Blair grabbed the card from his hands. “Not that one. The other one.”
The second card was removed and Jim carefully opened the sealed envelope. “There’s no verse in it.”
“I didn’t need one.”
It wasn’t a Christmas card. Not really. Just a card of two men walking along the beach side by side, the sun setting behind them. Blair had written on the inside: “At the end of the day, at the end of the year, at the end of my life, I know where I want to be and who I want to walk beside.” He hadn’t signed it.
Jim stared at it for a while, lost in thought, then he rested one hand over Sandburg’s heart. Blair could feel the echo of his heartbeat beneath Jim’s palm.
“Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing…”
Blair smiled and rested his hand over Jim’s. He could feel the fever still behind his eyes, could feel Jim’s other hand on his forehead.
It had been a nice Christmas after all.
Roasting by the Fire Page 2
