Title:    ANYTIME
Author/pseudonym:  Candy Apple 
Rating: Pre-Slash, G
Pairings: J/B

Status: NEW
Date: 5-2-00
Archive: YES
Archive author: Candy Apple    
Series/Sequel:   Prequel to "Going Home", part of the "Camille Series"

Disclaimers:   This is a work of fiction produced solely for the entertainment of fans.  All
characters having appeared in "The Sentinel", belong to Pet Fly Productions.  The original
characters belong to the author.

Notes: Way back when, some folks asked about this story--about what happened when Blair was
sick and Jim took care of him.  Always one for a good H/C wallow, I wrote it.  Two years later. 
(Who says I don't respond to feedback? <g>)

Summary: Blair is sick, Jim comes to the rescue.   

Warnings: Shameless h/c, a very sick guy with nasty symptoms, glomming...(is that a warning or
a promise?)

***************************************




ANYTIME

by

Candy Apple



     Jim picked up the phone ringing on his desk.  
     
     "Ellison."

     "Jim, it's me," Blair's voice greeted him.  Immediately, Jim
could detect that something wasn't right.  "I need a ride home."

     "What's wrong, Chief?"

     "I'm really sick, man.  I don't think I can drive on my own."

     "I'm on my way.  Do we need to head to the hospital?"
     
     "I think I just need to go home and go to bed--and possibly
throw up a half dozen times along the way."

     "Okay.  Sit tight, buddy.  I won't be long.  I'll come up to the
office and get you, so don't wait outside for me, okay?"

     "Thanks, Jim."

     "Anytime, Chief."

********

     Jim pulled into the loading zone parking near Hargrove Hall,
putting the police vehicle ID on the dashboard.  He'd used the lights
and sirens to cut through the major intersections between the PD and
the university, but had opted for a less ostentatious presence once he
reached the campus.  Hurrying up to the third floor, it wasn't long
before he was at Blair's door.  He knocked lightly, then walked into the
office.   Blair was at his desk, head down on his folded arms.  

     "It's me, Chief."  Jim walked over to the hunched form and laid
his hand in the middle of Blair's back, rubbing just a little.  "Come on. 
Time to go home."
     
     "I need my stuff," Blair said weakly, raising his head and
looking at the mess of papers on the desk.
     
     "You won't be working on it tonight.  If you're feeling better
tomorrow, I'll come and get it for you."

     "I have to grade these, Jim," he protested.  His face was ashen
and warm to the touch, his eyes bloodshot.
     
     "Not tonight, you don't.  Come on, buddy, let's go."  Jim
supported the unsteady rise from the chair, and Blair paused, resting his
hand on his stomach.  "Need the bathroom before we leave?"

     "Guess not.  Man, I feel so *nauseous*."

     "Can you walk?"
     
     "Oh yeah.  Just stay close, okay?"
     
     "How's this?"  Jim asked, one arm around Blair's waist,
supporting him as they moved toward the door.
     
     "That'll work," Blair said, managing a smile as he leaned into
the support.  "I'm dizzy."
     
     "We already knew that, Sandburg."
     
     "Sure, insult a guy when he's sick," Blair joked feebly as Jim
steered him into the elevator.  "I don't think I ever was this sick before."

     "Looks like a monster dose of the flu.  Remember the bug that
Brown and Rafe both had last week?  This looks like it."

     "Remind me to thank them for sharing."

     "You've got a little temp going there,"  Jim said, resting the
palm of his hand on Blair's forehead.  "You'll be okay, buddy."

     "Sorry I had to bother you.  I know you're busy with the Holt
homicide."
     
     "Not a problem.  That's what partners are for, huh?"  Jim said,
smiling at the sick man still leaning against him for support.

     "You're a good partner, Jim.  You're always there when I need
you," Blair said, his voice oddly serious.

     "What you need is some bed rest."  The two men made it out to
the truck, and with Blair loaded into the passenger side, they headed
for the loft.  Blair dozed in his seat while Jim dialed Simon's number.

     "Yeah, Simon, it's me.  Blair's very sick, and I don't think he
should be alone."  There was a pause.  "Right.  I don't know about
tomorrow, but I know I'm not leaving him this afternoon."  Another
pause.  "Great.  I will.  Thanks."  With that, he hung up.  Two bleary
eyes were watching him.
     
     "You're going to stay with me?"  Blair asked, a little thread of
hope in his voice.  

     "Until you're a lot steadier on your feet than you are now."  Jim
reached over and caressed Blair's hair, feeling the warmth of the fever
emanating from his skin.  The touch seemed to soothe Blair, and his
eyes drifted shut again.  Keeping his attention mainly on the road, Jim
managed to keep up the motion, smoothing Blair's hair back, his cooler
hand a welcome sensation on fevered skin.  By the time they arrived at
the loft, Blair was sleeping soundly.  "Smooth, Ellison.  Now you can
carry him," Jim chided himself in a whisper.

     Getting out of the truck, Jim walked around to the passenger
side and opened the door.  He unfastened Blair's seat belt, and was
greeted with a grumpy stirring and some mumbled words from the
patient.

     "Home sweet home, Chief."  Jim gathered the languid body into
his arms and started to lift.

     "I can do it," Blair mumbled, and Jim withdrew his arms,
instead offering support while Blair crawled out of the truck on his
own.  Jim moved them along at a fairly good pace, figuring the brisk,
cold outdoor air wasn't the place for someone with a fever to spend a
lot of time.  Once they were in the elevator, and Jim had started them
toward the third floor, Blair wrapped an arm around his stomach, his
other hand holding Jim's tightly.  

     "Blair, what's--" Jim's words were cut off by a violent bout of
retching.

********

     "I'm so sorry," Blair said, for probably the tenth time since
they'd left the spattered elevator.  The elevator hadn't been the only
victim of Blair's own little version of acid rain.  Jim's shoes and new
suede jacket were promptly bagged and set outside the door of the loft
until he could figure out what to do with them.  

     "Not your fault, Chief.  Let me get you cleaned up and into
bed."

     "I ruined your coat."
     
     "It's just a coat.  Not the end of the world," Jim smiled as he
parked Blair on the toilet lid and stripped the stained sweater and shirt
off him.  He turned on the space heater and closed the bathroom door
to keep out the drafts.  "Feel any better?"

     "Not really.  Just...emptier."

     Jim filled the tub and when he was satisfied with the
temperature, he hauled Blair back up on his feet and helped him shed
the pants, shoes and socks, and guided him down into the tepid water.  

     "I'll get you another coat," Blair said as Jim pushed up his
sweater sleeves and started bathing his lethargic partner.  

     "It's not that important, Chief.  Coats can be replaced, and I
really didn't need that one anyway.  I've got other coats."

     "But you liked it," Blair responded sadly.

     "Hey, look at me."  Jim took a hold of Blair's chin with a wet
hand.  "It was an accident.  I'm not mad about the stupid jacket."

     "I nailed your shoes, too."
     
     "They were old ones anyway."  Jim patted Blair's face and
finished a quick wash job, his main goal with the bath being to relax
Blair a little and to get any remnants of the mishap off him.

     After drying Blair off, since Jim was unable to find his partner's
robe, he wrapped his own gray robe around him and steered him
through the French doors to his bed. 

     "I want some sweats.  I'm *cold*."

     "I'll pile a lot of blankets on you, Chief.  But I want to be able to
sponge you off and fight that fever.  Here, put these on."  Jim handed
Blair a pair of boxers and steadied him while he stepped into them.  "In
you go."  He held up the covers and Blair scooted under them
gratefully.  "I'll grab a throw from the couch, okay?"  He patted Blair's
shoulder as the other man simply shivered and nodded.  Returning, he
spread the blanket over the huddled form in the bed.  

     "Jim..."  Blair's desperate tone and attempt to sit up launched
Jim into a fast and effective intercept maneuver with the wastebasket. 
When Blair finished, Jim grabbed a couple of tissues and wiped his
mouth, then set the basket several feet away.  

     "You're a pretty sick guy, huh?"  he said gently,
sympathetically, rubbing slow circles in the middle of Blair's back. 
"It's gonna be okay, Chief."  He used his free hand to push the loose
curls back from Blair's face.  

     "My stomach hurts," Blair groaned, shifting in the bed.  "Oh,
man..."  He grunted again in discomfort, wriggling around miserably,
and then looked at Jim through wide, panicked eyes. 
 
     "Looks like it's going to attack you from both sides, buddy."

     "I'm sorry, man.  Oh, geez, that's gross."

     "It's not the first time I've been exposed to it.  I had hazardous
waste training in the Army," Jim quipped, and Blair actually chuckled a
little weakly, despite his disdain for being moved again out of the
warm bed for another, still more unpleasant clean up and his
embarrassment at having made the mess at all.  

     "I can do it," Blair protested feebly, trying to get up on his own. 
Jim didn't doubt that he could stand up, and probably stagger to the
bathroom as long as he held onto something.  He had serious questions
that he'd complete a clean up mission successfully without falling on
his head.
     
     "Room still spinning?"  Jim asked as he supported Blair by the
arm while he tried standing.  

     "I gotta go."

     The speed and firmness of the statement moved Jim into action,
and once Blair was where he needed to be to take care of his needs,
Jim changed the bed and this time, lined the center portion of it with a
soft bath towel.  He filled a cooking pot with cool water and brought it
and a wash cloth into the bedroom.  He cleaned out the wastebasket
and located a small dish which could be more easily used for that
unpleasant purpose in the future.  Then he collected his partner again,
got him into clean boxers and ushered him back into bed.  

     "I'm sorry," Blair groaned as Jim started bathing his face with
the cool cloth.
     
     "You're sick, Chief.  Nothing to be sorry about.  I don't think
you'd do this on purpose."

     "Not hardly," Blair muttered.  "God, my stomach just keeps...
*going*.  I don't wanna lose it again."
     
     "You wash, I wash, the underwear washes and the bedding
washes.  There's nothing you're going to permanently damage if you
spring a leak."  

     "Thanks for taking care of me," Blair said quietly, reaching for
Jim's free hand, which he willingly closed around Blair's.  

     "Partners in all things, right?"  Jim said, smiling.  "You were
there for me when I had the flu last year."

     "You didn't throw up on me--and, you know, let it rip all over
everything."

     "So you're an overachiever," Jim quipped, smiling as Blair
grinned a little.  

     "H and Rafe had this, and they lived, huh?"  Blair asked,
disbelieving.
     
     "That's the rumor, Chief."  Jim refreshed the cloth and went
back to work on Blair's neck area, trying to dispel a little of the feverish
warmth there.  "Stomach still hurting?"
     
     "Just cramping up all the time.  I don't even know which way to
go with it."

     "I don't think we can get you anything from the doctor.  Rafe's
doctor told him it was viral, so all he could do was tough it out.  Good
news is he was better after the first 24 hours, and back to work after
being off a couple of days."

     "My head hurts from throwing up."

     "Yeah, you went at it pretty hard."   Jim set the cloth aside for a
minute, using his cooled hand to stroke Blair's forehead, then back into
his hair.  

     "I don't wanna be sick again," Blair moaned miserably, right
before moving up on his elbow and doing just that, with Jim and his
trusty bowl on duty.  Setting the bowl aside, Jim wiped Blair's mouth
and on an impulse, pulled the lax body into his arms, sliding one hand
into Blair's hair, letting the other one rub his back slowly.  Despite how
lousy and drained he seemed to feel, Blair's arms latched onto Jim
tightly.   

     "I know you feel rotten, Chief.  It's going to get better soon,"
Jim said softly, holding Blair close and gently massaging his back.  

     "Feels better when you hold me," Blair said, some of the
tautness going out of his muscles under the relaxing massage.  
     
     "Yeah, it feels okay to me too," Jim admitted, not actually
intending to say the words out loud.  He grabbed the discarded robe
and put it over Blair's back to keep him from getting chilled.  "That's it,
just rest.  I've got you."  

     "Maybe getting sick isn't so bad," Blair muttered, his voice
sounding a little slurred.  Jim's heart warmed at the words, and he
rested his head against Blair's.  

     "Shhh.  Relax and close your eyes, baby," Jim said in a whisper,
then felt his own body seize up with panic at what he'd said.  He'd
meant to say "buddy", and then "baby" had been there, right on the tip
of his tongue...and coming straight from his heart.  Blair's response was
to nestle closer and hold on tighter.  Relieved that he hadn't just made a
major faux pax, Jim relaxed a little himself, and soaked up the
sensation of having Blair dozing off to sleep in his arms.  

     //Wish we could do this when you felt good...// On that thought,
Jim kissed the sleeping man's temple and continued to hold him,
grateful that the misery had eased enough to let him sleep.

********

     Blair really didn't want to move.  His head wasn't pounding, and
for one blessed instant, his stomach wasn't churning.  Whatever was
under him was firmer than a pillow, and now that he really became
aware of his surroundings, he noticed that his "pillow" had a heartbeat.  

     Opening his eyes, he found himself in his bed, in his room. 
And cuddled up against Jim, head resting on the larger man's chest.  He
remembered feeling so sick that he didn't think he could stand it, and
then the blessed relief of Jim holding him, massaging his pounding
head, rubbing his back, and just offering the warmth and love of his
embrace.  

     //And I dreamed he called me "baby"...//

     "How're you feeling, Chief?"  A sleep-husky voice asked as Jim
came around now, obviously having picked up on Blair's waking.  

     "I think better.  I still feel...pukey, but not like before.  My
headache's better."
     
     "I'm glad.  You're feeling a little cooler, but I should probably
sponge you off a little and check it."
     
     "You'll probably catch this now," Blair said, sighing.  "I'm *so*
sorry, Jim.  I didn't mean to--"

     "To what?  Get sick?  If I catch it, you'll have to help me out. 
It's not your fault, Chief."  Jim patted his back.
     
     "Thanks for holding me when I felt so awful," Blair muttered
under his breath, somewhat self-consciously.

     "I'm glad it helped."  With that, Jim patted Blair's back and
withdrew, getting out of the bed and checking the temperature of the
water in the pan nearby.  "I want to check your temp, buddy."  Jim put
the thermometer in Blair's mouth and went out to the kitchen to get
some ice water to start replenishing the lost fluids.  He returned and
checked the reading.  "Well, you're still up near 100, but I know you
were worse than that earlier.  Here, take a drink of water."  At Blair's
scrunched up face, he persisted.  "You've lost a lot of fluids, Chief. 
You don't have to chug-a-lug it.  Just drink what you can."  After Blair
did his duty with the water, Jim set the partially empty glass aside and
started sponging Blair down, determined to conquer the last of the
fever.

     //How sick is it to have enjoyed holding your deathly sick
partner in your arms?  How selfish is it to be thankful for the chance to
hold and caress him while he slept, feeling his heart thumping
rhythmically against me...  Pretty damn selfish and twisted, Ellison. 
He's sick, he depends on you for help, and you let your fantasies run
wild.  Some kind of friend you are...//

     Blair relaxed against the pillow, letting the cool cloth move
languidly over his face and neck, then outward toward his shoulders. 
In the last several hours, he'd probably been at his most disgusting,
spewing ungodly bodily emissions all over everything.  Jim, with his
sentinel senses, had put up with all that, cleaned up the messes, cleaned
*him* up, and held him and comforted him until he could sleep.  

     //I love you so much, Jim.  Maybe someday I'll get up the nerve
to tell you...  Nobody's ever loved me like you do, and nobody's ever
been so patient with me, or worried about me so much...  God, I hope I
never lose you.  I don't think I'll be able to say goodbye...//

     Shaking off the more emotional thoughts, Blair forced himself
to concentrate on the mundane.

     "Do you think the coat can be cleaned?"  Blair asked.
     
     "I don't know.  I'll take it into the cleaners and see what they
think.  The shoes I'm just gonna toss.  They were due for the boneyard
anyway."

     "I'll pay for the cleaning.  I'm *so* sorry about that coat."
     
     "Will you quit worrying about the coat?  You mean a hell of a
lot more to me than a coat, Chief.  Coats can be replaced."  

     "Thanks," Blair responded, smiling.  

     "Anytime, pal."  
     
     //Yeah, anytime.  It's that simple--anytime I need you, you're
there.// Blair smiled and closed his eyes, reveling in the doting
attentions of the man he loved.

********
The End