Colds truly sucked, especially around winter break.

But with almost everyone at the university, either sniffling, sneezing or coughing, he'd eventually succumbed to whatever strain of rhinovirus happened to be floating around during finals week. The long hours spent on stakeout by the wharf with his partner, hadn't helped either. The bone-chilling wind off the ocean cut through his old winter jacket and the layers of shirts and tee shirt he wore as though it were tissue paper.

In the end though, he'd been able to help Jim concentrate and pinpoint the location of the drug exchange. Along with Brown, Rafe and a team from Narcotics, the bust resulted in the arrest of longtime drug dealer, Al Doucette, and the recovery of several kilos of heroin. Enough to make Simon smile, the commissioner beam and the mayor ecstatic.

All he'd gotten out of it was a hearty pat on the back and a lung-rattling cough.

Tired and listless, he tried watching television, but his only choices seemed to be talk shows, an ice skating competition or a nature special he'd already seen three times. So he went back to reading. Half a dozen pages later, he put his text book down. Not only was he certain he'd never be able to breathe through his nose again, he felt as though his brain had been heavily wrapped in gauze.

Still, things could be a lot worse. He could be sick and floundering around on his own in misery in a very large but very drafty warehouse. Or back to sharing a tiny, cramped apartment with one of his friends after the drug lab explosion next door demolished his living quarters and most of his worldly possessions.

But thanks to a certain hardheaded, but not hardhearted police detective, he now had boxes of moist tissues for his irritated nose, a refrigerator full of assorted waters and juices, a freshly laundered blanket draped at the foot of the bed, and a small heap of magazines and catalogs for entertainment. Not to mention a spiffy, low-rent living space with a great view of the city.

Granted, said detective had more house rules than Felix Unger and Emily Post combined, but Blair was pretty easygoing, even when ill, except in one area -- he adamantly refused to use any commercial cold remedies. So, despite the late hour, his roommate had grudgingly trudged off to the local health food store to pick up bottles of vitamin C, a box of echinacea tea, zinc tablets, and a large container of chicken soup. But Jim firmly drew the line at arsenicum album. It sounded too ominous for his liking, no matter how diluted Naomi's homeopath claimed it was.

So much for living with a modern-day sentinel. Blair smiled ruefully to himself.

He glanced at the little clock on his desk then made another attempt to divert himself with the latest issue of Smithsonian magazine. At his previous urging over the phone, Jim left work with Simon to attend a party at Callahan's, a downtown bar, to celebrate the successful collaboration between Major Crime and Narcotics.

"You sure you'll be okay, Chief?" Jim had called after lunch to tell him about the interdepartmental bash.

"Positive," he'd answered firmly. "Just tell Simon and the guys I said hi." As much as he wanted to go, he knew he was in no condition to be out on the icy streets, let alone drive. Considering the success and amount of press garnered by the bust, he didn't expect Jim back for a couple of hours.

Still, cold or no cold, there was one thing he had to do. Shoving himself up into a sitting position, he grabbed his cover and flung it aside. He put his feet on the floor and stood up slowly.

"Oohh," he moaned softly as he shuffled stiffly towards his cluttered desk. One corner had been cleared away and a small, silver hanukkiah sat on the surface. He opened the top drawer and pulled out matches and a special package of candles he'd received from his mother. Selecting a fresh one, he added it to the others in the holder. After lighting the central taper, he held it, cleared his throat and began to recite, "Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam..." Finishing the first blessing, he recited the second one. Afterwards he lit the newest candle with the shamash, then the rest.

Feeling calm but a tad shaky afterwards, he climbed back into bed and watched quietly until the candles burned themselves out. A few minutes later, a set of keys jingled in the lock and the front door opened. He listened as a parka was unzipped, keys tossed into a bowl, and a bag was set down on the counter.

"Hey Sandburg," called out the low, familiar voice. "I'm back."

Blair looked up at the detective looming in the doorway of his room. His nose and cheeks were slightly reddened from the wind, his short hair a bit mussed. A silvery sliver of tinsel was stuck to the sleeve of his dark brown pullover. Blair was reminded of the gift he had ordered from two of Naomi's oldest friends. They had started a small farming collective in the highlands of Peru some years ago. Thanks to them, he now had a genuine, hand knit alpaca sweater hidden away under his bed.

"I thought you'd be carousing the night away. How was the party?"

"Fine, just a bit on the noisy side. You feeling any better?" The stern face scrutinized him closely before turning to glance at the desk.

"A little."

"How's the throat?"

"Still scratchy."

"So, are you hungry?"

"Not really."

Jim frowned. "You should eat something. I can heat up some stew."

Blair shook his head. "I don't want anything heavy right now. Maybe just some soup."

"Okay. How about a sandwich too, then?"

"Sounds good, but I can get up and do that," he protested mildly.

Jim warily scanned the stacks of papers and notebooks scattered around the narrow room. "Relax, Junior. The last time you tried it, you almost took a nose-dive over your own piles. I think it'll be much safer all around if you leave it to a professional." He ignored Blair's indignant grumble.

"Let's see, we've got tomato, split pea, minestrone, and some chicken soup..."

"I'll take the chicken soup."

"All right then, one sandwich and some soup coming right up." Jim leaned down, retrieved the full bag of used tissues and went back to the kitchen.

Blair sighed. Sarcasm aside, Jim could be irritatingly diligent when it came to monitoring his health. Although he doubted anyone else would believe him. He sank back down and listened to his roommate click on a lamp, draw down the shades, then putter around the kitchen, opening cupboards and rummaging through a drawer.

Turning onto his side, he yawned then closed his eyes.

The sounds reminded him of Naomi in the kitchen, back in the old pink apartment building they used to live in when he was a child. Although she always made him breakfast and left him a sandwich and some fruit or cottage cheese for lunch, she simply couldn't afford to stay home with him when he was ill. After smoothing his blankets, she would kiss him on the forehead then rush off to work.

He hated being sick. The hours dragged by ever so slowly as he tried to entertain himself with picture books and toys. He'd nap for a while, then wake up and look around his room. From the ticking of the clock by his bed to the muffled beat of the stereo next door, the sounds seemed to echo more loudly than usual in the empty apartment.

When the loneliness got overwhelming, he'd pull his stuffed toys out, a zebra, a frog, and a puppy, and talk to them, pretending they were sharing secrets. All the while he yearned for someone real to sit down next to him and tell him funny jokes, describe what was going on at school, or tell him what was on television the night before. He would look longingly at his small, makeshift, cardboard bookshelf. He loved it when Naomi read to him. There so many things he wanted to hear, like Robinson Crusoe, The Hobbit, and Silver Chief, Dog of the North. He was just too little yet to read them himself. But he vowed he'd learn to, someday.

The clock on his nightstand would tick away the long minutes.

His mother usually didn't arrive home until it was almost dark. He would wait excitedly as she prepared some dinner, then bring it to him on a tray. She would sit on the bed with him and talk as he ate.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better now." He'd look up and smile brightly, already anticipating the story she'd read him later. Maybe it'd be the one about the little boy and the watchdog named Tock.

"That's good. Listen, sweetie, I'm going out this evening."

Then his heart would sink as Naomi collected his empty juice glass and bowl.

"Josh and Amber are stopping by to pick me up soon. We're going to a concert at the community college. A lot of people will be there so it should be very exciting." She smoothed his hair back. "I've asked Mrs. Withers to come over while I'm gone. She'll take good care of you."

Blair bit his lip and stared down at his blanket as his mother continued to talk. Camille Withers lived on the floor above them. She was in her early fifties and lived alone. She'd occasionally watch Blair while Naomi went out in the evenings. But once the front door closed, her demeanor would change, and she'd settle back on the couch, turn the TV on, and drink something out of a small metal flask she carried in her purse.

"I spent the best years of my life on that man, and look what it got me," she'd complain loudly to the television screen.

Bored and restless, Blair wandered into the small living room one evening. Holding a book to his chest, he stood by the couch, watching his sitter as she muttered insults at the TV. Screwing up his courage, he asked her to read him a story. She paused, stared at him for a moment, then laughed. It was an ugly, harsh sound and he fled back to his room. She spent the rest of the evening ignoring him as she continued to drink and watch television until Naomi returned.

"Okay, you be good now."

"Yes, Mama."

Naomi would close the bedroom door and leave. His throat tightened at the sound of his mother's retreating footsteps. Clutching his pillow, Blair looked up at the ceiling again.

"Hey, soup's on."

Turning his head, Blair was relieved to see his roommate enter with a tray. He sat up as Jim set it carefully down on the bed.

"Do you want water or something else?" he asked as he slid the tray over.

"Some juice would be nice." Blair picked up the spoon then glanced at his partner. "What about you? What are you going to have?"

"I'm not all that hungry right now."

"Oh? Just how many pretzels did you consume?" Blair cocked his head and looked up sternly.

Jim mock-growled. "No comment. I'll be right back."

Grinning, Blair dipped his spoon in the bowl. His sense of taste and smell were off, but the soup's heat soothed his swollen sinuses. He took another swallow just as the phone rang. He waited until he heard Jim pick it up, then bit into his sandwich.

By the time Jim returned, he'd finished everything.

"Sorry about that." He set the grape juice down on the tray. "I was talking to Simon."

"Is he still at that party?"

"He's just leaving and had a quick question about the Klosterman case."

"You know what that really means, don't you?" said Blair picking up his glass.

"No, what?"

"He misses me, man."

Jim merely snorted. He glanced down at the empty soup bowl. "Want some more?"

"No thanks, maybe later."

"Okay. Anything else I can get you?"

Blair shook his head. "No, think I'll just lie down again."

Jim picked up the tray and headed back to the kitchen.

Settling back under his sheets, Blair listened to the sound of running water as dishes and utensils were washed. Although he couldn't see Jim, he could still hear him as he trotted upstairs to his bedroom. Several minutes later, he heard him return to the living room.

He dozed off to the low sound of the television.

He woke again later as he felt the mattress dip under the weight of someone settling down. He opened an eye and saw the dark silhouette of his partner as he sat on the edge of his bed, holding something in his hand.

"Hey."

Blair shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. "What time is it?" He winced. His throat still felt raw.

"It's around ten-thirty. Thought I'd check and see if you wanted some tea."

"Sure," he croaked back.

Jim casually set the package down on his desk, flipped on the small lamp, rose, and padded off. As he listened to the kettle being filled with water at the sink and set on the stove to boil, Blair eyed the rectangular parcel curiously.

Jim returned holding two steaming mugs, one in each hand. He held out one to his roommate. "I put some honey in yours."

"Thanks." Blair gestured at the gift. "Isn't this a little early?"

Jim cleared his throat. "Actually, it's a Hanukkah present."

Blair's eyes widened as he slowly lowered his mug. "Really? Oh man, that's so cool."

Looking a tad embarrassed, Jim held it out. "Here," he said gruffly.

"Can I open it now?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Snatching the gift up eagerly, Blair quickly shucked the ribbon then slid a finger under the tape and popped the wrapping off. The blue and gold paper crinkled loudly as he opened it. He was silent as he studied the front cover. It featured the formal portrait of a Chinese emperor dressed in elaborately embroidered robes. Finally he looked up. "Wow, this is great."

"You like it? It's not exactly your field of study," said Jim hesitantly. "I mean, you can always exchange it for something else."

"No, no. Trust me, even I need a break from the Yanomami every now and then." Blair beamed as he opened the book. Grabbing his mug again, he blew on the steaming surface before sipping it. "You know, K'ang Hsi was just as powerful and significant as Peter the Great or Louis XIV in his time."

Jim sat down on the chair by the desk and peered over Blair's shoulder. "From what I've seen, he was rather unusual, for an emperor."

"Yes, very direct and down to earth, as I recall. He wrote down his personal observations on just about every aspect of his..." Blair broke off and his shoulders began to shake as he coughed. A hand swiftly reached in and rescued the mug before the hot tea could slosh over the edge.

"You shouldn't talk so much," said Jim reprovingly as he set the cup down. He plucked the book out of Blair's hand. "Some of the letters he wrote are pretty interesting."

Flipping through the pages, he found the passage he wanted. "When Manchus and Mongols go out to hunt in the North we are dealing with a skill that eludes words. The hunters mass like storm clouds, the mounted archers are as one with their horses; they fly together and their arrows bring down the fleeing game. Heart and eye are cheered to see it..."

Blair took a deep breath, and settled back against his pillows. He absently rubbed his chest as he listened to the rich, soothing voice.

"But it is when one is beyond the Great Wall that the air and soil refresh the spirit: one leaves the beaten road and strikes out into untamed country; the mountains are densely packed with woods, green and thick as standing corn..."

As Jim leaned back and propped a leg over his knee, Blair closed his eyes and visualized the scene being described to him.

"As one moves further north the views open up, one's eyes travel hundreds of miles; instead of feeling hemmed in, there is a sense of freedom. It may be the height of summer, but there is dew on the trees, and some of the leaves are turning yellow already, as if it were late autumn..."

A few pages later, the soft sound of snoring filled the room. Jim glanced at his now-sleeping partner. He closed the book gently and set it down on the desk then leaned over and straightened the rumpled blankets around his friend. Flipping the small desk lamp off, he rose and walked quietly toward the living room. At the doorway, he stopped, and turned around. His breathing now slow and regular, Blair looked comfortable, warm, and relaxed.

There were still more presents tucked away here and there in the loft, including a new Primaloft parka for future stakeouts, but for now, he was content to stand and bask in the reassuring company of his sleeping friend. Someone as unconventional and unique as their friendship.

That alone was a gift beyond measure.

*~ The End ~*

Comments welcomed. AutumnSkies1@aol.com

Special Note: Passages quoted are from Emperor of China: Self-Portrait of K'ang Hsi by Jonathan D. Spence.

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