Standard disclaimer - plus, once again, I just do this for fun.

Rating: G, h/c (heavily on the ‘c’ rather than the ‘h’), smarmy.

Warnings: none, actually, but there is a  bit of medical information...

Jim Ellison froze outside the front door of his loft and inhaled. Slowly, he extended his senses and then automatically dampened his sense of smell as the powerful scent of menthol and eucalyptus assailed him. Swearing under his breath he fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his front door key and let himself into the apartment. It was impossible to ignore the strong scents in the air. The source of the pungent odour was curled up on the couch, opposite the television, cocooned in two quilts. Two feverish eyes under a mop of tangled hair peered out at him.
 
"Hi ‘im," a congested voice croaked.

A long, finely boned hand appeared from under the quilts, grabbed a wad of tissues and disappeared under the material. A wet, chewy, muffled sound of nose blowing made the Sentinel shudder down to his toes.

"You’re early," Blair said clearly.

"You’re sick," Jim countered.

"Ten out of ten, man," Blair said, pushing back his quilts to show a pink flushed face. The graduate student reached down the side of the couch and unearthed another handful of tissues. Jim clapped his hands over his ears as Blair blew his nose.

"You just had a slight cold this morning - you went into University didn’t you? You made it worse." Jim began to pace. Blair had been under the weather at breakfast - off his food and sneezing. The part ex-ranger, medic, Sentinel, detective, mother hen had argued that a quiet day in the loft would stop the slight cold becoming a bad cold.

"I just gave one lecture and then came home. It’s not a bad cold."

"If it’s not a bad cold - why are you home?" Jim argued, grimacing at his own about face.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Hey, man, my head can’t cope with this... Gotta stay at home so it doesn’t get bad. Have come home - so it is bad."

The student took a swig from the bottle of flat coke beside the couch.

"You know what I mean: you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t feeling really crappy."

Flicking a simple mental switch, the Sentinel focused on his Guide. The heartbeat was thudding nice and strongly. A tiny amount of fluid gurgled in tight lungs. The temperature radiating from the compact body was higher than normal but not dangerous. The cold had moved on from the morning but it did not seem serious.

"So do I pass the test?" Blair asked as he pulled the quilts around his body.

"You listened to me?" Jim said disbelievingly.

Feeling somewhat shocked, Jim crossed to the fridge, intent on getting some food to calm his jangled nerves. He couldn’t quite get his mind around the concept that Blair had taken a day off from University without being hospitalised or kidnapped. And that Blair had listened to him.

"Well, actually..." Blair was saying.

Jim stopped dead as he opened the fridge door. Inside tucked in the egg holder were no less than three bottles of medicine. Jim picked up the first bottle recognising the contents as a powerful, broad-spectrum antibiotic.

"Blair?" Jim began.

The student was at his elbow, still wrapped in his voluminous quilts, tugging his shirt to get his attention. Absently, Jim noticed that Blair’s left sock had a hole in the toe.

"Salwalha came back from a survey in Nairobi early last week," Blair was saying. "He was diagnosed with Meningitis last night - he was found, unconscious, on the floor of his digs by his roommate. The doctors are pretty sure he’ll be all right. They came round all the students who had been in close contact with him and gave out antibiotics. They sent me home ‘cos I’ve got a cold."

"How well do you know Salwah... Salwalha?" Jim demanded.

"Well, I haven’t been kissing him  - if that’s what you want to know. He’s one of the gang at University - I had coffee with him yesterday and then we worked on a lecture together. We’re friends. We pass the time of day together."

Jim tapped angrily on the door of the refrigerator composing his thoughts. Watchful eyes were peering plaintively up at him – the bright red nose added to the effect.

Jim ground his teeth together. "Meningitis is serious, Chief."

"Yeah, I know – that’s why I came home," Blair said easily. The grubby tissue appeared and he wiped futilely at his nose.

Jim saw red; Blair was not listening to his words.

"Meningitis is serious, Chief," Jim repeated. "You should have called me – I would have picked you up from the University. I would have stayed with you. How long have you been sitting on the couch?"

Blair now looked perplexed. "I don’t have Meningitis. I’ve got a sad little cold, it’s not even ‘flu."

The student had folded in on himself, hauling the quilt around as if he was a turtle with a shell. The comforter’s weight seemed to weigh him down. Simply walking from the couch to the fridge had exhausted the younger man. Jim narrowed his eyes, as he watched he could practically see the nose reddening and his fever rising.

"Oh, please," Jim drawled. He grabbed a handful of quilt and dragged the student over to the couch and dropped him into his nest of spare quilt and pillows.

"Why are you so pissed?" Blair tried to sound angry but a sudden coughing fit only made him sound pitiful.

Jim leaned over Blair, shaking a finger in his face. "You have been exposed to meningitis. You have a cold. You have a fever. You need somebody around in case you develop the symptoms. Because you won’t be in any condition to do anything about it if you get ill."

Blair had blanched as white as a sheet. Jim couldn’t tell if anger or fear fuelled his complexion.

"Meningitis can have you comatose in mere hours!" Jim finished.

"You’re over reacting, man," Blair said sullenly.

"You’re giving me cause for concern that your thought processes are impaired," Jim countered.

Blair slumped back into his quilts; a pout written on his expressive face.

"What do you know about Meningitis, Blair?" Jim said quietly as his anger suddenly ebbed away. The Sentinel pulled back his finger and slumped down next to his Guide on the couch.

"The nurse gave me some leaflets. They’re on the table." Blair gestured vaguely at a handful of colourful sheets on the coffee table lying next to a large bowl of water.  "I had, I have, a headache and I couldn’t be bothered to read them."

Jim dropped his head onto his hands and ran his fingers over his short hair. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he shouldn’t be yelling at his friend. Blair was ill, hopefully  only a bad cold, but he was ill and at the self-indulgent stage.

"How bad a headache?" Jim questioned.

"Nah, not bad. It’s just ‘cos my sinuses are full of snot."

Jim grimaced at the frank description. Mentally he ran through what he remembered about the symptoms underlining Meningitis and its related condition Septicaemia. A severe, migraine level headache, was one of the main symptoms of Meningitis but a slight headache was only a slight headache.

"Have you got a stiff neck?"

Blair, who was reaching for his nearly empty bottle of coke, paused. "No? Why?"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"If your neck gets sore or stiff you have to tell me straight away."

"Yeah, okay," Blair said simply and occupied himself getting to the bottom of the bottle, effectively ignoring the Sentinel.

Jim watched Blair with a weighing expression. Blair seemed quite content sucking on his flat Coca-Cola, almost like a baby with a bottle. The student evinced no dislike of bright sunlight flooding the loft through the open windows – which was a good sign. Whilst he had a fever – it was low grade. All in all it did not look as if Blair was coming down with Meningitis. However, Blair was not firing on all cylinders, he definitely needed watching. Jim settled back on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, fully prepared to stay up all night.

     ~*~

The television droned quietly in the corner. Jim had turned down the sound to its lowest setting so the noise would not disturb the dozing student. The occasional muted cough shook the warmly wrapped body curled up beside him. Still watching the television, Jim rested his hand on a damp forehead. He estimated that the fever had risen a notch. Decision made. Jim crossed to the kitchen. The soup warming on the stove would be barely palatable to a whiney Blair but he was going to get some nourishment in his stomach and then he was going to take his antibiotics and go to bed. The soup smelled too salty and disgustingly sweet but it was Blair’s favourite. The bright orange of the carrots mingled with the uniqueness of the coriander.

‘Another assault on the senses,’ Jim thought.

Deftly, Jim set up a tray and retrieved the antibiotics from the fridge. Jim set the tray before the student. Blair had napped and dozed, off and on, since their abortive argument. He had slept through Star Wars, which would have normally woken him from the soundest of sleep.

"Come on, Chief, wake up."

Jim shook a shoulder, well - he thought that it was a shoulder, beneath the quilts. A deep breath heralded another chest tingling cough. The edge of the quilt obscuring Blair’s face moved and a gummy eyelid cracked open.

"I was ‘sleep," Blair whined.

"You’ll be more comfortable in bed," Jim said without preamble. "You need to eat something."

Looking, impossibly, more dishevelled, Blair emerged from his nest. He noticed the tray of food on the coffee table and his eyes widened dramatically.

"Hey, man, you didn’t have to do that," a pleased smile frittered on the edge of Blair’s lips.

‘Well, well,’ Jim thought, ‘a civil Blair; he must be feeling better.’

Realising that his Guide was acting a little more like himself, Jim suddenly noted that he too was hungry. The soup in the pan, all at once, seemed appealing. As Blair rooted around for his damp tissues, secreted amongst the cushions, Jim retreated to the kitchen area. With one ear monitoring his Guide’s mumblings, Jim fed himself. He was quite content to stay by the bench with his soup as Blair blew his nose and coughed the accumulated crap out of his lungs.

"I really appreciate this, Jim," Blair said around a cough.

"Well, when I catch your bug, you can make me chicken soup."

"It’s a deal," Blair said with a definite smile in his voice.

Another disgusting moist nose blowing echoed in his ears. Jim focused on his soup trying to ignore his churning stomach. He knew, he just knew, that Blair was looking at the contents on his handkerchief and was about to announce…

"Oh, man, it’s green."

"That means that you’ve got yourself a secondary bacterial infection," Jim said quietly.

"Oh, gross."

Jim rolled his eyes; he had suddenly lost his appetite.

"Jim, I can’t eat anymore," Blair whined. "Everything just tastes of…antibiotics."

Jim left his bowl on the table and grabbed a glass of orange juice and paracetomols for Blair. The student had kicked off his covers and was sitting on top of the quilts. Judging from his sweaty face and bright eyes his fever had jumped higher. A heartbeat later, Jim focused his senses on Blair and accurately gauged his temperature at 102. The thin T-shirt clung to his body, outlining every rib.

"Here," Jim ordered, handing the tablets and the juice forwards.

Blair read his expression and docilely took the pills. The large red antibiotic and the two little white ones followed the painkillers.

"Right, T-shirt – off," Jim demanded.

Blair froze mid swallow, his expression plainly said ‘what?’.

"I want to check you for any rash," Jim explained further, already reaching for the sweat soaked cotton. Blair batted futilely at his fingers. Clicking his thumb and index finger together, Jim ordered the protesting Guide to strip. Clearly annoyed, Blair crossed his arms.

"Blair, I need to see if you have a rash," Jim said flatly, his tone brooking no argument.

Every muscle screaming his reluctance, his entire posture protesting, Blair slowly peeled the damp T-shirt from his body. The wiry chest hair was plastered against the flushed, sweaty skin. Narrowing his eyes, Jim leaned forwards peering beyond the whorls of hair to the skin beyond. No red, bloody pinprick rash marred his chest.

"Stand up. I want to look at your back."

A deep growl echoed in the back of the Guide’s throat but he stood up and turned. The back was similarly clear.

"You gonna make me strip all the way?" Blair said nastily.

"Yup," Jim said easily.

"No way, man!"

Galvanised, Blair scrambled over the couch. Jim clambered after him – but he was really only teasing the Guide. Coughing and spluttering, Blair bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Jim stopped outside and rested his hand on the wooden door.

"Since, you’re in there, why don’t you have a luke warm shower? Check for any rash," Jim finished.

The coughing on the other side of the door eased, then Jim heard the water splatter on the ceramic tiles. Grinning to himself, Jim occupied himself clearing up the dishes. The cold was still a cold. Blair’s temperature was high but not dangerously high. There was no violent, red rash. He was thinking clearly. He was capable of a mad dash. It did not look as if his Guide was going to come down with Meningitis. That, however, did not mean that he was going to stop checking on his reluctant patient.

      ~*~

Jim had washed the dishes, disinfected the kitchen tabletops and, wearing rubber gloves, retrieved and disposed of Blair’s tissues before the student emerged from the shower. Hot steam billowed from the bathroom. Wrapped in all the loft’s fluffy towels, Blair hovered in the hall, keeping the couch between himself and Jim.

"Enjoy your shower?"

Blair’s face was bright red, Jim decided that that was due to the hot shower. Blair’s eyes were still bright and the pupils were slightly dilated. The tightness around the eyes, which had previously spoke of a headache, was missing.

"Yeah, the hot steam really helped my breathing." Blair gave an experimental cough.

"Good, get dried before you take a chill."

Blair scampered across the carpet to his bedroom. He stopped at the threshold.

"You sure you don’t want to check for a rash?" Blair asked.

"What?" Jim shook his head.

Blair grinned and spun on his heel. He dropped his towel and then mooned his Sentinel before dashing into, and locking, his room.

Jim laughed so hard he almost fell over.

     ~*~

Still laughing, Jim continued tidying the loft. He was amazed at the amount of clutter Blair could generate in a matter of hours. Magazines, journals, even an old well-thumbed science fiction novel, were stacked in haphazard piles by the side of Blair’s nest. The bottle of flat coke was almost finished – only a few dregs remained. Jim growled at the untouched cheese sandwich he found under the couch. Apparently Blair had made back to the loft, set himself up for a pampering session and then his cold had hit with a vengeance. He had then spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening huddling in a ball riding out a granddaddy of colds.

The bowl on water sitting on the coffee table had long since cooled. Jim could still detect the scent of eucalyptus and menthol. It looked as if Blair had treated himself to an old fashioned inhalant steam bath. The towel, which he had used to make a tent, faintly smelled of Blair. The towel was, of course, rolled in ball and had been stuffed under the table. Gingerly, Jim picked up the eucalyptus and menthol aromatherapy bottles – if he allowed the essential oils to touch his sensitive skin he would probably blister.

While he tidied, he listened to Blair. The whisper of a fluffy towel drying skin was difficult to hear but the Sentinel managed. He smiled at the noise of Blair’s winces as the kid used a wide toothed comb sort out his tangled hair. The low hum of the hairdryer followed. Then he heard the sound of a compact body clambering into bed and heavy covers being pulled up with a relieved sigh.

"Night, Jim."

It was a mere whisper.

"Good night, Blair, sleep tight."

Light breathing was his only answer.

      ~*~

Ewoks cavorted around a campfire. Jim looked up from Blair’s science fiction book. The adventures of Luke, Han and Leia had gone unwatched for the better part of an hour. The old book had pleasantly surprised him, the lurid cover with a tall yellow alien sporting ivory horns had looked a bit silly to the detective. Once he had got into the story of the dispossessed Native American, Hosteen Storm, he had settled down to a good read.

Reluctantly, Jim put the book aside and crossed to Blair’s bedroom. He opened the door. Blair slept undisturbed. Blair could sleep through a tornado if he was tired. The only sounds in the room were soft snuffling sighs. Still in his role of watchman, Jim flicked on the bedside lamp and scrutinised his Guide’s face. His nose blocked, Blair was breathing through his open mouth. No rash marred the flushed face. Absently, Jim noted that the fever had dropped slightly. Carefully, Jim pulled back the blankets and then lifted Blair’s baggy T-shirt. Tickling Blair’s ribs, Jim coaxed the Guide onto his back. Jim was pleased to see that there was definitely no rash on Blair’s body.

Indecisively, he debated whether or not to wake Blair. The rash, whilst an indicator of Meningitis, only appeared in the late stages and then not in everyone. And it was best to catch the disease as early as possible. Confusion, a headache, a stiff neck and a dislike of bright lights were early signs. Jim turned the light down and shook his Guide.

"Gakk," Blair said vocally. He winced away from the light.

"Come on, Blair."

Blair’s pupils had contracted to mere pinpricks but Jim waited until he had time to become used to the light before worrying.

"W’at?…im?" Blair turned over and struggled into a sitting position.

"Are you awake, Blair?"

Coughing, Blair tried to turn away, to hide under the covers. With a simple grip on his arm, Jim prevented the student from escaping. Groaning and hacking, Blair sounded less than pleased at being woken.

"Come on, Chief, wake up."

Blair swallowed a mouthful of phlegm before answering. "W’at time iz’t?"

"Around midnight."

Jim waited for the words to sink into a sleepy mind and the inevitable outburst.

"Midnight!" Blair said incredulously. "Why in the Hell are you waking me up?"

"How do you feel?"

"Pissed off!" Blair punctuated his expletive with a harsh cough.

"Well, I don’t see any signs of confusion. Do you have a headache?"

"No, and I don’t have a stiff neck either!" Grumping, Blair flopped back down onto his pillow. He rubbed tiredly at his face. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

Muttering under his breath, Blair pulled the covers over his head. Without bothering to hide a smile, Jim switched off the bedside light. He wondered how Blair was going to handle his two o’clock feed.

      ~*~

Blair tried to crawl further into his pillow but whether he liked it or not he was awake. Late morning sunlight shafted into his bedroom. Reluctantly, he pushed off his blankets. At least Jim had let him sleep himself out after the six o’clock check. He vaguely remembered saying something quite insulting to the Sentinel. He felt like he had been picked up and wrung out like a dishrag. Blair shrugged himself into his dressing gown and concentrated on standing upright. He tried a cough as he staggered into the sitting room. He couldn’t dredge up anything nasty. Evidently, the antibiotics had kicked in – killing the incipient chest infection.

A pair of sock covered feet poked over the end of the couch. Moving on tiptoes, Blair crept to the couch. Jim was fast asleep, head pillowed on his forearm, his face was pressed into a cushion. The straight, tidy hair was mussed and he looked exhausted. The Sentinel had snuggled on top of the quilts that had been left on the sofa.

Deciding not to wake him, Blair crept over to the kitchen and fixed himself some cereal. He was pushing the soggy bran aimlessly around the bowl when he realised that, uncharacteristically, he had not disturbed his Sentinel. A heartbeat later, Blair was crouched next to Jim, anxiously looking for any signs of a rash. Frantically, Blair patted his friend’s arm.

"Wake up, man," Blair cajoled.

Jim woke in an instant. "What? What? Are you all right, Blair?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine." Jim swung his legs onto the floor and stretched. "What a weird dream. I dreamt that you turned into a blood pudding – I think that Freud would figure that one out pretty easily. How’s the cold?"

Blair shook his head at the casual question. Here he was worrying about his Sentinel and…Blair rocked back on his heels, feeling the adrenaline spiked energy leaching from his tired body. "I thought you were unconscious. I mean, you slept through me making breakfast."

Jim smiled but didn’t point out that he had had a disturbed night.

"How’s the cold?" Jim tried again.

"Miles better." Blair wobbled to his feet. "You want breakfast?"

Jim caught his elbow and dumped him back on the couch. "I’ll get it. Pancakes and bacon?"

"With maple syrup?" Blair asked eagerly.

Jim made a face. "You are feeling better."

Blair pulled the Jim warmed quilts around his body as Jim started on the batter. Donning his flowery apron, Jim moved easily though the morning routine. As he worked, the Sentinel kept looking up and checking on him. Sheepishly, Blair reviewed his behaviour. He had been out of line; Jim had simply been concerned.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Jim asked suddenly.

Abashed, Blair hung his head. "Hey, man, I’m sorry about last night. I don’t actually remember much but I was…when I told you to… you know."

"It’s okay, Blair," Jim said easily. "You weren’t feeling very well. I wish I had had my camera, though, when you dropped the towel."

Blair knew that he was blushing, he had forgotten that little episode.

Then Jim sneezed into the batter mix. Eyes wide, he looked horrified. Another sneeze rocked his body. And then another. Blair wobbled across to the kitchen. He tried not to laugh at the stupefied expression on Jim’s face and the splatter of batter over his apron.

"Aw, man, I’ve given you my cold."

"I don’t want to have a cold," Jim wailed. "I can’t take cough medicine."

Jim grabbed a handful of paper towel and held it against his dripping nose. Patting his back, Blair shepherded the Sentinel back to couch and put him on the quilts.

"Hey, we’re a fine pair – aren’t we?"

Jim didn’t even dignify his question with an answer. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

"I don’t believe this," Jim muttered.

      ~*~

Indiana Jones pulled out his pistol and shot the swordsman dead. Blair laughed deep in his throat. The bleary Sentinel, now cocooned in the quilt nest, next to him cocked an eyebrow in question.

"That’s my favourite part in the whole series."

Jim appeared to consider the statement and then he volunteered: "I like the coat hanger scene."

"We can watch ‘Highlander’ next."

Showered and stuffed with warm bagels and croissants delivered from baker’s on the corner, Blair was feeling miles better. He had even managed to get a cream cheese and salmon bagel down the poorly Sentinel’s throat before Jim had gone off his food.

"I’d prefer the television off," Jim said irritably.

"Okay," Blair reached for the remote.

Silence filled the loft, except for the occasional sniffle from the Sentinel and a dry cough from the Guide. Blair managed to sit quietly for about thirty seconds and then he reached for the leaflets that the nurse had given him yesterday morning.

"What I don’t understand," Jim said into the quiet, "is why they let you leave the University. Why didn’t the doctor, or whoever came around and saw everyone who had been in contact Salwalha, take you to the campus medical centre?"

"Oh, I told them that I lived with a trained medic and that he’d know what to do."

Blair lifted his head from the leaflet, as he suspected Jim was shaking his head in resignation.

"So why didn’t you call?" Jim asked, crabby.

"To be honest, I thought that I did," Blair explained. "I mean I drove home, which perhaps wasn’t a good idea."

Jim pursed his lips but refrained from commenting.

"But I’m pretty sure," Blair continued, "that I called the precinct. I can’t remember who I spoke too. They probably thought that I was drunk. If I did call."

Blair turned his attention back to the leaflets.

"You know it’s statistically unlikely that you’ll develop Meningitis even if you’ve been exposed to someone who has the disease." Blair said to the world at large and Jim in particular.

Silence descended, then.

"Jim."

"What?"

"Do you have a severe headache?"

"No."

"Stiff neck?"

"No."

"Are the lights bothering you?"

"NO, Blair."

"Rash?" Blair asked quietly.

"Blair!"

"Hey, man, I’m just asking. I’m concerned."

"Yeah, I know," Jim said relenting.  "Now you know why I was so pissy last night."

"According to this leaflet, if you get meningitis you throw up repeatedly."

"What?" Jim plucked the page from Blair’s hand. "I missed that one."

Jim turned the page over in his hands rapidly scanning the information. "Damn, damn, damn," he muttered under his breath.

Blair rested a calming hand on Jim’s forearm. "It’s okay, you were here. You knew what to do. If I had got a really bad headache, whined about a sore neck or started puking you would have got me down to the hospital so fast we would have broken the sound barrier."

Jim chuckled deep in his throat.

"Have I thanked you, Jim?" Blair asked. "’cos, I should have. Thank you, Jim, for looking after me."

Jim shrugged offhandedly, but Blair could tell that he was pleased.

"Hey, Chief, what are friends for?"

Blair smiled widely, his entire face lit up. "So do you want chicken soup or carrot soup for lunch?"

~~~~
finis
~~~~