A huge blue eye glared down at him from the center of the ceiling. It blinked.

Blair inhaled sharply and rolled off his bed, landing with a soft thud on the floor. Calm, he told himself, eyes squeezed shut. It will pass. Please, God, let it pass. Screwing up his courage, he peered up at the ceiling through slitted eyes.

The ceiling was blank.

Good. Thatís good. Just breathe in and out. Be calm. Slow that heartbeat.

He listened to the darkness; no sounds came from Jimís room above. That was also good. Relaxing slightly, he gave a silent sigh of relief.

Jim hadnít been sleeping well lately--the new neighbors downstairs had a lively set of twin daughters, two-year-olds--and Blair didnít want to wake him. He also didnít want the older man to know about the bizarre visions.

It had been six months since Blair had been exposed unknowingly to the hallucinogenic drug Golden, six months since heíd shot up the police garage and nearly shot Jim. The doctors had told him that flashbacks were possible, but nothing had happened until about ten days ago. He was sitting in his office at the university when giant hairy spiders had erupted from the surface of his desk. Theyíd vanished quickly, and heíd headed straight to Doctor Snow. The doctorís advice had been, unhappily, quite simple: There was nothing medical science could do. Blair would have to cope. And the flashbacks might never happen again.

Two nights later heíd come home late from his office--heíd started taking the bus rather than risk an episode in his car and the bus had broken down--and found the floor of his room covered in snakes. Jim had been out, fortunately, and missed the yelling. Three days after that the trees near the fountain on campus were dripping blood. Nothing had happened since then, until the eye popped out of the ceiling tonight. Of course, anticipation of the flashbacks was about as bad as the actual visions.

All in all, it had been one hell of a sleepless week.

He glanced up at the ceiling again. Nothing. Very good. Arching his neck, he could see the clock on the nightstand behind and above him: 12:29 a.m.

Climbing back into bed seemed to require more effort than he was capable of just now. He reached up and dragged the blanket off his bed. The floor was comfortable enough.

Besides, down here the ceiling was that much farther away.

At least Jim was sleeping. After last nightís free and frank discussion with the twinsí father on the kidsí nocturnal habits--how could two tiny girls make that much noise?--Jim mustíve resorted to dialing his hearing way down. Of course, tonight had turned out to be blessedly silent; maybe the family was out for the night. Or maybe the twins had tied up their parents and stolen the family car. Joy-riding, redheaded hellions terrorizing Cascade.

Laughter threatened, and part of Blair knew he was irrational from lack of sleep. Another part of him suddenly resented his roommateís peaceful rest. That was truly irrational, ridiculous, and really selfish. He didnít *want* Jim to wake up. Didnít want the older man to know that he couldnít handle the situation on his own. How could Jim have confidence in Blairís ability to help him with his Sentinel senses if Blair couldnít even deal with his own problems? What police detective would want such a weak-minded partner?

No, he was *never* going to get back to sleep in here. He kept expecting snakes or spiders or eyeballs or God-alone-knew-what to pop out of the ceiling. Or the floor.

Quietly but quickly he got up off that floor and sat down on the futon that served as his bed. Too many monsters lurked in this room. Actually, they lurked in his head, but it was easier to blame the room, or the damned futon.

Maybe the couch would be safe. It couldnít hurt to try, and heíd be really quiet. Besides, if Jim had his hearing dialed down then Blair should be on guard, right? If somebody broke in, then heíd hear (if he was out in the living room on the couch) and he could wake Jim.
Looked at from that perspective, it was actually his *duty* to move to the couch.

The living room was surprisingly bright. Light from the full moon streamed through the windows. Blair walked carefully, tip-toeing around furniture and holding his blanket high to avoid tripping himself. He made no sound until the moon vanished behind passing clouds. The sudden darkness was disorienting, and he rammed his right big toe into a table leg.

ìOw, ow,î he hissed, hopping painfully from foot to foot. Man, that hurt!

ìSandburg?î came Jimís sleep-thickened voice from upstairs.

Blair bit his lip. ìSorry, man. Sorry. Getting some water and tripped on a chair. Sorry I woke you.î

He waited a full two minutes, listening for further sounds from upstairs and letting the throbbing in his foot subside. Mercifully, Jim seemed to have gone back to sleep. The moonlight returned while Blair waited, and he limped with exaggerated care toward the couch.

As he passed by the easy chair, it burst into flame and rose up on charring wooden legs. Fiery arms reached out to engulf Blair.
ìAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!î He screamed and leapt backward. His legs connected solidly with the coffee table and he toppled over, sweeping the table top clean. He landed on the floor amidst a crashing clatter of magazines, books, and the box of computer disks heíd been sorting the evening before. The fire creature returned to its usual existence as a chair.

ìWhat is it?! Whatís happening?!î Jim appeared at the upstairs landing, wild-eyed, gun drawn, clad only in boxers and a wrist watch.

Below him, in the moonlit living room, Blair lay sprawled on the floor, his hands over his face. He was cursing softly but thoroughly.

ìSandburg?î It took Jimís sleep-muddled brain a few seconds to realize there were no intruders. ìSandburg, whatís going on?î

Blair didnít answer, didnít take his hands from his face. Oh, God, he was tired. Physically exhausted and so very weary of this shit. And his foot hurt like a son of a bitch. He couldnít take any more. He couldnít even get up off the floor.

ìBlair, talk to me. What happened?î Jimís voice came closer as he descended the stairs and walked to where Blair lay. He stared down at his partner for a puzzled moment, then dropped into the easy chair.

Jim placed his weapon on the now-clear surface of the coffee table. He rubbed his face with one hand, glanced at his watch, and tried again. ìTalk to me, buddy. Itís practically two a.m. and way too early for guessing games.î

Blair groaned. He ran his hands through the knotted curls of his long hair then let his arms fall heavily to the floor. ìOh, man! Iím sorry. I thought I could handle it by myself. I really did. I mean hairy spiders in the office, snakes in my room, campus trees dripping blood, and even eyeballs staring at me from the ceiling I can take. Well, not really, but sort of. But when the furniture--when the *chair*--turns into some fire creature and comes after me? Tries to burn me up? Man, that is just...that is just...that is just *so* not fair,î he finished lamely.

During this rambling, incoherent speech, Jim Ellison had come fully awake. He looked, really looked, at his friend. Though the moonlight came and went with passing clouds, the Sentinelís eyesight easily noted the dark circles under Blairís eyes, the lines of worry and strain creasing his forehead. Frown lines etched Jimís own brow, as he wondered how long had it been since heíd really paid attention to Blair.
This last week heíd been caught up in his own troubles with the new neighbors--something Blair said interrupted his thoughts.

ìFlaming chairs coming to life. I mean, you think itís burning to ashes, but itís alive, man. Burning. Trying to burn me.î He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, striving for some measure of control.

Jimís mouth suddenly went dry and an icy hand clutched his heart. Forcing his voice to be calm, he asked, ìBlair, are you having flashbacks? From the Golden?î A miserable nod. ìFor how long?î

ìWeek, ten days, I guess. It hasnít been that bad, really. Tonightís just been the worst.î Slow, husky from lack of sleep, punctuated by sighs--even Sandburgís voice had changed. ìI saw Doctor Snow after the first one. He said thereís pretty much nothing to be done. I just gotta deal. And I thought I could.î

Ten days? Jim shook his head, amazed that he could have been so blind. Sandburg had been hurting like this for ten days and he hadnít even noticed. Blessed Protector? Hell, he hadnít even been much of a friend lately.

Blair sighed deeply. ìIím really sorry I woke you. You should get back to bed. Youíve got to be at the station early tomorrow. I should go back to bed too, I guess.î

Jimís enhanced hearing easily picked up the increase in his friendís heart rate. But it didnít take a Sentinelís senses to recognize the reluctance in Blairís voice.

The younger man got to his feet and collected his blanket. His glance at the French doors leading to his room was tinged with fear. ìOf course,î he said thoughtfully. ìI could just crash out here.î

As Blair settled himself on the couch, Jim said, ìChief, look at me.î Weary blue eyes complied. ìIím sorry, Blair.î

Now the eyes showed confusion. ìSorry for what? Iím the one woke you--î

ìStop it. Iím sorry I didnít notice you were in trouble.î

ìHey, no, Jim. You had your own problems. And itís weird, you know; Iíve never had any flashbacks when you were around. Couple at work, couple in my room.î He shuddered. ìBut never while you were there. So how could you know?î

Jim winced guiltily at the idea that his ìproblemsî with the rambunctious two-year-olds could possibly compare with what his friend was trying to handle. Alone. Yet, Blairís last comment gave him an idea.

ìWhenís the last time you slept, Chief?î

Blair yawned. ìI donít even remember. A week, I guess. Iím, uh, kind of afraid to close my eyes, you know? Never know whatíll be there when I open them.î This last was said lightly, but it was obvious that he meant it.

Jim nodded thoughtfully, his mouth set in a firm line. He got up, retrieving his weapon, and headed upstairs. In seconds, he was back, this time armed only with a pillow and blanket. As Blair watched in growing consternation, Jim pulled the chair nearer the coffee table, sat, and stuffed the pillow behind his back.

When the detective put his feet up on the table and spread the blanket over his legs, Blair demanded, ìWhat do you think youíre doing?î

There was no response as Jim was engaged in settling the pillow more comfortably behind his lower back.

ìYouíre not going to babysit me! Iíll be--î

A raised hand stopped his protests. ìBlair, how many times have you helped me control my personal demons?î Jim said. ìIím just returning the favor, thatís all.î

ìYou canít stay awake all night!î

ìIíve pulled worse duties, Sandburg, much worse. Besides, thereís not that much night left. So go to sleep, Chief. Now.î

Incredulity and exasperation chased over Blairís face, and he said, ìThis is silly, man.î

In spite of the brave protest, Jim could hear his heart rate slowing, and the younger man couldnít quite hide the relief that softened his careworn face. Recognizing that relief, realizing how much his friend needed him, brought on a fresh wave of guilt, but Jim forced a grin and said, ìNew house rule, Sandburg: no holding out on your Sentinel."

A sleepy smile. ì*Golden* rule.î

Jim gave him a mock glare for the pun. ìSay good night, Chief.î

After dealing with a jaw-cracking yawn, Blair murmured, ìíNight Chief.î He settled deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket close around himself.

Sandburgís eyelids closed, and Jim monitored the slowing pace of heart and lungs. Clouds covered the moon, casting the room into blackness, but Sentinel eyes saw the worry lines smooth out and the tension in Blairís shoulders ease. Sleep finally overcame the exhausted man.

Soon, low snores filled the silence. It was a welcome sound, and Jimís guilt receded. He was content to listen. For the next six hours, Blair would never even twitch, and Jim would never leave him.

The older man was reminded of something heíd read once, or maybe Sandburg had told him. A quotation. Something like, ìIt isnít often given to us to comfort merely by our presence.î

Super-cop with super-senses, yet none of the things that made him a Sentinel was needed at this moment. The only important thing--the only thing required of him right now--was that he remember he was Blair Sandburgís friend.

That thought made him smile, and the smile was as peaceful as Blairís sleep had become.

Seconds later the moonís face was free of clouds. Its soft light bathed the loft as one man stood silent watch over his friend.

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