So, wrote this sitting, waiting, at the court house, dreading I'd be called for jury duty.

It's a shorter one.

Clay emerged from his cocoon, moppy-headed and bleary eyed. Blankets still over his head, he slapped a hand out and about, inching on his belly across the mattress closer to the night stand until his fingers fumbled his phone to the floor.

Eh, fuck it.

"Just a text." Rebecca's soft voice barely penetrated his clogged ears, but he understood the word text, managed to unlock the phone and slurred permission to read it to him. "Okay, well," she hedged. "Apparently, you're supposed to be at a party at Metal's mountain cabin."

"Not…" he swallowed, throat raw, "….going."

Rebecca nodded, she didn't think he should go either and replied to the text. She got an immediate response.

"Not acceptable." She read to Clay who flipped off the phone with a grunt. "Shall I say you're sick?"

"Tell 'em, I'm dead…"

She typed and sent and got an answer. "It's not an invitation, it's an order." She frowned, well, that was rude. "Well then, where is it?"

"Dunno." Talking made him cough. "Scroll….address is there…" He rubbed his chest, held his throat. "You say I'm…dead?"

"Of course not." She thumbed through previous texts until she found the address then pulled up travel-math. "It's over an hour away. Almost two." She sighed. It was the opposite direction from which she needed to go. "You can't drive that far. You just took Nyquil and you're probably running a fever."

"I'm not going." But he was stirring, drawing his knees up as he rolled and twisted. "Uber." Probably? Trent would have known, because he would have taken Clay's temperature by now. Hell, all she had to do was feel his forehead, he was burning up.

"I suppose I could delay my return to D.C." She offered lamely, without enthusiasm. "Drive you to…"

"No." He was sitting on one hip, feet curled beneath his ass in the middle of the bed, hand in his hair. "Hot in here."

"Yes," she agreed but didn't offer to get him a wet cloth for his forehead or a glass of water with some Tylenol.

She knew she should get him up, call him a cab or Uber and make sure he got on his way, but instead, she sent a text and set the phone aside. Whatever the reply was, he could deal with it. She had to leave to return home, she'd delayed as long as she could to take care of Clay who likely had the flu. He should see a doctor, but he'd have to make the appointment on his own, she'd be back in D.C.

"Well then, okay." She patted his shoulder. "If you're sure you're going to be okay, I'll be on my way."

Clay, still sitting twisted in the sheets in the middle of his bed, merely blinked. Wait, what? She was leaving?

"I'll give you a call when I get home, let you know I got in okay." She was at the door. "I'd give you a kiss good-bye, but no offense, I don't want to catch what you have. So, see you next weekend."

"Right." He rasped, but he was speaking to an empty room. She was gone. He slowly laid down; couldn't remember why he was sitting up. "Uh, okay."

His ringing phone woke him sometime later. He ignored it, but as soon as it quit singing CCR's Bad Moon Rising, it started again. Cursing, he hit answer – Rebecca had left the phone on the bed right next to his head – muttered some kind of response.

"Spenser, the only thing you better say is, you're on your way." Jason barked irritably. "You're expected to be here."

"I don't…"

"I better lay eyes on you by 8."

Clay sighed, dropped the phone. When he sat up, he got dizzy and the room spun sickeningly so driving was out of the question. He couldn't possibly see which two lines to remain between but who would be willing to drive him nearly two hours away? His teammates had already departed and no one was going to turn around to come back and get him. Wives, fiancées and girlfriends were invited, but Rebecca was on her way back to D.C, so she wasn't an option.

He crawled out of bed, went to the bathroom, washed his face, sat down on the side of the tub. His hand, holding his 10-pound bangs off his forehead, felt hot against his skin. God, his hair felt so heavy, it made his head ache. He briefly thought about adopting a crewcut, dismissed the idea as too difficult. He simply wasn't capable of finding, holding and maneuvering a shaver.

He should call Jason back, say he was sick. His boss would then tell him if he were too sick to attend the party, he could take himself off to the base hospital. It was what he should do. But when did he ever do what he should, or what made sense?

He wet a wash cloth with cold water, held it to his forehead, returned to the bedroom, found the phone, pulled up a number, hit send.

"Hello?"

"Hey." He said huskily. "I, uh, need….." He had a coughing fit. "Hey dad." Man, breathing in hurt. Breathing out made him cough.

"Not sounding so good there, son."

"Yeah." He rasped hoarsely. "Not…feelin' it either." He padded barefoot out to the kitchen, cloth on the back of his neck. He opened the freezer, took out a bag of frozen peas, held it to his forehead. The shock of the cold against his hot skin was too much and he was on his knees, gasping for his breath that had suddenly deserted him.

Ash waited, Clay rarely called him and never to just say hi. It was the middle of the afternoon, so he didn't want to have a drink. The boy was obviously ill, perhaps he was calling for someone to take care of him, though he seriously doubted it. Ash wasn't the best father, hell, not even a good father, but he was trying to get to know the man his son had become.

"Clay?" He said for the third time. "Clay? Hey, you still with me?"

Coughing fit finally subdued, he was sitting on the floor, bag of cold peas on his crotch. He made a face, tossed it aside. The hell?

"Bravo's having a….." he sighed, coughed, knee-walked his way over to the counter, somehow used it to support his weight and get to his feet. He drank some cough syrup with codeine, the only thing capable of dousing the fire in his throat and easing the tightness in his chest. "You, uh, busy? I need to get to….I need a ride."

"Doctor's office, I hope."

"Uh, no." He winced, palm against his chest, pressed. Could adults get the croup? "Metal's cabin, out Blue Ridge….I don't think I should….can…drive…."

Ash mentally searched through everyone he knew…there was an old buddy in Roanoke he could crash with for the night.

"I'll pick you up in thirty minutes."

"Thanks, uh….dad."

Ash was there in twenty, knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. He didn't hear any movement inside, pounded impatiently.

"CLAY!" He called, more than slightly annoyed. If that little sonofabitch – and he was, Ash knew the boy's mother – had split before he'd arrived, just see what kind of response he'd get, he ever called his old man again. "CLAY?!" He pounded for the last time, threw his hands up and walked down the hall towards the elevator. "Shit." He patted his pocket, he had a key, he should let himself in, take a look around. Clay didn't have a habit of just calling him and pulling a lame ass joke.

Clay was just coming out of the bedroom, one hand holding his head, the other the wall, when Ash opened the door, stepped inside the apartment.

"How many times you been told, if you're home, put the chain lock on." Ash greeted, eye brows rising once he got a good look at his son. What the hell was Hayes thinking, making the boy go out when he was obviously sick. "You can't go dressed like that." He grinned. Clay wore sweat pants and a long-sleeved Henley shirt. "You need a shower, hot as you can stand it, use some shampoo." He moved through the room to the kitchen counter, looked through the bottles of medications. "Codeine?" He read the label that, while it said what the bottle contained, did not have Clay's name.

"Huh? Uh, oh…yeah."

"What'd you take with it?"

"Dunno." He didn't move. "What'r you doin' here?"

Ash looked up in surprise. "You called me."

Clay dropped his hand from his hair, rubbed his chest with his palm, eyes wide. "Don't think I did."

"You asked for a ride." Ash frowned. The flushed face, red cheeks, glassy eyes. Kid was running a fever. "I'd ask, you have the flu, but not with that cough."

"A ride…?..oh." He turned his head, coughed into the crook of his arm. "Right, I gotta….uh….go."

"Yeah." Ash reached out, gently took Clay by an elbow, turned him in the direction of the bathroom. "You make it through a shower, get all the shampoo outta your hair, manage to get dressed, I'll drive you."

"You will?" Clay coughed, winced when he tried to swallow. "Where?"

"I'll heat some tea, you got Tylenol? Anything for a fever?" Ash was opening cupboard doors. "Where's the tea? Since I'm boiling water, I'll heat enough, you can hold a towel over your head, put your face over the bowl, breathe steam. Sound like a plan? Make a hot toddy, you can drink on the way. I'm sure you have rum. Spices keep a while you know, stock up, my boy. You have a thermos?"

There. That. That was what he'd expected Rebecca to do for him.

"Uh….'k."

"You cough that shit up, spit it out." Ash grimaced, headed for the bathroom. As addled as Clay appeared, Ash thought it best if he were the one to adjust the water temperature.

***000***

Clay slept most of the drive to Metal's mountain cabin. Ash had found the address on Clay's phone after he'd coaxed the kid into unlocking it, in a text message from Metal and plugged it into his GPS. The longer they drove, the more convinced he became that Clay should be home in bed, on prescribed antibiotics.

He'd asked and received a muddled answer about why Clay insisted on going and not calling in sick. He hadn't pushed. Clay was a stubborn ass and once his mind was made up and set on a direction, it rarely changed. He didn't think much of Jason Hayes – correction, he couldn't stand the asshole, but Hayes was neither a stupid nor a cruel man. He would have excused Clay from this…this…whatever the hell 'this' was, if Clay had simply told the man he was I-should-see-a-doctor sick.

Clay had finished the hot toddy in the thermos and had been asleep since. Ash had expected it, it's why he had taken the time to make it. He hadn't wanted to spend nearly two hours in a car listening to Clay cough up a lung and spit it out a window. Was he a good father? No. Had he rubbed too much blackberry brandy on the kid's gums when he was teething so he would just go to sleep? Hell, yes. Maybe he hadn't been around all that much when Clay was growing up, but Ash knew hot tea toddy's laced heavily with rum, knocked him on his ass. Had ever since the kid had been, like, three.

Of course, as he had grown up, more rum had been necessary. Many people believed in expensive over-the-counter medications, but not Ash. Nope. Not when rum or whiskey worked just as well.

Ash turned off the main road, drove nearly 2 miles on what looked like a private driveway, pulled up in front of the largest mountain cabin he'd ever laid eyes on this side of the Mississippi. Wow.

The entire house had a light on in every window. Lights lit up the back yard, the front yard, the covered pool, the garage, the designated smoking area. By the amount of cars neatly parked in rows on a patch of grass next to a detached barn, it was a well-attended party.

"Clay? Wake up, we're here." Ash waited, car running outside Metal's door for Clay to wake up enough to understand they were at their destination and it was time to get out of the car and go inside, join his teammates. The driveway looped around and he was idling under a portico. "You sure you wanna go in? I'm crashing at a buddy's; he'll have room for two."

"Huh?" Clay dug as his crusted-closed eyes with the knuckles on his point fingers. "W'at?"

"We're here." Ash considered calling Jason, didn't have his number but he could get it from Clay. Wondered if the man would take a call from him. Maybe he should just take Clay's phone, call…. "Whoa,"

Clay had opened the door, was in the process of releasing his seat belt, bumbled his way out of the car.

"Maybe you should just come with me." Ash put the car in park, reached across the seat to snag Clay's jacket, pull him back in the car but he resisted. "Zip your jacket, put your hood up." Ash sighed, let him go. "Go straight inside, go lie down somewhere, you hear?"

Clay patted his pockets, felt the bottles of medication, nodded, closed the door. Ash waited until the front door opened and Clay was hugged and pulled inside by a blonde, then drove away.

()

"Jesus Clay," Jason frowned, met Clay in the kitchen when he received the text Clay was there. "You sound like shit. Shudda said you were sick."

"Thought…I…did."

"Keys in the bowl." He was handed a beer from some faceless person who then pointed to the bowl on the counter that held many sets of keys.

"You taking anything for that cough?"

"Uh, yeah."

"You seen Doc?"

"No. I didn't….Uh Jay…where's Tre…." Clay began, coughed.

"Vic! My man!" Jason snagged a passing Vic by the collar, stopped his progress, dragged him close. "Got a job for you. Keep an eye on Spenser here, okay?" Clay accepted a paper towel, spat into it, balled it up, threw it away. Jason gave him a look, oh, he'd be seeing Doc come morning.

"Do what?" Vic was bewildered. They were at a house party, just what did Jason think Clay could get up to?

"Vic?" Jason's tone stopped the team rookie in his tracks. "You watch him. You gettin' me?"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you."

"Keep him with you, don't let him out of your sight." He squeezed Vic's collarbone cruelly, hard enough to hurt. "He has a habit of disappearing right in front of your eyes." He eyed Clay who was rolling the cold bottle of beer across his forehead, thought maybe Vic wasn't up to the job of babysitting Clay. "Clay, what'd you take?" Vic was a highly trained, highly skilled Tier One Operative. Babysitting shouldn't be any problem for him.

"Uh….Tylenol." Clay squinted. "Nyquil…..I dunno….yeah, cough syrup."

Jason had had just enough to drink, that his own thinking was muddled and slow to keep up. Had he had three, maybe four beers less, it would have occurred to him Nyquil and cough syrup were two different medications, not one. But he hadn't, so it didn't.

"He's medicated." Jason told a very confused Vic. "Don't you dare lose him." He warned. "You do, you're treading water 'til the Coast Guard finds you." He gave his newest teammate a smart slap on the back of his neck, went on his way.

Vic blew the warning off, alcohol influenced mind discounting it as nonsense.

Clay snagged a box of tissues from the kitchen counter, exchanged the beer for another even though he hadn't taken a drink, tried to mingle and enjoy the party, but it wasn't happening. Within half an hour, his head was killing him, the noise and activity drove him to seek solitude in the bathroom until someone pounded on the door, told him his time was up and ordered him out. He should have just crawled into the tub, pulled the curtain and gone to sleep. As drunk as everyone was, no one would have even known he was there.

He hadn't been able to shake the effects of the rum-laced toddy and his movements were slow and uncoordinated. Good God, he wanted to go to sleep.

"Pam?" Clay sought out Metal's long-time girlfriend. Or wife. He didn't think they were married. Who really knew? He'd asked Metal three times for a quiet place he could go to and had first been ignored, then told to find the library, and finally to go away and find Pam.

"Hey, hi there! You made it!" She greeted cheerily, moved to hug him, no recollection whatsoever of having been the one to greet him and let him in the house. "Eggnog? Rum if you rather."

Eggnog? No. Oh, God no.

"Uh, hey…is there…somewhere….I mean….Metal said to ask….." He rubbed his eyes. "Is there somewhere I can lie down?"

Half way lit to Sunday, she managed not to giggle at the request, grappled to pull her happy thoughts into focus, eyed her houseguest as she swayed a bit, became distracted when the wine in her over-sized glass sloshed against the sides.

"Oops!" She giggled. "Oopsie-whoopsie."

Clay sighed, and this is why he hadn't wanted to come. His eyes were dry, his ears stuffed with cotton, his head was being squeezed like a kid too scared to pop the balloon and everyone around him was tipsy and happy and celebrating and all he wanted was a dark, quiet room so he could lie down, stop fighting the effects of Nyquil and too much rum, go to sleep.

"Hey there, hi." A woman Clay didn't know appeared beside Pam. "I'm Paula, Pam's sister." She introduced herself. "I have the role of sober chaperone tonight." She waggled a bottle of water, paused when Clay coughed over what she'd been saying. "Cough sounds nasty." She waited until Clay became quiet, hand to his chest. "You said you wanted to lie down? Good idea, I've got him Pam, run along and tell Metal I'm putting him in your room."

"You do?" Pam wiggled her fingers, "Okee-doe-kee. Buh-bye." and toddled off down the hall.

"And, you are?" Paula asked Clay as she led him down a hall, through a door, across a room, into a closest and up a back staircase he hadn't seen at all that night. "Few more steps. Sorry for the dim light."

"Um…Ca… He stumbled, caught his weight by placing both palms on the step a couple up from where he'd tried to put his foot. "Clay."

"Thinking maybe you should have stayed home tonight." She looked him up and down, decided that despite his unsteadiness, he was fit and fine and someone who knew Metal, worked with him.

"Wanted to." Clay reached the top step, slumped against the wall. "Ordered here."

"By the looks of you, you run with Metal?"

"Um….yeah. This's his party."

"Make yourself comfortable." Paula led Clay to a room where a fire licked greedily at fresh logs, the cackling as welcoming as the warmth and he swayed, his body's demands for rest more than he could resist. He lingered in the doorway, gazed longingly at the bed with the plaid comforter, numerous pillows, an afghan at the foot of the mattress. "Come on in."

"Quiet." He hesitantly sat down on the bed. "Thanks." He was chilled, achy, woozy. He wanted to lie down, pull the blankets over his head, shut the door and forget where he was. He shivered, raised goose bumps. Hell, maybe he should snag a pillow, the fluffy comforter and curl up on the floor in front of the fire.

He never should have left home.

"This room, the entire wing, is off limits to the party. You won't be disturbed. You have everything you need?" Paula looked around, didn't see any bottles or medication. "Maybe you'll feel better after a nap."

"I'd feel better in my own bed." Clay muttered, toed off his boots without untying the laces, just sat.

"Ordered here, you said?" She stoked the fire, added a log. "You have a phone? Medicine?"

"Nyquil." He pulled a bottle from his back pocket. "Cough syrup." A bottle appeared from another pocket. "Don't like to take it much. Knocks me out."

"Did you come with someone?" She picked up the bottle of syrup. "You didn't drive out here yourself, did you?"

"Uh, no."

Even without the familiar label, she knew it was prescription cough syrup. That meant it had codeine. She didn't know anything more about medications than the normal person, but even so, she knew you weren't supposed to guzzle from the bottle and there was no measuring cap, so she set it on top the highboy dresser. If he wanted it, he'd have to get out of bed to get it.

"No, you came alone?" She came out of the bathroom with a paper cup of water. "You didn't drive, did you?"

"I got a ride." Clay accepted the water, drank it. "Thanks."

"Sucks being sick, huh? You really shouldn't mix medications." She shook out a thick, fluffy blanket, waited for him to lie down on top of the comforter, tossed the blanket over him. "Bathroom's right there. I'll leave a cup of water on the night stand, bring you some juice in a little bit, some ice so you have cold water as it melts. You have a cell?"

"Sober chaperone?" Clay repeated sleepily, snuggled deeper into the depths of the bed. Would he finally feel warm before he fell asleep? He stirred, patted his pockets until he found the phone, handed it to her.

"No matter who you are, how old you are, where you are, someone should always be selected to remain sober." She made sure the blanket covered all of him. "This isn't my party, so I volunteered."

She was quite sure, had the man in Metal's bed not been running a fever and been over medicated, he never would have just handed her his phone. He was Navy, ran with Metal. That meant his job was secretive and his phone likely held information she shouldn't have access to. It was locked but showed it was on vibrate and with only 20 percent battery left. She set it on the bed next to the pillow.

"Anything else I can get you?" She asked. He was shivering so she unfolded the afghan, spread it over him.

"Uh, maybe...would you mind..." Made sense, though Clay didn't know what kind of trouble to expect at a house party attended by teammates and their better halves. "A cold cloth? My head's...hot." The thought that he should ask where he was crossed his mind, but he couldn't put it into words.

"Certainly." She entered the bathroom, wet a washcloth with cold water, wrung it out. She didn't offer it to Clay, simply folded it longways, laid it on his forehead, pressed firmly.

He groaned at the welcoming coolness, relaxed slightly.

"I'll be back to check on you shortly."

"Thanks." He shifted, brought the blanket up to his ears, snuggled deeper within its comfort. He should call someone or have this lady tell someone where to find him, but the pull of the medication and the warmth of the room were too much. Lulled by the fire, he was asleep before she stepped from the room.

()

"Hey, you seen Clay?" Vic asked anyone and everyone. "Yay-high? Blonde? Curls?"

He was met with blank stares from the men, giggles and ooh-la-la's from the ladies. Someone had seen him in the bathroom, another the kitchen, another the basement. Someone said he went outside, was with a woman, hadn't shown up.

Vic sighed, now convinced not one sober person remained at the party, himself included, and that Clay was gone. Clay had been there, he'd seen him, touched him, spoken to him. Jason had laughed, patted Vic on the head and told him his job that evening was to babysit Clay. Clay Spenser. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed, yay-high man he couldn't find.

He'd been with Clay since Jason had left them in the kitchen. He'd stopped to help balance a tray of Hors D'oeuvres and hadn't seen Clay again. He'd wandered from room to room, convinced he'd see Clay talking or socializing with some woman or another, but nope. Had yet to lay eyes on him.

"Metal, hey man." Vic caught the q-ball before it hit the pocket. "Metal. Met…Hey! Metal!"

"Doooo-oood!" Metal exclaimed. "I'd'da sunk that ball!"

"It would have been a scratch." Vic said impatiently. "Hey, you seen Clay?"

"Why?" Metal snickered, lined up his next shot. "Lemme guess," he chalked his cue. "You lost him."

"No." Vic squirmed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Can't find him, can ya?" Metal chortled. "HAHAHAHA!"

"Man, come on, help me out here."

"Kid," Metal tapped him on the nose with the cue stick. "We've lost him in places I'd blush telling you about."

"Rumors say, one minute you're holding his hand, the next…poof, he's just gone." One of the men playing pool with Metal commented. "Ain't that right, Metal?"

Metal nodded. "Hell, you blink and you can't find him no more."

"Check the library." Said another someone from somewhere. "He likes to read."

Vic didn't move, hands on his hips, waited. This house had its own library?

"Where the hell is that?" He exploded when no one said anything else, like where the fucking library was.

Jesus, he was going to die.

Vic knew, hell, everyone knew, Clay hadn't warmed up to him yet, didn't even like him, but he thought it rather childish and immature to pull such a dick move and play hide and seek. His mind churned. Weren't childish and immature synonyms? He smacked his forehead. What the hell did it matter? He was about to be murdered by his boss – a man who knew how to kill you and make it hurt – and he was worried about freaking words?

"Down the hall." Four cue sticks pointed in four different directions. "Go left."

"Right."

"Up the stairs."

"Through the door."

Vic cursed, stomped off.

"Something you need to worry about?"

"Nah." Metal took another drink, paused, shook it off, sank the 7 ball. "Who's up?" No way could they lose Clay in his own fucking house.

Vic finally found the library, but he didn't find Clay. He opened yet another the door to a bathroom, this one in shades of pink, shook his head. He'd seen a blue one, a green one, one in beige, one with yellow ducks in different colored raincoats, and now this one. It was then he realized, this was no mountain cabin, it was a freaking mansion with more rooms and hallways and doors than he could count.

Sheesh!

He'd asked everyone, searched everywhere, called and texted Clay's phone until his own went dead.

It was time to panic.

He went to Metal first, told him he couldn't find Clay. Metal blew him off until the men he was playing pool with paid Vic attention and started asking questions, then he put down his cue stick and helped Vic search.

They recruited Brock next.
Then Trent.
Ray.
Sonny.
The wives, fiancées and girlfriends.

It was decided not to disturb Jason.

The house was turned upside down, inside out. People were lined up and interrogated. Music was turned off, alcohol stopped flowing, the outside pavilion designated for smokers was invaded. A computer was requested and provided. Clay's phone was pinged, no response. Unknown to Bravo, Clay's phone had vibrated dead from so many calls from Vic. People started donning coats and hats, geared up to search cars, the closed pool house, the garage, the grounds, the woods, the lake.

Sonny went from amused, to annoyed, to scared within the span of maybe five minutes.

"One more time Vic, when did you last see him?"

"In the kitchen. You think he's dickin' with us?"

"He wouldn't do that."

"You sure?" Vic insisted. "He kinda seems like the kind of dude who'd think a prank like this would be…."

"Watch your mouth."

"Vic, listen to me." Ray said calmly, held his palms up to indicate he was calm. "Listen to me and think very carefully. When he got here, you said Jason greeted him."

"That's right."

"What exactly did Jason say to you?"

Vic tried to remember, tried to recall what Jason had said and why. "Uh….keep an eye on him, watch him, don't let him outta my sight."

"Don't listen very well, do you?"

"Look Sonny, I tried." Vic said hotly. "He was right beside me, I reached for a tray and….haven't seen him since."

"Hey Vic, talk to me." Ray recalled his attention. "Why did Jason tell you to do that?"

"Uh….'cause Clay had taken…was….medicated."

Ray called Jason.