Originally posted to the SentinelAngst List, finally appearing at Idol Pursuits some 18 months later.

Okay, we have giftfics and themefics and now b'dayfics. I think I'll just call this one "Dues." No major owies, no real plot. Truth be told, not much of a point. Here's a snippet for our aging listmom... happy belated b'day!

Dismal in Cascade
By Mackie

"No-no-no-no-no-no!" Blair cried uselessly, braking hard as the fully tricked-out, California vanity-plated sport utility in front of him halted for a non-existent stop sign. There was a reason the narrow, winding roads in the suburban seclusion of the Cascade foothills had stop signs only in the downhill and the cross-traffic lanes. He suspected he was about to experience that reason first-hand.

Oblivious, the SUV spun its tires on the ice and then continued nonchalantly up the hill. Blair gingerly touched the gas pedal on the Volvo, but he knew he was doomed. The rear wheels spun uselessly on the ice-slick asphalt. Despite his best efforts, the back end of the car began to fishtail from side to side, and then the whole vehicle sledded gradually backward. He was an experienced driver in all sorts of road conditions, but his skill couldn't halt the Volvo's uncontrolled slide. But with just a little more maneuvering room, he would be able to....

Okay, a ditch was not his first choice of stopping options, but it seemed the car had other ideas. The right rear wheel of the Volvo broke through the thin layer of ice and snow blanketing the verge and promptly sank hubcap deep in mud. Before the car came to a complete halt, the left rear wheel followed suit. The engine stalled. Blair found himself parked at an angle to the road and tilted steeply enough so that the view through the windshield was of the star-studded sky.

With a sigh, he fastened his parka and climbed out to assess his situation. His feet slid out from under him just as soon as he touched the asphalt. Trying to catch himself with the door, he cracked his elbow painfully on the armrest, then landed on his butt when he automatically twisted away from the excruciating bolt of agony that rocketed up his arm. Why the hell did they call it a "funny" bone anyway?

The ice beneath him melted just enough to soak his jeans, but he ignored the growing discomfort to cradle his elbow. It took a long, agonizing minute for the pain to lessen, and he was shivering with the cold when he finally focused again. Favoring his sore arm, he maneuvered onto his hands and knees. The roadway was freezing, but he took his time finding a purchase on the car door and regaining his feet. Road grit mottled his hands, and he wiped first one and then the other against his equally dirt-flecked jeans. He tried to judge the size of the ice slick. It extended about a hundred feet down the sleep hill and upward into the intersection. Some strange convergence of weather conditions had created this pocket of cold that had caused the rain-drenched street to freeze, or maybe a slowly leaking pipe had flooded this particular section. Whatever the cause, his trip up the hill to return a book to a friend had come to an ignoble halt, courtesy of a patch of ice and a clueless California driver.

Icy roads required special driving skills. In the suburban foothills of Cascade, the uphill lanes seldom had stop signs so that cars could maintain their momentum. Once stopped, the tires of ordinary vehicles simply couldn't find the necessary traction to start moving again. In really icy conditions, cars could slide backwards helplessly out of control.

Blair's normally optimistic view of life was taking a beating tonight, but he sighed out his frustration with a long breath that instantly clouded in the frigid air. Cautiously maneuvering alongside the Volvo, he checked to see how badly it was mired.

Yep. It was stuck all right. No amount of shoveling, padding with branches, or rocking to and fro would free his car from the ditch. He needed a tow.

But tows cost money, and Blair had let his Auto Club membership expire. A man had to have priorities, and his had been to take Dawn Cooper out for a night of anthropological frivolity -- well, dinner and a university-produced documentary. It had seemed like a good choice at the time. Now, however....

Using the car to help maintain his balance, he baby-stepped slowly back to the driver's door and climbed inside. He'd foolishly left the door open, and the meager heat generated by the heater had long since dissipated. Shivering and bemoaning his bad luck, he pulled the door shut and restarted the engine. The resulting heat was tepid at best, but he rubbed his hands briskly in front of the vents to regain feeling in his fingertips.

As he defrosted, he pondered his options. He could call Rafe, whose snazzy sports car was even less suited to this icy road than Blair's Volvo. He could call Simon, but the captain wouldn't use his department-issued sedan as a tow vehicle under any circumstances, certainly not to help a wayward anthropologist stuck in a ditch. Henri had a four-wheel-drive, but he was out of town for the weekend on a ski trip with his family.

Really, there had been only one solution from the very beginning. Blair sighed as he reached for his cell phone and prepared to endure the ribbing he was certain to get.

As he'd expected, Jim was home on this Friday night, just as he was home most Friday nights. The man really needed to get a life.

"Hi, Jim."

"Sandburg." How Jim managed to infuse just the one word with a multitude of inflections ranging from wary to resigned was a mystery Blair had yet to solve. "What's wrong?"

Protesting his partner's assumption was useless considering the circumstances. "I'm stuck in a ditch."

"Did you call a tow?"

"I can't. I don't have an Auto Club card, I'm short of cash, and my credit card is maxed out."

Jim sighed, another eloquent soliloquy in the minimalist style. "Where are you?"

Blair gave his location. "It's the middle of nowhere, man. I'm wet and cold, and if I stay out here much longer I'm going to turn into a popsicle."

"Okay, I'll be there in thirty minutes."

Jim had hung up before Blair could admonish him to drive carefully, but the advice probably wouldn't have been welcome anyway. He wiled away the minutes wiggling his toes inside his damp shoes and trying to coax more warmth from the recalcitrant heater. His elbow throbbed where he'd banged it against the armrest, and his lower back ached from his butt-flop on the road. All in all, he felt much put upon by life in general.

A few minutes shy of the promised thirty, he saw headlights coming up the hill. Not certain if it was Jim, he flashed the Volvo's headlights to alert any unsuspecting driver that the road was partially blocked. He hoped the beams reflecting off treetops on the other side of the road would be enough of a warning, but he couldn't think of anything else to do.

It was Jim, thank goodness. Not quite a knight in shining armor, but certainly a welcome sight in his shiny '69 Ford pickup. Jim waved, then drove past before stopping so he would be in a position to fasten the tow rope to the front of the Volvo. Blair watched in amusement as the truck's rear wheels spun on the ice, but then Jim was backing toward him....

Oops, no, not backing up. Nothing so controlled as the words implied. This was more of the same sliding backwards that had gotten Blair into his predicament to start with.

"No-no-no-no-no--!"

The left rear of the Ford crunched solidly into the front end of the Volvo, rocking the smaller car violently for a moment and plowing it deeper into the mud. The sound of breaking glass and rending metal was loud in the stillness of the night.

Wincing, Blair opened his door and climbed out gingerly. He met Jim halfway, neither one of them speaking. The two men stood together to survey the damage. The Volvo's left front headlight was shattered, the fender and bumper slightly rippled. The bumper of the truck had sustained a minor dent. Worst of all, however, the truck's right rear wheel was buried deeply in the mud.

Still without speaking, Jim walked carefully back to his driver's door and gestured for Blair to climb inside. Blair obeyed, awaiting the explosion he was sure would follow this latest misadventure. The smell of hot fast food made his mouth water, but he maneuvered over the bags sitting on the floorboards without exploring their contents. At least the truck cab was infinitely warmer than the interior of the Volvo. Jim had left the engine running. The old '69 had one helluva heater, and Blair kicked off his shoes gratefully to wiggle his toes beneath the vent.

Calmly, Jim pulled out his cell phone and called for a tow truck. After he'd disconnected, he reached for the first bag and pulled out two plastic-topped cups of steaming coffee. He handed one to his partner. Then he reached into the second bag and produced hamburgers and French fries, which he distributed with the same reticence.

Unwrapping his burger, he finally asked, "Have plans tonight?"

Blair shook his head, his mouth too stuffed with hamburger to make polite conversation, although he managed a gurgled, "You?"

Jim, too, shook his head. "There's a game on TV. Thought I'd watch it, then call it an early night. It's been a tough week."

"They're all tough," Blair admitted when he was able to swallow. "You're up to your neck in mayhem all week, and I've got the schedule from hell. By Friday, there's not much energy left to plan the weekend."

Jim scowled as he continued to munch. "When did we get stodgy?"

"We're not stodgy," Blair protested. "We're just too worn out to be not-stodgy. I mean, it's not like we're old or anything, but we have busy lives, and...oh, shit, we are stodgy."

Jim gazed through the windshield at the blackness of the surrounding forest. A few faint lights indicated pockets of humanity, but for the most part the night was dark and silent. "Cozumel."

Blair wasn't certain he'd heard correctly. "What?"

Jim looked at him. "Cozumel. White-sand beaches, balmy breezes, hot sun, and great deep-sea fishing."

"It's a tourist trap."

"So we don't play tourist any more than we have to."

Jim had yet to crack a smile, so Blair couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "You want to go to Cozumel? When?"

"Now -- or just as soon as we can make airline reservations and get our tourist cards."

Blair sipped his coffee as he pondered the pleasant images, then sighed. "Sorry, man, my finances are shot. No way I can afford a vacation."

Jim wasn't to be thwarted. "I'll pay."

"Uh-uh, no way." He shook his head to add emphasis to his less-than-eloquent disclaimer.

"Then work it off."

This sounded more promising. "How?"

"The balcony rail needs weather-proofing, and the floors can use a good buffing."

"What else?"

Jim looked confused. "What else? I don't know." Silence descended again. Finally, he said, "Think of it as a bribe."

Feeling warm and content, Blair was taken aback. "A bribe?"

Jim grimaced. "Yeah, for not telling anyone about what happened tonight." He waved through the windshield in a gesture that encompassed the street, the ice, their stranded vehicles. "All of this."

Blair grinned. "Man, that's cruel. I could get free drinks out of this tale for weeks!"

Jim glowered. "That's why it's called a bribe."

"Well..." Blair pretended to debate the pros and cons of his partner's proposal. After a minute, he said, "Okay."

"Good. It's settled." Jim went back to studying the view through the windshield while Blair fished in the bottom of the bag for any escaped French fries.

A tow truck growled up the hill and crept past. It wouldn't be long until they'd be out of this chilly mess and back in the warmth of the loft.

Jim's eyes widened, and Blair looked up with growing alarm.

They spoke in unison.

"No-no-no-no-noooo...."

THE END