Perchance to Dream

*This was written in response to the ABO website Adam Baldwin character-crossover competition from March 2008.

The images that haunted him every night were vivid, brutal. It was such a simple act of tomfoolery, but he did it, he did it and he payed dearly. No two dreams were ever alike, but it always ended the same. He would cradle his dying brother in his arms, praying he would live but also praying no one would find out what he had done. He rolled out of bed in a tangled mess of sheets and sweat, chanting, "Poor little guy, poor little guy…poor little guy…"

Stumbling to his closet he flicked on the light and rummaged through his clothes, there was not much inside but a bunch of suits and that ugly shirt he hated wearing every day. He dug a little further in the back and grabbed the jacket. It was an ugly, olive green army-style coat that he learned to associate with high School and depression. In every year, in every school, there was a Ricky Linderman that roamed the halls, desolate and alone. He doubted that there were many who went through what he did, but everybody suffered in their own way.

He ran his fingers across the worn fabric and zipper and sniffed it. The scent of motor oil was entrenched in the fibers. Grease, cigarette odors, dribbles of blood and dirt had made a permanent home in the worn threads. The mud stains never did come out, but he didn't care, it served as a reminder. A reminder of the day he got back his sanity and beat the tar out of Mike, Moody's so-called bodyguard. He chuckled a bit. Moody had went on to become a degenerate playboy, making the big bucks on Wall Street. He frequently kept a sharp eye on him, any shady business and he was going to pounce.

After his nightmares, having the jacket in his hands calmed him. It went that way almost every other night. There were times when he would want to scream his head off, but he wouldn't. That would have surely alerted his neighbors and completely ruin his image. When the images of his dead brother faded, he sucked his fears in, dunked his head in a sink full of cold water and forced himself back to sleep. Twenty-eight years was a long time to carry around this burden, but he did it stoically, suffering the shame and horror only his dreams.

He wandered into his kitchen and opened the fridge to have a swig of orange juice, then shuffled back to his bedroom. It would have tasted better with some Jack Daniels in it. His gaze fell upon the night-stand and on his revolver. He kept it out all the time, in case of any midnight intruders. The night he accidentally shot his brother in the head, he swore to himself he would never pick up a gun again. That promise had long been forgotten, but he later vowed to become an expert with them. Guns had become like second nature and his current career left him with many reasons to use one. He lifted his black sheets off the floor and fluffed out his pillows, jumping into the bed. Grogginess eventually settled in and he closed his eyes once more, pushing Linderman into the recesses of his mind.

-Oo-

The shrill alarm attacked his ears and he popped his head up, reaching for it. "7:30 am, right on target." He muttered. He stood up and made a beeline to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. Coming back to his closet he pulled out his uniform with loathing. "Here we go again!" He said aloud.

Within a few minutes he had put on his beige pants and was tucking in the glaring, green shirt. Where was that stupid name tag? He finally found it laying by his computer console and pinned it to his chest with a deep groan. He doubled checked his room and took his wallet from his dresser. His closet was still open and he noticed the jacket lying crumpled on the floor. He picked it up and dusted it off, placing it gingerly on the heavy, wooden hanger. He should really consider putting it in plastic again, the moths were getting antsy.

"I'll see you tonight, Ricky." He murmured and walked out of his apartment.

The bright, California sunshine nearly blinded him and he shielded his eyes. "Here comes the kid, always wearing that doofy smile." He thought.

A sudden notion struck him and he didn't know why he never realized it before. Clifford Peache. Chuck Bartowski reminded him of Clifford. Affable but straightforward, awkward, yet adroit at what he did best. Good old Clifford. He eventually married their friend Shelly, had a few kids and took his father's place in running the hotel in Chicago. Peache always had a room available when 'John Casey' needed it and a shoulder to lean on as well. They were still best friends. He also entrusted Peache with his most valued and precious possession, the bike he had rebuilt in that tumultuous year.

"Hi ya Casey! Nice to have you carpooling with us this morning." Chuck beamed.

"Yeah, yeah, but let's not make it a habit."

"Gotchya! Morgan's waiting outside the gate, say, are you okay? You look a little…peaked, rough night, pal? Maybe a little heavy on the scotch and tuna?"

Casey grimaced. "Nothing you would know about, Bartowski." The roughest night Chuck must have had before the Intersect was losing a video game to Morgan or having his computer crash. Casey sighed, that wasn't true, Chuck and his sister Ellie had been abandoned by their parents. In a way, Casey empathized. His own mother had all but disowned him after his brother's death. She always suspected it wasn't a suicide.

Casey shrugged. "Ehh, it's all good, my life is of no consequence, just the Intersect. Let's get outta here."

-Oo-

Chuck looked at the NSA Agent pitiably as they hurried to the Nerd Herder. One of these days he would tell Casey what he really knew. Sixteen year old high schooler, Ricky Linderman, supposedly found his brother shot dead in their own home. The Intersect had went to work on John Casey the first time they met, but Chuck never revealed the secret. He also didn't tell the NSA Agent about the nights he heard him yelling in his sleep. The dreams occurred again last night, while Chuck was taking a midnight stroll to take out the trash. The truth was that young John Casey had accidentally murdered his little brother, and then made it look like he committed suicide.

"I didn't find him! I killed him! I shot him! I put the gun in his hand and said I found him that way!" Casey spewed those honest words last night when Chuck found him sleepwalking in the courtyard. Chuck led him back to his bed. As Casey drifted into sleep he spoke oddly subdued, like a lost youth.

"I'm sorry! I let everybody down….that's the way I am."

Chuck sadly left him and kept his vow to never to say a word.

-Oo-

Chuck nudged Morgan as he buckled up to drive the Nerd Herd. "Hey, you still having issues with that customer? You remember, the one who wanted to punch your lights out?"

"Yeah man, I don't know what his problem was. I told him no cash back, only store credit. These people are maniacs, I tell ya! If he tries anything…"

"Go for the nose!" Chuck and Casey expounded this advice at the same moment and Morgan laughed.

"I was gonna say, sue. But I don't know if I can reach anyway."

Chuck peeked in the rear view mirror and saw Casey stiffen. "What, Casey?"

Casey leered at him. "Why did you just say that?"

"Oh, it's just something I heard. I was one of those kids that had to learn that advice the hard way." Chuck mused. Casey took a deep breath. Could he have been talking in his sleep? Or worse, sleepwalking?

"Too bad you didn't have Casey in High School, man. You could have paid him to be your bodyguard." Morgan joked.

"It would have only cost ya a buck a day." Casey mumbled.

"What did you say?" Chuck asked, adjusting the radio. He had heard him just fine. "Maybe back in eighty that would have been the going rate for bodyguards."

"Oh, yeah. Right. I'm gonna just get a little shut eye, wake me up when we get there."

"Pleasant dreams."

The trio took off, ready to face another day of irate customers, inept co-workers and whatever other adventures lay ahead at the BUY MORE.

The End.