Perchance to Dream

*This was written for a competition on the Adam Baldwin Online (ABO) website — Create an Adam Baldwin character-crossover from March 2008.

Vivid, brutal images haunted him every night. It was such a simple act, he was just showing off a little, but he paid for it dearly. No two dreams were alike, but they always ended the same. He'd cradle his dying brother in his arms, praying that he would live… but also praying no one would discover the truth. When the dreams ended 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. Not much inside but a bunch of pressed Government issue suits and that ugly polo shirt he hated wearing every day. He dug further back and grabbed for a jacket — a dank olive green coat that he associated with high School and depression. In every year, in every school, a Ricky Linderman roamed the halls desolate and alone. He doubted many went through what he did, but everyone suffered in their own way.

He trailed the zipper up and down, then ran his fingers across the worn fabric and sniffed it. The scent of motor oil was entrenched in the fibers. Car Grease, cigarette odors, and dribbles of blood and dirt had made a permanent home in the threads. The mud stains never came out, but he didn't care. They all served as a reminder of his coming of age, and the day his sanity returned and he beat the tar out of brutish Mike, Moody's so-called bodyguard. He chuckled. Melvin "Moody" Abergo went on to become a degenerate playboy making big bucks on Wall Street. He kept a sharp eye on Moody, any shady business and he vowed to pounce.

After his nightmares, having the jacket in his hands calmed him down. It happened nearly every other night. At times he wanted to scream his head off, but that would've alerted his neighbors and completely ruin his image. When the visions of his dead brother faded, some more horrific than a Romero film, he sucked his fears in, dunked his head in a sink full of cold water and forced himself back to sleep. For twenty-eight years he carried this burden, but he did it stoically, re-living the shame and horror only his dreams.

He wandered to the kitchen for a swig of orange juice, then shuffled back to bed. It would've tasted better with some Jack Daniels. His gaze fell on his revolver. He kept it on the night stand in case of midnight intruders.

When Casey accidentally shot his kid brother in the head, he'd sworn to himself that he would never pick up a gun again. That idealistic, naive promise was forgotten when he joined the military and vowed to become an expert. Guns became like second nature and his career gave him many reasons to use one. Instead of fearing guns, he conquered them.

He lifted his black sheets off the floor, fluffed out his pillows and jumped into bed. Grogginess eventually settled in and he closed his eyes once again, pushing Linderman into the recesses of his mind.

~Oo~

The shrill alarm attacked his ears and he popped his head up. "7:15 am, right on target." He muttered. He made a beeline to the bathroom to relieve himself and shower. Coming back to his closet he pulled out his uniform with loathing.

"Here we go again!"

Within a few minutes he slid into his beige pants and tucked in the astro-turf green shirt. Where was that stupid name tag? He found it by his computer console and pinned it to his chest. He doubled checked his room, took his wallet and hid the emergency night-time gun. His closet was still open and the jacket lay crumpled on the floor. He dusted it off and gingerly placed it back on the heavy, wooden hanger. He needed to put it in plastic again, the moths were getting antsy.

"I'll see you tonight, Ricky." He murmured and left his apartment.

~Oo~

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'd never realized it before.

Clifford Peache.

I.T. Specialist Chuck Bartowski reminded him of Clifford. Affable but straightforward, awkward, yet adroit at what he did best. Good old Clifford. He'd eventually married their friend Shelly, had two kids and took his father's place running the hotel in Chicago. Peache always had a room available when 'John Casey' needed it and a shoulder to lean on. They were still best friends.

Casey had also entrusted Clifford with his most valued and precious possession, the bike he rebuilt in that tumultuous year.

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

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

"Gotchya! Morgan's outside the gate, 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've had before the Intersect was losing a video game to Morgan or a computer crash. Casey sighed, that wasn't true. Chuck and his sister Ellie had been abandoned by their parents because of their espionage careers.

In a way, Casey empathized. His own mother had all but disowned him after his brother died. She always suspected it wasn't a suicide. His father, who was already an older man then, eventually drank himself to death and died in front of the television back in ninety-five.

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

~Oo~

Chuck looked sympathetically at the NSA Agent as they hurried to the Nerd Herder. One of these days he wanted to tell Casey what he really knew.

In 1980, Sixteen year old high-schooler Ricky Linderman supposedly found his brother shot dead in their own home. The Intersect went to work on John Casey the first time they'd met, but Chuck never revealed the secret. The sad truth was that young John Casey had accidentally killed his little brother, then made it look like he committed suicide out of fear.

Chuck never told the gruff NSA Agent about the nights he'd heard him yelling in his sleep.

The dreams had occurred again last night while Chuck took a midnight stroll to dump the trash.

"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 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.

"Go home, Cliff…Chuck…Cliff, I'm sorry! I let everybody down…that's the way I am."

Chuck sadly left him and vowed 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 advice at the same moment and Morgan laughed.

"I was gonna say, sue. I don't know if I can even reach his nose."

Chuck peeked in the rear view mirror and Casey stiffened. "Something wrong, Casey?"

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

"Oh, it's just something I heard. I was one of those kids who learned that advice the hard way." Chuck mused.

Casey took a deep breath. Did he talk in his sleep again? Or worse, sleepwalking? It'd happened in the past and took him many therapy sessions to overcome it. He narrowed his eyes and Chuck grinned and shrugged.

"Too bad you didn't have Casey in high school, man. You could've 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'd heard him just fine. "Maybe back in nineteen-eighty that would've been the going rate for bodyguards."

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

"Pleasant dreams, pal."

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.