“You know how to do this, right?”

“You ask me to dance and then you want to know if I can?”

Megan grinned cheekily. “Oh, I know you can dance, you do it around Simon all the time. But can you line dance.”

“Ah. Sure.”

They took their place with the others just as the DJ jumped back up onto the platform. Beaming down at his victims, about fifteen of them, he addressed the crowd.

“Okay, this is how it works. I play the music, you guys dance. Then I come down, hand some poor unsuspecting boob—er, some lucky soul, the mike and they start singing with the music while dancing. If I take the mike away, you are really, really, really bad and must exit the floor.  If you keep the mike, you are really, really, really good and have to keep going. If you have the mike at the end of the set, you win.” Then he winked. “And what do you win? One free dinner at Hooligans, that’s what. Oh, and,” he held up a tee-shirt, “this nifty Hooligans shirt proclaiming your greatness.”

He set the shirt down, then grinned maniacally. “Okay, boys and girls, this is it. The song is, They’re Taking Everything Away and let’s hope you know the words!”

He set down the mike and seconds later, the music started playing.  Everyone was in line and immediately began dancing, heel, toe, forward two steps, back one step, turn, clap, start over. The music was loud, the line dancers were good.

For the gang of Major Crime, there was no doubt as to the best on the floor. Rhonda had to pick up a menu and start fanning herself as she watched Blair’s hips, then his butt. His tight -fitting jeans showed every part of his body off to its best advantage and the purple shirt, tucked in, with sleeves rolled up, emphasized his slender waist, nice chest and highlighted his eyes. And he moved like nobody’s business.

Rhonda wasn’t the only one at the MC table looking. Jim was bug-eyed. As he watched, he found that no matter how hard he tried, when the line had their backs to the table, his eyes focused on Sandburg’s butt and no where else. And he did try. Hard. Jesus, he’d been living with the guy for years—so where the hell had that butt been?

Under layers of flannel and baggy pants, that’s where.

Oh, yeah.

Jim could feel the heat around him and he wondered if anyone else was as warm.

The crowd was clapping with the dancers, yelling out yoohaws, yeehaws and singing along. Finally the DJ jumped down from his perch and strolled around a few seconds before handing off the mike to an unsuspecting woman. She took it, giggled, then started singing—badly.  He let her get out a sentence, then quickly snatched it away. By now, the song was on its second replay and the dancers were really moving.

The DJ strolled around, then spotted another victim, he started moving fast.

“Oh, my God, he’s gonna hand the mike to Megan!” Rhonda crowed.

“No,no, I’m betting—Sandburg,” Simon guessed.  Sure enough, the mike was handed to Blair, who stared at it a moment, then after a nudge from Megan, began to sing while he continued to line dance.

His voice was good, his moves better. He was grinning as he sang and having fun with the lyrics, especially pointing at Jim when he hit the words, “No more burgers, no more fries—“

The best part came when he sang, “No more sex, or you might die,” and two members of the audience held out condoms. Blair line danced over to one woman and took the condom out of her hand, then winking, tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. The crowd went wild. Jim moaned.

By the time the song wound down, the whole restaurant was singing with Blair and the music, including Major Crime. The DJ let it go one more time and Blair sang it again, this time from the top.

Jim had finally had enough. He shoved at Simon, who slid out. Jim stood on the fringe of the dance floor for a moment and when the line drew close to his position, he stepped in. Next to Blair.

Blair had to admit, he was having a blast. And then—Jim stepped in beside him and started to line dance. While staring at Blair. O-kay.

This was—different.

And very cool.

As they pivoted, Blair got a good look at Jim’s moves—and his ass, and he almost forgot the next lyric. Seemed as though Mr. Ex-Ranger, Tougher-Than-Nails Ellison could dance.

Who’da thunk it?

The song finally ended and Blair still had the mike. Everyone rose and applauded as the DJ led him to the bandstand. He presented him with the shirt and gift certificate, then said, “Young man, you can sing here any time you want.”

Someone in the audience yelled out, “And don’t forget the dancing! He can wiggle that cute butt of his anytime!” Then someone else yelled out, “Hey, honey, bring that butt right over here!”

Everyone laughed as Blair blushed to the roots of his hair. He thanked the DJ, then jumped down and with eyes glued to the floor, he made his way back to the table.

Jim was leaning against the booth, arms crossed over his chest and smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Not bad, Sandburg, not bad at all.  You’ve got all the moves, baby.”

Blair grinned at him, remembering the first time Jim had said that.  “Hey, you’re not bad in the move department yourself, Detective Ellison.”

For a moment, their eyes met and neither one saw anything else, then Megan bumped Blair with her hip and quipped, “What about me, Sandy?”

“Oh, hey, very down under moves, Megan. You’re,” he looked up at her and patted the top of her head, “tops with me, kid.”

“I’ve got five years and how many inches on you, squirt?”

“Who you calling squirt?” Blair said, a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Jim patted Blair on the top of the head and said, “You, squirt.”

Blair rolled his eyes. “Jeez. Just because I’m surrounded by sequoias doesn’t make me a squirt.”

“You’re right,” Simon interjected. “It makes you a twig.”

Jim grinned and gave Blair a little shove. “Sit, twig, take a leaf off.”

“Aw, God, now I have to put up with another nickname?”

“No, Sandburg, I think we’re all in agreement that twig is it. As of this moment, I, Henri Brown, do hereby swear off of calling you Hairboy and will, from this day forward, call you Twig.”

Chortling, Rafe said with a leer, “And I now, with the power invested in me as a detective with Major Crime, do hereby pronounce you, Rolly Polly and you, Twig, husband and husband. You may now give the junior detective from Prospect Avenue a noogie.”

Blair turned to Henri and eyes wide, said, “Rolly Polly? Rolly Polly?”

“Aw, Rafe, now you’ve gone and done it. He has—a weapon.”

Rubbing his hands together with glee, Blair said with his own leer, “Oh, you bet I do. Hey, Jim, what’s her name? Down in Community Affairs?” Grinning from ear to ear, Jim said, “Cynthia.”

“Ah, yes. The wonderful and leggy Cynthia. I do believe she deserves to know about her ‘Rolly Polly’, don’t you, Jim?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Henri dropped his head into his hands and started moaning—loudly.

Simon slapped him on the back. “Buck up, Brown, be a man. Rolly Polly isn’t so bad.”

Eyes narrowed, Henri fixed his captain with a glare. “No, sir, it isn’t.

Or should I say, *No, Mama Bear, it isn’t?”

Megan leaned down, her face positively glowing. “Did you say, ‘Mama Bear’?”

Nodding cheerily, Brown said, “Yep. Hey, Joel, care to share with everyone just how our super captain came to be called Mama Bear?”

Simon rested his chin in his hand and said innocently, “Yeah, Joel, or should I say, Dopey?”

“Uh-oh, we seem to have started something, Jim.”

Ellison held up both his hands as if to ward off his partner. “Hey, don’t say we, Kemosabe. You’re in this one all by yourself.”

Rhonda took a sip of her drink, then said airily, “Anyone want to know Rafe’s nickname in the locker room?”

“Rhonda, fellow sister, I’ll give you five bucks if you’ll tell me.”

Megan said, as she waved a five dollar bill in her compadre’s face.

Henri took out his wallet and laid a ten on the table. “I’ll see that and raise it five.”

Blair nonchalantly plucked the ten off the table, tucked in his shirt pocket and said, “Boomer.”

Rafe cringed and everyone started laughing.

“Aw, that’s no fair,” Rafe whined.

“I’ll say,” Rhonda said, “I stood to make fifteen bucks. Hey, Blair, how did you—“

“You don’t want to know, Rhonda, you don’t want to know.”

That sent everyone into gales of laughter until Jim said, “Oh, Conner?  Care to share your nickname, as presented to you by Burglary last June?”

Megan blushed and waved a hand. “No, no, that’s all right. I think I’ll take a pass.”

Eyeing Sandburg, Henri waved his wallet under Jim’s nose. “I’m willing to pay, Jimbo. Spill.”

Jim rubbed his fingers together and said, “Let me see the green stuff, Brown.”

Brown shot another suspicious look at Sandburg, who shrugged helplessly and said, “Hey, that was their bust, I was in the middle of finals, remember?”

Slowly, Brown took out a five and waved it at Jim. “Okay, spill.”

Before Jim could say anything, Megan made a grab for the money, but Henri managed to pull it away in time—only to have Sandburg grab it and say, “Treetops.”

“YOU LIED!” Brown yelled.

Smiling, Blair said, “No I didn’t, but I did hear all about it from Detective Helman a few days later.”

Megan snorted. “Helman. Figures. Talk about short. He’s short in stature, short in brains and he has a short—“ she stopped, blushed, then said, “Hey, I saw him in the locker room, okay?” “Man, I have got to start spending some time in the locker room, that’s all there is to it,” Rhonda quipped.

Before anyone could offer the proper retort, a man made his way through the crowd yelling, “BLAIR SANDBURG? BLAIR SANDBURG?”

Frowning, Blair raised his hand, saying, “OVER HERE!”

The man spotted him and nodding, came up alongside and presented Blair with the huge basket in his arms. “Delivery for Blair Sandburg. Sign here, please.”

Mouth open and gaze fixed on the basket and attached balloons, Blair held out his hand. The clipboard was placed into it and without taking his eyes off the flowers, he signed. The guy handed over the whole thing, tipped his hat and headed out.

“My God.”

It was all Blair could say as he looked at the arrangement of white lilies. He stared at the black ribbon woven through the greenery, reading the words in gold, that said, “You only think you’re dead at thirty”, then his gaze swept up to several black balloons, all proclaiming, “RIP” or “Over the hill at thirty”.

Somehow he managed to get the basket on the table and once out of his arms, he was able to take the small card out of the flowers. He flipped it over, read it, then looked up.

“How—how did you—“

“Happy birthday, Chief,” Jim said, his eyes smiling.

“Yeah, Sandburg, happy thirtieth!” Simon added.

After that, everyone started slapping him on the back and Rhonda and Megan quickly excused themselves. While Blair was still speechless, the two women came back, each with a cake in their hands.

“Happy birthday, Sandy,” Megan said as she put down his cake.

“Happy anniversary, Captain,” Rhonda said as she put down his cake.

Blair and Simon looked at each other, then grinned.

“Well, let’s dig in!” they said together.

The party that had become a birthday celebration as well as anniversary party was finally winding down. Everyone’s internal clocks were telling them that it was time to go home and their bleary eyes were yelling, “Designated driver!”

For Rhonda, Megan and Rafe, the DD was Joel. For Henri and Simon, it was Jim. Blair, thanks to remembering his new bike, had stopped drinking anything stronger than coke after his first beer with a tequila shooter.

As the gang stood and played shuffle the coats and jackets, Blair’s eyes fell on his flowers and he groaned. Large floral arrangements didn’t usually go well with motorcycles. And motorcycles didn’t come equipped with backseats.

“Hey, Jim? Could we put these in the truck?”

“Sure. Who do I leave behind? Simon or Henri?”

“Oh shit.”

“And what’s wrong with the Volvo?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I’m sure it’s running fine.”

Jim, who’d been surreptitiously helping Simon on with his coat, stopped and stared at Blair. “Um, Sandburg? Care to explain that remark?”

“I—um—well, sold—it.”

Drunk was drunk, but the detectives of Major Crime weren’t so drunk that they failed to understand the meaning of I—um—well, sold—it.

Simon turned, his coat now hanging from one arm and said, shocked, “You what?”

“I sold it. You know, like someone gives me money and I give them a car.

I gave Sammy the Volvo, he gave me money.”

Blair finally found his jacket—on Rhonda—and while he fished around for her blue woolen coat, everyone else started talking.

“He couldn’t have—wouldn’t have,” Megan decried.

“Sandburg sold the Volvo? No way,” Rafe added.

Simon sat down and thanks to a hand from Jim, his seat was actually the booth as opposed to the floor. “Jim, he sold it. Blair sold the Volvo.”

“Yes, so it seems.”

Blair carefully extricated his new jacket from Rhonda, who looked at him dreamily and said, “I’d take good care of it, Blair. It smells soooo good.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you would, Rhonda, but your coat is so much warmer and to tell the truth, it’s not quite my style.”

She giggled, let him put her in it, then she leaned into him, took a good whiff and said, “You smell good too, just like your jacket. Have you always smelled this good, Blair?” She batted her eyes. Blair rolled his.

Jim took Rhonda’s arm, handed her over to Joel and said, “Yes, Rhonda, he has always smelled this good. Say good-night now and trust me, in the morning, you won’t remember a thing.”

Rhonda waved as she said, “Good-night now. And I’ll remember Blair’s cute—“

“Come on, Rhonda, let’s get you home—now,” Joel said with a chuckle. He nodded at Jim, Simon, and Henri as he shepherded his flock out of the restaurant, Megan and Rhonda straining to get a final glimpse of Blair’s assets.

The last thing anyone could hear was Rafe—

“He sold the Volvo, you guys. And hey, I have a cute ass—look!”

Jim smiled and shook his head, then helped Simon up again while Blair put on his jacket and avoided looking at either man.

“Sandburg, you really sold it?”

“Yes, Simon, I really sold it.”

“I thought you loved that car.”

“I did, now I don’t. Now I love my—“

“Your what?” Jim asked, his curiousity burning.

They’d made it to the door, Jim handling Simon and Blair handling his arrangement. At the shelves, Blair took down his helmet and held it up as he juggled his flowers in his other arm.

“That’s a helmet, Chief,” Jim observed dryly.

“Yep, it is.”

Simon lowered himself enough to get a good, drunken look and said with a firm nod, “It most certainly is. Does this mean Sandburg bought a motorcycle, Jim?”

“It most certainly does.”

Jim got the front door open, then smiled. “Oh, Chief?”

“Mm?”

“It’s—raining.”

Henri, who’d been bringing up the rear and trying to track the conversation, peeked around Jim and said, “Hell, yeah, it’s raining.  It’s wet out.”

“Well fuck,” Blair said.

________________

Jim pulled up in front of Hooligans and honked. The door opened and Blair, flowers and balloons in arms, came out. Jim reached over and opened the passenger door, then settled back, and with a smile, watched his partner juggle the flowers as he tried to get them and the balloons inside the truck. It took him several minutes to position the basket and tie down the balloons so they wouldn’t interfere with Jim’s ability to see, but when he was done, he collapsed on the seat and pulled the door shut.

“Bike secure?”

“Yeah. It’s not the only one spending the night under the protective awning of Hooligans.”

“Good, good.” He shifted into drive and pulled out into the light, late night traffic.

“Get Simon and Henri settled all right?”

Jim nodded and grinned. “Yeah, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. I swear, I will never try to put Henri to bed again. Simon wasn’t so bad, he just kept muttering about detectives turning thirty and buying motorcycles in the Pacific Northwest. But Henri, well, apparently when drunk, he can’t tell a big cop from a leggy brunette.”

“Uh-oh. Poor Jim.”

“Hey, I’ve fought off bigger and badder suitors than him.”

“Badder suitors? Badder?”

“Can it, Sandburg.”

Blair couldn’t really see Jim through the leaves of his flowers, but he knew the man was smiling. He grinned then took a big whiff and nearly choked. Shit, if the smell of the lilies was bad for him—

“Uh, Jim, how ‘bout stopping off at Cascade General and letting me drop these off for one of the wards?”

Jim spared a glance for his friend and grinned. “Oh yeah, lilies in a hospital ward, Sandburg. Real good. I’m thinking the best you could do would be a mortuary, sunny boy.”

“Aw shit. I didn’t think of that. Lilies wouldn’t be very cheering to someone ill, would they?”

“Nope. And why would you want to drop them anywhere? What, you don’t like ‘em?”

“Hey, I’ve never received flowers for anything, I love them, but come on, buddy, the smell. You’ve got to be dying right now.”

Jim shook his head, smile still in place. “Nah. I’m dialed down. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy them.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. And Chief?”

“What?”

“Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks, Jim. Thanks.”

They made the rest of the trip in almost complete silence until Jim couldn’t handle his curiousity any longer—he had to ask.

“Care to tell me about the changes? Or was it simply the whole turning thirty thing?”

“Did you hear me, Blair?”

“I’m right next to you, of course I heard. There just doesn’t happen to be an answer. I’m kinda stunned that there was a question. I cut my freakin’ hair and bought a bike. So what? Surely the wild and wooley Blair Sandburg isn’t that predictable that buying a new mode of transportation should be so surprising?”

“First off,” Jim said as he checked his mirrors, “the best I’ll give you is funky and flannelly, and second, how you felt about both the Volvo and your hair are kind of legendary. And predictable? Not hardly. But still, even with someone as spontaneous as you, well, there are things we come to rely on and you blew our minds tonight.”

“I’m pretty sure flannelly isn’t a word.”

“Blair, I’m trying to have a meaningful, Sandburgian conversation here, okay? Don’t blow it.”

“Look, Jim, it’s no mystery. I had short hair for years before I met you, have had long hair for three years now, I simply went back to the old me.”

“And the Volvo?”

“To quote the great Tim Taylor—‘More power’.”

“In the Pacific Northwest, Chief? You’ve severely limited yourself to good days for using that thing. Unless you want to spend the majority of your life—wet.”

Blair’s shoulders slumped. He hated it when Jim got practical. Which was most of the time. He also hated it when Jim was right. Which, coincidentally, was also most of the time.

Suddenly his mood took a crash dive. Even trying to change, to add spice to the next fifteen years, he’d screwed up. Blair ran his fingers through the short mess of curls and grimaced.  He’d screwed up there too. He already missed his old look. God damn it, he probably looked as idiotic as he felt.

Jim pulled into his usual parking spot and turned off the lights and engine. He didn’t move right away, instead apparently prefering to sit as the rain pelted the truck.

“We gonna make a dash for it, Jim?” Blair asked quietly.

“Yeah, guess we’d better. I should have known about the weather, I usually do.”

“Hey, nobody’s perfect, not even The Sentinel of the Great City.”

Jim snorted and opened his door, Blair doing the same.

“On three, Chief.”

“You go on three, I’ve got these flowers, I’ll go on five,” Blair said, a smile in his voice.

“Shit. Okay, I’ll take the flowers and we go on two.”

Blair frowned. “Mm, Jim? How did we go from going on three, to you taking the flowers and then going on two?”

Jim rolled his eyes and reached for the flowers. Blair beat him and grabbed the arrangment to his chest. “Uh-huh. My flowers, I carry them.  Now go. And frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn if you go on one, two or one hundred, just go!”

One eyebrow arched, Jim shook his head, took a deep breath—and ran for it, the door slamming behind him. Blair watched, then climbed out, flowers juggled with the balloons. He kicked his door shut and started running.

Except the balloons got in his way.

His feet flew up along with the flowers and when everything came down, Blair was sitting—on his birthday present.

“DAMN!”

Jim, who was watching from the lobby door, quickly darted back into the street, his jacket hunched over his head protectively.  “Sandburg? You okay?”

“No, I’m not, you idiot. And my flowers are ruined.”

“Well, ye-ah. You landed on them. But at least that cute ass of yours had a soft landing. And you popped at least two of those balloons.”

“Fuck you,” Blair said amicably. Then he stood, gazed down at the mess and bent over to retrieve what he could.

“Not salvagable, Chief. Let’s get it over to the trash.”

“Damn, you’re right.” Shoulders once again slumped, Blair started for the alley and the trash bins.

______________

The sound of wet leather and water logged shoes were about to cause a chuckle—until Jim looked over his shoulder at the man responsible— the chuckle died.

Blair was wet. All over. His short curls were plastered to his head, his new jacket was slick with water, his shirt was plastered to his chest and water dripped with every step. In his wet hand he held one relatively undamaged lily and in his other, one limp balloon. A more miserable person Jim had never seen.

Jim got the front door open and immediately turned on the heat, then as Blair sloshed in, Jim hurried to the bathroom, grabbed two towels, then back to Mr. Cold and Wet is My World.

“Okay, let’s get the jacket off first, Chief.”

Blair, head down, started past Jim, but Jim was having none of it. He plucked first the damp flower, then the balloon out of Blair’s hands and dropped them on the table, then he grabbed the back collar of Blair’s jacket and tugged. Blair moved and it came off. Jim smiled and immediately dropped one of the towels over Blair’s head.

“At least with short hair, it’ll dry fast,” Jim offered helpfully.

Blair just shrugged and started rubbing.

“Come on, Chief, you need to get out of those—hey, those are new too,

aren’t they? New shirt, new slacks—“

Blair pulled the towel down and shot Jim a suspicious look. “Okay, I suppose now you’ve got a problem with my new clothes too, right?”

Jim stepped back, hands raised. “No, no, honest. It’s just that—well, everything--*fits*.”

“Jeez.”

“Aw, come on, Chief. You know damn well that you usually wear layers or if not, then things are kind of—baggy. Now you’re wearing,” he indicated the shirt and slacks, “those. And they fit.”

“So you said, asshole.”

“Look, is this a second childhood thing?

Because if it is, I think you should know that you never actually got

out of—“

“I get it, Jim. I never got out of the first one. Har-har.” Blair emphasized Jim’ s point by sticking out his tongue. Then he turned and started for his room.

“Wait a minute!”

Blair turned, towel in hand. “Yeah?”

Jim’s expression went hard. “You’re seeing someone! That’s why the clothes, the hair, the bike, all of it. You’re god damn seeing someone!  Okay, who is she?”

“Are you nuts, Jim?”

“You can’t fool me, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“I’m not seeing anyone, Jim. I just wanted—a change, that’s all. Just a change to mark the movement out of one decade and into another. Period.”

Jim narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I think I’d know if I were dating someone. Okay, maybe not as quickly as the Sentinel of the Great City—but eventually, I’d know.”

“Very funny. My turn to say har-har.”

“Can I go to my room now?”

“Get out of here, you’re dripping all over the floor.”

Blair saluted, entered his room—shut the door after him—and locked it.

Jim’s mouth dropped open. He closed it. Then walked over to the French doors. “Hey, you locked the doors!”

“So?”

“You never lock the doors.”

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, JIM!”

The doors were thrown open and a shirtless Blair stood there, body stiff with anger. ‘SO WHAT IF I LOCKED THE FUCKING DOORS? SO WHAT?”

Holding up his hands in a warding off gesture, Jim backed up. “Okay, okay, sorry. Jeez.” Then his eyes spotted the bags on the bed. He moved forward until Blair blocked his path. He looked over Blair’s head.

“You bought more new clothes!”

Blair stared up at the ceiling and counted to ten. Then, “Yes, Jim,” he said patiently, “I bought more new clothes. Dear me, call the FBI pronto.”

“Don’t be a smartass. This is serious.”

Blair put a hand on Jim’s chest as the older man started into Blair’s room. “Tell me you’re kidding. Just tell me that. People buy new clothes all the time.”

“You don’t. And if you do, it’s not from—shit—do those bags say Barney’s?”

Blair groaned and dropped his hand.  “Man, I don’t believe this,” he moaned as Jim moved past him to investigate the clothing bags. “Jim, this is not a crime scene, you know?”

Jim wasn’t listening. He was holding up a soft, pale green shirt, eyes wide and incredulous.

“This is not flannel, Chief.”

Anger getting the better of him, Blair reached out and snatched the item from Jim’s hand. “Look buster, they’re clothes. JUST CLOTHES. And you are seriously starting to piss me off here, you know?”

“*I’m* starting to piss you off, Chief? I’m not the one doing the complete and unabridged version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Blair’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could snap back at Jim, the older man went on.

“Fuck, Sandburg, what’s next? You gonna turn me in on a newer, younger model? You found a younger sentinel out there, uh? Some leggy blon—“ Jim stopped, tried to retrieve the words, but they were out there and from the look on Blair’s face, oh, yeah, it was way too late.

Blair turned around, picked up a coat hanger from his bed and carefully hung up the new shirt. Then he walked to his closet and slid it in among the few remaining flannel shirts. With his back still turned toward Jim, he said quietly, “Jim, there are some things in my life that I can’t change and in turning thirty, I realized that. So I decided to change the things that I could. Pretty simple really.”

Jim felt like an ass. Until—

“Blair, what can’t you change?”

“It doesn’t matter, okay? Let’s just drop it. I’m going to bed.”

He finally turned around and without looking at Jim, he picked up the bags, set them down on the floor, then sat down on the bed and started to take off his boots.

Jim watched from a distance that seemed suddenly to be worlds away.

Because he knew.

“Jesus. It’s all this, isn’t it? You were staring at thirty and

realizing that you faced years of being my back-up, of being a cop—“

Jim couldn’t finish. Couldn’t begin to put words to this new reality.

He’d never looked that far ahead, never dared look that far ahead.

Until now. Suddenly ill, he turned and hurried from the room.

___________________

Blair stared at Jim’s retreating back, shock written all over his face.  Then one boot off and one still on, he jumped up and raced after his friend.

“Jim, wait! That’s not, listen, man—“

“Can it, Sandburg.” Jim dropped down into the sofa and rested his head in his hands.

Blair stopped. Could he really screw up, or what? He moved to the back of the couch and resting his hands there, Blair cleared his throat and said, “Jim, it’s not that. Honest.”

“Right, Sandburg. Right. You never once considered the stretch of years, things as they are now, stuck grounding some dumb shit sentinel. Of course not.”

Blair stared at the back of Jim’s head, his mind reeling. “Jim, I had no

idea you even understood, that you knew—“

“That I knew I needed you for grounding? Haven’t I been listening to you for over three years? Of course I know how much I need you to function.”

“Actually, no, I didn’t know you’d been listening to me.”

Head still in hands, Jim said peevishly, “I always listen. I even learn.”

Blair felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He moved around the couch and over to stand in front of Jim. He squatted down and placed his hands on Jim’s legs. “Jim, it wasn’t the prospect of facing the next fifteen years like this that spooked me, it was the prospect of facing the next fifteen years—like this.”

Jim lifted his head and fixed his confused stare on his partner. “I’m not even going to pretend to understand what you just said, Sandburg.”

“Jim, I don’t mind the next fifteen years spent in a small room under the stairs. Okay? But you see, it was the idea that it would be spent in the small room under the stairs.”

“I’m supposed to figure something out now, aren’t I?”

Blair sat back on his heels and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “You change what you can, man. That’s all.” Blair got up, patted Jim on the back, then went to his room and closed the door behind him.

Jim listened and was relieved when Blair didn’t lock it. He fell back against the couch and rubbed his eyes. He just knew he was still supposed to figure something out and that it was terribly important to both of them.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years living with Jim. Working with Jim. Fifteen more years of taking care of a sentinel. Suddenly Jim shot up, then stalked to the French doors, opened them and stepped inside.

“Where did you come up with fifteen years? Why not twenty? Or twenty-five?” he demanded.

Blair was standing by his bed wearing only his shorts. In his hand he held his tee shirt. At Jim’s question, the shirt dropped from his hands.  “You are nuts, Jim.”

“Why only fifteen?” Jim demanded again.

Rolling his eyes, Blair said in an exasperated tone, “I don’t know. I guess I just figured you’d retire at about 55, that’s all. And once you retire, you won’t need me so much.”

“Oh.”

Jim continued to stand there and he was looking at a puzzle and the parts were floating just out of his reach so he examined them, tried to grab a hold of them, but one of the pieces became Blair, standing by the bed in nothing but his boxers—short, well-fitting boxers—and the other pieces faded as he found himself concentrating on Blair—in his boxers.

White boxers. Not baggy, like he usually wore—

Retirement. Age 55. Changing what you can.

The bedroom under the stairs.

This.

Five foot seven. Compact body. Curling chest hair. Slender frame. Short dark curling hair. High cheekbones. Thick lips. Changing what you can.  Age 55. Blue, blue eyes, thick lashes. Broad forehead. The bedroom under the stairs—

This.

Jim smiled softly. “I wouldn’t retire without you, Sandburg. When I’m 55, you’ll be 45. Would you retire with me?”

Blair cocked his head. Then he smiled. “Yeah, yeah I would, Jim.”

Jim took a step further into the room. “I could handle retirement with

you, Chief. But that’s still—“

“Fifteen years away.”

“Fifteen years away. So in the meantime, maybe you’d consider changing your living arrangments? Moving upstairs, perhaps?”

“I might. I mean, look at everything I’ve changed in the last five days.

I think I could easily handle a simple move upstairs.”

Jim shook his head. “No, not simple, Chief. Not simple at all.”

Blair grinned and moved closer to Jim. “Sure it is, Jim. I got rid of almost all my flannel.”

Smiling down at Blair’s upturned face, Jim reached out and took a short curl between two fingers. He played with it, then said, “Simple then. So simple.”

“Yeah.”

“Nice for a change. This simple thing.”

“Very.”

Jim took another step closer so that he was now almost standing against Sandburg. He released the curl and ran a hand through the short hair.  “Thirty. You’re thirty.”

“Yeah.”

Jim whispered, “Let it grow back, for me?”

“For you.”

“But don’t change anything else, okay?”

“The sheets. I’ll change the sheets. Often, I suspect.”

“With me sharing a bed? Oh, yeah, often. If we’re lucky, for awhile at least, several times a day.”

Blair began to studiously unbutton Jim’s shirt. “You could start on the slacks, Jim,” he suggested helpfully. “Just so we—match.”

“Ah.”

Jim unbuttoned and unzipped and a minute later, he too was standing in his boxers. Plaid.

Jim ran his fingers through Sandburg’s short, damp curls and his smiled curled to match. “Do you have any idea how sexy you look? And how young?”

“Getting off on that, are we?” Blair said with a knowing smile.

“Oh, yeah. Big time.”

Blair held his arms out to his side. “Go to town, buddy. For a while anyway, you can pretend you have your very own twink.”

“All right, where the hell did you ever hear that word?”

Blair leaned in and pulled Jim down closer to his level. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Jim’s eyes narrowed but before he could send back an answer, Blair kissed him. Deeply. Thoroughly. Completely.

Hot damn.

When Blair finally let go, Jim said breathlessly, “Don’t change that either.”

Smiling, Blair took Jim’s hand and led him out of his room and up the stairs. “You know something, Jim? I just realized—I got you for my birthday. Pretty cool, eh?”

“Don’t change that either, Sandburg.”

30-

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