Blair was in the kitchen finishing his bagel and cream cheese.  For the third time in ten minutes he looked at his wristwatch.  "Wuh gunn be lay, Jum," he said, around a mouthful of blueberry bagel.

"What?" his roommate yelled down.

Blair swallowed, then repeated in a conversational tone, "I said, 'We're gonna be late, Jim.'  You need your ears cleaned?"

"No, I do not need my ears cleaned," was the loud reply.  "Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yes, Miss Manners," Blair whispered.

"I heard that!"

Blair grinned.  He looked at his watch again.  "We're meeting Simon and Daryl at nine, Jim.  It is now eight forty-three a.m.  We are going to be late."

There was a long pause, then Jim appeared at the railing above.  Clad in sneakers and navy blue shorts, but still shirtless, he glared down at his roommate.  "I can't do this," he stated flatly.

"Oh, no.  No, no, no.  You got *no* choice, man.  You lost the bet; you pay up.  Besides, I thought you *loved* that shirt."

Jim's glare became even more ferocious.  "Loving it at home and loving it in front of Simon are two completely different things, Sandburg."

"You know, man, I hate it when you say my name like that, like it's two words--Sand Burg."  The younger man's scowl became a smile.  "Like two other words:  Sweet Face."

Jim groaned.  "Chief," he began.

"Now, what was it you said, when Naomi sent you that shirt?  'See, Sand Burg, some of us get the brains while others of us get the looks.' Remember that?  And do you remember what I told you when you bet against the Jags yesterday?  I told you, if I recall correctly, that the Jags'd whup Charlotte's asses.  And they did.  The Jags ate the Hornets for
lunch.  And.  You.  Lost.  The.  Bet."

"Chief, have I told you lately that you're insufferable?"

"And right," Blair said, waving a forefinger.  "Don't forget right."

"Insufferably right," Jim muttered.  "You know, of course, I'll never live this down."

Blair sighed contentedly.  "Oh, yes.  Yes, indeed.  I wish I had a camera to capture the look on Simon's face when he sees that shirt. Maybe I'll buy one of those disposable--"

Jim's eyes bored holes in his friend.  "I swear to God, Sandburg, if you do, I will commit a felony on your person."

Blair leaned back a bit from that look and said, "Um, okay.  I'm tapped out anyway."  He made a quick recovery.  "But you gotta wear the shirt, Jim.  There's no getting out of it.  And no covering it up all day with a jacket.  It's gonna be plenty warm."

Jim looked down at his friend without speaking for a few seconds, then he pulled the shirt over his head.

It was an ordinary-looking football jersey, with the number 40 emblazoned on the chest.  However, on the back, across the shoulders where a surname would normally be, were two words:  SWEET FACE.

The shirt was soft from innumerable washings because Jim wore it a lot. And the reason Jim wore it so frequently was--though he'd never admit it to his friend--precisely because it *had* come from Naomi Sandburg and
she had *not* meant it as a joke.

But he'd only worn it at home.  Until now.

He descended the stairs to the loft's main level.  "Happy?" he asked his roommate.

Blair was fighting back a smile.  "Turn, please," he said, twirling his hand.  "Model it for me."

Fists on hips, Jim bared his teeth, and not in a smile.  This was finally too much for his roommate's control, and he gave in to the laughter.  He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and he was gasping for air.

Jim fought to maintain his grim expression, but his partner's amusement was too infectious.  He smiled, then chuckled, and then likewise gave in.

"I'm...I'm...s-sorry, Jim," Blair finally wheezed.  "But you...you just looked so....I mean, that I-eat-bullets-for-breakfast expression on top of *that* shirt.  Oh, man.  Oh.  I think I'm...having a heart attack."

They both regained control and Blair put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Whew, maybe I won't have that heart attack yet.  Okay, Jim, joke's over.  You can take it off now."

"What?  Take it off?"

Blair nodded, wiping the last of the tears from his face and breathing deeply.  "Yeah, man.  I was just puttin' you on.  I wouldn't make you wear it out in public."  He punched his friend lightly on the arm.

Jim was looking at him in astonishment.  "You don't expect me to wear it?" he said.

"No, of course not.  Geez, it'd embarrass the hell out of you.  I may be insufferably right about basketball, but I'm not cruel, you know."  He grinned.  "But I *am* insufferably right about basketball."

Jim was shaking his head.  "You don't expect me to wear it," he repeated.  "So you just wanted to torment me a little."

"Just a little.  Hey, remember two weeks ago when Naomi mailed me some of my old baby pictures?  And you 'accidentally' took them to work?  And then you 'accidentally' put 'em up on the bulletin board at Major Crimes?  Remember that?"

Jim smiled reminiscently.  "Vividly.  Of course, I did stop Rafe from posting enlargements in all the bathrooms in the building--men's *and* ladies' rooms, by the way."

Blair's jaw dropped.  "He what?"

"Take it easy, Chief.  I said I stopped him, didn't I?"  Jim looked down at the jersey he wore.  He sighed.  "So you don't expect me to wear it," he said for the third time.

Blair grinned and shook his head.  "No, Jim.  You don't have to wear it.  But you better change quick.  Simon and Daryl are gonna be wonderin' if we fell off the planet."

Jim's expression was thoughtful.  He rubbed a hand over the front of his shirt.  "You know," he mused, "it *is* comfortable."

Blair's smile faltered.  "What?"

The detective shrugged and said, "It's comfortable.  Might as well leave it on.  Besides, like you said, we're late.  So let's get going."

He headed for the door, but Blair stayed rooted to the spot.  "Jim, you can't wear that.  Man, think how embarrassing it'll be."

"Embarrassing, Chief?" Jim asked, with a look over his shoulder.  "Nah, Simon'll rag on me for a while, but what the hell.  It's comfortable."

"But--but--you *can't* wear it!"

Jim turned to face his sputtering partner.  Deep in his blue eyes danced an imp of mischief.  "Oh, really?  Whyever not?"

Blair swallowed.  "What if Simon asks you where you got it?"

"He's a detective, Chief.  He will most certainly ask that very question.  And I'll tell him."

"What?" his partner yelped.  "You'll tell him what?"

Jim's voice dropped an octave and he purred, "That it was a very sweet gift from your very lovely mother, Sand Burg."

*~END~*
 

Webmaster: PJ Browning