Jim Ellison knocked perfunctorily on Simon’s door, then entered his captain’s office. “Here’s the Tannenbaum file,” he said, laying the manila folder on top of Simon’s desk.
“Thanks, Jim. Have a seat.” Captain Banks, preoccupied by the case file he was reading, glanced up and gestured towards a chair. “That’s the last of your paperwork?”
“Yes, sir. I’m all caught up now.” Jim sat as ordered.
“You mean finally,” Banks muttered under his breath, momentarily forgetting that Jim’s Sentinel hearing could catch every word. Then he looked at Jim rather sheepishly, wondering if the Sentinel could detect that he was blushing under his dark skin. Probably. “I’m catching up on some paperwork, too. The Dawson incident.” Simon shook his head. “How does he do it?”
Jim stiffened at the reference to Blair’s latest case. “He caught the perp, Simon.”
“Yes, and returned the lady’s purse. And sprained his ankle and broke his wrist tackling said perp.”
“Blair wasn’t even on duty - just Christmas shopping at the mall with Sherry. He saw the guy snatch a woman’s purse, and he responded. What did you think he’d do?”
“Exactly what he did, Jim,” Simon said, placatingly. “I had hoped that after five and a half years as your official partner, he wouldn’t still be a trouble magnet.” He smiled slightly. “Don’t know why I thought that; after all, you haven’t changed that much, either.”
“Touché.” Jim shifted slightly in his chair. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to go home and look after your partner. Take the rest of the afternoon off, and you’ve got tomorrow and Christmas off, too.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Jim forbore to mention that Christmas was Saturday, and even if it hadn’t been a holiday, he wouldn’t have been working on a Saturday. With Blair laid up, they were short-staffed, so he was lucky to get Friday off, regardless.
“Must seem like old times, having Sandburg underfoot again, eh?” Simon continued their conversation, deciding that a break from the endless paperwork was overdue. “He moved out what, just over three years ago?”
“Almost three and a half. When Rainier offered him that permanent, part-time professorship, he decided he needed a place closer to the University. Besides, I was running out of room for all of Blair’s books and paraphernalia.” Blair’s new house was close to both Rainier and Jim’s loft, and a reasonable commute to Major Crimes’ downtown location. It was substantially larger than the loft, although Blair’s share of both the cost and available space had been cut in half when his steady girlfriend, Sherry Conyers, had moved in about a year ago. Unfortunately for Blair, Sherry was away visiting her family for the holidays, so Jim had insisted that his injured partner move back into the loft while she was gone. Blair hadn’t even offered token resistance to the suggestion, and Sentinel and Guide were quietly enjoying their brief return to roommate status.
Jim fidgeted slightly in his chair. “Ah, is that all, Simon?”
“Go on, get out of here,” Simon ordered good-naturedly, his hands making exaggerated shooing motions. “I’ve got more paperwork to get through. And, Jim,” he tacked on as Jim quickly moved to the door, “Merry Christmas! Tell Sandburg he’d better have an accident-free New Year, too!”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along. Merry Christmas, Simon!” With a wave of his hand, Jim was out the door.
* * * * *
Jim walked down the hallway, rapidly approaching the door to number 307. Almost without thought, he hiked up his hearing, listening for any uneven tapping sounds from Blair’s crutches, indicating he was hobbling around in the loft. Blair was supposed to be resting and off of his feet, but he seemed to believe that doctor’s orders were optional, unless strictly enforced by Jim. Shaking his head, Jim unlocked his front door.
Crash!!
Bang!
Bang-bang!
In an instant, Jim’s revolver was in his hand, and he burst through the doorway, diving low and sighting on the source of the continuing gunfire.
“Jim!” Blair scrambled awkwardly to his feet from the navy sofa, gesturing with his undamaged left hand. “Hey, chill out, man, it’s just the TV!”
Jim stared down his gun barrel at the images on the television, then lowered his weapon, slipping it back into his holster. “Sandburg--” He rose from his crouching position, then crossed the room, closing in on his partner.
Blair clicked off the DVD, and smiled sheepishly. “Guess I had the volume on too loud, huh? You want a beer?” He stepped away from the sofa.
“Sit down!” Jim ordered. “You’re supposed to be keeping off your feet.”
Blair settled obediently back on the sofa, easily recognizing Jim’s Blessed Protector mode. “Okay, I’m sitting, I’m sitting,” he grumbled lightly, wanting to sooth the tension from his partner’s too-stiff stance. “I didn’t mean to have the TV on so loud…” he apologized again.
“Uh, Chief, you didn’t.”
“I wasn’t expecting you home so soo--” Blair broke off. “Didn’t what?”
“Have the TV on too loud.” Jim’s glance flicked away, landing briefly on the Christmas tree in the corner by the balcony windows.
Things started adding up for Blair. “You had your hearing cranked up,” Blair said, about to scold Jim for spying on him. He was distracted by another, more important thought. “You couldn’t tell the difference between real gunfire and the TV, even with Sentinel hearing?”
“I heard a loud crash, then gunfire. I didn’t stop to analyze anything; I reacted.”
“Boy, did you ever!”
“I assumed the worst,” Jim said, his glance sweeping from Blair’s broken wrist down to his sprained ankle. “Not a bad assumption where you’re concerned, Chief.”
Blair opened his mouth to object, but Jim cut him off with a change of subject. “What were you watching, anyway?” he asked as he sat on the love seat to the right of Blair. He spied a DVD jacket amidst a heap of gaily-colored wrapping paper on the coffee table and read the series title, “Starsky & Hutch?”
“Yeah, isn’t it cool? Naomi gave it to me. She called from Venice and insisted that I open it while we were talking.” Blair smiled, remembering other long-distance present exchanges.
“Somehow I can’t picture your mother watching Starsky & Hutch; it’s a cop show, after all.”
“Oh, she didn’t -- and she forbade me to watch it, too. I had to watch at a friend’s house - always told her we were studying for a test. I had to be pretty convincing, since I started watching when I was seven.”
“So that’s how you honed your obfuscation skills -- lying to your mother?” Jim’s mouth twitched.
“Hey, I had to watch it. All the guys at school watched Starsky & Hutch; they were so cool. I bet you watched it too, didn’t you?”
“Sure did. Starsky’s Torino was one sharp car.”
“So that’s why you drive the way you do. Starsky was your role model!” Blair teased.
Jim reverted back to an earlier part of their conversation. “But why did Naomi give you Starsky & Hutch, if she didn’t like the show and wouldn’t even let you watch it?”
“Ah, Jim, haven’t you figured out Naomi’s gift-giving philosophy yet? The meaning of the gift is just as important as the present itself. You know why everyone watched Starsky & Hutch, right? Because it’s the quintessential buddy-buddy cop show. Not only were Starsky & Hutch great partners, they were best friends, too, willing to do anything for each other.
“That’s the message behind Naomi’s present, that she understands and accepts my life as a cop and all it encompasses, including you, partner.”
“Well, she’s five years late,” Jim said, “but I’m glad she’s finally seeing things our way.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to get me a beer and you a soda, then we can watch that episode I interrupted. It was the shootout in the Italian restaurant, wasn’t it?” Jim walked into the kitchen, and Blair heard the refrigerator door open.
Blair turned on the television and cued the DVD. “Gotta warn you, Jim, the Torino’s hardly in this episode at all…”
THE END
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