Work Text:
"Jim! You're not getting ready."
Sandburg's voice floated down from the bedroom balcony. Jim rustled the newspaper, conveying irritation in the slap of page against page.
"Ji-im! Fashionably late is one thing but this is gonna be ridiculous!"
Jim stirred on the sofa, and then put the paper down beside him. "Stupid tradition," he muttered. Then, full voice, so that Sandburg could hear him, "Why do we have to do this, again?"
"Because Megan invited us and she wanted to see how the Yanks do Halloween. And she'll kick both our asses if we back out now."
Jim growled. He picked up the paper again, but he'd watched the Monday night NFL game in real time and the Tuesday morning version of play by play was breathless and annoying. Kind of like Sandburg on roll. He threw the paper aside again and heaved a sigh.
"Ji-im!"
He pulled himself off the couch and stomped up the stairs, reluctance in every step.
Sandburg was standing in front of the closet, looking thoughtful, head cocked. His hair was hanging wet, and he was surrounded by a pleasant cloud of chamomile-scented conditioner. It drew Jim closer, made him put his hands on Sandburg's shoulders. They were warm and firm under the old cotton shirt. Jim looked again. Sandburg was wearing a baseball uniform.
"What's this," Jim said, only a little grudgingly, running his hands down the short sleeves until his palms found skin, putting his lips against Sandburg's neck and sucking gently. Sandburg grunted in appreciation and leaned a little back.
"It's a Red Sox uniform, authentic replica; what does it look like."
"I hope it's not an antique. How much did these hip threads set you back?"
"Nothing. It was a gambling debt." Sandburg wasn't really paying attention, and Jim couldn't tell if his distraction was working or if Sandburg was lost in contemplation of the costume he was trying to create for his roommate from whatever was hanging in the closet.
"Someone owed YOU money from gambling? Hard to believe." Jim put his mouth a little higher on Sandburg's neck and began nibbling.
"Fuck off," Sandburg said, absently and without heat. He leaned a little harder against Jim, but he was still staring into the closet. "I don't suppose you would feel right about wearing your old uniform."
"That would be a no." Jim moved up, getting a taste of chamomile and oatmeal soap from Sandburg's ear. Sandburg flinched and twitched his head to one side. Jim grimaced and went back to kissing Sandburg's neck.
"Well, we could do some kind of tribal thing, back to your roots in Peru or something. You know; ripped camo, bandanna, something like that."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Okay, that's a No.... Fisherman? You've got all that stuff lying around here. That wouldn't be hard."
"Have I mentioned what a dumb custom this is? And how much I hate parties?" Jim slid his arms around Sandburg's chest and worked a little harder on the stretch of neck he had possession of. He leaned back to look. If he kept this up, he'd end up giving Sandburg a hickey. The thought pleased him irrationally and he smiled against skin and sucked a little harder.
Sandburg said, "Mm," and his arms came up around Jim's. But then he said, "Too bad there's no way to dress you as an asshole; thus expressing your true personality."
"You wound me, Sandburg." That got a snort of laughter. Progress. "Should have rented a tux. What would be wrong with that."
"Oo, yeah. You in a tux. I could so sign up for that. It's been a long time since I got to see you in a tux; since the Cop of the Year banquet that time, I think." Sandburg's voice was getting distant, and Jim glanced quickly at his face. His eyes were closed. "Something about the simplicity, the black and white. Yeah." His voice had gotten downright dreamy. And then Sandburg turned in his arms, and tilted his head, offering his mouth, and Jim was very sure he had successfully weaseled out of Megan's first ever Halloween party. She'd be so very disappointed. It was hard, but not impossible, to kiss Sandburg while smiling in triumph.
At least an hour later, his head pillowed on Sandburg's stomach, Jim was awakened by the phone, and he noticed only then that he'd never gotten around to pulling off the Red Sox shirt. The uniform pants and socks -- whoa, authentic -- were lying over there by the closet, in a pile with the clothes Jim had worn to work.
He let the machine pick up downstairs, because if it had been work calling, it would have been the cell, so he felt no urgency to leave the warm Sandburg-scented nest and rush down to grab the phone. He listened. It was H., breathless but happy. Jim was still dialed up a bit, apparently, thanks to the pleasant sensory hangover he always got from sex with Blair, because in addition to Henri's voice he could hear party noises in the background.
"Jim! Sandburg! Guys! You're missing a great party! Where are you! Plus! You should see Megan in a kangaroo suit! She really did it! We thought she wasn't serious, but she was! A real full furry kangaroo suit, like a team mascot or something! You gotta get over here, guys! You won't believe it!"
There was more, but Jim stopped listening then. He'd definitely have to think up a good excuse to cover their bad manners. Blair stirred under him, and Jim felt a caress to his head.
"Who was that? Not work, I hope."
"Brown. Telling us we missed all the excitement of seeing Connor's kangaroo costume."
"Mm. Thinking about you in a tux was apparently plenty enough excitement for me. You ratfink; that was a mean, underhanded, slimy trick." Still petting Jim's head, Blair turned to his side.
"Why Blair. I don't know what you're talking about."
Trick for you, and treat for me.... Happy effing Halloween, Connor. Jim smiled to himself, slid up the bed, arranged himself comfortably against Blair's back, and closed his eyes.
end