"Sandburg ... Sandburg!"

"What, Jim?"

"C'mon, get cracking. We're supposed to be at Steven's in a half-hour."

"Would you mind if I ..."

"If you what? Wear that awful sweater with the reindeer on it?"

"I like this sweater, man. Would you mind if I didn't come along?"

"Stop kidding around. We're now officially late."

"Jim, it's only been like 30 seconds since ... anyway, I'm not really kidding. I'd like to take a pass."

"You're passing on Christmas Eve?"

"Well, yeah, it's not my holiday, you know?"

"Since when haven't you wanted to celebrate every damned December tradition, including Solstice?"

"I'm just not -"

"Not what, chief? Help me out here."

"See, what I was-"

"No, I mean help me out here. Pick up that bag of presents and take them down to the truck."

"Dickwad."

"Very nice, Sandburg. And happy fucking Yuletide to you, too. So tell me, why the sudden turnaround?"

"It's not sudden."

"What? Goodtime Charley's got the blues and it's been building since when? Are you not feeling well? You don't look sick ... I don't 'feel' fever ... so, what's the story? And can you do it in 25 words or less, because now we're REALLY late."

"Jim, don't you think that our lives are, like ... in a rut?"

"Rut?"

"Yeah. I mean, we go to drive into the station together, we work together, we come home together, we eat together, we go to parties at the homes of our 'work' friends together, we sleep ... uh, well, you know what I mean ..."

"Steven isn't a 'work' friend ..."

"Jim, everybody we know will be at your brother's."

"What, are you telling me now you don't like Steven? After all the harping on us to get to know one another again?"

"How can someone with Sentinel hearing not 'hear' what I'm trying to say?"

"Okay. I'm going to sit down, with these friggin' bags of gifts at my feet, and you're going to tell me exactly what you're bitching and moaning about."

"I have to make some changes, Jim."

"Changes?"

"Yeah."

"Like what kind of changes?"

"Some big, some small."

"Why do I know I don't like the way this conversation is going."

"Because Megan's right. You're 'psychic.'"

"Very funny, chief. Okay. Do it. Hit me with the 'big' one."

"No. I don't think so. Not on Christmas Eve."

"Christ, Sandburg. Are you trying to drive me crazy?"

"Some would say 'short drive.'"

"Some would also say 'goofy bastard.' Some would also remember that I used to be in Covert Ops."

"Oh, yeah, right. I get it. The old 'kill a guy a hundred ways, including with scotch tape, wrapping paper and egg nog' paradigm."

"You are a laugh riot, 'Shecky.' So start with the 'small' change."

"Moving."

"Moving what?"

"Not what. Where."

"Where what?"

"Out what."

"What?"

"I'm going to have to move out of the loft after the first of the year. Jim? Did you hear me? Jim! Jim! Not, funny! Breathe, man!"

"You're moving out? That's the SMALL one? Are you crazy?"

"It's the 'or what' that's the problem."

"Listen, Sandburg, just spit it out. Whatever it is, we can deal with it. We can fix it."

"Supposing I don't want it 'fixed'?"

"You're losing me here, chief."

"Haven't you guessed by now?"

"What?"

"You honestly don't have any idea what I'm talking about?"

"You know, this is like the beginning of every fight I ever had with Carolyn."

"And?"

"And that's probably one of the reasons she's now my 'ex.'"

"Forget it, Jim. Forget the whole thing. We'll talk later. Let's just go."

"Go? You want to go? Now? You drop a bomb bigger than the one that hit Nagasaki, and you want to go, and talk later? No way, chief."

"But, Jim- "

"Let me rephrase that. NO. FUCKING. WAY. You're not leaving this living room until you tell me why you're talking and acting crazy."

"All right, Jim. Don't say you didn't ask for it. Here's the thing: I don't want to be your pal or buddy or your cop partner - well, at least not 'just' your cop partner - anymore."

"You ... don't?"

"I want to be - I need to be - more. I love you, Jim. And I've run out of time and patience waiting for you to figure that little factoid out."

"What?"

"I love you, you moron. I've loved you from, like, the first day we met."

"What?"

"Pay attention, Ellison. I've loved you through sieges, and firefights, and jumping out of planes, and trips to Peru, and the whole dissertation fiasco, and the Lauras, the Lilas and the Veronicas who've fucked up your life - and mine - since we're know one another. But, honest to God, Jim, I just can't do it any more. I need to be 'the one' for you. And if that's not ... possible, then I have to split and try to make some other life for myself."

"You'd leave me?"

"Jim, I don't want to. I just need more."

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg, what do you want me to say? This is so -"

"Well, if you say 'sudden,' I'm seriously going to consider pulling out my service revolver and using it on one of us."

"I was about to say that this is SO like you. Blair Sandburg and the Art of Hit and Run."

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me. You tell me you love me in one breath and in the next, you say, 'Goodbye, it's been swell'? So, what's the deal here, chief? Do you really love me? Is this some kind of weird courtship ritual? Or just one of those hoop-jumping things? Because I have to tell you that I can think of at least 20 better ways we can seal the bargain that with a holiday blood-letting."

"What are you say- ... mgphfn -""

"I'm saying that kissing is one way."

"Where did you learn to kiss like that, Jim?"

"If I said the Army ...?"

"I'd say that they really let you be all that you can be. And, just for argument's sake, what number would kissing be on the Ellison list?"

"Seven or eight."

"Seven or eight? Yeah? So what's number one?"

"Come up to my bedroom and I'll show you."

"You mean ..."

"Yeah, Sandburg."

"You mean we'd actually-"

"Uh-huh. And we'd get naked."

"You're saying you-"

"Yes, chief."

"And you're not going to fight me, or deny this thing between us, or tell me I'm nuts?"

"No. No. And, sure, you're nuts. But then, I guess, so am I."

"How's that?"

"Every day for the past four years, I've lived with you, worked with you, looked at you, smelled you, and had you in my face. And I didn't 'see' it. But I do tonight. We're already a couple, Sandburg. But without the loving. Get your tail from between your legs, chief, and the 'I just told you there's no Santa Claus' look off your face. I'm not saying this right ..."

"You don't mean the 'loving' thing ... you're talking about the 'fucking' thing."

"Well, yeah, if you're going to be crude on Christmas Eve."

"Point taken. Okay. You're on. Now, let's get going, Jim."

"What?"

"Your brother's expecting us. So's everybody from Major Crimes. After four years, we can wait a couple more hours, can't we? C'mon. Tote those presents, Mister. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back."

"An argument on a holiday eve, which I can't follow and you win, and no sex. Like I said, Sandburg, we're already a couple."

"I love you, too, man."

The End.

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Author's Acknowledgements: Thanks to all my fellow Mongoosians (editors, writers, betas, artists, et al) who continue to encourage me and one another with shaking pom-poms, bribery, promises of chocolate, and the occasional crack of a well-used cyber-whip.