Summary: Jim's plans for a peaceful weekend get a small ... revision.
A bit of fluff and another one of those "alphabet" stories just because I felt like it. And this time I did it right -- keeping each "letter" only a sentence long instead of a paragraph; 'course I had to fool a bit with punctuation, so you'll have to forgive any run-ons or wrong sentence structure. In any case, I wanted to do some humor and this is what my muse told me to do. So blame her. <g>
Weekend Plans
by Becky
March 1999
"Ahhh..." Jim closed his eyes, relaxing into the blue couch, legs stretched out in front of him, glad to be home with a free weekend just waiting to be enjoyed.
Bad guys caught, paperwork finished, desk temporarily cleared of all pending cases, Simon had approved his request for some downtime, probably seeing in the sentinel's eyes that he desperately needed the time off to do a little recouping.
Camping, fishing, hiking, yeah, Jim nodded to himself, eyes closed, or maybe I'll just stay home and veg in front of the TV, sleep in, read a book or two; I don't care -- I just want to relax.
Draining the water bottle he held in one hand in a few large gulps, the detective shifted in the chair, finding a more comfortable position for his slowly un-knotting muscles.
Eyes opening, he looked around for the TV remote, deciding to flip through channels and see what, if anything, was on.
Finding it on the coffee table, half-buried under some anthropology magazine, Jim leaned forward long enough to snatch in up, then slouched back on to the couch, flipping on the TV as he did so.
Giving up several minutes later on finding anything really interesting to watch, he settled for the news.
Hearing someone coming toward the loft front door, Jim lazily directed his senses that direction and immediately picked up the sound of his partner's voice as he talked excitedly to himself as he walked, keys jingling in one hand.
In moments, the door opened and Blair blew inside, backpack over one shoulder, as he dropped his keyring in the key basket while shutting the door with one foot.
"Jim, you're home!"
Keeping his eyes on the late afternoon news, most of which he already knew, Jim waved a hand in the direction of his partner as he bounded across the room.
"Liberated for the weekend, all thanks to Simon," Jim smiled, reminding himself to thank his boss again on Monday when he saw him.
Making himself at home on the arm of the other couch, Blair dropped his backpack on the cushions and started digging around inside the vast interior, saying as he did so, "Then have I got the deal for you -- free tickets to a Star Trek convention."
Not understanding and not really sure he wanted to understand, Jim stared at his partner, blinking a few times, repeating quietly, "A Star Trek convention -- uh, Chief, I'm not really sure that I want to do that; I mean I had planned to just relax this weekend, you know, sit around, maybe go camping and do some fishing..."
"Oh, c'mon, Jim," Blair looked up, holding up the pictured brochure, ignoring Jim's slowly shaking head, "this'll be fun; we can go fishing anytime."
Perched on the arm of the opposite couch, the younger man swung his feet back and forth for a moment, reading through the brochure, then he sprang to his feet, grinning, saying, "Hey, I know, you could dress up for the costume contest, and I know exactly what you could dress up as."
Quite sure he didn't want to know, Jim asked anyway, knowing his voice was dry and very unenthused -- "What?"
"Romulan -- tall, stern, yeah, that would work beautifully!"
"Sandburg, I am not dressing up for some crazy costume contest and definitely not as something with tire tracks on its head."
"Those are Klingons, Jim," Blair chuckled, his hand going up to touch one ear, "Romulans have pointed ears; Klingons have the, uh, tire tracks."
Under the pretense of rubbing his forehead, Jim muttered a 'whatever' and rolled his eyes, vainly trying to decide how to reclaim his peaceful weekend plans.
Visibly steeling himself for his partner's pleading gaze, the older man looked up, prepared to decline Blair's offer when the resigned expression on the other man's face stopped him.
"Well," Blair sighed heavily, shaking his head, "I guess this means you're xenophobic after all; I should've known."
"Xenophobic?" Jim asked warily, thinking he should know the word from somewhere.
"Yeah, you know, someone who's afraid of strangers or foreigners," Blair backed away slowly from Jim, watching the detective's eyes narrow ominously, "or in this case since we're talking about you not wanting to go to a Star Trek convention -- afraid of aliens."
Zigzagging quickly out of reach, Blair ducked and dashed away from Jim's grasping hands, laughing, ignoring Jim's half-teasing growls of "You are an alien, Sandburg" even as he chased him around the couch, threatening a noogie when he finally caught him.
- The End -
Author's note: Yes, I have been to several Star Trek conventions, a few of which had those costume contests. But, no, I have never dressed up for one -- not gregarious enough, I think.