Author's notes: I'm finding I write with bit of potty mouth. This story is for alyjude who inspired me to finish this just by posting her latest, Francesca and M.T Webster who always inspire, and Mona.

Living With Perfect
By Brighid

Slow August heat sinks deeply into my bones, and I am, like, so content to sprawl on the blanket we brought to Taggart's barbecue. I've gotta admit I'm feeling pretty good for a guy who got shot eight days ago. It's nice to be out of the hospital, out of the loft, out in the open and surrounded by my friends. Even with my eyes shut against the sun, I can still hear the rest of the crew from Major Crimes. Some are talking, some are taking advantage of Taggart's deluxe barbecue, and a crazy few are playing an Aussie Rules version of soccer somewhere further down the yard. A particularly rowdy cry startles me out of my near-stupor. I smile. "Connor nailed Jenkins again, didn't she?"

"Yeah." I can hear the wince in Jim's voice. "Good thing the guy's already had his vasectomy." The big guy's sprawled alongside me; last I looked, he was propped-up on his elbows, watching the game. Any other time we'd be out there, but for me it's not an option, and for some reason, the silly mook feels like I need a babysitter.

I open a single eye, and squint it in sympathy. "Ouch. Just as well I have to sit out. I don't think I'm ready for desk duty on that yet. Man. Woman's part kangaroo."

Jim snorts in amusement, then sobers. "How's the leg? D'you need to prop it up a bit more?"

"Nah. It's stiff and I lurch and all, but the pain isn't that bad." I wiggle slightly, lifting the leg in question, a bit heavy in bandage and brace. "I'll be as good as new in no time."

Jim doesn't say anything, but the quality of his silence prods me to open both eyes and give him my best 'guide look'. "Man, if kicking yourself was an Olympic event, you'd be bringing home the silver," I observe softly, teasingly.

"Not the gold?" Jim lifts his brows in mock-surprise, but it's just a surface thing

"Nah. That's mine," I grin. "I got shot. It happens. A little down time, a little physio and I'll be chasing co-eds again in no time!"

Jim lifts his baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Ah, Chief, I hate to break this to you, but most teaching fellows never utter the words 'I got shot at, it happens.'" Jim's voice is slightly strained.

"You've obviously never been on a field expedition, man," I inform him drily. "In some parts of the world, anthropologists end up like the red-shirts in Star Trek on a regular basis."

Jim shoots me a look, a mingling of disbelief and speculation. I can see him wondering at the sorts of scrapes I'd be getting into without his influence, going over old stories I've told him over the years. After a few minutes, I see the light go on. "So what you're saying is, you're like flypaper for bad shit and I should just stop feeling guilty?" he asks at last.

"Not quite how I'd put it, but yeah, that about sums it up," I grin. "Hell, I was even doing what I was told -- staying by the truck and playing phoneboy. Wasn't like you were expecting a little drive-by action. Completely unrelated to what you were doing, too. It could've happened at the mall, for chrissakes. I could've been in the Gap and got shot."

Jim snorts, shakes his head on me. "I was with you up until the Gap bit, Chief. No way in hell they'd let you into a Gap store. They've got a dress code."

I glance down at my old Bermuda's and turquoise Hawaiian shirt. "Hey, I'll have you know these things are back in fashion, man. All the cool kids are wearing 'em."

"Operative word being kid, Chief. What the hell are you doing in them?" he throws back at me, a lazy smile replacing the faint unease that's been dogging him. "Big three-oh, Sandburg. You're not allowed to trust yourself anymore."

I flip him off cheerfully. "Hey, man, I may be getting older but I refuse to grow up!"

"That would explain the hair, then," Simon throws in, strolling over to join us. "Explains a hell of a lot of things, really."

"So speaks forty-five and fading," I return. "You just wish you could be my age again, man. Can you spell Viagra, Simon?" Jim fakes choking on something to cover a laugh and turns his head as Simon starts to splutter.

"Can you spell whup-ass, Sandburg?" the big man blusters, but mostly it's just smoke, no substance. He's gotten used to me. H says he even asks about me when I'm not around. Right now, he stretches out on the blanket between Jim and me, and nods over at the cooler. "So, what'd you bring, Jim? Sandburg drag you into a microbrewery again, or have you got real beer in there?"

Jim flips it open, pulls out a dark, frosty bottle. "Just beer, Simon. Figured you guys would get into our gear, so we left the good stuff at home." He hands over a bottle, pulls another for himself, then roots around and hauls out a silvery can, lobbing it to me.

"What's with this?" I demand, peering at the Barq's can. "I thought we were passing out beers, man?"

"Wrong, Darwin. Simon and I are having beer. Barq's, however, is all the bite you're getting today." He sounds just the faintest bit smug, and I narrow my eyes at his amusement.

Simon chuckles. "Guess you're just gonna have to wait until you grow-up, Sandburg," he says, all mock-sympathy. "Maybe you'll even grow a couple of inches!"

"Got all the inches I need, where it counts, man. Some of us don't waste everything on height," I reply. "Now where the hell's my beer?"

"Waiting for you to get off antibiotics," Jim says, shutting the cooler up. "Until then, soft drinks and water, Chief."

I contemplate the sweating can. "This really, really sucks. My mom doesn't pull this kind of crap on me, but my roommate does." I shoot him a dire look. "I didn't even want to go on the damned things. I've got a great naturopathic product...."

"That stinks like rotting kelp, thank-you very much. Makes the loft smell like a bad day at the beach. I don't think so," Jim interjects. "Deal with it, Junior. You're going dry until the doc gives us an all-clear."

"What's with this "us" shit? I'm the one with the hole in his leg, and the can of soda. I see no "us" in this, Jim," I reply, and I know it sounds testy, but I've gotta admit the sun is pretty damned hot and I had been looking forward to the taste of a beer.

Simon's glance sort of ping-pongs between us. "You know, there's this really good couple's therapist I could recommend to you guys. Help you work through some of your issues," he says drily before closing his eyes and lying back with his beer on his chest. Jim and I glance at each other, shake our respective beverages and pop the seals. The big man doesn't stand a chance.

About two seconds later I realize the tactical flaw in our attack: Jim can run, I can't. Even as Simon surges to his feet and is shaking beer and soda off his roaring person, Jim is up and moving. Halfway along he realizes my predicament and pulls me up over his shoulders into a fireman's carry. We're down the yard and around the house pretty damned fast. He doesn't put me down until we're up the block and at the truck.

He's panting a bit, but a hell of a lot less than you'd expect. Still, he rubs at his neck and shoots me a wry grin. "I'm getting a little old for that," he says with a sigh.

"For what? Spraying beer on your boss or lugging your roommate around the block?" I ask, leaning against the passenger door to take the weight off my recovering leg.

"Either ... both," Jim admits, laughing. "Give it another 4 years, you'll be pitching those Viagra jokes at me, Chief."

"Nah," I assure him, punching him lightly on the arm. "I'd never do that to you, man." He shoots me a guarded look, and I grin my best shit-eating smile for him. "Hell, man, you've gotta have a sex-life before you need Viagra!"

"Fuck-you very much, Sandburg," he says, his voice that wry, quiet rasp that always makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle up, and I have to bite back a "yes, please!" before it slips past my censor button. Jim doesn't know he's a prick-tease, and now is probably not the time to tell him, not when there's a very large man with a permit to carry a gun already pissed at me. I don't need two of 'em.

Instead, I tell him to tune up his hearing, scope out what sort of trouble we're in. I watch in fascination as he sort of focuses in, cocking his head like this old spaniel a boyfriend of Naomi's once had. Four years and this little thing still blows me away. It's like watching Clark Kent rip open his shirt to reveal the big, red "S" underneath. A small gesture, but, like, absolutely fraught with meaning.

A minute later he's back and smiling ruefully. "Got spare shorts and a shirt anywhere, Chief?"

I shake my head warily. "No, why?"

"Joel let Simon get out the garden hose," he informs me, and he's somehow both smiling and frowning. I take in the white sports shorts and pale blue T-shirt he's wearing. I picture them soaking wet and clinging to him. Not for the first time, I realize that I'm not a proud man.

"Might as well face the music," I inform my Sentinel, launching off the car and making my way, Igor-style, back towards Taggart's place. "I'm not leaving the kebabs I made lying around for Rafe and Megan to scarf down." Jim laughs and comes alongside me, sliding a hand under my elbow to help take some of the weight off my leg. I can feel the heat of him all alongside me. No, I'm not proud at all.

So, I end up getting hosed after all, though not on beer, but it's hot enough I'm mostly dry in a matter of minutes. And it looks like Jim went commando under the white shorts, relying on the netting in the crotch to keep the 'boys' in line. Warm and wet is my world, and thank whatever deity you please for baggy Bermuda shorts. They hide a multitude of sins, especially the 'in thought' kind. I notice Megan and Rhonda noticing Jim's assets as well, and the long, smiling look they trade. Megan catches me watching them and shrugs at me, and hell, who am I to disagree? It's a nice view. A very nice view.

The kebabs are good, and I was right, I have to fight Rafe and Megan and H off in order to get my fair share of the damned things. Y'know, I keep offering to teach those guys how to cook, but nobody ever actually takes me up on it, except Joel. He's slimmed down nice, and he says he's not missing his old diet at all, and that feels pretty damned good. He eats one of my kebabs and pats me on the shoulder and says he's glad I felt up to coming. H agrees and Rafe cuffs me upside the head and you know, this is worth the price of a few chunks of marinated turkey. This is family. I look up to find Jim watching me, and he's got this real gentle smile on his face and he kinda salutes me with his beer bottle and I realize he knows what I'm thinking, at least a little bit, and feels it too.

I decide to blame the lump in my throat on the meds Jim makes me take with my dinner. I don't comment when Simon pats me on the back and clears up my dishes for me, or when Joel covers me up after making me stretch out on the lounger, thinking I'm asleep. Really, I'm just playing possum, trying hard not to be overwhelmed by all of this...this awareness of what I've become a part of. I mean, I've had cousins and uncles and a grandfather and my mother, but with the exception of Naomi, we've always been so spread out, separated by distance and diversity. Never been a Sandburg reunion in my lifetime. This is a new experience to me, and all of a sudden it's a little overwhelming. Good, but overwhelming.

It'd just take one more thing to make it perfect.

I can live with imperfection.

Jim's shaking me, and I guess somewhere I stopped playing and really did start sleeping. The sun's totally gone and I shiver under the blanket Joel covered me with, wanting nothing more than to just roll over and continue sleeping. Jim's face hovers over mine, glowing faintly in the patio lights, and he's smiling. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get going before you turn into a pumpkin."

I rub my eyes with the hand not clutching the blanket and try to burrow into the padding of the chair. "Mixing up y'stories, man. An' if I'm Sleeping Beauty, it's gonna take a kiss to get me moving," I inform him, and he laughs and I can hear Joel chuckle from a distance, probably cleaning up the last of the party.

"Will it?" he says, and the tone of his voice is all the warning I get, before he's swooping in on me, and his mouth slides over mine, my half-open, soft "oh" mouth. I can taste coffee and marinated turkey and Jim and then he's sliding along, just bussing my cheek and it only lasts a second, but, oh, man, it's an eternity to me. "C'mon, Sandburg. I'm not hauling your ass out of here again. It's midnight and there's a bed at home where your skinny ass belongs."

There's an ambiguity to his words and a certainty in his eyes that blasts away the last traces my doze, and he pulls me up, careful of my leg, but holding on longer than is strictly necessary.

"A bed?" I ask, pitched for Sentinel ears, and he nods, that same smile from earlier curling the corners of his mouth.

"If you want it," he says, his voice low, a purr that skitters up my nerve-endings. "I may take the silver in kicking myself, and not even place when it comes to grabbing a clue, but let me assure you, Chief, there's one event where I bring home the gold, every time." He pivots slightly, calls out a soft goodnight to Joel, and picks up our cooler, making ready to go.

I rub at my eyes and say my own goodnight to Joel, who's wandered over to join us, and then we make our way out. Jim's pulled the truck up closer, so I don't have so far to walk. He settles our gear in the back and then helps me up and in. We pull out into the street, heading home, and neither of us speaks for the longest time.

Almost home, I risk a glance at him. "How'd you know?" I ask at last.

"I've sort of always known," he admits. "Maybe even before you did. I could smell you." He says it guiltily, as though sharing some dark secret. "I just never really thought about acting on it. You never did, and you're the open, liberal one. I sort of figured you weren't into that. Into me. I didn't want to risk what we had. A lay is easy enough to find, if you really want one. Best friends, not so easy to come by." He shrugs, a little helplessly.

I sigh at what is like, so totally vintage Jim, but can't really fault him. It's the same reasoning, more or less, I've been using. "And what made you risk it tonight? You didn't drink more than two beers, so we can't blame that. Which I appreciate, 'cause the old 'beer goggles' thing would be pretty damned degrading."

Jim snorts at that. "I've seen you in the morning, Sunshine. Not even beer goggles could overcome that. Nah, it was two things, really. You getting shot again was a bit of a wake-up call, for one. Shook me up to realize that I could have lost you. Again. Sat in recovery with you, holding your head as you puked your guts out and had myself an epiphany. I realized that pretty much everything I needed was there, was you. Hell, Chief, you looked like shit, sounded like a cat hacking up a hairball, and all I wanted to do was kiss you until your toes curled and then maybe shake you until your teeth rattled for scaring the piss out of me. Figured I'd gone past the point where I could ignore it and pretend it'd go away."

If he weren't driving I'd pull him over and kiss him until we both blacked out. As it is, I try to swallow past a lump the size of my fist, and ask, "The second reason?"

He shoots me a sideways glance. "Rhonda and Megan were giggling their asses off at how you kept checking out my 'package'. And Bermuda shorts don't hide everything."

I feel myself flush. Apparently I have to take a subtlety refresher course. "So, smooth I am not," I manage to choke out.

He reaches over and cups the side of my face in his long-fingered hand. "Smooth, no. Beautiful, yes. And you're pretty fucking cute when you blush, Sandburg. Feels like you do it all over, too. Heat everywhere. You pink-up everywhere, Chief?" he asks, his voice that low, rough drawl that does things to my blood pressure.

"Take me home and find out," I manage as his hand slides down and over, mapping me briefly before returning to the steering wheel.

"I intend to," he says, and from there on in, it's goodnight, Gracie. I am so gone on him my IQ drops 50 points and my dick'll probably end up with a permanent line from the drawstring on my shorts. He can feel every reaction from across the cab, and he laughs at my low moan, a truly evil sound.

He pulls up into his usual parking space, and comes around to my side of the truck and helps me out. For a moment, he just stands there, legs splayed a bit and pressing our bodies together in a way that makes me moan all over again. He laughs, leans down the last little bit so his forehead rests on mine.

"So, how we doing here, Chief?" he whispers, nuzzling my temple briefly before reaching past me to lock my door.

"Perfect," I say, smiling so damned hard I think my face will break, and the lump in my throat is from the meds Jim made me take at dinner. Honest. "Absofuckinglutely perfect."

He kisses me again and then with a funny little grunt pulls me up in a fireman's carry, kicks the truck door shut with his foot, and carries me up to the loft, proving he' not too old for anything, not at all. Something tells me Viagra is never gonna make a cent off of him.

He kisses me, hard, just outside the door, and everything is just...

Perfect.