Proposal by lamardeuse

Author's note: My metaphorical champagne toast to the Mayor of San Francisco and all the couples past, present and hopefully future, climbing the steps to City Hall.

February 20th, 2004

“So, Chief…you wanna get hitched?”

It took me a couple of seconds to register the breezy question, seeing as how 99.9% of my attention was wrapped up in trying to cram the last of my sweaters into my backpack. Last weekend was Valentine’s Day, and we had to work a grisly murder—a woman who, it quickly turned out, had been killed by her ‘grieving’ husband. Man. After wrapping up the case today, Simon took pity on us and gave us all of next week off.

I suppose if I’d been thinking more about the question, about the way Jim’s baby blues had been glued to CNN for the past week, even though we always got home late and strung out and pissed off, about anything other than the fact that I was so unbelievably glad to be getting out of Cascade, even though it was a Jim type of holiday, a backpacking-into-the-trackless-winter-wilderness-to-an-isolated- cabin-without-indoor-plumbing holiday…well, if I hadn’t been thinking about that, I would’ve answered with something other than:

“Do I wanna what?”

When he didn’t answer right away, I abandoned the backpack where it lay on the bed and peered at him over the railing. From here, I could only see the top of his head, shorn close enough that you could barely make out the bald spot, and the tense set of his shoulders.

“Jim?”

“Never mind,” he muttered. A hand came up, sliced the air. “I’m just goofing around.”

Okay, that instantly set off loud alarm bells in my head, because in the eight years I’d known him, Jim often goofed around, but he rarely admitted to it, and certainly not in a tone of voice that suggested someone had run over his doggie. I remembered once telling him the only one who knew him better than me was Caroline, his ex-wife. Well, step aside, honey, because I am now standing on the podium and they are playing the Sandburg National Anthem. I have a gold medal in the Ellison marathon event. I have gone the distance.

Not that it’s been an unrewarding journey. I’ll never see my face on a box of Wheaties, but I can’t say I’d trade these eight years for anything, particularly the last four years and two months of it, when I finally traded the futon for the left side of Jim’s mattress. The crazy thing is how naturally it happened, like one day we weren’t, and the next day we were, and that was pretty much it. Yeah, that’s his fault, because if you’d left it to me we’d have analyzed it to death, but he’s right when he says that some mysteries are better left untouched.

What? I’m right about everything else, I can be magnanimous about that.

Anyway, it didn’t take a gold medal winner to know something was wrong, so I headed down the stairs and approached cautiously, much as I might—well, a jaguar. I came around to sit on the couch, and instead of looking at him directly right off, followed the line of his gaze to the television.

CNN again, only this time I paid attention to the headline running across the bottom of the screen.

Oh.

The sound was down so low I couldn’t hear it, though doubtless Jim could follow every word. I focused on the images. Two women, both in wedding dresses, smiling and toasting one another with champagne. A long lineup of people, small groups talking and laughing together.

A hand-painted sign: You are all going to Hell.

I turned back to Jim in time to see a muscle jump in his jaw.

My stressed, sleep-deprived brain finally bought a clue. Something akin to wonder bloomed in my gut.

“Hey,” I said softly, touching his arm lightly with the tips of my fingers. “Did you just propose to me?”

The muscle leapt again. “Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

My hand automatically rose to stroke the stubbly fur near his temple, as it tended to do whenever I caught a glimpse of the wounded kid trapped inside him. “Surprising,” I corrected gently. “But not stupid.”

He risked a sidelong glance at me, but said nothing.

“You proposed to me,” I told him. I could feel my face split into this huge, goofy grin, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to judge if I was making fun of him. I guess I passed, because one corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said, and now a matching grin was fighting for room on his face. “I did.”

I could’ve started picking this apart, started asking him why he’d asked me, why he felt this need to affirm our relationship in such a traditional manner, but that would’ve been stupid, because I knew the answer. Underneath the super senses and the spirit animals, Jim was a traditional American guy, and he loved me, and this was what you did when you loved someone, in his books. But still, I couldn’t help letting one question fly.

“Even after this week?” I asked softly. His brows knit together in confusion, and I elaborated. “The Adams case. Gives you a pretty nasty outlook on marriage, doesn’t it?”

Jim shook his head. “It wasn’t the piece of paper that did that to them, Chief.”

“Then what?” I demanded, surprised at the vehemence in my own voice. “What changed them, turned it from that—” I gestured at another joyous couple on the screen “—to the horror show we presided over?”

“I don’t know,” Jim murmured. His hand reached for one of mine and clasped it loosely. “I only know how I feel.”

“And how’s that?” I asked, distracted by the stroke of his thumb across my palm.

“Like I’ve been wearing a gag for four years, and I’m sick of it,” Jim spat.

That got my attention. “What?”

“This,” he hissed, holding our joined hands up for me to see. “I want one day where I can do this in public. I want one day where I can stand up in front of a judge, even if that license isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on, and tell everyone who’ll listen how much I love you. I want one day when I can kiss you—” actions mimicked words until I was gasping for air “—right in front of those creeps with the picket signs.”

“Jesus, Jim,” I breathed, my heart tripping over itself, because I was alternating between shocked as hell and incredibly turned on, “you never talked like this before. I didn’t know you felt this way.”

“I didn’t know myself,” Jim admitted. “Or maybe I didn’t want to think about it until this week.” He made a frustrated noise. “I’m so fucking tired of hiding.”

“We haven’t exactly been hiding,” I countered. “I mean, our relationship is pretty much an open secret in Major Crimes, and old lady Moretti downstairs—” I trailed off. “Yeah, okay, I get your point.” I sighed. “But what happens when we get back home? Is one day gonna be enough for you?”

Jim pondered the question. “Maybe. And maybe I’ll take that piece of paper and stick it in a frame and nail it over my desk.” His intense gaze faltered a little as he studied my face for a reaction.

I pursed my lips. “I think the rings will be obvious enough.”

Jim’s eyes widened slightly.

Ha. Busted.

“Are you telling me,” I said slowly, my face darkening in mock-outrage, “that you propose to a guy, and you don’t even have a ring ready? What are you trying to do, jinx the whole works?”

Jim’s mouth arranged itself into the patented Ellison Sardonic Smirk No. 7. “I figured you'd want to have a say in choosing the rings. After all, if left to my own devices, I might pick out a diamond that had been mined by exploited workers, or a style of engraving that was bad juju.”

“‘Bad juju?’” I laughed, flicking one finger against the side of his head. “What have I taught you about cultural sensitivity, big guy?”

“I’m the most sensitive guy you’ve ever met,” he growled, capturing my other hand and pulling me toward him.

“Ha ha,” I retorted, just before he laid another one on me.

“So what do you say?” he murmured against my ear.

“Where are we going for the honeymoon?”

He nuzzled my lobe, worried it between his teeth. “Right there. We’ll stay in a fancy hotel and order room service.”

“Hotel? You mean there aren’t any shacks equipped with outhouses in the City by the Bay? That sucks.”

“Sandburg,” he warned, though there was a hint of apprehension and nervousness in his tone and man, all that psychoanalysis I wanted to do went flying out the window. He loved me, I loved him, and he wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Who was I to stand in his way?

Besides, he made me want to do some shouting of my own.

“Yes,” I whispered, pressing my lips to that furry stubble near his temple, feeling like a big ol’ sap and not giving a damn. “Yes, Jim Ellison, I’ll marry you.”

End

February 2004