My love is like a red, red rose!


Author's disclaimer: Petfly owns them, I don't.

Author's notes: This started out as an obsenad, but grew out of proprtions for an obsenad. This is the first time I've posted any writing anywhere, so please be gentle with me. The poem is meant to be slightly "off".

I'm Swedish, and english isn't my native language. Also, this was just meant to be a quick apology for asking something. I've tried my best with the english, but be prepared that there is probably several mistakes below.

Oh -and I *love* the hair. It was Simon's words, not mine. And I'm sure Jim loves it too.

After the almost tentative knock, Simon was surprised when Jim Ellison entered his office, behaving in a most unEllison-like manner. When the door fell shut behind him, he remained just inside, scraping with one foot on the ground like a nervous horse, eyes adverted and mute. The muscles in his jaw twitched slightly, but that was common enough these days. If his gruff mood and shortfused temper was anything to judge by, CPD's best detective was brooding on something serious. Simon, who had known him for several years and could read his mood fairly well, hoped that his friend had reached a solution to his problem. As usual, Jim had refused to talk to anyone about what was bothering him, even the ever-persistent Sandburg. However, his obvious nervousness worried Simon even more.

"Well?" he said sharply, knowing that Jim was more likely to respond to that than to cajoling. "What do you want?"

Jim still wouldn't look at him. Simon noticed that he held a card. His large hands almost covered it completely, but it seemed to be of the more luxurious, glossy kind, like the ones you send to weddings or even birthdays. Watching his best friend and detective wrestle with himself, head turning from side to side in an odd, rolling motion, Simon was beginning to get even more worried. When he spoke this time, his voice was much softer.

"What do you have there, Jim? Is there anything I can help you with?"

Finally, he got an answer.

"Well... yes sir" the words sounded forced, the rich voice tight with embarrassment. "I... I know that you... that you... write... well... poetry. Sir."

"Yes...?" Simon wondered where this was leading, but found it increasingly amusing.

"I was... was wondering if... if you could, if I could ask- if you know -if I... ineedalovepoemanddoyouknowoneicoulduse?"

"What was that, detective?" Simon's dark voice was definitely amused now and he was smiling. Jim glared at him, jaw muscles working hard. But when he answered, after having taken a deep breath, Jim's voice was level, if still strained.

"I was wondering... *sir*... if you know of a... good love poem that I could... use."

Taking up a cigar from his desk, Simon rolled it between his fingertips.

"Use, Jim? For what?"

If looks could kill, Simon Banks would suddenly have died. Jim's irritation only lasted for a moment, though, before he gave in to the inevitable, left his place by the door and came closer, finally sitting down. Carefully, he put the card on the desk. The front was adorned with a single, red, perfect rose, the petals shimmering with dew, no thorns in sight and leaves looking like velvet.

"To me?"

"Wha--? No!! No, no, no, Simon, it's to--" he caught himself just in time, still shaking his head. "--someone *really* special..."

He smiled then, a dreamy, a bit silly, smile, presumably thinking of this "someone special". Simon put down the cigar, smirking.

"Oh, really?" he asked innocently. "And whom might this 'someone' be? Is it someone I know?"

The silly smile widened. Then it disappeared and Jim shrugged, eyes suddenly watchful and protective.

"Oh, no one special."

Simon wisely decided not to point out the obvious contradiction with the earlier words. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined over his belly.

"And now you're going to court this 'someone', Jim? Or is the courting already over?"

Jim shook his head, looking very, very sad, almost crestfallen.

"I... haven't said anything. I... I thought I'd give h- this card to... this person. And write 'I love you' and then a poem! Do you think it'll work?"

He sounded so lost that Simon had to fight not to laugh at his predicament. He was fairly certain that he knew whom this someone "*really* special/no one special" was.

"I'm sure it will, Jim. A poem? How long do you want it?"

His friend took the card, opened it and put it back down, careful to let one large, right hand cover the upper part of the left page. Even so, Simon could clearly se a small arch and a point peak out, looking very suspiciously like the last part of the letter 'R'. Under the hand was an area of about two inches.

"Right" Simon confirmed, frowning slightly while thinking quickly. "It would be easier if you'd *tell* me something about this 'someone', but I do think that I could help you with a poem. Here, take this pen and write it down."

With that, he rose to his feet, putting one large hand on the desk and holding the other one up as he took a dramatic pose. When Jim had the card on a flat surface, still covering part of it and holding the pen ready, Simon declared the poem slowly, seriously and with feeling;

"If you love this gruff old cop,
then let me take you with me up...

the stairs where we two soon will be,
together in pure harmony!

My love, you are so handsome, fair,
I love you even though the hair!"


"Talk all you want, test and obfuscate,
the blue of your eyes me always sate!"


"Now let me make the loft our lair,
oh please, just let me love you, --"