A/N: I'm starting this four days late, and I don't even want to know when I'll be posting it. I've been meaning to write a birthday fic since Thursday when I realized it was Bubbly88Tay's birthday, but, well, life got in the way. But now it's Friday, I have time, and I haven't wished you a proper happy birthday yet.
So here we go.
For you, Tayler; thanks for being amazing. Way more amazing than this piece of writing is going to turn out.
The metal door clicks open and he takes the last step of the staircase down. He throws an empty coffee cup in the bin, and brings the door shut behind him. There is no one left except for him, Antonio and Lindsay. Even Voight's left.
Platt's desk is empty, but the lights are still on, her belongings still scattered all over the table. He figures it's either between shifts or she's gone to the bathroom.
He takes out his phone again, and it does say the 15th. He checks the month, and there it is. He remembers this date as a kid, remembers counting five with his fingers and grinning as he ran all over his neighborhood announcing that he was five. He remembers his twelfth, sixteenth, twenty-first. After that, years tend not to count anymore, and the date no longer means anything. No longer the excitement, no longer presents, no longer being able to drive, to drink. The date is just another on the calendar. He knows it should mean more, but that's all it is.
He had spent the entire day on calls. It wasn't particularly busy, but with the CI's coming up with different leads, he had spent the day with his unit all over town, checking by this point, checking by that point, clearing up statements and hopefully make a few more arrests. Work is almost hitting a roadblock, the week has been bland, busy yet at the end of the day, it's all just them spinning around like headless flies. The leads all match up so far, but with the IA rejecting their application for extra surveillance, there really is nothing they can do but wait. Lives aren't being taken, but they all rather take them down before one is.
He pushes the door open and walks out the precinct, down another flight of stairs. His car is parked by the corner, and he reaches in his pocket for his keys.
The last time he had celebrated was probably back when he was still enlisted. They were in Afghanistan or somewhere, maybe they were back in the States for training. Birthdays were on everyone's files and they had always gotten letters from families wishing them happy birthday. It's funny, how when their lives aren't in danger, the day is just marking a whole other year he's lived, and yet when their lives are potentially in danger, birthdays are a mix between 'I'm glad you survived this year and I think that's worth celebrating' or 'Hopefully you'll live for your next birthday'. Or maybe it's just the guilt about not writing.
Anyhow, they were at the bar. Maybe. Somewhere like that. Someone had somehow managed to find out, and a small gang of them were sitting on barstools, drunk out of their minds and laughing their guts out.
(He did, later, puke everything he'd eaten out after he arrived back at the quarters.)
He ignites the car and drives back to his apartment. He thinks about the two bottles of beer left in his fridge, and thinks about drinking one for celebratory purposes. He changes his mind soon after, though, feeling worn out and tired, wanting nothing but to lay in his bed and fall asleep. A deep, hearty slumber.
He parks his car a block down, because apparently he was too late for his usual parking spot. He walks back, not really minding the cold over his leather jacket. The elevator dings to announce his arrival and he walks out, turning left for his door.
It's dark, and being too lazy to turn on the lights, he feels around for the keyhole before inserting the key and unlocking the door. He pulls the handle down, pulling the key from the lock and tosses it on the bench beside his door.
He sits on his couch, pulling his phone from his pocket again to check the date. And yes, indeed, it hasn't changed.
Hockey's on, and he's just about to turn the volume up when the doorbell rings.
He knows just about one person who would come knocking on his door an hour after shift. He pulls open his door without even looking through his peep hole.
"Halstead." Lindsay greets, inviting herself in. Jay closes the door behind her. She sets a plastic bag down on the kitchen counter, walking over to his fridge and pulling out the last two beers.
"What are you doing?" He pries open the plastic bag. It's Chinese take-out, and he smells it before he sees it.
"You're welcome. Happy birthday." She reaches for the bottle opener from where she'd left it last time she was over.
Jay looks at her, surprised. "How did you know?"
"Platt told me." Erin says, matter-of-factly. "It was on your job file. I don't know why she stalks you, but then again, she stalks everyone. I don't know what else she does behind her desk when we're out."
"Thanks." He remembers her last sentence, and thanks her before he forgets. "You know, for the 'happy birthday' and food and stuff. And for knowing. And for being here." He mentally adds this to the list of birthdays he remembers celebrating. It's one-of-a-kind, but he likes it.
"And for these." She takes out the paper cartons and at the very bottom of the plastic bag, there was an envelope. Jay opens it, and two play-off tickets slip out.
"Best seats I could find. There are two, so I figured you can invite someone else."
"If by someone else, you mean you, yeah." Jay checks the date and time on the ticket, and she'd chosen a day when they are both off. "Thank you so much, just for this, and everything. Really." His face glows, a grin stuck on his face. "How the fuck did you afford this? These are like, center ice, front-but-not-too-front-so-that-you-can't-see-the-game-front row."
"I pulled some strings." She wiggles her eyebrows that would usually suspect him, but he almost ignores it as he sets the tickets down and pulls her into a tight hug.
"Ugh, I hate how you always manage to know these dates. I'm going to miss your birthday and feel really, really, really bad about it. Gosh."
"Well, so much for telling me yours. I had to find out from Platt. Platt."
"That's partially because I don't want to put myself in situations like this. I'm going to forget your birthday, and then I can't say anything about it because you remembered mine."
"Okay, I'll put my birthday in your calendar for you then." She reaches for his phone, setting a reminder. They both know, chances are, it's not going to go off on the day, but it's the concept that Jay likes. "Are you going to eat the food now? It's going to go cold. And I don't like cold fried wonton. And your beer is going to go warm. I hate lukewarm beer."
"I know." He can only laugh knowingly, reaching for the bottle. She holds out hers.
"Cheers."
He reaches over, clinks his bottle on hers and they both bring their bottles to their mouths, almost laughing out loud as they take a gulp.
"Happy birthday, you moron."