Advent Calendar Day 17

 

Good morning! I just want to take a minute to say how happy I am that so many people are participating in the calendar this year. And by participating, I mean taking the time and trouble to comment on all the posts as well as all the wonderful guest submissions we've had. It makes the calendar so much better, so thank you. I really do appreciate your engagement. <3

Today we have more fiction! Smitty has written a delightful and deliciously long glimpse into the secret life of Sam and Jason from The Art of Murder series. I think you're going to love it.  ;-)

Sam Kennedy liked California. He hadn’t lied about that. He liked that it was sixty degrees and the sun was shining. He liked that he was sitting on the beach with the waves crashing a few yards away. He liked the way Jason’s ass looked in his wetsuit. He just found it a little strange to be liking all that on December 24th.

That said, Sam wasn’t one to look a Christmas gift horse in the mouth, especially one that put him in the position to watch Jason West jog out of the surf, a beaming grin on his face and his black neoprene suit clinging to his lean body. He was still too thin, but less so than in Montana, and his posture was loose and easy.

He lodged his board in the sand with a determined flex of his biceps and threw himself down on the

towel next to Sam. He was winded, cheeks flushed, and Sam knew firsthand how the drag of the tide could easily drain strength from a man’s muscles. But, with that memory, came the one of Jason’s resolve in the water, the skills he’d learned as a lifeguard, and his comfortable rapport with the ocean.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Jason asked with a wink. Water ran from his dark hair down his face, his eyes bright in contrast. Sam despaired a bit about how utterly taken he was with Jason. Twelve years his junior, with a classical education and a bloodline stacked with philanthropists, politicians, and soldiers, there was nothing about them that made sense. And somehow that mattered not at all.

“My partner,” Sam drawled, “wanted to go surfing.” 

“Oh?” Jason grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He liked that, liked that Sam would use the word partner when talking about him. Sam filed that away for later. “Is he cute?”

Jason couldn’t pull off a credible leer to save his life, which was hilarious when Sam remembered how adept he was undercover.

Sam let his own eyes crinkle. “Devastating,” he said.

Jason flushed and his grin widened.  He rolled up easily to his knees and threw a leg over both of Sam’s. Sam found his lap full of green eyes and wet neoprene, Jason’s knees braced in the sand on either side of Sam’s hips.  

For as loud and unrestrained as he was in the bedroom, Jason didn’t often initiate physical contact. Sam suspected he was at fault for that particular quirk, and he didn’t want to think too closely on it. This was nice, the hard jut of Jason’s hipbones fitting neatly in Sam’s palms, the neoprene slick and wet against his skin.

Breathtaking, Sam thought as Jason kissed him, might be an even better word than devastating, although he still felt pretty damn devastated. The beach was fairly deserted - Jason had called it ‘cold’ earlier, which was just ridiculous - but Sam’s heart swelled with the public display of affection. 

He didn’t mind rumors and office gossip. If people had nothing better to do than talk about you, at least you were making an impression. But it was nice to be here, to be able to touch Jason openly, to thumb his wet hair behind his ear and nuzzle his jaw.

Jason gusted out a sigh and said, “If you’re trying to talk me into skipping out on the party tonight, it’s totally working.” He cupped a hand around Sam’s neck and Sam breathed him in, tempted.

The Wests’ annual Christmas Eve party was some kind of legend in these parts - not that Sam had ever heard of it before Jason sheepishly confessed that they were expected to attend - and Sam appreciated the gesture, but he’d made his promise and he intended to follow through.  Not that an evening of ‘networking’ with a couple hundred of the Wests’ closest acquaintances sounded like a good time, but this was part and parcel of Jason, and despite all the resistance he’d initially put forward, Sam wanted the full experience.

“Nice try,” Sam scolded, as Jason’s thumb stroked the sensitive skin under his ear. He grabbed the towel Jason had left on the sand beside them and smashed it onto Jason’s head, scrubbing his sopping hair. “Last thing I need is your mother blaming me for your defection.”

Jason laughed, bright and consonant with the waves behind him. “If you think my mother’s the real danger,” he chuckled, “you haven’t learned anything about my family at all.”

No, Sam realized as Jason pulled the towel away and leaned in for another kiss.  He knew exactly who was the real danger.

~*~

The real danger, Sam realized four hours - four *noisy* hours - later, was the wassail.  He sloshed the contents of his cup dubiously, already feeling a little bowled over by the gulp and a half he’d taken, and he wasn’t exactly a lightweight. Then again, the atmosphere could be a contributing factor to his discomfort. 

For starters, there was the house.  This was where the elder Wests lived.  Stately West Manor, as Jason

cheekily called it, was a literal old Hollywood mansion with a courtyard and French doors on every side of the room.  And this was only one room.  Waiters and waitresses circulated silently and smoothly with trays of champagne, wassail, whiskey, caviar, and pate.  Jason, it turned out, was indifferent to both caviar and pate, but enjoyed a good sea urchin on a cracker.  What the actual hell, Jason.

Jason had temporarily abandoned him to greet someone from the local art community.  Sam wasn’t sure if the guy was someone he’d pissed off when he’d been in town looking for the killer who had turned out to be Eric Greenleaf, or if the guy hated Granville Redmond, the only painter Sam was interested in discussing.  Either way, it wasn’t like he minded.  He could use a breather, anyway.

He liked Jason’s little house, he liked Venice, and he had thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d spent on the beach that morning.  But this, this was all a bit much.  Sam came from the land of mountains and wide open spaces, free-roaming wildlife and winters that stayed far below freezing. Jason’s world was a balmy sixty-five degrees and populated by people who looked like they’d emerged from an explicitly Christmas version of the game of Clue. 

Jason’s parents were pillars of the community. They were wealthy, erudite, and commanded a power that was mellowing as their peers passed their own fortunes to the next generation. They were starting to show signs of frailty, skin going papery around the edges. By the time Jason was Sam’s age, they’d be gone, or nearly so. Sam couldn’t begin to imagine them in the same room with Ruby. 

Charlotte, or Charlie, as Sam hadn’t been invited to call her, was sweet, well-meaning, but a little...sheltered, maybe. She’d been responsible for the frou-frou magazine spread that Jason’s house had initially resembled, but as time passed, Sam saw Jason’s style edge out the throw pillows and rose petals. Jason claimed she took care of him more than the other way around, but Sam wasn’t so sure.  He liked her kid, though.  Nora was smart and sarcastic and utterly not intimidated by Sam.  In his jacket pocket, he had tucked a drawing she’d made for him in under three minutes.  It looked like a teenager rendering of a murder board and he loved it.  He could see sticking around Cali if it meant hanging out with Nora and Charlotte.

“Special Agent Kennedy,” a warm contralto lilted behind him.  “Has my baby brother left you alone to fend for yourself in this wilderness?”

Sam smiled grimly, recognizing the voice. “Mrs. Price,” he said, turning to face Jason’s other sister. At first glance, Sophie West Price looked like an older, female version of Jason. Dark hair, green eyes, thin frame, pointed nose. But under closer scrutiny, Sam could pick out ways they differed, ways Jason favored their mother and Sophie more closely resembled their father. Still, she looked pretty devastating herself in an evergreen dress that draped gracefully over her shoulders and dipped down her back. “You look stunning this evening.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Sophie said dryly and took a sip of her own wassail. “Though there’s no need to pretend.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Being attracted to men doesn’t mean I can’t recognize beauty in other forms,” he said.  “I still like art.”

“Well said,” Sophie allowed, her lips quirking up at the compliment.  “Enjoying yourself, I hope?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s not my usual scene, but your family sure knows how to throw a party.” He lifted the cup of wassail. “What is in this stuff?”

“Sodium pentathol,” Sophie said.

Sam stiffened, remembering the heavy dose of Thiapental Jason took during his attempted abduction. 

“Actually mulled cider and rum,” Sophie added. “Does the same job, though.”

Of course. He’d never actually told Jason’s family what he’d been dosed with. And he doubted Jason had either. 

“It’s certainly a potent combination,” he commented. 

“Yes,” Sophie agreed mischievously. “It’s provided us all kinds of entertainment over the years. It was sort of a rite of passage to sneak it when we were kids.”

“Jason, too?” Sam asked, because he couldn’t help himself. Jason with his Kamikazes and craft beer. 

“Oh, Jason’s story is epic,” Sophie affirmed. “But you’ll have to ask him about it yourself. He would absolutely murder me if I told you.”

“Hmm,” Sam said, smiling at his glass and wondering how old Jason had been, if he’d looked like Ethan then, or if that had been his Kingsfield-vacation era of long hair. 

“Ugh, that was a terrible thing to say to someone with your job,” Sophie said with a frown. “I suppose it’s time for me to stop drinking this, too.”

Sam shrugged. Murder was used in every day vernacular and he was well aware that she had meant it in a way far detached from what he saw daily. 

“Are you in town long?” Sophie asked. She’d been impeccably bred and raised and her elocution and manners were perfect. But the longer she lingered, the more clear it became to Sam that she had questions that went beyond polite networking conversation. 

Sophie was the real danger, Jason had told him, riding herd on the family and fighting to preserve its legacy. Jason was her primary frustration, what with having an actual job and vanishing from Important Family Events to help Sam solve murders. 

“Until the new year,” Sam told her. “Assuming I’m not needed elsewhere in the meantime.” He had been clear that he would be available from California during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, even though he was officially taking PTO. He was not, by nature, comfortable with delegation, but it was becoming more and more acceptable to him to be available long distance if it meant following through on his plans with Jason.  It didn’t hurt that it was difficult, even for him, to find fault with Jonni’s work.  “You?”

“We’re staying through New Year and don’t have to go back to DC until a few days before the congressional sessions start,” Sophie said with another sip of her wassail. “I would like to get back in time for the Nationals’ WinterFest, though.”

“Especially now that they have the pennant,” Sam agreed, although he was not deeply focused on the city’s young baseball team prior to that particular achievement and had never been to any kind of fan event. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“Clark was first elected the same year the franchise came back to the city,” Sophie said.  Her eyes measured him up, and she finally quirked a half smile that was nearly a mirror of Jason’s.  “I didn’t have a job in DC at first, and I was doing some volunteer work, but I certainly wasn’t in charge of anything then, so sometimes I’d go watch the team lose on weekday afternoons.”

Sophie peered theatrically to all corners of the rooms.  “State secret?” Sam asked.  “I do have Top Secret clearance.”

“You don’t need it,” she assured him. “Just don’t let Mother and Father catch wind of such blasphemy.  They raised us to be loyal Dodgers fans.”

“I didn’t know Jason liked the Dodgers,” Sam mused.

“Oh, don’t get excited,” Sophie warned him.  “Baseball outings were mostly passe by the time Jason was born.  He could care *less* about baseball, but he keeps the allegiance to make our parents happy.”

“Do your parents still think I’m Jason’s boss?” he asked. 

Sophie laughed. “It’s not so much that they think you’re his supervisor,” she said, “as they think he’s the most junior agent in the FBI and everyone’s his boss. Do they still want you to persuade him to go back to teaching?”

Sam shook his head and took a slug of wassail. “Beats me how someone can fill a kid’s head with all those ideals of action and heroism and then expect him to be happy in a classroom.”

“Oh,” Sophie said wryly. “You can blame Grandpa Harley for that one.  Jason came along just as he was retiring and - well, we all spoiled Jason rotten, but Grandpa made that his mission in life.”

“Jason speaks very highly of his grandfather,” Sam said politely. While he had wished, in Montana, that Jason was a little less defensive of his grandfather, Sam also knew that he’d never had such an idol and could not objectively place himself in Jason’s shoes. Perhaps he would have done the same. 

“The feeling was mutual,” Sophie assured him.  “Jason’s middle name is Emerson, you know, after Grandpa. He told Jason every one of his war stories, as many times as Jason would listen, taught him about all the art he’d saved, even took him to Paris when he was old enough.”

Sam had never heard of this trip.  He wondered why Jason had never mentioned Paris.

“I was seventeen when Jason was born,” she said suddenly. “And we all fussed over him. But Charlotte was already on her own, I was on my way to Georgetown that fall, and our parents were not expecting to have to start all over again. Grandma Harley died when Jay was three. Entertaining Jason kept Grandpa busy.”

Sophie glanced down at her drink and for a moment she looked every year of her half century. “Let me ask you something,” she said quietly, steel edging her velvet tone. “When my brother was in the hospital, when he was nearly abducted. How long did you have to wonder whether he would survive? How long was there an actual possibility in your mind that you’d have to walk out of that hospital without him?”

Sam’s throat closed. It wasn’t party conversation and despite the openness he’d enjoyed on the beach earlier, he still thought of his relationship with Jason as a very private thing. “Not long,” he admitted because he should be realistic with Sophie. “Half an hour maybe from the time I got the call to the time I saw him.”  He frowned at his own drink. “Felt like longer.”

“I was in DC when he was shot,” she said. “I was the closest so I was there first. He’d lost so much blood, Sam. He’d gone into shock and they couldn’t promise me that he was going to walk out of that hospital for three days.”

Sam drew in a careful breath through his nose.  “I know,” he said.  “He worries me, too.”

“It’s not like teaching would be a - a demotion,” Sophie said. “He was a wonderful teacher.  One of those teachers who made people care about the subject.  All his students were a little in love with him.”

Sam understood.  One of those bright shiny students would have been a better match for Jason, would make him happy.  Maybe still could.  But Sam was not letting go without a fight this time.  Jason wanted him, for now, at least, and this time around, Sam realized how precious a gift that really was.

“Jason would...excel,” he said slowly.  “At whatever he wanted to do.  But he has to be the one to want to do it.  He’s too damn stubborn to do anything I say.”

“Wow,” Sophie said and she quirked a shadow of that wicked grin into her wassail, even as she touched her ring finger to the edge of her eye, to blot away a tear before it ruined her mascara, Sam hazarded.  “You’ve got it bad, buddy.”

Sam smiled a little himself.  “Tell me about it,” he confessed in a wash of solidarity.  

“I would ask you to take care of him, but we both know how that would turn out,” she said.

“Would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?” Sam agreed.

“What would be nice?”  Jason slipped up to Sam’s side and frowned at his sister.  “Soph, what are you terrorizing Sam about?”

“Who said we’re talking about you?” Sam asked, sliding his arm around Jason’s waist and tugging them hip to hip.

“I know this is going to sound egotistical,” Jason said, narrowing his eyes. “But what else would you two have to talk about?”

Sophie sighed dramatically, lifting her eyebrows in a way that instantly smoothed out her face.  “Sam’s a Nats fan, too,” she said.  “Pitchers and catchers report February 13, you know.”

And then she swept past him and swatted his butt with her clutch as she swanned off - there was no other word for it, Sophie could swan like no one Sam had seen - into the crowd.

“What was that about?” Jason asked, looking adorably puzzled and suspicious.  “I thought we were a Dodgers family?”

“Nothing,” Sam said, rubbing his hand over the back of Jason’s right shoulder, where the scars from the exit wound spread like spiderwebs over his skin, under layers of shirt and jacket.  “How do you feel about getting out of here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jason said. “Any day now.  Just gotta say goodbye to Mom and Dad.”  He was still looking at Sam quizzically, as if Sam was somehow exhibiting unexpected behavior.

“Good,” Sam said.  Forget Montana. Forget Wyoming. Forget Virginia when his tenure with the FBI was done. Jason belonged in California, and then the time was right, so would Sam. “Let’s go home.”