Advent Calendar - Day 8 Fiction by Natasha Chesterbrook

 

Something delicious and delightful this December morning! Natasha Chesterbrook returns with a coda for Mark and Stephen from the I Spy trilogy! 

Thank you to Natasha! 

I Spy Christmas Coda

Mark Hardwicke & Dr. Stephen Thorpe

 

I squatted beneath a bright winter sun while a frigid breeze ruffled tufts of hair escaping from my beanie. Yet I didn’t feel the unseasonably cold temperatures for December in Virginia, a month that as often as not felt more like Fall even in the Shenandoah Valley. Blame it on global warming but back in merry old England I remember the last month of the year being a series of days just this brisk.

Twinkling lights swung above; colorful leaves littered the ground; a maze of hay bales and desiccated cornstalks piled at random intervals created an odd festive flair. But I ignored it all, awareness of my surroundings heightened: rays of sunlight filtering through the trees, the air smelling faintly of woodsmoke, and a shadow hovering around the corner of a barn-like structure not twenty feet from where I crouched behind a stack of corded logs.

This was a human-shaped shadow and the current object of my focus. Holding my breath lest the vapor give away my location, I listened for telltale signs from my target. Occasionally cries rang out farther behind me echoing around the wooded landscape in what I hoped was my team regrouping. They were getting closer. Or someone was.

It had been simple work to take out the first two targets who lacked both a coordinated approach and tactical awareness. The third target posed a slightly greater challenge when she managed to get a shot off that came closer to taking me out than I would have liked.

Yet even then she had made a tactical error in a rash attack, leaving herself open to my assault. And I am never one to waste an opportunity.

While tracking the last target, I’d lost track of my remaining team members. We weren’t operating as tightly as I would have preferred but often you just made do with what you had.

I re-checked the firing mechanism on my weapon – it was cheaply made and loose. They hadn’t allowed me to bring my own firepower on this mission. Still, I’d worked with less and adaptability was an asset in the field.

The shadow inched forward slightly, so I scuttled back to avoid any sightline. Was it one of my team or the remaining target? It might be worth the risk to take the shot. Casualties are a part of the game. My team members had to know this. Though they might be right pissed at me, the end goal was what really mattered.

Weighing my options while I waited, I kept my breathing slow and steady despite the exhilaration burning in my veins. It had been too long since I’d felt this kind of rush, this heat.

Palming a rock from the sandy soil at my feet, I lobbed it overhead to ricochet off the barn’s roof just above the target’s position. A cheap trick but too often effective. Timing was everything. Just as the shadow jumped out into view, I dove and rolled coming up on one knee and firing off a shot that hit the target center mass.

My victory was short-lived when I heard footsteps behind me.

The immediate impact of the ammo hurt less than the ache from my old stabbing injury. That and falling backward on my arse.

“Uh, sorry about that, Mr. Hardwicke. My gun must have misfired.”

I peered down at the splatter of red liquid running from my flak jacket. “Bloody amateurs.”

 

The smells of slow-cooked beef and fresh baked bread draw me into the kitchen the moment I step foot into the house. It has been hours since lunch and I’m famished. Minutes later Stephen finds me nose-deep in a large bowl of stew, stuffing a hot buttered biscuit into my mouth while wearing nothing but long underwear.

“Ah, the warrior returns!” Stephen’s mouth finds mine in spite of, or maybe because of, the melted butter smearing my lips. The kiss lingers long and languidly. “How’d it go?”

I find my mind wandering down alleys far from mission recap. The kind that leads to a long evening in bed that might or might not include more butter.

“Mark?”

My eyes snap away from Stephen’s lips and I feel myself blush beneath a grin. 

“It was … good.”

“Just good? I’d have thought running around shooting your fellow students with paint balls at a place called Hogback Mountain would be a bit more than that.”

I grimace. “Taken out by friendly fire.”

Stephen chuckles, “Ouch. Well, you can always uninvite them to the holiday party.”

But my attention is back on Stephen’s mouth. The way he smiles at me while talking, taking pleasure from giving me his attention. Full, red lips that I know are as warm as they look.  I’d felt that mouth on my skin in places that made me shiver and ache in equal measure. And it is the familiarity that I find more desirable than the purely sensual. I love this mouth because of the man attached to it or rather I love all the pieces of him, but the sum is so much greater than the parts.

He stopped talking and I realize I’d stopped listening. “Pardon?”

Stephen’s smile turns contemplative. “Miss the action of being in the field?”

I think about the question. On the surface Stephen is asking if I find satisfaction in recreating missions and the accompanying pseudo-danger through simulated war games. Beneath that, is he worried that I’m bored and in need of distraction?

Do I need distraction? The adrenaline of the hunt and the gratification of taking out a target certainly felt familiar. But it wasn’t as if there was any real danger and I know, at the end of the day, I’ll still be going home to Stephen. So probably no more than any bloke who enjoys these sorts of activities.

“No, if Teddy Grant can take me out by misfire, I’d have no business even considering field work.”

“So you enjoyed your early Christmas present?”

I spoon the last of the stew from my bowl and set it on the counter.  Then I turn to Stephen and place my arms around his neck, pull him in close and whisper against those lips, “Not as much as I’m going to enjoy thanking you for it.”

 

Advent Calendar Day 19

 

SIX DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS!!!!! 

Something so lovely for you today. We have fiction from Sarah featuring two of my favorite characters from way back when: Stephen and Mark from the I Spy trilogy. 

The press of a pair of lips, the touch of a hand on his shoulder and the tinkling notes of the café doorbell lingered for a few moments after Mark had left. Stephen poured himself another cup from the pot, added milk and stirred idly. He smiled. A cup of tea, in an old teashop in Cambridge, England (though of course here it was just ‘Cambridge’), it was all so perfect. It was the first time they’d separated since their arrival in Britain a week ago. They’d done everything together: a West End Theatre, the National Gallery, both Tate Galleries, the British Museum, the walking tour of Dickens’ London, the kingsize bed in the hotel… Mark hadn’t minded playing tourist as he’d barely spent any time in London. Cambridge was a different matter; it had been home to Mark for three formative years. He’d been here when his great uncle  - his last close relative - had died, and here when he was recruited by the Old Man. As he lifted the cup from the saucer, Stephen’s lips tightened in a little grimace at the thought of that particular gentleman. Mark had now departed to visit an old tutor, one of only a handful of people with whom he’d remained in touch. Stephen had a couple of hours to explore the old university city until they were to meet up, before taking the train back to London. Tomorrow he and Mark would be flying back overnight to Virginia, arriving on Christmas Eve.

 

Buttoning up his overcoat, he made his way along the narrow street. The Michaelmas Term

was over; the students had gone and school-aged children were out with their parents, buying last-minute presents. Following Mark’s advice, he walked across the Cam by Queen’s College and then into the park known as The Backs. From there, the colleges looked magnificent, each framed against the crisp, blue winter sky. Stephen’s thoughts slipped from architecture and history to Mark. Throughout their relationship, they’d really only ever been together on Stephen’s home ground - his house, his country. Here before him was a glimpse into Mark’s past. He stood for a long while, lost in thought.

 

At Cambridge Mark had excelled and he’d looked set to become an academic, but then he’d been lured away by the promise of belonging to an elite, risk-taking group by the Old Man. Stephen thought of the young undergraduate with no family or home, and he understood that in addition to the attractions of secrecy and danger, Mark had been driven by loneliness and a desire to belong. A young man who was scared to let himself be loved. He’d never forgotten Mark asking if he could come “home”  and his faltering voice adding, “I… don’t have anywhere else to go.” In spite of his anger and hurt, he’d agreed to let Mark stay because he had known that if he didn’t, he too would always be fundamentally lonely - even if he were with someone else.

 

After taking a few photographs of the colleges,  Stephen continued along his way, crossing back over the Cam and into the town. He took his time, drinking in the architecture and gazing into the gaudily decorated shop windows.

 

They’d agreed not to wait for each other, given the cold December air, so he paid for his ticket and made his way into the old converted cottages of Kettle’s Yard.  He walked carefully across the floorboards in the hushed interior. There was a warmth here that made it quite unlike the galleries in London. It had been a home and there were no barriers between the visitors and the artefacts. Mark had assured him he would love it and he did. Objects were placed on pieces of furniture and windowsills.  There were sculptures and paintings by British artists but what drew his eye was a spiral of pebbles. Small stones, selected perhaps from thousands on a beach, gathered up to be treasured. Lost objects found and given a new home.

“Stephen.”

He turned.  There he was, smiling at him. Found. Loved. His home.

 

 

 

 

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.”

Advent Calendar Day 15

 

TEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!!!! 

Today our dear Natasha Chesterbrook is back with another holiday coda. 

You may remember that last year one of our activities was for you all to write the beginnings of a coda with the hope that some of you might finish them up and even submit! Well, Natasha did that very thing. :-D 

I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER.

Today's coda features Perry Foster and Nick Reno, and I know you're going to love it. 

Nick Reno loved Perry Foster with all his heart and soul. That being said, today he wanted to kill him.

After a long night of trailing a gang of smugglers through the back bays of Los Angeles Harbor, he was cold, tired and hungry. Having spent several early morning hours dealing with the police who eventually showed up when things really started to turn ugly, he’d returned home to find Perry fast asleep on their sofa in a cold apartment, the heat Nick had turned up the evening before now off.

A stranger sat slumped in a chair dressed up like Santa Claus and smelling like a distillery. At his feet a red sack spilled over containing, if Nick was not mistaken, the apparent rewards of a night spent burgling. What had Perry gotten himself into this time?

Tiny pinpoints of light twinkled across the floor where the small Christmas tree Perry had rescued from some cast off heap stood. Perry was good as rescuing things – rescuing people – and sometimes that scared him.

Nick knelt beside the sofa and, as gently as he could, touched Perry’s shoulder hoping not to startle him. His breathing was slow and steady as much a balm to Nick’s soul as any could be. Perry’s eyelids fluttered open with a start but immediately focused on Nick with adoration akin to worship. The weariness Nick wore from a long night eased at that look and he smiled knowing full well how sappy it must have sat on his face.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” Nick constantly surprised himself with that being his first priority in any situation.

“I’m fine. Just…” Perry trailed off as his eyes darted to Santa then quickly back to Nick. As for Nick, he waited knowing Perry needed to gather his wits enough to answer Nick’s questioning gaze. He could be patient for Perry. Actually, as he found out this last year, he could be anything for Perry.

“He’s still here.” The surprise in Perry’s voice didn’t go unnoticed but it was also the look of concern on his face that made Nick stand up.

An abrupt snore from the sleeping Santa broke the quiet causing them both to start and then stare at the stranger. He didn’t wake up or even move much beyond his face twitching a bit before settling back into the slackness of somnambulance.

“Let me go turn up the heat, get you another blanket and then you can tell me what happened.” 

When he returned, Perry was sitting up and more alert. Nick wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and rubbed his arms. “I’m okay, Nick. Really.” If there was a note of agitation in Perry’s voice, Nick chose to ignore it.

“Who’s Mr. Claus?”

Perry drew a breath. “I had just finished work on my latest piece and was cleaning my brushes when I heard the most beautiful voice singing Christmas carols. I looked out into the courtyard and there he was.” Perry nodded to the sleeping St. Nick. “It was magical.”

Nick frowned and waited but Perry seemed to have run out of story. 

“So you invited him in?”

“Well… he was in a pretty bad way.”

“And turned down the heat?”

“He was sweating, and I thought he’d be more comfortable.”

“And the stolen goods?”

“What?!” Perry started to rise but Nick held him down.

“Okay, I’m just guessing. It looks pretty suspicious.”

Perry frowned again, “I didn’t think…”

Nick heaved a sigh then snapped, “I guess you weren’t thinking by inviting a complete stranger into our home. He could have been anyone. He could have robbed us. He could have – could have – hurt you!”

Now Perry did jump up. “Look at him. Does he look like he’s in any condition to hurt me?”

“That’s not the point,” Nick replied tersely. He didn’t want to argue with Perry, but the weariness weighed on him tearing down his resolve. “I wasn’t here to...”

Perry looked away, eyes downcast. “Protect me? Because I’m weak? Please, don’t treat me like a child.”

“Then stop acting like one!” Nick instantly regretted the words but didn’t know how to pull them back. He didn’t know how to do a lot of things for Perry. Say the right things. Tell him how he felt.

***

Exhausted as he was Nick fell into a deep sleep from which he woke early not feeling in the least refreshed. Perry lay silent with his back to him under the layers of blanket Nick has piled on before passing out. Nick could tell he wasn’t asleep.

“I’m sorry.” At least Nick knew how to start even if he was lost as to how to proceed. But Perry didn’t give him time to lay out a course.

Turning over he snuggled into Nick and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry for scaring you. That’s it isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Nick figured he’d just go where Perry led. Then decided he needed to steer some too even if it did make him uncomfortable.

“Sweetheart, I hate leaving you alone so much. I don’t think you’re weak. But when I’m not here to protect you I need to know you’ll protect yourself.”

Perry raised his head and gifted Nick with a sweet, soft kiss. “I love you too.”

One kiss became two, then three before they remembered their overnight guest and rose to see if they still owned any furniture.

The front room was empty of strangers with only the folded blanket lying on the sofa Nick remembered Perry draping over the faux Santa. Nick checked the front door which was still locked.

Perry looked at him with wide eyes, ‘Where do you think he went?”

“Up the chimney? Nearest bar?” Nick quipped.

Perry drew a hand through his blond locks, “Nick, I know what I did last night was careless and I’m sorry. But I can’t just turn my back on people. Life is a risk.” He looked at Nick with love in his eyes. “You took a risk on me. How can I not embrace that?”

Nick looked at this man – his man – across the room and recognized a strength he himself lacked and nodded. If Perry can be brave, so can he.

He moved over to Perry pulling him into a kiss then whispered, “Wanna go back to bed?”

From the courtyard, “The First Noel” rang out in a strong, melodious voice.

Perry was right. It was magical.

Advent Calendar Day 11

 

Good morning! Today the wonderful Meg Perry has been generous enough to gift us with a little bit of fiction featuring Elliot Mills, Tucker Lance and a couple of guest stars I'm sure you will recognize from previous appearances on this channel (and elsewhere!). ;-D  

“Mawage: that bwessed awwaingement…”
--The Impressive Clergyman, The Princess Bride

 

Elliott Mills accepted the bottle of beer that Tucker Lance handed him with a sigh. He’d gotten the cast off his arm only a couple of days ago, and his hand was still too weak to perform a lot of stupidly simple activities. Like screwing the cap off a beer bottle.

He settled onto a barstool from which he could watch Tucker work in the kitchen. “Who are these people coming to stay at Tom and Jane’s?”

When Steven Roche, Elliott’s next-door neighbor, was killed by Andrew Corian, he died without a will or heirs. The bank that ended up owning his house was anxious to unload it. Tom Beach and Jane Devereaux, a sixty-something couple from Yakima, had snapped it up at a ridiculously low price. They’d eventually retire to the house; until then, they and their relatives were using it as a vacation home.

Tucker picked up the pad of paper on which he’d written the information. “Pete Ferguson and Jamie Brodie. From New Mexico. They’re in-laws of Tom and Jane’s daughter.”

“I suppose Jamie is a woman.”

“Jane didn’t say. But usually, yeah, that’s a female name.”

“New Mexico? I hope they like humidity.”

Tucker shrugged. “Maybe that’s why they’re coming.”

 

When the doorbell rang a half-hour later, Tucker was stirring spaghetti sauce. Elliott slid off his barstool. “I’ll get it.”

He opened the door and tried to keep his expression neutral. Whichever one of these two masked men was Jamie, he definitely was not a woman. One was tall, broad-shouldered, and blond; the other was even taller and dark-haired. Both were a few years older than Elliott and Tucker. The blond said, “Hey, I’m Jamie Brodie. We’re staying next door. Jane said y’all had the keys.”

Y’all? “We do. I’d invite you in, but…”

“Understood.”

“I’ll get the keys.” Elliott turned but left the door open. “Tucker? The neighbors are here.”

Tucker stepped out of the kitchen, failing to conceal the surprise on his face. “Oh. Hi. I’m Tucker Lance.”

Elliott added, “And I’m Elliott Mills.”

The dark-haired one said, “I’m Pete Ferguson. Glad to meet you.”

“You too.”

Jamie said, “Y’all are some brand of law enforcement, huh?”

Elliott stared at him. “Tom and Jane told you?”

“Nah. You both have the look.”

Elliott wasn’t sure what to think about that. Pete said, “I was a cop for ten years. LAPD.”

Tucker said, “We’re FBI.”

The corner of Jamie’s eyes crinkled. Under the mask, he was grinning. “Feds! Cool.”

Tucker gave Elliott a bemused look. Elliott took the keys from a hook by the door and handed them to Jamie. “We have a fire pit on the back deck. Once you’re settled, why don’t you join us for a socially distanced beer?”

Pete frowned. Jamie said, “We’re supposed to quarantine for fourteen days, coming from out of state.”

Tucker waved a hand. “We’ll be outside and sit on opposite sides of the fire. It’ll be fine.”

Pete said, “That sounds great. About an hour?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, we’ll see you then.”

Jamie said, “Thanks for the keys.”

“No problem.” Elliott saw them out then returned to his beer. “Damn. They made us as cops in about thirty seconds.”

“They probably know lots of cops.”

“Do they say y’all in New Mexico?”

Tucker barked a laugh. “Apparently.” 

 

An hour later, Tucker had built a roaring fire in the pit. Elliott could hear the wind in the tops of the pine trees, but on the ground, there was just enough breeze to dispel their exhalations.

He heard Jamie and Pete coming, talking and laughing about something. Completely at ease with each other. After they were seated and the full introductions were over—turned out they were here to soak up the humidity—Elliott asked, “How long have you two been together?”

Jamie answered. “Friends for fourteen years, together for eight, married for five. What about you?”

Elliott glanced at Tucker, who didn’t hesitate. “Almost two years, but on and off. Now absolutely on. We’re talking about getting married next summer.”

Jamie lifted his bottle as if toasting them. Pete said, “Congratulations.”

Elliott said, “Thanks. I’m curious—how does it change...everything?”

Jamie and Pete exchanged a wordless glance. Jamie said, “There are stages, I think. At first, it’s getting used to merging your finances.”

Pete said, “Having to consult someone else before you make a major purchase.”

Jamie said, “Your relationships with each other’s families change.”

“Before, you were just the boyfriend. Now, you’re related to these people.”

“Gaining nieces and nephews overnight.”

“Negotiating holidays.”

Jamie said, “Then you get comfortable with ogling other guys together.”

Elliott and Tucker laughed. Pete said, “It’s true. It’s the security that comes with knowing you’re both just looking.”

Jamie drained his bottle. “Then you get a dog and learn to read each other’s minds.”

Pete added, “Although those two things are not necessarily related.”

Tucker asked, “What’s the downside? Of marriage, not reading each other’s minds. Although that might be a downside.”

Jamie nudged Pete. “You can tell ‘em about life with an obsessive neat freak.”

“There is that.” Pete opened another bottle. “The first year we lived together, I could never find anything because he’d already put it away.”

Jamie grinned. “I’ve got him trained to put stuff away himself now. For me, the downside is not being able to spend every holiday with my family. But you’ve just gotta compromise on that.”

Elliott looked at Tucker, who said, “Neither of us has much family. So that’s not a huge issue.”

Pete said, “For us, I think, the most difficult adjustment has been learning to deal with each other’s different moods and energy levels. But you can either see that as a stumbling block or as an opportunity to complement each other.”

Jamie added, “We were in couples counseling for over a year before we got married. I highly recommend it.”

Elliott couldn’t hide his skepticism. Pete noted it and said, “I know. It’s not a comfortable concept for law enforcement. I fought it for a long time. But we wouldn’t be here without it.”

 

They talked for another hour about a variety of topics—dogs, profiling, teaching, living in a pandemic. Finally, Jamie said, “I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes. Thanks for having us over.”

Elliott asked, “How long are you staying?”

“Just a week.”

Tucker said, “We’ll do it again in the daytime. If it doesn’t rain.”

Pete said, “Deal.”

They said goodnight and left. Tucker gathered bottles while Elliott doused the fire. Once they were inside and settled on the sofa, Tucker said, “What possessed you to ask about marriage?”

“I didn’t plan to. It sort of popped out. But we don’t have any married gay friends, so… It’s like I said. I was curious.”

“They seem to have it figured out.”

Elliott grimaced. “Partly thanks to counseling, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

“Me either.”

Tucker grinned and wrapped an arm around Elliott. “They didn’t talk you out of getting married, did they?”

Elliott grinned back. “Hell. no. I’m holding you to that, Lance.”

Tucker leaned in for a kiss. “You’d better, Mills.”

Advent Calendar Day 6

 

Today a special treat. Haldis wrote a bit of fiction for the Adrien English 20th Anniversary Celebration. Well, as you know, the celebration got a little bit lost in current events, as I didn't want to lose this wonderful little bit of backstory, so I've folded it into the calendar. 

Cloak and Dagger

Haldis

               Angus was sitting in his dark room, enthralled by a shiny, jeweled dagger when the call came in from the employment agency.

               The thing was, Angus hadn’t been looking for daggers when he noticed the catalogue left by one of the gang after last night’s get together to watch the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. No, what he really wanted was a cloak. One that said he was serious, but totally cool, while casting a spell, or working a circle, or summoning a demon. The black hoodie he had been using wasn’t ideal, but he wasn’t desperate enough to make a cloak out of a black trash bag and electrical tape like that one guy last semester. He was willing to wait until he had the money to afford a real cloak.

               Angus had picked up the catalogue off the milk crate that he used as a table and started flipping through the pages. Most of the stuff was crazy new age stuff like weird jewelry and prisms.

He flipped a page. Crystals.

Flipped a page. Oh, cool, panpipes.

Flipped a page. Finally, cloaks.

And there were a lot of cloaks. Gauzy, flowery cloaks, Maid Marion cloaks, red cloaks, purple cloaks, green cloaks. And they were made with a variety of different materials. Nylon, cotton, velvet. One of the velvet cloaks was black with a satiny red lining that reminded him of a Halloween vampire. Angus was pretty sure that if he ever became a vampire, he would never wear a red-lined velvet cloak. No, he would be like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, wearing a leather jacket, and be all confident and say the coolest things, and not all broody and mumbly like Angel.

               Angus flipped another page and found a plain black cloak that looked pretty cool, but he would need to get a job before he could afford it.

               He flipped a page. Candles, in red, black, white.

               Flipped a page. Wow, a stuffed raven. Some goth that used to hang with them, (Amy? Allie? Rachel?) used to quote some poem about a raven. It was a famous poem. Rapping and tapping. Reminded Angus of a knock knock joke.

               Knock knock.

               Who’s there?

               Flipped a page. Staffs, wands.

               Raven.

               Raven, who?

               Flip. Oh, cool, skulls.

               Raven lunatic.

               Angus snorted at his joke.

               Flip. Swords, knives, and oh wow. Daggers. 

               Maybe he should get a dagger. Something in silver. You could control a demon with silver. Or was it kill demons with silver? Or maybe that was werewolves? Regardless, silver sounded like a good choice. With a red ruby jewel that looked like the blood of his enemies.

               There were a variety of daggers on the page, with names like athame, boline and…. How did you even pronounce sgian dubh? Many were simple blades with either black or white handles. Some had elaborate, curved blades. Others had fancy hilts and shiny blades.

               He wondered if there was a class he could sign up for next semester to help him chose. Blades 101.

               And then he noticed the bright silver dagger with the runes etched along the blade, and a brilliant blue sapphire in the hilt. It was amazing. It held Angus befuddled. Bewildered? Bewitched? Yes, he was definitely bewitched.

               The ringing of the phone startled him out of his bewitchedness.

               “’lo”, Angus answered the phone. It was the employment agency.

               “K”, he mumbled in response. He wrote down the address of a business in Pasadena.

               “K, bye”, he finished the call and hung up the phone.

               He looked down at the name of the business he had written down and a small smile touched his lips.

               Cloak and Dagger.

 

Advent Calendar Day 18

Another fictional (OR IS IT???) offering from Haldis! Woohoo!

"For my second story, well, I thought I would go with the whole 60's sitcom thing using My Favorite Martian. The hard part was picking a side character to use in the story. I had several that I outlined, and here's the winner. Hope y'all enjoy it." 

(No worry there!)

Let's see if you can guess who the David is in this story and what series he belongs to. :-D 

=============================================

David and The Martian

David knew the song “It’s Raining Men”. He’d even heard it a few times, but it wasn’t a song he ever thought about, or even sing along with, and yet it was the first thing that came to mind when the man fell out of nowhere practically on top of him. Luckily the fresh snow made for a relatively soft landing as he stumbled to the ground, the man a dead weight above him.

               The man was smaller and slighter than David, so David was able to shift him off easily and then he rolled up onto his knees to assess the situation. Where the hell had he come from? There were a couple of twigs in the guys hair. Maybe he fell out of a tree.

               “Hey, sir? Can you hear me?” David asked loudly as he took in the guys appearance. His skin had a sort of silver cast to it, or maybe it was just a reflection off the strange silver outfit the guy was wearing. Or maybe he was hypoxic. Was he breathing? David leaned down close to the guy’s nose and mouth as he laid a couple of fingers to the guy’s neck.

               Nothing.

               “Fuck, no”, David said. “Not on my watch.”

               Why the hell did he decide to spend his leave alone, in the middle of nowhere, instead of sharing the holidays with his family, David thought to himself as he started chest compressions, counting quickly. It was really a spur of the moment decision. After all, Paris was months ago, and it wasn’t as if they broke up. Hell, they weren’t even together, but that small moment of “what if”. And, yeah, David’s family was great. He loved his parents, he really did, but he didn’t think he could face his mother and her good-intentioned questions about his love life and offers to introduce him to the son of so and so, who worked as an accountant. He felt again for a pulse while leaning in to check for breathing.

               “Come on, Buddy,” David muttered, right as the guy opened his eyes and stared up at David. There was less than an inch separating them and the eyes looking up at him were violet, nearly purple, with silver streaks blazing out from the pupil, and …. David should probably move away.

               The guy smiled and raised up, touching his lips to David’s. David felt a hand on the back of his head, gripping his hair, holding him in place as he kissed him. Completely. Deeply. Thoroughly.

               Merry Christmas to me, thought David.

               The guy loosened his grip and leaned back down into the snow.

               “Greetings”, the guy said, his voice soft as starlight.

               “Yeah”, David agreed. He sounded funny to his own ears. Breathless, like he had run a marathon, or had the soul kissed out of him, or fallen from the sky. “Greeting” He felt himself grinning. One of the twigs in the guy’s hair shifted forward and David wanted to reach out and comb it from the…. He looked a little closer.

               “Is that….are those…. antennae?”

               “What?! No!” The guys sat up suddenly and slammed both hands down over the antennae. “Of course not! Earthlings don’t have antennae. And I am an Earthling. So, absolutely no antennae.” When he removed hands, there was no sign of the antennae in his jet-black hair.

               “Riiight”, said David, nodding his head. You’re an Earthling. And not,” he started shaking his head, “oh, say, a Martian.”

               The guy started shaking his head as well. “No, definitely not a Martian”

               David took a better look at the guy sitting in the snow with his crazy metallic jumpsuit, and his purple eyes, and his silver skin that actually had a kind of pink pearlesscence which seemed to glow that somehow he hadn’t noticed earlier.

               “This is cold,” said I’m-Definitely-An-Earthling-And-Not-A-Martian {yeah, right}, touching the snow around him.

               “It’s snow. Uh, frozen water,” David added at Not-A-Martian’s blank stare.

               “Ah, yes, of course. I have heard of this,” answered Not-A-Martian.

               “Hey, I have some friends in San Diego who have never seen snow, so….” And where were they before this whole conversation took a galactic detour? “Were you hurt? When you fell?” Out of fucking nowhere. From the sky. Ok, this whole situation started out as a galactic detour.

               Not-A-Martian seemed thrown by the change of topic. “What, uh, no? I mean, I don’t think so, but I seem to have lost my ship…No! Not a ship! An automobile. Definitely an automobile, yes, and, um, it seems to have left without me.

               David couldn’t think of a single thing to say about that last bit so he figured he would just pretend like he hadn’t heard it.

               “Do you think you can stand?” asked David, standing up and then offering a hand to help Not-A-Martian to his feet. He really needed to find out this guy’s name.

               He stepped back and looked at the smaller and definitely otherworldly man before him and decided What the heck. In for a penny and all. And this certainly had the potential to be very interesting.

               David held out his hand again to the Martian.

               “Hello. I’m David Bradley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

               “Greetings,” said the Martian, gripping his hand and smiling up at him, violet galaxies swirling in his eyes. I am Fenrynjonstar Aeles. It is very nice to meet you, David Bradley.”

               “You can call me David.”

               “Thank you, David. You may call me Jon.”

               Jon seemed to be blushing a deeper shade of silver-pink and his antennae reappeared, peeking shyly up from his dark hair, leaning slightly towards David.

               David just about melted. Right there in the snow. This guy -Jon – was an alien, for Christ’s sake, and David was military. A very laid back, take things as the come, kinda guy in the military, but guys in the military did not find aliens absolutely and utterly adorable.  Unless it was in a sitcom, and …. Ok, maybe he was in a sitcom. It was really starting to feel like one.

            

   “So, since your, uh, automobile seems to have abandoned you, you’re welcome to come back to my cabin. I’ve rented it for Christmas. And I’m by myself this year. But I have all the fixings, you know, turkey and pie and potatoes…” shut up, David, you’re rambling. “Eggnog. I also have eggnog. And a tree. I still need to decorate that. You could help. If you want to, that is.” David slammed his mouth shut to prevent any more crazy form pouring out.

               “Christmas!” Jon smiled. “I’ve also heard of Christmas! It sounds so bright and giving, with colored lights and sleigh bells, and elves, I think, and reindeer that fly! And snow, and trees, with tiny…. You said you had a tree, and potatoes, and eggnog… I don’t know eggnog, but if you have one, I am sure it will be wonderful, and….and,,,” Jon had turned a rather hot shade of pink pearl. Apparently, Martians could also master the fine art rambling. He lowered his head, his violet eyes peaking out under black lashes as he looked shyly up at David. “Thank you, David. I would love to join you for Christmas.”

               “Uh, great! That’s great. That’s….this way. My cabin is this way” David turned back down the trail he had taken before a Martian had fallen from the sky.

               “So,’ David asked over his shoulder as he led the way through the snow. “You don’t happen to have someone special waiting for you back wherever it is you’re from, or, you know, you’re not pining for your partner, or anything like that.

               “No, David,” answered Jon. He was blushing again, “There’s no one.” He gave David a brilliant smile. “At home, anyway.”

               “Good,” said David. “I mean, me neither. I mean,” David stopped and turned to face Jon. “I mean, I hope that I can show you a very Merry Christmas.”

               “Thank you, David.”

               David grinned at Jon before turning back towards his cozy rented cottage and a Christmas that was starting to look a whole lot brighter, even if it was a bit out of this world.

               Hallelujah.