Chapter 12 The York Christmas Dinner #2
"We should proceed," Alistair says, though he makes no move to leave the comfort of his desk. "Catherine views punctuality as a moral baseline. To keep her waiting is to hand her the first weapon before the opening bell."
"I take it she’s ready for a fight?" I ask.
"A fight implies a chaotic brawl, O'Connell.
Catherine does not brawl. She dissects," Alistair corrects smoothly.
"She wasn't at the door to greet you because she is currently staging the dining room. She prefers to control the environment before she introduces the variable. It’s basic psychological warfare. "
He looks at me, his eyes gleaming with a cold, sharp intelligence.
"She views this family as a sterile field. Maxwell is the instrument she keeps trying to autoclave. You..." He gestures to my suit, my scar, my boots. "You are the pathogen. A foreign body introduction."
"And the immune response?" I ask, playing along with the metaphor.
"Immediate and aggressive inflammation," Alistair says, looking delighted.
"She intends to isolate you, categorize you as 'unsuitable,' and excise you before dessert. She feeds on asymmetry. She exerts pressure to find the fracture point. Maxwell usually crumples or retreats into that icy detachment of his. It’s a tedious, repetitive pathology. "
He pushes off the desk, grabbing the lapels of his smoking jacket.
"But you... you have scar tissue. You don't fracture easily."
He walks to the library door and rests his hand on the brass handle. He looks back at me.
"Do not try to be the antiseptic tonight, Dr. O'Connell. You will never be clean enough for her standards. If she treats you like a virus..." Alistair smirks. "Then be the virus. Replicate. Disrupt the system. It’s the only thing she respects, because it’s the only thing she fears."
"Is that a medical opinion, sir?"
"It’s a strategic consult," Alistair says, opening the door. "Now, shall we? I believe the vivisection is scheduled for 7:00 PM sharp."
The dining room table is long enough to land an A380 on.
Maxwell is seated on the right. I am next to him. Catherine York—the Ice Queen herself—is at the head. Alistair is at the foot. Preston is opposite us, looking bored and miserable.
The servers glide in, placing massive white plates in front of us. In the centre of each plate is a tiny, white, trembling blob.
I stare at it. It looks like someone sneezed on a coaster.
"Max," I whisper, leaning in close so only he can hear. "What is this? It looks like foam from a car wash."
Maxwell keeps his eyes forward, his posture rigid.
"It is a deconstructed scallop foam with truffle dust," he whispers back.
I squint at the plate. "Where’s the scallop?"
"The scallop is implied," Maxwell says.
"The scallop is implied?" I hiss. "Max, I haven't eaten since 6:00 AM. I can't eat an implication."
"Eat the breadstick," Maxwell murmurs, sliding his bread plate slightly closer to me. "Discreetly. And do not dip it in the foam. Mother is watching."
"So," Catherine begins. She hasn't looked at me yet. She is staring at a nearby floral arrangement like it offended her. "Dr. O'Connell. Maxwell tells us so little about his... companions. Where are you from?"
"Chicago originally," I say, snapping a breadstick in half. It makes a loud crack in the silent room.
"And your family?" Catherine asks. "Where do the O'Connells summer?"
I feel Maxwell tense beside me. His leg presses against mine under the table. A silent warning. Don't engage.
I ignore him.
"Well," I say, picking up my spoon and poking the foam. It jiggles. "I grew up in state care, Mrs. York. So I mostly 'summered' wherever the foster placement was that year. But I did spend a lovely summer in Kandahar avoiding mortar fire. The dry heat does wonders for the pores."
Clink.
Preston drops his spoon. He looks delighted.
Catherine turns slowly to look at me. Her expression is one of polite horror.
"State care," she repeats. "How... industrious of you."
"Jax put himself through medical school on the GI Bill," Maxwell says. His voice is tight, but loud. "He graduated top of his class."
"I’m sure the standards were rigorous at the State College he attended," Catherine says dismissively. She rings a tiny bell. "Clear the plates."
"But I haven't finished my implication," I mutter.
The servers rush in, whisking away the foam.
The main course arrives. Duck. It looks complicated. There are four different forks next to my plate.
I know which one to use. I watched a YouTube video in my living room before leaving to pick up Maxwell. But I look at Catherine. She is watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to slip up. Waiting for me to prove I don't belong here.
I smile.
I pick up the tiny dessert fork.
I stab the duck with it.
Catherine’s eyes widen. It is a breach of culinary etiquette so profound it physically pains her.
"Dr. O'Connell," she says, her voice dripping with venom. "I believe you have confused the cutlery."
I pause, duck halfway to my mouth. "Have I?"
Beside me, there is movement.
Maxwell York—the man who organizes his pens by color, the man who lives for order—picks up his dessert fork.
He stabs his duck.
He takes a bite.
"This fork works perfectly well, Mother," Maxwell says calmly. He looks at me. His eyes are burning with a quiet, fierce rebellion.
The table goes silent.
Preston lets out a snort of laughter that he turns into a cough. Alistair looks amused. Catherine looks like she is having a stroke.
"I see," Catherine whispers. "It seems standards have fallen across the board."
I look at Maxwell. He is eating his duck with the wrong fork, his posture perfect, his face blank. But under the table, his hand finds my knee. He squeezes hard.
I have never wanted to kiss him more than I do right now.
"I need air."
We haven't even made it to dessert. Maxwell stands up abruptly. "Jax and I are stepping out for a moment."
"Sit down, Maxwell," Catherine snaps. "We haven't had the tart."
"I don't want the tart," Maxwell says. "I want to breathe."
He grabs my arm and drags me out of the room.
We end up on the back terrace. It’s freezing. The snow is piling up on the stone balustrade.
Maxwell walks to the edge of the balcony. He grips the stone railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
"I’m sorry," he says. His voice is shaking. "They are monsters. I shouldn't have brought you here. It was a mistake."
"Max," I say. I walk up behind him. "Hey. Look at me."
He turns around. He looks shattered. The armor is gone. He’s just a man who has spent his whole life trying to please people who cannot be pleased.
"You used the dessert fork," I say softly.
Maxwell blinks. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. "It seemed... appropriate."
"It was punk rock," I tell him. "It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen."
He looks at me, confused. "Hot?"
"Yeah. Hot."
I step closer. The snow is falling around us, catching in his dark hair.
"You stood up to her," I say. "You stood up to your father. You defended me."
"You are my partner," Maxwell says. "Strategic or otherwise. I do not let people disrespect my team."
"Is that all I am?" I ask. "A team member?"
Maxwell stares at me. The wind blows a lock of hair across his forehead.
"Jax," he whispers. "You know you are not."
"Prove it."
Maxwell hesitates. He looks at the glass doors where his family is undoubtedly judging us. Then he looks at me.
He grabs my lapels. He pulls me down.
He kisses me.
It’s not a performance. There’s no audience out here in the snow. It’s desperate, cold, and tasting of expensive scotch and relief. His mouth is soft, his body trembling against mine—not from the cold, but from the release of tension.
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him into my coat, shielding him from the wind. I deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue against his, claiming him.
For a moment, the York Estate, the judgment, the trauma—it all disappears. It’s just us. The Ice King and the Soldier, finding warmth in the middle of a blizzard.
Maxwell pulls back, breathless. His lips are red. His eyes are shining.
"We’re leaving," he says.
"What about the tart?"
"Screw the tart."
"God, I love it when you talk dirty."
We turn to go back inside, just to get our coats.
The terrace door opens.
Preston is standing there. He’s holding a pack of clove cigarettes. He looks from Maxwell to me, then at Maxwell’s swollen lips.
He doesn't sneer. He doesn't make a snarky comment.
He just looks at Maxwell with something that looks suspiciously like respect.
"Mother is crying," Preston reports calmly. "She says you’ve ruined Christmas."
Maxwell straightens his tie. He puts his arm around my waist—openly, proudly.
"Tell her I’ll send a card," Maxwell says.
"Can I come with you?" Preston asks. It’s a joke, but his voice is small.
I step forward. "Not tonight, kid. But if you ever want to learn how to smoke a real cigarette, come find me in the city."
Preston smirks. He lights his clove cigarette and leans against the doorframe.
"Go," Preston says. "Before she gets into the vodka and reloads."
We walk past him. We walk through the house. We grab our coats from the stunned butler.
We walk out into the snow.
We get into the Jeep.
I start the engine. The heater roars to life. AC/DC starts playing softly on the radio.
Maxwell leans his head back against the seat. He closes his eyes. He looks exhausted, but he also looks... free.
"Cheeseburgers?" he asks, keeping his eyes closed.
I put the Jeep in gear.
"Cheeseburgers," I confirm. "And then I’m taking you home. To my home. Because my couch is messy, but at least nobody there cares which fork you use."
Maxwell reaches over. He finds my hand on the gear shift. He interlaces our fingers.
"Drive," he says.
I drive.
Maxwell