4 Days Until Christmas
TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK…
Lucas’ eyes popped open.
TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK.
He turned his head on the pillow and peered blearily at the small brass clock on the nightstand.
9:34
His eyes widened. He sat up, groping for the clock, held it an inch from his nose, the better to see…
9:35. Nine thirty-five. Nine. Thirty. Five.
Late o’clock on Sunday morning. He turned to stare at the still neatly made other half of the bed.
The smooth blank face of Riley’s pillow seemed to gaze at him in reproach. He grimaced, wiped his face.
How the hell much had he had to drink last night?
A bottle of wine minus one glass at the restaurant. He winced, trying to calculate. 750 milliliters—fuck milliliters—25.4 ounces minus 5 ounces…
Plus, the bourbon when he got home…
Plus, the bourbon when he sat down to phone Riley…
Plus, the bourbon when he lost his nerve…
The effort of trying to count so early—late—in the morning sent his guts sliding in discomfort. He dropped the clock on the nightstand, threw back the covers, and staggered into the bathroom where he recoiled in alarm at the sight of a haggard, pallid, red-eyed vagrant looming up behind him.
No. Wrong. That bedraggled specimen slumped over the his-and-his sinks was him. Supervisory Special Agent Lucas D-for-Derelict Alexander. Lucas gawked at the stubbled, sticky-haired doppelganger gaping back at him.
The Ghost of Eight Days of Christmas Passed.
Because sure as hell that goddamned (sorry, Baby Jesus) doom countdown was still in effect. If he was lucky that god-goshdamned doom countdown was still in effect. Because, last night…
He came to a full and sudden stop, remembering last night.
Remembering that little cynical smile of Riley’s when they’d been waiting for their table—and hadn’t there been at least one raised eyebrow during dinner?—remembering his final glimpse of Riley turning away. Walking away from him.
The red eyes of the man in the mirror got redder and glisten-y.
“You’re a damned fool,” Lucas told him. “You’re wrecking the best thing that ever happened to you.”
The man in the mirror—a tall, rangy, forty-something with dark hair turning silver around the temples, neatly groomed beard, and blood-shot brown eyes—struggled with that for a moment.
But yes. It was the truth.
Far from diffusing the bomb the night before, he’d cut the red wire. Or was it the blue? Whichever it was, he’d cut the wrong one. And so of course the fucking disaster clock was winding down faster than before. A realization which had resulted in his getting plastered for the first time since…
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been that drunk.
Or drunk at all.
No wonder his head was pulsing. No wonder his brain felt bruised.
. Thank God he hadn’t phoned Riley. Not in that state.
Thank God he hadn’t—HOLY SHIT HAD HE SENT THAT EMAIL?
The man in the mirror stared in wide-red-eyed horror at Lucas, who flung away from the sink and raced on shaking legs to his office.
The screen on his computer monitor was dark. The computer was off. He turned to his desk, stared in alarm at the typed report lying on the leather desk pad.
Confidential Field Report
Subject: Unofficial Debrief – Operation Twelve Days
He rapidly skimmed the feverishly crossed-out lines, the unhinged capitalization. He had written that? Him?
Lucas sank weakly into the chair, turned on his computer, waited impatiently for it to boot up, more impatiently logged in his credentials, one bare foot tapping nervously as he clicked on his outgoing mail.
He pored over the row of sent mail, then sank back, closing his eyes in relief.
A Christmas miracle. He had not sent off that hallucinatory outpouring of self-pity, self-rationalization, and dancing pink elephants.
No one would never know how close to falling apart Lucas had come last night at the idea of losing Riley.
Most importantly, Riley would never know.
A hot shower, two big glasses of water, three Tylenol, a protein-rich breakfast, and several cups of black coffee helped a lot. Also, the reassertion of common sense.
Upon reflection, Lucas could see no reason he and Riley couldn’t work out their differences. He wasn’t even sure they had any real differences, given that he agreed they should have more time together and that he’d like nothing more than to go on vacation with Riley.
The alcohol-induced panic of the night before was not a true picture of the situation, although, yes—clearly, Riley was unhappy with a few things. Or dissatisfied, at least.
I want to know—I want to feel—
Right. Got it. But Riley wasn’t into labels any more than Lucas was.
What they had together already worked. Why complicate that with titles and paperwork and ceremony?
Why would they need that? They were federal agents.
They understood commitment in ways most people didn’t.
Couldn’t. It was risky too, because once you slapped a label on something, it was liable to change everything that made what they had so good.
Not because of anything they did or didn’t do, but because of the symbolic weight and social expectations titles, paperwork, and ceremony would bring.
It had to be because of the accident. Riley had even admitted it was because of the accident.
And yes, that had been a life-changing event.
Lucas was never going to forget the sight of that SUV smashed on the rocks, half-buried in snow.
Never going to forget the horror of learning only one of the vehicle’s occupants had survived; the terror of those never-ending minutes before he found out the survivor was Riley.
Nor could he forget seeing Riley in the hospital, pale and still, swaddled in too many layers of heated blankets, an oxygen cannula in his nose, his skin blotchy from cold.
Beneath harsh fluorescent lights, Lucas could see every scrape, cut, bruise as if he’d suddenly developed X-ray vision.
He didn’t remember who else had been in the room.
He hadn’t cared then and didn’t care now.
He’d gone up to the bed, taking Riley’s clammy hand in his, saying huskily, “Riley? Ry?”
Riley, hooked up to machines and shivering a little despite all the blankets, opened his eyes, startlingly blue in his white face, and blinked sluggishly up at him.
“You’re safe now. It’s over. You’re in the hospital and you’re going to be fine.”
All of which Riley had probably figured out for himself by that point.
“I love you,” Lucas had said, which Riley maybe didn’t know, and which Lucas couldn’t have stopped himself from saying if his life depended on it. “For a long time. Maybe from the first day you walked into my office.”
Probably not. But it was true he’d loved Riley for a long time.
For some reason he hadn’t got around to saying it until then.
Riley had said it once or twice. But that was Riley.
He hadn’t grown up in a family like Lucas’.
Bible-thumping lunatics. He didn’t have a background like Lucas’, where any display of emotion was frowned upon and the I-love-yous were few and far between.
The closest Lucas had come to receiving one was the I’m proud of you, son, when he’d joined the Army.
(Automatically retracted when he’d joined the Bureau.)
Anyway, Riley had squeezed Lucas’ hand, either in acknowledgement or warning, and closed his eyes again. Lucas had bent down and very gently kissed Riley’s dry, chapped lips, but Riley had not stirred.
That had been a long and harrowing night, sitting in that darkened room, listening to the faint hum from the warming units and IV pumps, surrounded by the sterile, metallic hospital smells.
Harrowing because, even though Riley’s injuries were relatively minor and Lucas knew he was going to make a full recovery, the knowledge of what could have happened, had nearly happened, was not easy to dispel.
Riley, exhausted and concussed, had drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes offering one of those weary, flickery smiles to Lucas, sometimes starting awake disoriented and confused about where he was.
He’d tried a couple of times to offer a verbal report of the accident but kept falling asleep or trailing into silence and gripping Lucas’ hand hard.
That painful grip and those stoic silences had been more excruciating to watch than any show of tears or display of dramatics.
Riley had not asked about Deputy Fudali.
At first, Lucas wasn’t sure he knew that the deputy was dead, but in one of his alert periods during that long night, Riley had said suddenly, quietly, “When we hit the ice, he was talking about his daughter graduating from college. About the cruise the three of them were going on next summer.”
“It was fast,” Lucas said. “He didn’t suffer.”
Riley’s head moved in acknowledgement. He probably knew better than anyone what Fudali had suffered or not suffered.
And that was it. That was the extent of what Riley had to say. To Lucas at least. Presumably, he’d said more during his CISM debriefing.
The med center held him for observation for forty-eight hours to ensure no lingering cardiac or neurological issues resulted from the prolonged hypothermia, and then he’d been released to recover from the concussion at home.
Home being Lucas’ chalet because no way in hell was Lucas about to leave Riley to his own resources—or alone with those memories.
In fact, Lucas had gone so far as to work from home for the first three days of Riley’s recovery.
“You don’t think this is liable to cause some comment?” Riley himself had commented as Lucas helped him up the stairs to the bedroom that first day.
“What the hell do I care what people think?” Lucas had growled, whereupon Riley had tripped over the next step. Which surely proved that Lucas was right about not leaving him on his own to recuperate.
In any case, Riley made a quick recovery, and it had been an unexpected gift getting to spend that extra time together, especially once Riley began to feel better. Which was another reason why his suggestion that Lucas wouldn’t go on vacation even if he could, felt unjustified.
But it really wasn’t about vacation time.
And if he had something else on his mind, he’d say so.
Riley was not the guy to hem and haw. The more Lucas brooded over the events of the past days, the more convinced he was that what Riley was really asking for was proof that he was noticed and appreciated.
That was fair. Lucas knew—had it on good authority—that he was not good at expressing his feelings, and he was even worse at romantic gestures, doing the little things that made a partner feel special and…
and cherished. In his previous relationships, the word “terrible” had come up more than once, usually around Valentine’s Day or birthdays.
His relationship with Riley had lasted longer than any of those previous relationships, and Riley had never used the word “terrible,” never seemed anything but pleased (or maybe amused) when Lucas showed thoughtfulness by picking up a pint of Riley’s favorite ice cream or bought him a book he’d mentioned wanting to read.
Riley had certainly been pleased, or maybe a little shocked, when Lucas had sprung for that Canada Goose Snow Mantra Parka last Christmas.
But California Boy Riley felt Idaho’s winters keenly, and keeping him from freezing his ass off was Lucas’ way of showing he cared.
Because he did care.
Riley was better at all of that stuff. To start with, he remembered special occasions.
Lucas tended to forget non-work-related big dates unless he was staring at them on his calendar.
Riley chose nice cards and wrote brief but thoughtful messages.
He’d cook Lucas’ favorite meal or buy a special massage oil or get a gift card to some place Lucas loved but would never splurge on for himself.
So, it was natural that Riley might feel like there was some inequity in the currency of their relationship.
Not that Riley was transactional. Lucas had never met anyone less transactional.
Honestly, Lucas wouldn’t have thought Riley cared for big romantic gestures, but everybody, everybody, wanted to feel that they were seen and appreciated.
That much, Lucas had learned from years of managing a team of diverse and competitive high achievers. Everybody wanted their attaboy.
It was understandable that, after the accident, Riley might feel differently about some things. Lucas wasn’t stupid. He knew how to use a day planner. Scheduling all the dates that might be important to Riley would be his first order of business in the new year.
Secondly, he would schedule a week of vacation for Riley next Christmas. If Riley wanted to stay in Silver Pine, well, that would be ideal. But if he wanted to go see his family and friends back on the West coast, Lucas could live with that. So long as Riley came home.
Thirdly…
Well, he was going to have to give some thought to thirdly. Something special and unexpected. A gesture to show that he did see and appreciate and love Riley.
But what?
Lucas sipped his coffee, brooding over the possibilities of thirdly as he stared out the window at the mist-shrouded mountains.