My Christmas Always

Part B  

Dinner was excellent. The young red wine Clay had selected complimented the boeuf bourguignon to perfection, and the atmosphere …  

The lights were dimmed. Candles flickered on the table, and the scent of bayberry filled his formal dining room. The cherry wood surface of the table gleamed. There was a centerpiece of balsam fir and white pine, pine cones and reindeer moss, holly, and something with white, waxy berries.  

Clay plucked out one sprig, held it over my head, and stole a kiss.    

"Mistletoe, babe."  

I took it from him, held it over his head, and claimed a kiss of my own.  

And after dinner, after the table was cleared off, the dishwasher loaded, and the candles snuffed, we went into the music room.  

In front of the Christmas tree was a bearskin rug. It hadn't been there the morning before. I'd noticed it when I brought my gift to Clay into the room, and I hadn't been able to resist running my hand over it. It was lush and thick, and I wanted to feel it against my naked back. Or my naked front, I wasn't choosy.  

"Nice rug." I grinned at Clay. Knowing him, it had to be faux. He was so ecologically correct.  

Clay just smiled. "Plug in the tree lights, okay, Clark ?"  

The sweet surge of desire flooded my groin, but there was plenty of time. I plugged in the lights that we'd woven through the branches of the tree, and they began blinking. Clay turned out the overhead lights. He set his coffee cup down on the grand piano, took a seat, and began to play holiday music: The Christmas Song, Sleigh Ride, Angels We Have Heard on High, Ave Maria.  

I sat and sipped my coffee, and listened and watched him as his fingers stroked the keyboard, thinking of what they felt like on my skin. I put my cup down and went to him.  

"Move forward a bit, okay?"  

Clay looked over his shoulder at me, puzzled, but he did as I asked. I got on the bench behind him and put my arms around him. I tugged the rolled collar of his sweater aside with my teeth and nuzzled the side of his neck.  

His fingers rested on the keys.  

"Keep playing," I said softly, and blew into his ear.  

He began to play. 'It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.'  

I whispered in his ear, telling him what I wanted to do to him, what I wanted him to do to me. I could feel his heart beating in a slow, heavy thud under my palm.  

The final chords of the song hung in the air, and we sat like that for a minute. Then I swung off the bench and stood between my lover and the piano.  

"Clay." I ran my fingers from his cheekbone to his chin and raised it. His pupils were dilated with passion, and he was breathing rapidly. "The rug."  

"Yes." He was on his feet, the piano bench tipped over. His arms were around me, holding me as if he'd never let go. His mouth sought mine, and we moved in a slow dance of passion away from the piano.  

The kiss was greedy, devouring, and he made these small, desperate sounds that drove the fire in me higher. My hands were buried in his hair, moving his head first one way, then the other, needing to make the kiss deeper. His hands were all over me, stroking, petting, arousing me to the point where if I didn't have him naked under me *now* I'd spontaneously combust.  

Clay was feeling the same way; we'd been lovers long enough for me to tell. His cheeks were flushed, his lips were parted, and he was panting, short puffs that warmed my skin where they caressed it.  

"Now, Clark ." His voice was hoarse. "I want you now."  

"Yeah." I stepped back and stripped off my clothes in record time, and Clay was right there with me, his clothes scattered on the floor. I took a moment to study the contours of his chest, his flat abdomen, his cock, which was hard and flushed with arousal.  

"So this is why you got the rug?"  

"After the other night? Face it, babe. If we're going to get hot and sweaty on the floor, we may as well be comfortable, don't you think?" He knelt on the rug, and I gave a wolf whistle as I admired the curve of his ass. He winked at me, reached for a small felt stocking that hung from a lower branch of the Christmas tree, and withdrew a tube of lubricant and a condom.  

"Just one?"  

"To start, babe." He patted the rug, and I knelt down beside him. He ran his palms over my chest, teasing the hair that covered it and pinching my nipples. "Lay down on your back."  

"So I'm the one who's gonna be taken? Works for me, baby." The fur was cool under my shoulders, spine, and ass, but it quickly warmed.  

"Not this time." He gave the tip of my cock a lick, smoothed the condom on over it and coated it with lube, then straddled my hips.  

"No, wait a minute! You're not ready!"  

"It's all right. I took care of it when you called from your condo. Now hold yourself steady."  

Clay eased down onto me, his expression intent, until the head of my cock popped through the ring of muscle that guarded his hole. He closed his eyes and sighed, and slid lower, and it was all I could do to keep from grabbing his hips and thrusting up into him.  

"Ride me, baby." I ran my nails over his nipples, and he groaned.  

"Yes." He reached for my hands, twined our fingers together, then pressed my hands down to the floor at the level of my shoulders; he leaned forward until his mouth barely rested on mine. " Clark ."  

And I groaned.  

His hips rose until he was almost free of me, then lowered until his balls were nestled against the hair that covered my groin. Internal muscles clenched around me as I nudged his prostate. Sweat broke out at my temples and along my spine where it arched off the rug, and I thought of what it would feel like without the condom separating us.  

"Baby." I couldn't get enough air into my lungs, and I had to open my mouth.  

"Yes." Clay licked my lips, rubbed his tongue against the edges of my teeth, went deeper into my mouth to test the ridges of my palate. And all the while his hips were moving at a steady pace that was too fast and not fast enough.  

He withdrew his tongue with teasing licks that drove me wild. Never. I'd never had a lover who made me feel what Clay made me feel.  

I tore my hands free, wrapped my arms around him, and surged up so he was sitting on me. I slammed my mouth into his, penetrated it with my tongue, curled my tongue around his.  

Clay stilled. His palm was warm on my cheek, and I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. " Clark ." He leaned back and shivered and a small, needy sound passed his lips as the altered angle had my cock directly targeting his prostate. He balanced his hands on my thighs, offering himself to me.  

He began to move again, his eyes on mine. I braced myself on an elbow, and used my free hand to trace the hot, silken length of his cock. He was oozing precome. I gathered some on my thumb, brought it to Clay's mouth, and rubbed my thumb over his lips. His tongue swept out, and he tasted himself on his lips. I slipped my thumb into his mouth. He bit down gently, then sucked on it, and we both groaned.  

I pulled my thumb from his mouth, pressed it to the tip of his cock and caught more precome on it, and this time brought it to my mouth. Clay's eyes darkened and his breath hitched.  

"Come on, baby. Come for me." I worked his cock, the precome making him slick. He rode me faster, driving me closer to the edge, but I was determined not to go flying into space without him.  

" Clark !" His movements became erratic, his eyes unfocused, and then he was filling my hand with hot, thick ropes of semen that spilled onto my torso.  

"Yes!" I flipped him onto his back without breaking our connection and began pounding into him. I manacled his wrists and took his lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing his moans. I knew it wouldn't be much longer, my balls were already tightening and drawing up. Two thrusts, three, four, and Clay held me as I filled the condom, petting the long muscles in my back, whispering words I couldn't distinguish from the blood thundering in my ears.  

Finally I caught my breath enough to ease out of him. I stripped off the condom. "Did you think to pack some tissues in that stocking, baby?" I kissed the side of his neck.  

"Of course. Like the Boy Scouts, CIA officers are always prepared."  

That was bullshit, but I wasn't going to burst his bubble on Christmas Eve… I saw the clock. It was 12:15 .  

"Hey, Webb."  

"Yes, Palmer?" He paused. He'd been wiping his come off my chest, using his tongue instead of the tissues.  

I tipped up his chin and kissed him, tasting him. "Merry Christmas, baby."  

****  

We finally got up to Clay's bedroom, but we didn't get much sleep. Every time we finished making love, we'd reset the alarm for a later time, until finally Clay peered at the clock and groaned.  

"Damn, we *have* to get up or we'll be late getting to Arlington ."  

"Do we have time for breakfast?" What I really wanted to know was if we'd have time to open the presents. I was even more nervous about the gift I'd gotten him. I'd been pretty sure he'd like it, but if he hated it, I wanted him to hate it in private.  

"Mother is a big believer in breakfast. I'll call her and tell her we may be a little late. Go take a shower…"  

"Without you?"  

" Clark , I promise you, when we get back from Mother's, I'll spend the night in the shower with you."  

"Sweet. I'll use the shower in my bathroom and meet you downstairs." Clay had a spare bedroom that was supposed to be mine. I kept my clothes there, but I always wound up sleeping in his bed. The bedroom had an ensuite bath. Hence, my bathroom.  

I had the coffee brewing and the waffle iron heating by the time Clay came into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway.  

"Well, if I'd known we were going to be this casual, I'd have worn pajamas." Clay was dressed in the clothes he would be wearing for the day, minus the suit coat.  

I was wearing socks, boxers, and an undershirt. "You can go back and put them on; I don't mind."  

"Bastard. Never mind. How do you want to do this? Eat first, then open the gifts, or the other way around?"  

"Well, the waffles won't take too long. Why don't we bring the presents in here, and we can open them while we wait."  

Clay nodded. "Yes. That's a good idea. We'll… I'll do that. Yes." He hurried out of the kitchen.  

What the fuck? Was Clay nervous? I followed him into the music room.  

"Merry Christmas, Clark ."  He handed me a rectangular box. I set it aside and picked up the long box that held my gift to him.  

"Merry Christmas, Clay."  

Only somehow, it didn't seem like a merry Christmas. We were both quiet when we walked back into the kitchen.  

"Um… you open it first, okay?" I suggested. "I need to pour the batter into the waffle iron."  

"I can do that."  

"No, it's my job."  

He frowned at me, but I could out-stubborn a mule when the situation warranted.  

"We appear to be at an impasse."  

"And time's a-wastin'."  

"All right, suppose you take care of the waffle and then we'll open them at the same time?"  

"That'll work." The batter hissed as it hit the hot surface. I lowered the lid and turned to face Clay. "Let's do it."  

He was meticulous removing the ribbon, sliding a nail to loosen the paper.  

"Jesus, Webb, just tear it open, would you?"  

"You don't seem to be in any rush."  

"Fine. You want me to rush, I'll rush." I ripped the paper to shreds, revealing a white cardboard box, and I snagged a thumbnail trying to open it. "Fuck." I stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked at the scratch. "And I don't have my pocketknife on me."  

"Well, you don't have a pocket. Here, use this." He handed me a pair of scissors.  

I finally got the box opened. Inside was a case made of teak. I took it out and ran my fingers over the smooth wood. A latch held it closed. I flipped it up and raised the lid.  

"Fuck me!" Inside was a Llama Mini-max .45 sub-compact. Clay had a clutch piece like this one; I'd seen it when I'd rescued him in Paris . Each clip held ten rounds, and it carried one up the pipe. I stroked the barrel. "Clay… "  

"There are four clips in the case, and a custom-made ankle holster as well."  

I didn't know what to say. "This is… Thank you!"  

"You really like it?"  

"Are you kidding? When I saw yours in Paris , I was tempted to tell you I couldn't find it and keep it for my own."  

"I thought you were lusting after it."  

"You're just lucky I… like you. Otherwise I would have told you it wasn't there. Oh, fuck, the waffle's burning!"  

I opened the lid and used a fork to get it out. It was a dark brown, too crisp to be eaten. I threw it in the sink that had the garbage disposal and poured more batter into the iron, hoping for better luck the next time.  

Behind me, Clay gasped, and I went still. He had opened his present.  

" Clark , I can't believe this!" He ran his fingers over the carefully crafted display case. In it was an actual 1796 pattern British Light Cavalry sabre.  

"Its provenance is in the envelope."  

"What?"  

"This sword belonged to the last male Sebring in the British line, Captain Charles Sebring. He was killed at the Battle of Badajos."  

"Badajos? The Spanish Campaign? He rode with Wellington ?" He took out the envelope and removed the tattered letter that had been written more than a century and a half ago by Charles Sebring's friend and fellow-officer, Danny Weston.  

"Yes." The sword had been in Weston's family's possession since the brigade-major had been killed in the War of 1812. And that was a story in itself. Maybe I'd save it for Clay's birthday.  

"Clark, I… I'm speechless! This is a bit of my family's history… I can't thank you enough!"  

"You really like it?"  

" Clark ." His look questioned my intelligence, but I didn't mind. He liked it, he really liked it.  

****  

He insisted on bringing the sword with us. "I have to show this to Mother and Uncle Jeff. We knew that the British branch of the family had died out; Charlie died a bachelor, and his younger brother was killed in a hunting accident before he could get his bride pregnant. To have something that has such history attached to it…"  

Well, I couldn't object. I had loaded the Llama Mini-max and strapped it on. I didn't know how Clay was able to get the holster made to my specifications, but he was a clever spook. It fit perfectly, and I liked its weight against my ankle. I slipped a spare clip into my trouser pocket.  

One could never be too careful.  

This time I carried the presents and the dessert and put them into the trunk. Clay was too involved petting the case his sword was in.  

"C'mon, Clay. Put it in the trunk, would you?"  

He sighed and did so, then went back to set the alarm and lock the door.  

"All set." He got in the car and buckled up, and I backed out of his driveway. "It's a good thing I dropped off my gifts at Mother's last week." He turned on the radio and found a station that was playing Christmas music. 'I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me…' "There never would have been room in your trunk."  

"You insulting my car, Webb?" I put it in gear and started driving. "That tin can you've been driving can barely hold the two of us."  

"You won't be able to say that about my new car."  

"Trust you CIA guys to need something with all those bells and whistles." I'd been with him when he ordered it, and it would be another four weeks before it was delivered.  

"Jealous, babe? This heap of yours is at least two years old."  

"This 'heap,' as you call my vehicle, gets me where I need to go. Now shut up. I have to concentrate on my driving. You know all the nuts take to the road on holidays."  

"Yes, Clark ." He was giving me that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth smile. "Ah. We're here."  

I put on the turn signal and entered the parking lot of Arlington National Cemetery .  

Porter Webb arrived shortly after we did. Jefferson Sebring got out of his cream-colored Mercedes, opened the passenger door, and helped her from the back seat.  

She was wearing a Russian sable coat that had been left to her by her mother after she had passed away.  

The lynx coat, which had been Neville Webb's gift to her on their honeymoon, had been another casualty of the night of her 'accident'. I'd seen her face when she realized how damaged the coat was. She'd blinked rapidly, firmed her mouth, and turned her head away, but not before I saw the single tear that fell.  

Clay had motioned for me to follow him out of the hospital room.  

' Clark , make sure nothing else happens to that coat.'  

'I know someone who should be able to repair it.'  

'Is he good? Never mind, if you're recommending him, of course he's good.' He'd gripped my arm. 'Cost is no object.'  

It had been costly, but the results were worth it. The coat looked brand new. And it was Clay's Christmas present to her.  

I noticed the bunch of violets pinned to the shawl collar of the Russian sable, and I raised an eyebrow. I knew of only one person who gave her violets.  

She saw, brought the flowers to her face, and gave a slight, wistful smile, then took Sebring's right arm and Clay's left, and they walked the path that would lead to her husband's grave.  

In spite of the fact that she needed a little help maintaining her balance, her posture was as erect as ever.  

Amazing woman.  

A plain granite headstone marked Neville Webb's gravesite. It was engraved with his name, his rank in the Army, and the dates of his birth and death.  

Mrs. Webb released her brother's arm, and Sebring stepped back to join Ludovic Rivenhall and me.  

I could hear her soft tones and Clay's deeper ones, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. She clung to her son's hand.  

"They're bringing Neville up to date on what they've done this year. They've done that every year since his death," Rivenhall murmured.  

"Except when Clay was out of the country." I wondered if he'd tell his father about us.  

Sebring examined me carefully.  

"Palmer."  

"Sebring."  

"We haven't met before."  

"No."  

"I've heard about you, though."  

"Can't believe everything you hear." I gave him a grin.  

"Especially if you hear it from Harmon Rabb, Jr.? I was acquainted with his father. He was a good man." He shook his head and changed the subject. Or maybe he got to the subject he'd intended to discuss all along. "I've wanted to have a word with you for some time." He waited for me to say something, and when I didn't, he continued. "Thank you for what you did."  

I wasn't expecting that. I'd thought, if anything, he'd been about to warn me off his nephew. I cleared my throat.  

"I didn't do anything."  

"You're DSD, Palmer," he said dryly. "Of course you've done something."  

"You mean getting Clay back from Paris when the CIA wouldn't? Hey, it was nothing."  

"On the contrary, it was something, especially to this family. However, that wasn't what I was talking about."  

"Oh?"  

"I was referring to what you did for my sister after the… accident. When Bryan and Tony come to town for the New Year, they'll want to thank you also."  

"Dunno what you're talking about." I wasn't going to admit to anything. I'd promised Mrs. Webb that I wouldn't get caught, and I hadn't. The scandal that had erupted around Senator Wexler, forcing him into retirement, had been uncovered by someone with no discernable ties to the DSD. "Thanking me for something I haven't done is useless, don't you think?"  

Rivenhall nudged his partner with his shoulder. The corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. "Let it go, Jefferson ." His accent was faintly British. "It's obvious you're going to get nothing from him." It might have been a secret outside the family, but I'd had little trouble learning that the two men had been together for years. They were practically an old married couple.  

" Jefferson ." Mrs. Webb and Clay were slowly coming toward us. "We're ready to leave now."  

Sebring hurried to his sister's side and let her take his arm.  

****  

When we pulled up behind Sebring's Mercedes in front of Mrs. Webb's Tudor home, Markov came out to help her into the house. Her brother was on her other side.  

"Really, you'd think I was a toddler just learning to walk!"  

"Listen, Breezy, behave or Santa will take back all your gifts."  

"Very well, I'll let you help me, but not because of your threat. Santa knows I've been very good, unlike some I could name."  

They continued their banter up the walk and into the house.  

Clay gave me a look, then said, "Ludo, would you mind giving us a hand?"  

"Love to, dear boy."  

We stacked the smaller packages in Rivenhall's arms.  

"Be careful of the dessert!" I warned him as I placed it on top.  

"Of course. I'm sure you can manage those two."  

Once Rivenhall had started toward the house, "Damn him," Clay said in a low, strained voice. "Damn his soul to eternal hell for what he's done to my mother."  

I knew he was talking about the former Senator Wexler.  

Wexler had thought that by getting rid of Clay, he'd have a clear path to having Porter Webb in his bed; he'd ordered his aide to cause a fender bender that would have taken Clay out of the picture long enough for him to accomplish his goal.  

He had no idea the chain of events he'd set into motion.  

His jealous wife had slashed the tires of Porter Webb's car.  

I'd driven to the embassy ball in my own car, and I'd told Clay I'd give him a lift.  

He had offered his mother his Lexus.  

Peter Lapin, Wexler's aide, was unaware of the change of vehicles. He saw the Lexus turn out of the embassy's drive and followed it.  

I was driving us to my apartment in DC, and Clay was talking to his mother on his cell phone. We'd heard the 'accident' happen over the phone, his mother's gasp, Markov swearing in Russian as he endeavored to bring his car under control, the whine of tires unable to find purchase on wet pavement, and worst of all, the sound of the Lexus being hit by oncoming traffic and flipping over and over.  

I'd slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel, and had the car heading for the 395. We reached the spot just after the paramedics.  

"You don't think his public humiliation was enough? His wife is behind bars, his aide," now sadly deceased, "was involved not only with organized crime, but also selling highly confidential, top-secret information to a foreign power, and what's most important to him, he doesn't have the access to power that he's always craved."  

"No." Clay looked into my eyes. His expression was cold. Damn, he would have been perfect for the DSD. "I thought it would be enough, but seeing Mother like this, unable to ride, unable to dance, needing a cane to get around… No, it's not nearly enough."  

"Okay." I rested my hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly.  

Something like this shouldn't be delegated. I'd handle it myself. After the New Year I'd pay a visit to former Senator Wexler's fair state and look him up.  

" Clark , I want to be there."  

"I work alone, baby."  

"I want to be there." His mouth had a stubborn set to it.  

"Listen, Webb…"  

"No, you listen, Palmer. She's my mother. She was in my car. That should have been me in that hospital bed."  

And it would have.  

If Wexler hadn't wanted Porter Webb, if Mrs. Wexler hadn't slashed her tires, if I hadn't driven my own car, if Clay hadn't given his mother his car…  

So many ifs.  

"Okay, Clay. But I give the orders. And if you don't follow them to the letter, To. The. Letter, I won't have any qualms about decking you and handling it on my own. Agreed?"  

"Agreed."  

"Good. Now take your sword. I'll get my gift to her, and we can go in."  

Markov met us at the door.  

"Want to search me, Markov?"  

"Don't tempt me." He gave me a hard stare. "Let me take your coats, then you can put the presents in the morning room, and wash your hands. Dinner is ready."  

****  

The day had ended and we were driving home, to my condo. We'd decided to spend the night there and go to Clay's townhouse after breakfast in the morning.  

"Did you have a good time, babe?" Clay was drawing idle patterns on my thigh. I shifted a bit and spread my legs, and just smiled at him.  

It was the best Christmas I'd ever had.  

I turned my attention back to the road. "They were impressed with the Llama Mini-max, weren't they?" I'd casually put my feet up on an ottoman and my trouser leg had ridden up, revealing the sub-compact.  

"Yes, Uncle Jeff was put out that Ludo hadn't given him something like it in their time together."  

I laughed softly. It had been amusing to see someone his age being almost petulant.  

"He and Ludo were pleased you liked the watch."  

"Yeah. It's a beauty." We were idling at a light, and I shot my left cuff to reveal the watch in the light of the dash. Not only did it tell time, but it also had a built-in CPU storage hard drive and a built-in USB cable to transfer files. It was compatible with Windows, Linux, and Mac. Most of these babies had 32MB of memory. This one had a gig.  

The light changed, and we drove on.  

"Mother loved the portrait. I thought she was going to cry."  

"That wasn't my intention."  

"I know. Mother, Father, and I, the three of us together. How did you manage it?"  

I'd found a snap shot of his father that was perfect for the pose I'd wanted. "I had a formal photograph of you and Porter."  

I'd called her 'ma'am' one time too many during dinner, and she'd paused in the act of raising her wine glass to her lips. ' Clark , I think you had better call me 'Porter'.' I'd opened my mouth to say something, and she'd stared at me, so I conceded the field to her. 'Yes, Porter.'  

The portrait was done in oils. Clay's mother was seated in a Queen Anne chair, one hand on her knee, her legs neatly folded to the side and crossed at the ankle. Clay stood beside her. His hand was on her right shoulder, and her left hand rested on his. Neville Webb was behind them, and his hand was on Porter's.  

"I  knew someone who would do it justice." He was quite talented, and most important, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.  

"It was the perfect gift. They all were. My sword," there'd been quite a stir over it, and I'd been uncomfortable with their gratitude for finding a piece of Sebring history, "mother's portrait, Markov's socks…"  

"Oh, yeah," I gave a snort of laughter, "I could really see how he enjoyed them."  

"Come on, Clark . You saw his face."  

I had. I thought his eyes were going to bug out of his head. My gift to him had been a pair of white sweat socks with red lettering. One said, 'Big Bad Gregor's Sock,' and the other said, 'Big Bad Gregor's Other Sock.'  

"He was pleased with the socks."  

"As much as I was pleased with the S'Mores mug he gave me?" The mug was made to look like a gigantic marshmallow with chocolate chips for eyes and a graham cracker for a nose. I took my eyes from the road for a second. "I don't drink hot chocolate, Clay."  

"Don't be so literal; you can drink coffee from it."  

"Y'know what, baby? I'll save it for you to use when you stay over."  

"Now, now. You know Markov wanted that mug for you." He laughed. I liked hearing him laugh, and I smiled myself, then cleared my throat.  

"Your uncle and Rivenhall seemed to like their gifts." I'd been a little busy and hadn't had time to do much research.  

"Trust me, Clark; they *did* like them. That gift basket with all those English delicacies -- Ludo's been in this country more than twenty years, and he's often bemoaned the lack of British… um… goodies." There was a grin in his voice.  

I'd gone on the Net and found a place that ordered directly from the UK and would put together a basket of jams and marmalades, custards, treacle, Marmite, digestive biscuits, Cadbury Curly Wurlies and White and Chocolate Buttons, and teas of every variety, even that Earl Grey that Porter was so fond of. It was a good choice; Rivenhall favored it also.  

"And Uncle Jeff… That scale model kit of the USS Constitution was a great idea. The brass and pewter fittings, the rigging, the battle flag from 1812 with fifteen stars and fifteen stripes – I'm not going to ask how you knew he's always had a thing for that ship."  

"Lucky guess, baby."  

"Of course."  

He was silent for a little while, and thinking he was tired, I turned on the radio. Every station was playing Christmas music, so I chose one at random and whistled along softly.  

Clay turned down the volume. "Do you… do you really like the throw Mother crocheted for you?"  

"Yeah. No one's ever made me anything by hand." It was a zigzag pattern in black, white, and gray, and it was so soft I'd been tempted to rub it against my cheek.  

She'd needed to do something while her usual activities had been restricted. She'd also crocheted her son a pair of foot-warmers.  

"And the shirt?"  

Clay had opened the last of Porter's presents to him, and I'd struggled to keep from laughing my ass off. It was a Hawaiian shirt that boasted parrots with brilliant plumage, fuchsia, chartreuse, scarlet, lemon yellow, and palm trees that appeared to sway in the wind.  

'Guess I can call you Magnum now,' I'd teased him.  

'You think so? Open yours.'  

'Huh?'  

He handed me a box whose tag had my name on it. I'd torn off the paper, lifted up the lid, and found an identical shirt inside.  

'Merry Christmas, Clark ,' Porter had said in a voice that was way too innocent.  

'Uh… thank you. Ma'am.'  

"Jesus, Clay, how the fuck can I wear that?"  

"You won't have to, and neither will I. Mother always gives me one gift a year that's guaranteed to have me wincing."  

"Yeah, but… Why did she give one to me? Clay?"  

He rubbed my thigh but didn't answer, and when I gave him a quick glance, I could see a contented smile on his face.  

I decided this was something that didn't need to be pursued just then. I went back to whistling through my teeth. 'You're my Christmas present, my Christmas past, my Christmas always...'  

We reached the gate of Aspen Reach, and I pressed the remote clipped to the visor. The barrier swung open to let us in. I drove through and parked in front of my building.  

We took our booty up to my condo. It took a few seconds to unlock the door in the correct sequence.  

"You could use one of those gadgets that use sound to unlock it."  

"Nah, too easy to copy. Look, I've got to put the car away." I'd been allotted a one-car garage. The condo association got pissy if cars were left on the street overnight. "Want to come?"  

"You don't need me to watch your back, tough guy."  

"Smart ass."  

" Clark ." He held onto to the lapels of my overcoat. "Don't take too long, okay? I'd hate to have to come looking for you."  

"I'll be right back." I kissed him, tossed my car keys in the air and caught them. "Why don't you slip into something more… comfortable?"  

His laughter followed me out the door.  

I took my time walking back to my building. It was a perfect night, the stars, the crescent moon, the cold air, and the silence. I wished Clay had elected to come with me.  

When I let myself into my condo, the first thing I noticed was the scent of cinnamon and cloves. I took off my overcoat and put it in the closet in the entry way, beside Clay's.  

"Clay?" I undid my suit jacket and hung it over a chair. Beside it was another chair; Clay's suit jacket was on it.  

"In here, babe." His voice came from the living room.  

I stood in the doorway. The lights on the tiny tree on my television were twinkling. The throw his mother had crocheted for me was draped over the back of the couch. Christmas music was on my CD player, and I frowned absently. I didn't have any Christmas CDs; Clay must have brought one of his.    

He was lounging on the couch. His tie was undone, and he was shoeless, his sock feet up on the couch. In one hand was the mug he always used when he stayed over. In the other was Markov's gift to me. There were marshmallows in both mugs.  

"Hot chocolate."  

"So that's why you didn't want to park the car with me. And here I was thinking you just didn't want to take the opportunity to make out." I reached for the mug he offered me, but he withdrew it. "Clay?" What was he doing?  

He swung his legs around, put the mugs on the end table beside the Christmas cards, and stood up.  

"I can't have you thinking that, Clark ." Clay came to me. "Hot chocolate is good, but making out with you is better."  

"So we're gonna make out?"  

"Among other things." He slipped his fingers into the waistband of my trousers and tugged me closer. "Thank you."  

"For what?"  

"That furrier you recommended for Mother's lynx coat."  

"My pleasure. I'm glad he did a competent job."  

"Competent? It was beyond competent, Clark ! There was so much damage I wasn't sure if he'd have it ready for Christmas, if at all."  

It would has been his ass if it hadn't been.  

"I really thought Mother was going to cry when she saw what was in the box."  

I knew the coat meant a lot to her. It had been given to her by her husband; Neville Webb had been the love of her life. I also knew that since she'd been widowed in '78, she had never been involved with another man.  

"I guess she was touched by both our gifts." My fingers were on Clay's hips, kneading them.  

"She never asked what happened to it, you know. I guess she assumed it was too ruined to salvage and didn't want to know if I'd had to dispose of it."  

"You're a good man. Y'know something, Webb? I… " I realized what I'd been about to say and quickly changed it. "… I'm glad you realized it was me and not Matt Robinson who interviewed your mother."  

His hand was warm on the back of my neck, and he pulled my face down for a kiss. But before our lips touched, he said, "Y'know something, Palmer? So am I."

~End~

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