Work Text:
It had been a strange lead-up to the holiday season this year, and Blair really had no idea why he bought the little decorative battery-powered menorah. Observant he was not. But then, Jim’s last religious Christmas ‘observance’ had been an interdenominational service when he was still Captain Ellison, and that hadn’t stopped him from putting out a tacky, tiny plastic nativity, made of all one formed piece, that his mother gave him way back in the day.
The little nativity sat on the table when Blair got in, as it had for the last couple of days. Jim was winding silver tinsel around the kitchen pillar with a determined look. It was coming up Christmas, his face said, you decorate for Christmas, look at me decorating for Christmas.
“Hey, Jim.”
“Hey, Chief. Got your shopping done?”
Blair shrugged. It wasn’t like he had money. He knew it. Jim knew it, and the little box was heavy in his hand, like scales had tipped and it weighed of everything that Blair didn’t have right now. “In so far as I’m shopping for anything, sure,” he said. “I hope you’re not expecting a big parcel this year.”
Jim smiled, a tight, measured little thing. “I’ll hold my expectations for next year when I know you’ll have a job, right?”
“Right.” Blair put the menorah box on the table. “It’s cold out there, gonna make myself tea.”
“I bought decaf,” Jim said, and Blair contemplated whether he wanted one of the scant spoonfuls left of his tea (that he’d bought) or a cup of the decaf coffee (that Jim had bought).
“You want one?” Blair asked and Jim, full of tact this evening, said, “Sure.” Coffee for two, it was.
Blair was standing watching the percolator buzz and hiss when Jim came up beside him.
“Dad called.”
“Uh huh,” Blair said absently, “cool.” Jim shifted on his feet and Blair turned. “It is cool?” he asked. The last time Jim had mentioned hearing from his father, it was to throw accusations at Blair (“People are calling my father and my brother asking them what it's like to live with the freak”).
“Yeah, yeah.” There was an awkward hurry to Jim’s words and another shift. “He wants me to come to Christmas dinner with him. It’d be his country club, he’s never expected Sally to work Christmas.”
“Just cops and the country club staff working the holidays, huh,” Blair said with light sarcasm. Just a touch of it.
“Something like that.” Jim took a breath. “Told him that I wanted you to come with us.”
Blair was reaching for cups, and put them down on the countertop with a clatter. He swallowed – surprise, irritation, some other emotion that he couldn’t name. “That’s a nice thought, Jim, but really, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“It’s not about you intruding, Sandburg. I want you to come.”
“Why?” Blair cast a quick look Jim’s way. “I am not exactly country club guest material, Jim. Not when I was a semi-respectable academic, especially not now.” Darkness passed his vision for a moment. “I guess they do let Jewish people past the doors in these more enlightened times.”
Jim took another breath – this one was slow, a man consciously drawing in patience with his air. “I expect they do. Enlightened times and all that.” He paused and then kept on speaking with a careful, measured pleading. “You’re not doing anything else on the day, and you’ve been all about me mending fences with my dad.”
Both of Jim’s points were true, but Blair chose not to note that. “Look, enjoy your dinner, man. The food’ll be good if nothing else.”
“I want you to come along with me. It’ll just be you and me and Dad – Stephen’s going to dinner with his kid and his ex and her family, Sally’s with her sister, and I don’t want to offend Dad, but hell, if you think I’m country club material any more than you…”
“More than me, I think.” Blair carefully poured out coffee – one sugar for Jim, a dash of creamer for himself. “I’m asking again, Jim. Why?”
Jim took up his coffee and held it in cupped hands despite the heat. “Why not? Why can’t I ask a friend for a little moral support with a potentially uncomfortable meal with my somewhat but not so much these days estranged father?”
“You don’t think that my presence would make it even more uncomfortable?” (Jim’s hands outspread, his jaw jutting belligerently as he asked, “Now, how would you like that, huh?”)
“Not for me,” Jim said. Such a stubborn, mulish, pig-headed son of a bitch. There were times Blair was sure he could cheerfully strangle him, and this was close to one of them.
He didn’t though. Blair had self-control, and fortitude; also, he loved Jim in all his pig-headed, mulish, stubborn glory. He stared into the depths of his coffee and said “Okay, country club dinner it is but it’s on your head. Don’t blame me if your father takes one look at me and calls security.”
“For fuck’s sake, Chief, it won’t be that bad.”
Blair threw his hands up – exasperation, surrender, he didn’t even know himself. “Okay. Okay.” He snatched up his coffee cup. “I made this, I’m going to drink it.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Jim murmured, and turned away to the table. His hand dropped to the box. “You got yourself a menorah. Getting in touch with your heritage this year?”
Blair shrugged. “Not exactly. Maybe? Strictly, it doesn’t count. I’m not lighting anything, I’m not saying the prayers. But I…” Vivid memory struck him – holidays with the cousins in Fort Worth, and Aunt Bets smiling at him and insisting that he call her ‘aunt’ even when she was his second cousin. “I guess it brings back some good memories.”
Jim’s smile grew a little strained. “Well, this is one year we need some good memories, right?”
Blair nodded vaguely over his coffee cup. Good memories. Right. Sure.
“Uh, Jim? This looks like the road to Woodgate, not Mountain View.”
“Figured that, Chief,” Jim replied in sing-song annoyance. He waved one hand off the wheel – apology. “He used to go to Mountain View. It’s not like Dad’s choice of country club is regular conversation between us.” Halfhearted apology.
Blair brushed non-existent lint off the sleeve of his good jacket. The Christmas dinner service was casual in the sense that you didn’t need to wear a tie, and Jim had brought out his grey sports jacket for the occasion. Blair hadn’t seen him in it in years, and it brought back memories. The road to Woodgate Country Club also brought back memories – of Amber. Of the first time they’d faced Zeller. Jim could hardly fail to be aware of what was going through Blair’s head – he had a scarred leg from Zeller for remembrance, if nothing else.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. Country club’s a country club right? All we saw last time was the locker rooms. The restaurant is unexplored territory.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Jim said and turned the truck up the long, tree-lined private road that led to Woodgate’s entry. There’d been a look in his eyes when he’d turned down Bill’s offer to give both of them a lift. Blair knew how Jim thought. He’d been reassuring about his father’s willingness to host Blair, but they were still taking Jim’s vehicle – just in case a quick escape was needed which meant that Blair wasn’t particularly reassured. And there was that side of Jim that liked subverting expectations in people he didn’t necessarily respect; that had to test people. Tall, handsome, authority figure James Ellison, looking like something out of a GQ shoot (admittedly a few years out-of-date) – turning up to dine at Woodgate Country Club in his old Ford truck.
To give him his due, Ellison Sr. hadn’t turned a hair at either Blair or the truck, simply nodded and said “I’ll expect you right behind me, then.”
Woodgate was all dressed up in its holiday season finery. There was a long line of tall, narrow cypresses bordering the parking lot that were decked with lights, glowing red and green under the dull sky. There were enough fake glittery holly garlands in the portico alone to reach from Woodgate back to the loft if somebody just made the effort to stretch them out.
Bill was waiting for them there. “I take it,” he said quietly “that Jim made it quite clear that all of this is on me, for you both.”
“We’ve got it, Dad. You’re the Santa Claus of Woodgate.” It came out easily, with a little pat on Blair’s shoulder.
Blair smiled – courteously and appropriately grateful. “Absolutely, Bill. Thanks, though. You didn’t have to.”
Bill smiled in his turn. It was cordial, but Blair felt the smallest edge of chill. “There are a lot of things in this world that I don’t have to do, but it’s Christmas. Feeding my son, and you, isn’t exactly onerous.”
“Wait until you see how much food Jim can put away, before you say that,” Blair joked.
“I was sitting at a supper table with him when he was sixteen and six foot and 150 lbs. I won’t be surprised.”
Another one of those gentle touches from Jim, a hand to his back. “I should have better manners now than then, anyway.”
“You weren’t so bad,” Bill said. No doubt because he never would have permitted bad manners at his table, Blair suspected, but still. Good-natured banter, check.
Inside was warm, and the smells on the air did suggest some very talented kitchen staff. They were led into a substantial dining room with big windows looking out towards the golf course. Even today, grey and cold and Christmas, there were a few hardy players outside.
“I suppose you haven’t had much chance to practice your swing lately, Jimmy?”
Jim shrugged. “You called it, Dad. A cop’s work is never done.”
“But you’ve had a chance to follow along some, right? As well as football? That Tiger Woods – what an amazing young man.”
The two Ellisons fell into discussion, while Blair kept a smile and an alert expression on his face. They ordered – apparently it was like father like son when it came to steak and a side of sweet potato casserole with marshmallow. Jim gave Blair a knowing smile that seemed to congratulate him on his amazing self-restraint at not protesting certain culinary choices. There was pleasant, general conversation.
“Bill, Bill Ellison! Haven’t seen you for a while.” And wow, Blair thought, David Attenborough should be narrating right now, as Bill’s head lifted and wariness descended on him. The old lion senses danger, Attenborough intoned in Blair’s head. The wariness was of course contagious, although with different results. Jim raised his eyes, Blair lowered his and concentrated on his salmon piccata.
Bill stood. “Dennis. Likewise, how have you been?”
Dennis was maybe in his late fifties, lean like a runner and with a wolf’s smile. He extended both hands. Bill extended the one and endured the hearty two-handed shake. His hand extricated, Bill gestured. “Dennis, my older son, Jim, and his friend, Blair. This is Dennis Macintyre.”
“Partner in Macintyre and Forrester,” Jim said with careful civility and icy eyes. “I’ve heard of you.”
Macintyre's eyes were bright, and knowing. “And I can return the favor, Jim. Quite a year you’ve had.”
And right there with his fork poised over the pink flesh of his salmon, the sprinkle of capers and herbs, Blair went numb and deaf. There were a few more words exchanged but he didn’t hear any of them. Dennis Macintyre made his departure, and when Blair unwisely lifted his eyes it was to see Macintyre murmuring into his companion’s ear. The woman, fortyish and very attractive, turned her head to look back with open, avid curiosity. Jim’s face sparked with an electric anger and he made as if to stand.
“Jim, don’t,” Blair said. “It’s okay.”
“I beg to differ, Sandburg.” Jim’s voice came out smoothly low, like a knife coming out of an oiled sheath.
Laying his right hand over Jim’s wrist wasn’t at all subtle, but Blair did it anyway. He thought Jim might need the contact, and in that moment Blair did too, desperately. “So it’s not okay, but it is what it is, Jim.” The muscles jumped in Jim’s jaw. “I joked about getting thrown out of here, but that’s what it was; a joke.”
Jim glared across the table. Blair hadn’t been joking that much after all. Bill stared at both of them with narrowed eyes and said, “Man’s a shark, even by the standards of his profession. Whatever you heard, Jimmy, he’s not worth it.” Just like that. That simple acknowledgement that Jim had indeed heard Macintyre’s words.
“Okay, okay,” Jim said, sharp with irritation. “Discretion is the better part of valor, I get it. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Nobody has to like it, man.” Blair pulled back his hand. “But it’s going to be like this for a while. It’ll settle.” He was consoling himself as much as Jim, not that Jim had to know that. His salmon looked suddenly unappetizing. “Excuse me,” Blair said and left for the bathroom. It was perfectly reasonable – there was a cut-glass pitcher of ice water at the table, a bottle of good Californian white and a bottle of good Californian red – but Blair needed to be alone for a moment far more than he needed to empty his bladder. He stared into the urinal for a time, a longer time than was strictly necessary or polite and when he heard the door open he assumed it was Jim come to check on him.
It was Bill Ellison. “Needed a moment did you?” he asked, briskly straightforward. “Jimmy wanted to check on you, but I beat him to the punch.”
“Uh… thanks, but I’m fine, really. Just got to wash my hands.” Blair turned to the immaculate rank of wash basins but he caught the glint of Bill’s eyes in the mirror.
“I won’t deny that I was pretty angry when that book of yours hit the news. People never really forget that sort of thing. Look at good old Dennis.”
“Is this really the place you want to do this?”
“No, but I saw your face and I saw my son’s. Saw your press conference too. Jim’s spoken to me a couple of times, and he thinks he can trust you. So I’ll trust you too, for now. But if you ever hurt Jim like that again, I will bring the fires of hell down on you.”
A dry, broken laugh came out of Blair. “I never meant to hurt Jim. I was doing what I thought was for the best but I fucked up. I’d have thought you’d be familiar with that in relation to your son.” It rushed out in an unthinking spate and Blair’s hand went not to his careless mouth but his eyes. What the hell was he doing? He always did this, pushed people, pushed his luck, and holy shit, was this really the person and the time he’d chosen?
He took his hand from his face in the frozen silence, straightened his shoulders, lifted his head, waited his judgement.
Bill Ellison’s face could have been carved from granite. “Point taken. Is mine?”
“You won’t need your hellfire,” Blair said and strode out of the bathroom. Jim was sipping at his wine, eyes fixed on the entrance as Blair came back to the dining area.
Blair completed the trek across the floor and sat down. “You okay?” Jim said softly.
“I’m fine,” Blair said. The salmon was getting cold, but it was still surprisingly good. He should probably get in a few more mouthfuls before Bill insisted he leave.
Bill made his own return through the tables. Blair watched him for any sign of anger but clearly Jim had inherited his poker face from his father’s side of the family. Bill settled into his chair. Blair waited. Bill only gave him a mechanical smile and said conversationally, “They do a very good cheesecake here, and excellent cookies. If you feel like dessert.”
They were back in the loft by nine.
“Sally made some cookies – if you want a follow up to dessert. It’s not Christmas if you don’t make yourself sick, right?”
Jim placed said cookies on a plate and put them on the table, where Blair sat leaned over, chin on his crossed arms. He’d turned on his little menorah and the bulbs shone wanly under the kitchen lights. The tiny nativity sat next to it - brown stable, blue robes, yellow star.
“Hey, it’s the tradition.” Blair sat up to nibble at a cookie.
Jim looked down at him. “What’d my dad say to you?”
“Just gave me the ‘treat my boy right’ speech.” Blair had half expected this conversation in the truck.
Jim’s head tilted. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. He didn’t get out of line?”
Blair sighed. “If anyone got out of line, it was me, Jim.” Using things Jim had confided to him to make his point to the very person that the confidences were about. (“Jim’s spoken to me a couple of times.”) “Sorry about that.”
Jim sat across the table and mercifully didn’t ask exactly how Blair had gotten out of line. Had mercifully chosen not to listen in, even though he could have. “The old man’ll survive. Come on, what did he say?”
“I told you. He said that he’d trust me for now, but if I hurt you…” Blair spread out his hands, a what do you think gesture. “And I told him I wouldn’t hurt you.” And he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. “Like I said, ‘treat my boy right’.”
Jim’s head bowed, like he was afraid to meet Blair’s eyes, but then he smiled. “Funny, Naomi said something like that before she left. Not those words, but that was what she meant. ‘Treat my boy right’.”
Could his mother simply not let things be? “Oh god, I’m sorry, Jim.”
“Why?” Jim’s eyes were piercing. “Isn’t that what we should do? Treat each other right?” His face changed – there was uncertainty there and unexpected earnestness. “Want to make an early New Year’s resolution of it, Chief?”
He put his hand across the table. Blair took it, somber and determined, and they shook on it. If they didn’t really let go, if it was more like a hand clasp, well, it was Christmas. The season of good will - and hope.