Page 28 of Shaman

Well, this hadn’t gone well at all.

A set of headlights glided down the street, the bright, bluish beams of a luxury car. A luxury car that rolled to a stop right in front of the house and revealed itself to be a familiar two-door Jag, the white one with the red leather seats that Ian so rarely ever backed out of its designated space in the parking garage.

He sat bolt upright as the lights and purring engine shut off and Alec climbed out from behind the wheel. “What the hell?”

“I called him,” Ghost said from behind them. He’d snuck silently out on the porch; Ian could smell fresh coffee and cigarette smoke rolling off the man.

“Traitor,” Ian muttered.

“No, hear him out,” Ghost said.

Alec came up the front walk with a determined stride, head up, hands in his jacket pockets.

Ian’s heart gave a little bump as he drew closer. He wanted to bundle him back in the car and tell him to go home. But he also wanted to pull him into his arms and never let go. What would he say? What would he…

But it didn’t matter, because Alec was here now, standing right in front of him, hands twitching in his coat pockets in that way Ian knew meant he was nervous, but bravely looking at them all.

“So,” he said, with a shaky inhale. “You’re gonna go to New York and kill the Breckinridges.”

Ian wanted to say so many things, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “Yeah.”

Alec nodded. “Alright. When do we leave?”

“You’re not–” Ian started.

“Oh, I’m coming with you,” Alec said, matter-of-fact.

“Be here at five a.m. on the twenty-fourth,” Ghost said, “and we’ll leave from here. See if you can book one of your fancy private jets, yeah?”

Alec nodded. “Will do.” He stared at Ian a moment, porch light glinting off his glasses. “I’ll put that one in the driveway.” He nodded toward the coupe. “And we’ll ride home together.” He lingered another moment, exhaling a puff of steam, then walked back to the car.

“Why do I feel like I’ve just been railroaded?” Ian asked.

Tango patted his knee. “’Cause you have.”

Ghost placed one gnarled, biker hand on top of Ian’s head. “Stop trying to do things alone, kid. You can’t live this life all by yourself.”

~*~

Alec waited for him at the passenger door of the black Jag Ian had driven over, hovering but not touching the paint with any part of his person – not wanting to scratch it. Ian had never insisted on that – hell, he’d sat all over this car, content that he could have any scratch buffed and painted – but it was something Alec had always done, wanting to be mindful of the expensive things that Ian owned.

Ian sighed. How had he ever pushed this sweet man away? The wine had dulled the sharp points of his temper, left him raw and vulnerable.

He braced a hand along the roof of the car, partially caging Alec in.

Alec swallowed, throat jumping in the dim light of the streetlamp.

“It’s still early, yet,” Ian said, feeling like a bumbling teenager. “I thought you might want to…go and pick out a tree.”

Alec twitched, a tiny little movement of his lifting spirit. “That would be nice.”

In the car, Alec reached across the center console, his hand palm-up and open in offering. Ian pressed his own hand into it, laced their fingers together, and squeezed. He knew himself well enough – his stupidly removed, reined-in British coolness – to know that it was going to take a little while to break through walls he’d built around himself and let his emotions out into the open. That was what tree shopping was for, he guessed.

They went to Home Depot, where a capable-looking gentleman in a red-and-white Santa hat helped them pick out a blue spruce without too many flaws, and tied it to the roof of the Jag. Alec giggled into his hands as he talked about the way Bruce would have a coronary over the inevitable paint scratches.

Getting the damn thing up to the apartment ended in Alec laughing until he cried, and an elevator full of spruce needles. But, finally, they had it in a stand in the middle of the big living room window, and Alec was industrially stringing colored lights along its branches while Ian drank brandy-laced tea on the sofa, tired and content to bask in the domesticity of it all.

Alec had been humming along with the radio – muted Bing Crosby versions of classic carols – but trailed off after a while, fingers slowing on the lights as he looped them carefully between the needles. “Christmas is always really important to my mom,” he said, and Ian hitched himself higher against the sofa cushions, the hairs standing up along his arms. This was important, he sensed.

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