All I Want for Christmas by Islaofhope

 

Jim woke up slowly and smiled, luxuriating in the warmth of the body nestled against his back. Artie slept soundly, his strong arm wrapped around Jim’s waist. Shifting slightly, Jim closed his eyes again. It was still early, and he was in no hurry to get out of bed.

 

He and Artie were on furlough until the end of year, one they richly deserved, considering the busy past few months, and they fully intended to take advantage of their time off. Although the Wanderer had arrived in San Francisco rather late the evening before, Jim had treated Artie to a splendid dinner at Masa’s, followed by an even more splendid night of lovemaking.

 

Jim blindly traced his fingers down Artie’s arm and wriggled backwards until his lover’s cock pressed insistently against the small of his back. A piss hard-on, Artie would call it, but Jim’s libido responded as if that hard-on was intended for him.  In truth, Jim frequently went several days without thinking about sex--when the demands of their missions parted him from Artie--but once they were back together, Jim was nearly insatiable. They’d coupled for hours the night before, but now he longed to take Artie in his mouth, to taste him on his tongue and the back of his mouth.

 

Artie was sleeping so heavily that he didn’t even stir when Jim rolled over to face him and studied his sleep-flushed face. He raised his hand to rouse his lover with a touch, but then he thought better of it. Peeling back the counterpane and sheet to uncover Artie, Jim slid down, resisting his desire to touch until his mouth was close to his lover’s groin. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Despite the post-midnight, post-coital bath they had shared, Artie smelled pleasantly of sex and Jim greedily inhaled that scent.

 

Jim breathed out, and Artie’s cock twitched, as though it was eager for what was to come. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer and with a low groan of anticipation, he bent to take his lover into his mouth, and the musky taste of him was even better than the scent.

 

Artie had already been erect in his sleep, but when he lay heavy on Jim’s tongue, he swelled larger and when Jim teased the tip of his tongue into the slit, Artie roused with a low groan but didn’t fully awake, although his hand slid down and his fingers nested in Jim’s hair. Jim grasped the base of Artie’s shaft and began to suck in earnest. He closed his eyes, enjoying the taste and texture of Artie’s thick cock, and he varied his suction, coming off the shaft to trail his tongue from base to tip before fastening his mouth once again around the bulbous head, greedily lapping up the pre-ejaculate that seeped from the slit.

 

Still half-asleep, Artie shifted his hips, instinctively thrusting, pushing his cock against the roof of Jim’s mouth, but Jim was prepared for that and he expertly deep-throated his lover, thoroughly enjoying the fellatio, and it wasn’t long before Artie convulsed and spent in Jim’s mouth.

 

“Ah, sugar,” Artie purred, his fingertips tenderly massaging Jim’s scalp. “That was a fine way to wake up.”

 

“Bastard,” Jim murmured cheerfully, nuzzling against Artie’s damp thigh, and smiling up into Artie’s dream-clouded eyes. “After all this time, you’d think you could remember my name.”

 

Artie squeezed the back of Jim’s neck lightly and a fond smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “It’s your own fault, James. How do you expect a man to think clearly when he’s been suckled so sweetly by the mouth of an angel?”

 

“An angel, is it?” Jim rubbed his fingertips over Artie’s inner thigh, massaging the muscles that still quivered under the light touch. “Some would call it the work of the devil.”

 

“Angel or devil…” Artie closed his eyes and yawned hugely, stretching his arms overhead. “ …it was a fine way to awake.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Jim, his fingers coming once more to roost against Jim’s scalp. “I’m not entirely sure that I remembered to thank you for that fine meal last night.”

 

“I didn’t have much to do with it.” Jim bent his head to kiss the tip of Artie’s now quiescent shaft. “It was Lydia who told me they had a new chef at Masa’s, and she arranged for our table last night.”

 

“I can certainly thank her… if you insist,” Artie said, his eyes rolling with mock resignation. “But I far prefer to show my appreciation to you.” The devil was in his grin, and his erection was stirring to life again. “Up to you, of course.”

 

“No,” Jim said, lightly caressing Artie’s sac, “fond as I am of Lydia, I’ve no intention of sharing you.” A frown flitted across his face, and his tone of voice was somewhat brusque when he added, “Never again.”

 

“Jim… my dearest, dearest James…” Artie’s tone was tender and amused, loosening the cold grip of fear that had momentarily clutched at Jim’s heart. “I’d be a fool to want anyone else.” He levered himself up on one elbow and reached back to rearrange the pillow behind his head. His half-sitting position caused his growing erection to stir against Jim’s cheek and Jim turned his head to nuzzle it. “Christ, Jim,” Artie murmured, his fingers trailing down to caress Jim’s collarbone, “I swear I’ll never get enough of you.”

 

“Nor I of you,” Jim said, and his tone of voice was more solemn than he’d intended. He couldn’t resist lapping at the pearl of moisture that seeped from Artie’s slit.

 

“After last night,” Artie said somewhat breathlessly, “I don’t know how it’s possible that I have anything left.”

 

“Mmmm…” Jim nipped lightly at Artie’s inner thigh. “There’s no hurry, of course.”

 

“No, there isn’t.” Artie smiled beatifically. “Two weeks of furlough in San Francisco. And Hector invited us to stay with him for Christmas.”

 

“Stay where?”

 

“He and his wife have a villa a few miles outside of San Francisco.”

 

“Hector and his wife?” Jim smiled faintly and stroked his fingertips along Artie’s inner thigh. “I’ll pass. Let’s just stay on the train.”

 

“In that case… “ Artie stroked the back of Jim’s neck. “… we should decorate.”

 

“Holly and ivy?” Jim rubbed his cheek against Artie’s leg. “Mistletoe?”

 

Artie smiled. “All the trimmings, I think. It’s rare enough that we find ourselves able to spend Christmas together.” He shook his head happily, as though he could barely believe their good fortune. “Anything in particular that you want to do?”

 

Jim smiled before running his tongue leisurely up the underside of Artie’s shaft. “This.” He wrapped his hand around Artie’s fully erect cock, amazed at his partner’s sexual vitality.

 

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” Artie said, thrusting helplessly into Jim’s hand, “but it seems likely that you’ll eventually tire of sucking my cock.”

 

“Or you’ll tire of having your cock sucked.” Jim rolled away to recline on his back and caught Artie’s hand in his own.

 

“Eventually, perhaps,” Artie said, a smile in his voice before he brought Jim’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “I love you, Jim. I bless my good fortune every day that you’re in my life.”

 

“It took you long enough to say it,” Jim said without rancor, his eyes closed as he lay back, completely relaxed. He rubbed his free hand down his belly and then distractedly over his own erection. “You had your way with me less than an hour after you met me, but it took you six years—and a six month separation—to get you to confess that you loved me.”

 

“Maybe I wasn’t sure that you were ready to hear it.” Artie pressed his lips against Jim’s fingertips, but then he opened his mouth and tenderly sucked each finger in turn.

 

The gentle suction made Jim groan softly—when Artie suckled at a finger, it felt as though that digit were connected by some magic wire directly to Jim’s cock—and he wrapped his hand around his own erection and thrust gently into it.

 

“Shift up here,” Artie ordered in a voice that was rough with desire. “I want to suck you just like you sucked me.”

 

“Wouldn’t you rather fuck me?” Jim tilted his head up and met Artie’s gaze, and he smiled at the lust he saw there. “I thought so.”

 

“Christ, Jim,” Artie grumbled, rolling onto his side before scrambling to his knees, “I fucked you half the night.” But the way he clutched at his cock and the wild look in his eyes gave the lie to his grumbling. “Hell, my cock is practically raw from the fucking I gave you. Isn’t your ass—?”

 

“I want more of you,” Jim said in a low growl. “Before last night, we were apart for nearly ten days, don’t you remember?”

 

“And I want all of you,” Artie said roughly. But when he straddled Jim’s prone body, the kiss he left on Jim’s mouth was featherlight.

 

Jim’s lust mingled with tenderness at the light touch of Artie’s lips, and he wrapped one hand around the back of Artie’s neck to hold him there and the kiss became more urgently, their eyes squeezed shut and their erections rubbing together lightly.

 

Jim opened his eyes again and gazed into the warm brown of Artie’s eyes. “I love you, Artemus Gordon,” he murmured, his lips still against Artie’s, and then he could barely breathe as Artie lowered his full weight onto Jim’s chest.

 

Or maybe it was the weight of the love he bore for Artie that made it difficult to breathe. 

 

“I know you love me.” Artie lifted himself on one hand, away from Jim, but still close enough that their breath still mingled, and his smile turned up the corners of his kiss-swollen lips. He palmed Jim’s cheek and then pressed his fingertips to Jim’s lips, his eyes glowing. “Now… roll over on your belly, so I can fuck your brains out.”  

 

Jim kissed Artie’s fingertips before pushing away and obediently rolling onto his stomach.  He grabbed a pillow, thrusting it under his hips to raise them, and spread his thighs wantonly.

 

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Artie crooned as he pushed his fingers between Jim’s asscheeks to open them. He lowered his mouth and pushed his tongue into Jim’s puckered opening.

 

“Artie,” he growled, his cheek pressed against the mattress, but when Artie replaced his tongue with roughly invading fingers, he groaned and clutched the bars of the headboard.

 

“Not yet,” Artie murmured, his lips brushing against Jim’s hip. “Don’t spend yet, my darling, darling boy.”

 

Jim’s next groan was one of frustration as Artie’s fingers were withdrawn and his beloved weight and heat went away, leaving Jim shivering; he hadn’t noticed before how chilly the compartment was this morning. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to wait patiently. Artie wouldn’t be gone long; he’d moved no more than a foot away.

 

And then Artie was back, thrusting his fingers, slick and warm with oil, into Jim, unerringly finding the right place and Jim cried out helplessly. “Artie!”

 

“Not yet,” Artie said again, but his questing fingers arrowed such maddening pleasure through Jim that it was nearly impossible to obey. “I want to see if...”

 

“…if you can drive me insane…” Jim gasped. “ …insane with pleasure.”

 

“That would be merely a by-product,” Artie said, and his voice was oddly serious, as though he were conducting an experiment rather than making love to Jim.

 

Jim realized that he had caught his lip between his teeth, and since he didn’t really want to cause permanent damage, he grabbed another pillow and bit down on a corner of it.

 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Artie said. The fingers of one hand continued to invade Jim, but he pressed the other palm against the small of Jim’s back, as though he were gentling a horse as he saddled him and put the bit in his mouth.

 

When Artie’s thumb joined his fingers inside of Jim, Jim’s cry was muffled against the pillow. Even if he’d wanted Artie to stop, he wouldn’t have been able to tell him. His body was nearly paralyzed with pleasure, and his thighs spread as wide as he could manage, opening himself up to whatever Artie desired.

 

“I’d seen this done before…” Artie’s voice was low and intimate, and although the words were clinical, the tone was almost a growl, sexual enough to send shivers up Jim’s spine—at least, it would have, if Artie’s manipulation of Jim’s body hadn’t already melted him into a helpless pool of sexual heat. “…but it never seemed all that exciting…” He pressed down hard on the small of Jim’s back and shifted the hand that was pressed against Jim’s opening, and Jim realized that Artie’s entire fist was inside of him.

 

“Not until now.”

 

Jim made a noise that would have been a yelp if it hadn’t been muffled against the pillow.

 

“Come up on your hands and knees,” Artie urged, and Jim was faintly surprised that he had enough strength to obey.

 

“Now then…” Artie’s voice trailed away, he clenched his fist inside of Jim, and Jim cried out again. No pillow to muffle the sound this time, and he was damn glad that Artie had sound-proofed their compartment. Otherwise, they’d probably hear Jim’s cries all over the trainyard.

 

“Christ, Jim,” Artie growled in his ear, “I never expected…” Kneeling behind Jim, his fist pushing up inside Jim’s gut, he wrapped his free arm around Jim’s waist and captured Jim’s cock in his large, warm hand. His cock pushed against the back of Jim’s thigh. “Are you ready?”

 

“For what?” Jim’s voice came out in a croak, and he squeezed his eyes shut again, willing himself to relax, giving himself completely and trustingly to his lover.

 

“For what?” Artie chuckled in Jim’s ear—and it was an astonishingly dirty chuckle. “Oh, you know what, sugar.”

 

When Artie thrust this time, he drove his fist deep, astonishing Jim; this was like nothing he’d ever felt before, nor even imagined. Over and over, Artie thrust, pushing in deeper, until he had buried his arm nearly up to his elbow. White-hot pain seared Jim’s gut, but when he dared to breathe, the pain morphed into pleasure and it wasn’t long before he spilled his seed in Artie’s hand.

 

“Jim,” Artie gasped in his ear, his hot seed splashing the back of Jim’s thigh. “Christ, Jim.”

 

Jim flattened himself on the bed and the pleasure continued to roll through him. Artie pulled his fist out of Jim’s gut, and Jim wondered why it didn’t hurt as it had going in, and then he slept, a faint smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

 

* * * * *

 

Jim woke up shivering and was oddly annoyed to discover himself alone. The sun filtered through the curtains and when he rolled out of bed, pain stabbed him in the gut. Remembering their rather unorthodox coitus, he glanced at the sheets, expecting to see blood pooled where he’d slept, but the sheets were marked only with the usual emissions from their lovemaking.

 

Another morning Jim might have walked naked from the sleeping compartment to the washroom but, feeling oddly fragile, he wrapped a dressing gown around himself. On his way to the toilet, he discovered Artie filling the tub with steaming water. “Save some water for me, won’t you?” Jim said in a polite voice.

 

“Are you all right, Jim?”

 

Jim didn’t pause to answer and he shut the door to the water closet behind him.  When he emerged, Artie was already in the tub. “There’s room for you, you know.” His voice was an unfailingly polite as Jim’s had been, and his expression was neutral.

 

The hot water was irresistible; Jim climbed in facing Artie and their legs tangled together.

 

“You all right?” Artie asked again, and he grasped Jim’s left foot and began to massage the sole.

 

“I’m fine, Artie.” Jim closed his eyes and relaxed back in the bath. Artie knew very well that there were few things Jim loved more than a foot rub. “How long did I sleep?”

 

“Not long.” There was a smile in Artie’s voice. “Otherwise, I’d already be bathed and starting breakfast.” 

 

“It’s been a while,” Jim said softly, “since you knocked me out like that.” Artie’s strong fingers felt wonderful as they pushed against his Achilles tendon and the spot that always got sore on the bottom of his heel, and he told Artie so.

 

“Just doing my job,” Artie said before he started to work on Jim’s other foot.

 

“Mmm?” Jim opened his eyes and smiled lazily at his partner. “Have you always considered making love to me as one of the perks of your job?”

 

“That’s not what I said.” Artie pushed the fingers of his right hand between Jim’s toes and the heel against the ball of Jim’s feet. His other hand massaged Jim’s heel, and altogether it felt marvelous. “Taking care of you is my job. As far as Washington is concerned, it’s your responsibility to risk your neck going after an assortment of bad guys and it’s my responsibility to bring you out in one piece.”

 

Jim wrapped one hand around Artie’s right hand, causing him to look up at Jim with a quizzical expression. “I don’t think Colonel Richmond sees it that way,” Jim said. “We’re partners, and we’re equals.” He shrugged. “I realize that I habitually take risks that some might consider foolhardy, and you end up rescuing me more often than you’d care to, but…” He frowned. “As far as taking care of me, you end up doing most of the cooking, but I thought you liked it that way. If you’d prefer—” 

 

“Did I sound like I was complaining?” Artie’s expression was placid, and he tilted his head slightly to one side, studying Jim. “Besides, I don’t take care of you only because it’s my responsibility assigned by the Secret Service. I’m on furlough, remember?”

 

 “And we’re going to spend this entire furlough in this bathtub?” Jim released Artie’s hand and leaned over for the shampoo.

 

“Before, you said you wanted to spend the entire furlough in bed.”

 

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Jim smiled as he began to soap his hair. “Doesn’t matter—as long as we spend it together.”

 

Artie grabbed the shampoo from Jim and began washing his own hair. “I’m in full agreement on that, James.  Once we get cleaned up, I’ll get breakfast going.”

 

“Coffee would be good.”

 

“Fine, I’ll start by making coffee.”

 

* * * * *

 

“What did you mean,” Jim asked as he poured out two cups of coffee, “when you said you’d seen it done before?”

 

Artie put a plateful of eggs and bacon in front of Jim and another at his own place at the table. “Wait a minute, I forgot the toast.” He disappeared into the galley. “Toast,” he said when he returned and put the plate in the center of the table, but he still didn’t sit down. “I’m having some brandy. How about you?”

 

Jim shook his head. “My coffee’s fine as is.” And he picked up his cup and took a sip. He was curiously unhungry, but that was probably due to the fact they’d dined so late the night before. Instead of picking up his fork, he sat back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and watched his partner move around the parlor.

 

“You don’t like your eggs this morning?” Artie studied Jim anxiously as he finally seated himself. “Would you prefer something else?”

 

“Of course not,” Jim said in response to the second question. He wouldn’t dream of putting Artie to any extra trouble, and he guiltily picked up his fork and began to eat. “Thank you, Artie, my eggs are just right.” Once he started eating, he discovered that he was hungry.

 

Artie doctored his coffee with the brandy more generously than usual, and he drank it down before he picked up a piece of toast. “Are you feeling all right, Jim?” His anxious gaze was back. “If I hurt you--”

 

“I’m fine.” Jim smiled reassuringly. “I am a little sore, but it was worth it.” He took a piece of toast and spread it with jam. “What we did—when you put your hand entirely inside of me—”

 

“It’s called fisting, and I’d seen it done in some of the wilder clubs in New York.” Artie’s tone was matter of fact.

 

Half-amused that they were discussing such matters over breakfast and half-scandalized that Artie had visited such a club, Jim poured himself another cup of coffee; Artie’s cup he filled only half full to accommodate more brandy if he preferred. “But you’ve never done that with anyone else?”

 

Artie looked up, a startled look on his face. “Of course not!”

 

Oddly amused by his lover’s reaction, Jim leaned back in his chair. “If you had told me what you were going to do, I might have objected, but I found it strangely...” He hesitated, unsuccessfully groping for an appropriate word.

 

“You enjoyed it,” Artie said. He put down his fork and reached over to grasp Jim’s hand, a serious expression on his handsome face. “So did I.”

 

Jim looked down at the hand resting in his own. He knew Artie’s hands so well, the hands of an artist and a musician, but it was somewhat disconcerting to think of that hand entirely inside of him. But he remembered how it had felt to be stretched so wide open, as though Artie could crawl entirely inside of him. “I did enjoy it.” He lifted Artie’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. “And I suppose I like the idea that it’s something you’ve never shared with anyone else, but it seems strange that with your sexual history--”

 

“There’s never been anyone else in my life like you,” Artie said seriously. “And I’ve never ‘shared’ any of my previous sexual experiences. I admit that I’ve had plenty of sex and plenty of fun while I was about it, but it’s different with you.” He looked down at their joined hands. “You said you wanted more of me, remember?”

 

“And you said you wanted all of me,” Jim said.

 

“I do.” A long, silent look passed between them before Artie smiled. “This is an awfully serious discussion to have at this hour of the day.”

 

Jim smiled, too. “We can talk instead about how we should spend our furlough.”

 

Artie nodded. “You said you wanted to stay on the train, and we’ll decorate for Christmas.”

 

“A tree?” Jim suggested. “Along with the holly and mistletoe?”

 

“Why not?” Artie released Jim’s hand and picked up his coffee cup to drink from it. “Do you mind if we invite some people over for dinner on Christmas Eve?”

 

Jim glanced around the parlor. “We don’t have much room.”

 

“Just a buffet then.”

 

“Who did you want to invite?”

 

Artie shrugged one shoulder.  “Just some friends. You know that I have several theater friends who live here now.  If you’d like, we can also invite people from the local Secret Service office.”

 

“No thank you to a bunch of Secret Service agents,” Jim said. “I don’t know that they’d be ecstatic to meet your theater friends.”  He paused before adding, “I suppose we should invite Jeremy and his wife.  It’s still oil and water, but—”

 

“You never know,” Artie said. “The most successful parties often occur when you introduce very different people to each other.” He caught Jim’s hand in his own again. “I mainly want to invite my theater friends.” He lifted Jim’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. “I want to show you off to them.”

 

Jim raised a brow at Artie, but he was smiling when he said, “I know flattery when I hear it, Artemus Gordon, and you hardly need to flatter me to get your way.” He squeezed Artie’s hand lightly. “Besides, I’ve met most of them, haven’t I?”

 

“As my partner in the Secret Service,” Artie said, his expression serious, “but now that we’ve agreed to be exclusive—”

 

“You want to introduce me as your…” Jim frowned slightly, unsure of what term he’d prefer to use to describe what they were to each other, but noticing a flicker of doubt in Artie’s eyes, possibly in response to his frown, Jim put a reassuring smile on his face when he added, “Is it really necessary? Hector has known from the beginning that we were lovers, hasn’t he? And people like to talk, so I’ve always assumed that everyone else knew.” He drew Artie’s hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “Lydia knows, of course.”

 

“It doesn’t bother you?” 

 

 Jim shook his head. “Although I’m not planning on having an announcement printed in the New York Times, on the whole, I don’t care what people think of me. Or think of us.” His smile widened before he added, “And I’m rather proud of the fact that I’ve captured the heart of the elusive Artemus Gordon.”

 

Artie smiled then, and he leaned in to kiss Jim’s mouth swiftly before he said, “It’s settled then. If you’ll take charge of the evergreens and the tree to decorate the parlor, I’ll put together my list for the grocer and start inviting people”

 

“How many?” Jim asked, but he released Artie’s hand and stood up without waiting for an answer.  “I don’t really mind having a party on Christmas Eve, but what do you have planned for Christmas Day?” He picked up their breakfast plates and turned to carry them into the galley.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Artie asked, with a grin, his eyes full of mischief, but he sobered before he added, “I was thinking we could invite maybe twenty-five people comfortably for the buffet.”

 

Jim shook his head, but he didn’t protest. It wouldn’t have done much good.  Artie had already moved to the desk and started to write out either his shopping list or his guest list, and he was still at it when Jim had finished cleaning up the dishes and was ready to head out the door.

 

“You’re walking into town?” Artie asked, barely glancing up at Jim.

 

“It’s not far,” Jim said as he put on his hat. “I can’t carry much if I take my horse.  I’ll probably take a carriage back.”

 

“Well, that’s true.” Artie tore off a piece of paper and started writing furiously on the next one. “I just wondered if you’d decided against riding because you were sore.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll give you the satisfaction of an answer to that question,” Jim said, but he was unsuccessful in his attempt to keep his tone severe. “I’ll see you later, Artie.”

 

“Shall we meet for dinner in town?” Artie asked, without bothering to look up at Jim.  

 

“Apparently, you don’t feel like cooking,” Jim said, a teasing tone in his voice.

 

Artie looked up then, a frown on his face. “We’re in San Francisco, Jim. There are so many wonderful restaurants here—”

 

“That we may as well save your cooking for when we’re in Deadwood or someplace else where there’s not a single decent restaurant,” Jim said in a mild tone. “Or for a special occasion.”  He took off his hat and turned it distractedly in his hands. “I meant to ask you, Artie, since when do you need four days of preparation for a dinner party? I’ve seen you throw together a buffet in a matter of hours.”

 

“I’m planning to serve goose, and I’m sure that I need to order it now—the best butchers in town probably have a list of pre-orders an arm’s length long.” Artie leaned back in his chair. “Do you mind getting the evergreen today? I’d like to get the decorations up right now, for us to enjoy, even if we’re not having people over until Christmas Eve.”

 

“My mother never decorated until Christmas Eve,” Jim said.

 

Artie straightened in his chair and focused his gaze solemnly on Jim. “I’m sorry. I never even asked you what you preferred.”

 

Jim shook his head and smiled reassuringly. “No, I don’t actually care. We don’t usually have the opportunity to decorate the Wanderer, and I just happened to think about my mother’s Christmas preparations.”

 

“Tell me if there’s anything that you want,” Artie said; he glanced around the parlor.  “There’s no reason that we have to conform entirely to my ideas.”

“Actually,” Jim said, placing his hat back on his head, “there is a reason: I honestly don’t have any preferences.” He pushed open the door. “Shall we meet at The Palace Hotel for a drink and decide on dinner from there?”

 

Artie smiled. “That sounds like an excellent idea. I’m going to find what decorations we have stored in the back, and then I’ll be heading into town myself. If I can get a pair of tickets for the symphony, would you be interested in joining me for Handel after dinner?”

 

“If we’re going to the symphony, I’ll have to change,” Jim said, “but we may as well take advantage of it while we’re in San Francisco. I know that you miss good music while we’re on assignment.”

 

“And you don’t?” Artie picked up his pen again and returned his gaze to the sheet of paper in front of him. “You’re just indulging me by accompanying me to the symphony and the opera when we have the opportunity?”

 

“Just showing you off, actually,” Jim said and then exited the parlor car before Artie had a chance to answer.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Jim was pleased to discover Christmas trees and wreaths for sale in Union Square.  Just before he’d reached the city center, he’d wondered if he’d be better off riding out into the country to find what he needed. Certainly, he’d pay more by buying the greenery in San Francisco, but the convenience was worth it. Instead of searching all over for the decorations that Artie had requested, Jim wanted some time to shop for Christmas gifts.

 

After tipping a pair of boys generously to take the tree and greenery back to the Wanderer, Jim stopped in a bookstore just off Union Square and found several books to buy.  The owner promised to wrap the books and arrange for delivery, and Jim continued down the street to a jeweler’s shop.

 

As Jim was selecting a pair of cuff links, the door opened to admit a boy whom Jim knew.  “Hello, Mr. West! I’m certainly glad to find you here.”

 

Jim smiled at the boy.  “Hello, Ben.  If your Uncle Jeremy sent you to find me, you can just go back to him and tell him that I’m on furlough.”

 

Ben removed his hat and looked uncertain.  “Although Uncle Jeremy wants to see you, it was actually Mr. Gordon who sent me.  He said you’d probably be up here in Union Square.”

 

“If Mr. Gordon is already there, I’d better join him.  Give me a minute to finish up here.”  Jim looked back at the jeweler.  “The topaz cuff links, I think.  Can you wrap them up for me?”

 

“I can send them over to the train yard,” the jeweler said.  “Your private railcar is the Wanderer, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, it is,” Jim said, mildly surprised that the man was familiar with him and his living arrangements, “but this is a gift for my partner, so I don’t want it to accidentally fall into his hands before Christmas.”

 

“Of course, sir.  Wait just a moment.”  The jeweler took the cufflinks and disappeared into the back room.

 

Jim turned back to Ben.  “Are you out of school for the Christmas holidays?  And your Uncle Jeremy has you working in his office.”

 

“Yes, sir, Mr. West,” Ben said, turning his hat in his two hands.  Despite the nervous gesture, he met Jim’s gaze unwaveringly.  “He says it’s good practice for when I’m old enough to be Secret Service agents like you and Mr. Gordon.”

 

Jim ruffled Ben’s hair affectionately.  “What are you, eleven years old?”

 

“Twelve, sir, in January.”

 

“Well, I suppose that’s old enough to be thinking about what you want to do when you’re grown up.  You’re studying hard in school, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, sir, I am.”

 

As they walked together to the San Francisco federal building, Ben spoke enthusiastically about his schoolwork, and when they parted, Ben to head home for his afternoon chores, Jim knocked on the door to Pike’s office and entered, saying, “Jerry, you seem to be doing a good job of raising your brother’s son.”

 

Pike rose to his feet to greet Jim with a smile.  “Thank you, Jim.  He’s a good boy.”  He came around to shake Jim’s hand.  “Good to see you again.”

 

“Well, I’d say that it was good to see you, too, Jerry,” Jim said, “but I’ll reserve my judgment until I hear why you’ve called us here.”  Jim turned to greet his partner with a smile. “Hi, Artie.”

 

“Hello, Jim.”  Artie was grim-faced, and he didn’t rise from where he was seated.  “I can tell you right now that you probably won’t like it.”

 

“Didn’t you tell Jeremy that we weren’t interested in working through Christmas this year?” Jim said as he dropped into a chair beside his partner.

 

“What makes you think we have a choice?” Artie grumbled.  “Jeremy asked Richmond and Richmond gave his permission for the San Francisco office to shanghai us into a job for them.”

 

Pike sat down and looked from Jim to Artie.  “Our source says that an opium shipment is scheduled to arrive tomorrow night.  What’s interesting about this particular case is that the opium is being paid for with counterfeit money.”

 

Jim frowned at Pike.  “I doubt it’s the first time that has happened.”  He crossed his arms on his chest.  “What’s the plan?  We clue the seller in to the buyer’s intention and hope that their partnership ends with them killing each other?”

 

“I doubt that we’d be that fortunate,” Artie said, rising from his seat to walk over to the window, apparently too nervous to sit still.  “But you get points for creativity, James.”

 

“Why us?” Jim asked.  “Haven’t you got any local agents that can do this?”

 

“This is the first time I’ve ever heard you try to turn down an assignment,” Artie said with a lift of an eyebrow.

 

“You and Artemus are familiar with our main target, the opium dealer.  He gave the two of you trouble a couple of years back.” Pike picked up a file from his desk and extended it toward Jim. “When you were protecting the Hungarian Crown Prince in Washington. It’s in the file: Cranston kidnapped and tried to kill you both.”

 

“Robert Cranston?” Jim flicked a glance over at Artie, who was staring out the window, with a distracted expression on his face.  Jim took the file from Pike. “Out on parole already?”

 

Pike shook his head, a grim look on his face. “His sentence was reduced due to a plea bargain.”

 

“Plea bargain?” Jim’s eyes widened. “Artie, I thought you spent several days testifying at his trial?”

 

“That was Gerber’s trial.” Artie turned from the window and frowned at Jim. “The man who shot you.”

 

“Yes, I remember Gerber,” Jim said, “but that was an impulsive act. In fact, I consider Cranston a lot more dangerous.”

 

“You certainly could argue that an opium smuggler is more dangerous,” Pike said mildly.

 

“Damn it, Artie,” Jim said, pushing his hand through his hair, “do you realize how much time I spent building a case against him for opium smuggling here in San Francisco?”

 

“He wasn’t being charged with opium smuggling in that court in Washington, James.” Artie crossed the room to take the file out of  Jim’s hands. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but--”

 

“I remember very well that Cranston caught us in a compromising position, but that doesn’t justify—”

 

“Jesus, Jim!” Artie exclaimed glancing over at Pike.

 

“Jerry knows we’re lovers,” Jim said calmly. “I wish you would have discussed it with me before you pulled strings to keep Cranston out of court.”

 

Pike looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything.

 

“Regardless of what Jeremy knows about us,” Artie said angrily, “I don’t appreciate having you question my ethics in front of someone else.” He thrust the file back toward Jim. “As it happens, I had nothing to do with the decision to avoid a trial.” Visibly calming himself, he turned to Pike. “You may want to add to that file, Jeremy, that Cranston and I were business partners before the War, along with Hector Gonzalez.  We sold guns to both sides.  Grant gave me and my partners a pardon in exchange for agreeing to spy for the Union Army.  Cranston and Hector agreed to supply guns only to the Union.”

 

“And you and Mr. Gonzalez remain friends, but your friendship with Cranston ended after the War.”  Pike nodded.  “Yes, I know all about this from Colonel Richmond.”

 

A faint smile quirked up one side of Artie’s mouth.  “And you decided to trust me with this assignment in spite of those facts?”

 

“Why not?  Grant, Richmond, and I all trust you,” Pike said with a smile.  “And Jim, too, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Jim said quickly.  He glanced over at Artie.  “Artie, I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

 

“You did more than imply, but you don’t need to apologize,” Artie said with a shake of  his head, his expression oddly unreadable.  “If matters had worked out differently, I would have been sorely tempted to do just about anything that was necessary to keep him from embarrassing us.”

 

“No need for that,” Pike said quickly.  “Who would listen to a felon’s ravings?  They’d put it down as a way to get back at you for arresting him.”

 

Artie rubbed the base of his neck, presumably in response to a tension headache.  “At any rate, the sooner we get going on this, the sooner we’ll be done.”  He looked sideways at Jim and smiled faintly.  “After all, you’ve got a lot of decorating to finish up.  Your tree was delivered to the train right before I left; I’m impressed that you found one that fit so perfectly in the corner of the parlor.”

 

“I’m not the mathematician you are, Artie,” Jim said, reassured by his partner’s bantering tone, “but I have some basic training in spatial geometry.”  He stood up with a smile, eager to escape Pike’s office, eager for a quick private moment with his partner.  “I’ll cover the docks, and see if I can find some advance information before the shipment arrives.”

 

Artie nodded, the distracted expression returning to his face, and he dropped into the chair that Jim had vacated to flip through the pages of the file.  “That’s fine, Jim.  I’m going to nose around in Chinatown to see what I can find out.”  His eyes on the file, he added, “The delivery is tomorrow evening, but I’d sure like to ferret out Cranston before then.”

 

Jim nodded his agreement, but he didn’t say anything. 

 

“If we don’t have any luck before then,” Artie said, “we should meet back on the train in twenty-four hours.  We can regroup and—”

 

“No, Artie, I can’t see wasting any time up until the shipment is scheduled to get in.  If neither of us apprehend Cranston, we should meet back on the train after the opium comes in.”  He glanced at the clock in the corner of Pike’s office.  “I’ll see you back on the train in thirty-six hours.”

Artie compressed his lips.  “Or sooner,” he said firmly.

 

“Sooner,” Jim agreed.  “If we’re lucky.”

     

* * * * *

 

In fact, they weren’t lucky.  Jim spent a fruitless night moving from one waterfront bar to the next, questioning both thugs and sympathetic streetwalkers.  At the Neptune bar, he thought he’d struck pay dirt when he found himself in the middle of a bar-clearing brawl, but it turned out that the rowdies he was tilting with were a disorganized gang of malcontents who remembered his last visit to San Francisco less than fondly.  He hoped that Artie was having better luck on his end of the investigation, and an hour before sunrise, he caught himself  looking around furtively, vainly anticipating his partner’s appearance in some frowsy disguise.  

 

Daybreak sent most of the denizens of the waterfront into hiding to sleep off their drink, but Jim continued his investigation.  At sunrise, he spoke with fishermen before they headed out into San Francisco Bay or the deeper, colder waters of the Pacific Ocean, and as daylight burned off the morning fog, he targeted dockworkers.  His job, he reflected as he paused to purchase a cup of hot but barely drinkable coffee, was rarely as exciting as he imagined it would be when he’d first joined the Service. 

 

Jim almost wished that he’d agreed to meet Artie on the train at mid-day.  It would be a relief to take a break, clean up and change his clothes, possibly eat a palatable lunch.  It was too faint praise for Artie’s cooking to say that anything he put together would be better than what Jim could choose from in this part of town.

 

Just as the sun was going down, Jim’s luck changed; he recognized one of the men he’d seen with Robert Cranston back in Virginia three years before.  Certainly, it was possible that the thug was no longer in Cranston’s employ, but it was too much of a coincidence for the man to be there on other business when Cranston was expected.

 

“I’m looking for Cranston,” Jim announced, shoving his gun against the small of the man’s back.

 

“What a coincidence,” said a voice that Jim hadn’t really expected to recognize.  “I’m looking for you as well, Mr. West.”  And a small caliber gun pressed against Jim’s ribcage.  “Actually, I would prefer Artemus Gordon.”  The gun dug into his ribs.  “Where is he?”

 

Although Jim was surprised and disappointed to hear that his partner hadn’t been in contact with Cranston, he kept his face expressionless.  “Artemus Who?”

 

“Don’t play the fool with me, West,” Cranston said testily.  “I’m very much aware of the fact that you and Artemus are still partnered.”  He laughed a mirthless laugh.  “Last year, when Artemus left you for the fleshly joys of Washington City, I entertained hope that he could be managed with you out of the picture, but—”

 

“You know better than to think that Artie would ever work with you again, no matter what his status is with the Secret Service.”  In a swift movement, Jim turned and wrested the gun from Cranston’s hand with his left hand and karate-chopped Cranston’s confederate with his right hand, sending him sprawling in the street.  He trained Cranston’s own gun on him, and his voice was cool when he said, “Hector Gonzalez won’t work with you either, and he has less reason that Artie to distrust you.”

 

“Who said anything about working together?” Cranston asked.  He glanced down at the man sprawled on the ground and shook his head in disgust, before raising his eyes to meet Jim’s gaze.  “Perhaps you’ll be happy to know that I’m no longer interested in killing you, Mr. West.”

 

Jim lowered the gun he’d been holding on Cranston.  “In that case,” he said, “maybe I should give you your gun back.”  However, instead of handing over the firearm, he shoved it into his inner pocket.  “You’re making this too easy for me, Cranston.”  He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and dangled them in front of Cranston’s face.  “But I may as well take advantage of your uncharacteristically cooperative attitude.  You’re under arrest.”

 

“For what?”  Cranston looked disdainfully at the handcuffs.  “Don’t I have to commit a crime before you can arrest me?”

 

“You must be aware that threatening a government agent is against the law,” Jim said as he closed the handcuffs on Cranston’s wrists. 

 

“Seems to me that you were the one who started this.”  Cranston looked entirely unfazed, and he was suspiciously docile as Jim led him down the street.  “You haven’t told me why you were looking for me.”

 

Jim glanced at the man, but he wasn’t particularly interested in conversation with the man.  Rather, he planned to take Cranston into custody, get him safely off the street before he could do worse.  It was odd, really, how uncomfortable Cranston made him.

 

“No, I’ve decided,” Cranston said while Jim was leading him away.  “I’m arranging Artemus Gordon’s death, but I’ll leave you alive.”  He nodded and smiled cruelly.  “We both know that would hurt you far worse.”

 

“Artemus Gordon is a hard man to kill,” Jim said with a calm that was entirely feigned.  “And I don’t see how his death would benefit you.  You’re going to prison on the strength of my testimony.”  When Cranston merely laughed in response, it took all of Jim’s self-control to prevent himself from sending the man sprawling in the dirt.  He knew that Cranston was only part of the plot.  Even with him in custody, the opium deal could still be made, and it was Jim’s duty to prevent that.

 

And Jim West always did his duty.  No matter how uneasy Cranston’s threats made him feel.

 

 * * * *

 

The opium seized, the counterfeit money and plates recovered, and Cranston in custody, Jim returned to the Wanderer.  He was tired but relieved to have concluded the mission successfully.  It occurred to him to be annoyed that Artie had never appeared on the docks to help Jim wrap up the case, but he assumed that his partner had been working behind the scenes in Chinatown, and it had been those efforts that drove their quarry into the metaphorical net Jim had set up.

 

Jim was smiling when he walked in the door; he could smell dinner cooking.  Although he was a couple of hours late and had missed their agreed-upon meeting time, if Artie nagged him about it, he’d respond with his own grievances about having to handle the opium, the counterfeit money and Cranston without Artie’s assistance.  They’d have dinner, finish putting up the Christmas decorations,  and both be so relieved to find the other home safe that they’d forgive and forget.

 

“Artie!” Jim called as he closed the door behind him.  The tree he’d chosen leaned against the mantel of the faux hearth, surrounded by boxes of ribbon and bows.

 

Jim tossed his hat on the nearest couch.  “Artie?”  He stripped off his jacket and grimaced at his disgraceful appearance.  Before he sat down to dinner, he needed to clean up and change into a fresh suit.  Instead of walking into the galley to greet his partner, Jim went forward to their sleeping quarters.  He’d be pleased to see Artie under any circumstances, but he preferred to be more presentable when he kissed Artie hello.

 

Jim half-expected Artie to materialize in their quarters before he’d shaved and dressed, but there was no sign of him.  Buttoning his shirt and tucking it in while he walked, Jim checked Artie’s lab and the stable area.

 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was delaying his return to the galley.  He had an uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck.  Although he’d scoffed at Cranston’s threats, Jim somehow knew he wouldn’t find his partner in the galley.

 

No, Jim told himself, Cranston hadn’t gotten at Artie.  His partner had been here to start dinner? Cranston had been in Jim’s custody for nearly a full day.  Although he had people working for him, all of them had been occupied with the opium operation.

 

The galley was deserted.  Dinner smelled marvelous, and Jim had eaten nothing very good in the last forty-eight hours.  But he was too sick with apprehension to even consider eating.

 

“Where the hell are you, Artie?”  Jim slumped against the sink, supporting himself with one hand, trying to think.  Hearing a noise from the parlor, he straightened and pushed himself away.  “Artie?” he said, his voice tight with apprehension as he strode into the parlor. “Where have you...?”  His words trailed away, and he frowned.

 

Instead of Artie, a young woman stood in the doorway, dressed in a plain, blue dress, her long dark hair piled atop her head.  “Who are you?” Jim asked.  “What are you--?”

 

“Mr. West?”  She smiled “I’m Miss Habernathy.”

 

Jim looked at her blankly, but then he nodded. “Mrs. Habernathy is--”

 

“My mother.”  She smiled sadly.  “She isn’t well, but you and Mr. Gordon have always been so kind. She couldn’t say no when he asked her to clean, but I insisted--”

 

“Please tell your mother that I hope she feels better soon.”  Jim wondered if the young woman’s mother had considered the impropriety of her daughter coming to their train alone, particularly at that hour.  “It’s late for you to come here to clean, isn’t it?”

 

Miss Habernathy smiled and shook her head. “I was here this afternoon.  I just came back because I forgot my cloak.”

 

“Of course.”  Jim looked around distractedly and spotted the woman’s cloak draped over one of the couches.  “It’s chilly tonight.  You’ll need it.”  He started to pick it up, but then he paused.  “You said that Mr. Gordon contacted your mother.”  He conjured up a polite smile. “When did you see him?  I expected him to be here and...”  His voice trailed off.

 

“I’m sure he’ll be right along,” she said cheerfully.  “It smells like dinner will be ready soon.”

 

Jim nodded, allowing himself to relax.  Artie must have gone out for a bottle of wine or some such forgotten item.  He looked around the parlor again, somewhat embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed that she’d cleaned.  “You did a fine job.  I’m sorry that I—”  

 

“I’ll put dinner on the table, and you can put up the tree,” Miss Habernathy said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, moving toward the galley without waiting for an answer.

 

Jim shrugged.  Putting up the tree and the decorations gave him a specific purpose and, for the moment, he resolutely pushed his vague fears to the back of his mind as he turned to carry out his assignment.  Inhaling the pine fragrance relaxed him some.  He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d twined red ribbon and bows among evergreen, but he was certainly competent at it, and he was rather proud of how quickly he transformed the parlor.

 

“Well, now, that looks just fine.”  Miss Habernathy stood beside the sideboard, a pleased look on her face.  “I was tempted to do it myself, but Mr. Gordon insisted that I not spoil your fun.”

 

“It does look more like Christmas in here,” Jim said.  He was uncomfortably aware that Miss Habernathy stood under a bundle of mistletoe; he had purposely placed it there with the intention of catching Artie when he poured a post-dinner brandy.  Looking away from the young woman, he started to gather up the empty boxes.  “Just let me take these to the back, and I’ll be right with you.”  He walked past her without glancing her way, but the scent of dinner followed him, and his stomach was growling. 

 

“Where the hell are you, Artie?” Jim said, as he paused to check the stablecar again.  Because they were planning to be in the city for over a week, he’d taken their horses to a nearby stable.  He’d have to stop by after dinner to check on them and promise Dusty a ride in the morning.  Of course, there was no sign of Artie in the stablecar either.

 

After washing up, Jim buttoned on a vest, tied his cravat, and selected a jacket from his wardrobe.  He didn’t expect Miss Habernathy to stay to dinner, but Artie and he generally dressed as though they were expecting company—even if it was just the two of them sitting down to their evening meal.  

 

When Jim re-entered the parlor, the table was set for two, with the steaming serving dishes in the center and candles ablaze.  He walked around restlessly, pulling the drapes closed.  “When you saw Mr. Gordon this evening, did he say when he would return?” Jim asked.  “I wouldn’t have expected him to be gone so long after preparing dinner.”

 

“Oh, no,” Miss Habernathy said, “I didn’t see him this evening, and I prepared dinner.”

 

“You prepared dinner?” Jim swung around to stare at her.  “Why would you do that?”  His stomach clenched, hunger replaced by fear.  “When did you last see Mr. Gordon?”

 

Miss Habernathy looked more nervous than surprised or offended by Jim’s question.  Perhaps, he decided, she was guiltily aware of the impropriety of her actions.  “I spoke with Mr. Gordon yesterday morning, and he mentioned that you were both busy with an assignment.”  She distractedly straightened a fork on the snowy white tablecloth.  “He said that you’d be home this evening, and I thought…”  Flushing, she allowed her voice to trail away.  “I know you probably have all sorts of women in cities all over the United States, Mr. West, but I thought that if you knew what a fine cook I was—”

 

“Miss Habernathy!”  Jim’s voice was sharper than he’d intended, and when her shy, eager expression crumpled to distress and tears appeared in her eyes, he was instantly contrite.  “You misunderstand, Miss,” he said.  “I’m not angry with you.  I’m concerned about my partner.  I assumed that you had seen him and spoken with him.”

 

“Not since yesterday,” she said.  She’d regained some of her composure, but now she was blushing.  “You’ve a right to be angry with me, Mr. West.  I had no right to…”  Her gaze dropped to the floor, but then she lifted her chin and met his eyes fearlessly.  “Please don’t tell my mother or Mr. Gordon that I had some odd idea of turning your head.  It was a completely ridiculous thought.  But you must be used to women doing that sort of thing all the time.  I only thought that…”  She walked across the parlor to retrieve her cloak.  “You can’t imagine what it’s like for a woman here in San Francisco,” she said as she wrapped the cloak around her.  “I’m neither high society, nor a loose woman, but I want a man just like any other woman does.”  She tilted her head to one side.  “And my mother always said what a nice man you were.”

 

“I’ll see you home,” Jim said, uncomfortable but sympathetic.  It crossed his mind that if he weren’t in love with Artie…  Well, Miss Habernathy was far more attractive than many of the pretty but empty-minded woman who flirted with him when he had the misfortune of being corralled into a society party in Washington City.  If he weren’t in love with Artie, he might actually be interested in a woman like this.  But then he frowned.  “Miss Habernathy, when exactly did you speak with Mr. Gordon?”

 

“Yesterday morning.”  She named the time, and Jim bit back a curse.  It had been before he saw Artie at Pike’s office.  For all he knew, Artie had been missing since they parted.  Miss Habernathy cleared her throat.  “You don’t look at all well, Mr. West.  Why don’t you sit down and eat your dinner?  I’m sure Mr. Gordon will be along soon.”

 

Jim wasn’t sure of that at all.  But he had no intention of discussing the matter with this woman whom he barely knew.  However, he did sit down and pick up a fork.  Even if her cooking wasn’t as good as Artie’s, Jim was hungry, and he’d need his wits about him and all the strength he could muster to go hunting for his missing partner.    

 

* * * * *

 

Jim spent the next two days walking the streets of San Francisco, searching in every dark alley, opium den, or other hidden place that could shelter a low-life capable of kidnapping and/or murdering his partner.  Part of him didn’t believe that Cranston could have gotten to Artie, but another part feared that he’d been too cavalier, too trusting that Artie could take care of himself.  Theirs was a dangerous job.  They’d both been near death too many times to count.

 

He talked to dozens of people, both criminal-types and more trustworthy men and women.  Unbelievably, he turned up not a single clue.  How was it possible that Artemus Gordon could disappear so completely without a trace?

 

“That’s his talent, of course,” Timothy Callahan, a fellow Secret Service agent, insisted.  Jim leaned in Pike’s doorway, grim and exhausted, but he feared that if he sat down for a moment, he might fall asleep.

 

“If Artemus wants to disappear, there’s no one who could find him,” Callahan said.  “I knew him during the War, and right after the fall of Vicksburg, he slipped off to Paris.”  Callahan shrugged.  “Grant was furious when he came back, but Artemus insisted that no harm had been done.  There wasn’t much going on, and he’d done as much as anyone for the war effort.  He felt like he deserved to have some fun and—”

 

“I didn’t know my partner during the War,” Jim said, struggling to keep his tone of voice even, but he couldn’t help scowling at the older, rotund man, “but I see your point.  However, this is hardly the same thing.  He wouldn’t go off on a pleasure trip in the middle of an assignment without telling me.”  He glanced over at Pike.  “I didn’t tell you this before, Jerry, but Cranston made a threat against Artie’s life.”

 

“No surprise there, Jim.”  Pike looked sympathetic.  “But I promise you that Cranston has been safely in jail since you picked him up.  Also, you apprehended all of his men, didn’t you?”  He shook his head.  “Callahan is right, of course.  No one is better than Artemus at disappearing into a disguise.  I’m not saying that he’s off on some pleasure trip, but—”

 

“I always recognize him,” Jim insisted.  

 

“Only because you know him so well,” Pike said, “and I imagine that he tips himself off to you in some subtle way.”  He tapped his fingers on his desk.  “Certainly, if you saw him, you’d recognize him, but that doesn’t help the rest of us to find him.”

 

“We’ve talked to practically everyone in San Francisco,” Callahan said, “but there’s probably plenty who have seen him that didn’t recognize him.”  He fished a picture of Artie out of his pocket and displayed it to Jim.  It was oddly chilling that it was a picture that Jim appeared in as well, but he’d been cut away.  His hand was on Artie’s shoulder, but the rest of him was nowhere to be seen. 

 

Ignoring Jim’s frown, Callahan said, “We’ve been showing this around, but he doesn’t look like this right now, does he?  Did he confide to you what disguise he’d chosen?”

 

Jim swallowed an angry retort and turned away to hide the fear in his eyes.  “No, I don’t know what disguise he was in.”

 

There was silence behind Jim and then Pike cleared his throat.  “Of course, we’ll continue to look for him, but—”

 

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Callahan said, his tone of voice marginally quieter, more sympathetic.  “You have to understand, West, that—”

 

“That you want to be with your families.”  Jim turned again, fixing a reasonably friendly look on his face.  “I’m grateful for all of your help, of course.”  He put his hand out to Pike.  “Thank you, Jerry.”  He forced himself to shake Callahan’s hand, too.  “Thank you, too, Agent Callahan.” 

 

“Go home, Jim, and get some rest,” Pike said firmly.  “You won’t do him any good by killing yourself with overwork.”

 

Ignoring Pike’s comment, Jim settled his hat back onto his head and turned toward the door.  “Merry Christmas to you both.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Good evening, James.”  Hector Gonzalez walked into his study, hand outstretched to grip Jim’s.  He looked weary and as worried as Jim felt.  “There’s been no sign of Artemus?”

 

“No.”  Jim took Hector’s hand and grasped it firmly.  “Agent Callahan is of the opinion that he’s disappeared deliberately.”

 

Hector lifted an eyebrow.  “Oh, really?”  He compressed his lips.  “And what if he has?”

 

“I just want him alive and well,” Jim said firmly.  He drew his hand away from Hector’s and turned away.  “But I need to know, Hector.”

 

“Believe me,” Hector said calmly, “if I knew anything, I would share it with you.”  He rested a hand on Jim’s shoulder.  “I know that you’ve been combing the streets of San Francisco.  I’ve had my people doing the same.”  After squeezing lightly, he released Jim’s shoulder.  “I’ll have my driver take you back to the trainyard, so you can get some rest.  You look dead on your feet.”

 

“I can’t.  I have to find him.  He may be—”

 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Hector asked, “that Artemus might have returned to the train?  And he thinks that you’re missing?”  

 

Jim whirled to stare at Hector.  “If you know something—?”

 

“I told you, James,” Hector said patiently, “if I’d heard from him, I would have let you know.”  He smiled reassuringly.  “This is Artemus Gordon we’re talking about, remember?  I don’t know many men who can take better care of themselves, do you?”

 

“No, of course…”  Jim jammed his hat back on his head and turned away.  “Good night, Hector.”  He walked out of the study, ignoring Hector when he called after him; he didn’t need a ride home in Hector’s carriage.

 

* * * * *

 

The parlor of the Wanderer was dark when Jim walked in, and his hands shook a bit as he lit the lamp.  Just exhaustion, really.  After being awake for four days, he was beyond nerves and worry for Artie.  There was no sign that his partner had returned, no messages on the telegraph, and he was numb as he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey.

 

The parlor was heavily scented with pine from the trees and wreath, and Jim glanced up, silently toasting the mistletoe that would most likely go unused.  After tossing back the whiskey, he turned down the lamp and stretched out on the couch, fully clothed, including his boots.  He drew his gun and thrust it under the pillow.  When he slept, he slept with his hand resting lightly on the gun.

 

* * * * *

 

A loud banging at the door woke Jim, and he was wide awake as soon as he was upright.  His head ached, as well as the hand that closed around his gun.  Cautiously, he moved toward the door, but then he shook his head and holstered his gun.  If someone were at the door to threaten harm, he would hardly be likely to knock on the door.

 

The middle-aged, bearded man in the doorway was dressed in a bloody apron, a dead and de-feathered goose clutched in each hand.  He was accompanied by a boy of about ten years, who was carrying a box of food that was twice as large as his head.

 

“Mr. Gordon?”  The man shook his head.  “You must be Mr. West.  Merry Christmas, sir.  Mr. Gordon ordered—”

 

“Mr. Gordon isn’t here.”  Jim’s voice was raspy, and he cleared his throat, but he held the door wide to invite the butcher and his son in.  “You may as well put all that in the galley.”  He didn’t know what he was going to do with all that food, but Artie had ordered the food, and times being what they were, Jim wasn’t going to send the pair away unpaid.  He pushed his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, trying to put it to rights without much success.  “What do I owe you for all this?”    

 

“Mr. Gordon already paid, sir.”

 

Jim nodded, but he searched in his pocket for a handful of silver and gave several coins to the man and to the boy.  “Merry Christmas,” he said, dredging up a smile as he led them back to the front parlor and let them out the door.

 

Alone again, Jim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around the parlor critically.  The elegantly appointed room glowed in the early morning sunlight; even his mother would have been pleased at the effect of the gleaming wood and crystal, enhanced by the green of the Christmas tree and wreaths and the red of the bows and ribbons.

 

Jim had three choices: he could resume his futile search for his partner, he could crawl into his lonely bed in the sleeping compartment, pulling the covers up over himself, or he could start preparing for Artie’s Christmas Eve party.  The last was perhaps the most unlikely one that he would normally have chosen, but he pulled off his soiled jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and went into the galley.  A pot of coffee was his first priority.

 

* * * * *

 

About midday, Jim looked up from his labors to discover Jeremy Pike standing in the doorway to the galley.  “Hello, Jerry,” he said calmly.

 

“What’s all this?”  Pike gestured around the galley with a slightly resentful look on his face.  “Why didn’t you tell me that Artemus came home?  I know that there’s probably a lot to do for your party this evening, but you should have let me know that I could call off the search.”

 

Jim shook his head.  “Artie isn’t home.”  He wiped his hands on a towel.  “I’ve looked everywhere.  I don’t know what else to do.”

 

“You’ve given up on him?”  Pike frowned and crossed his arms on his chest.  “That doesn’t sound like the Jim West I know.”

 

 “I suppose not.  But I asked myself what Artie would do in this situation.”  Jim turned away and resumed kneading his bread dough.  “Before you assigned us to Cranston’s opium smuggling case, he invited all his friends to dinner tonight.  I couldn’t let him down.”  He glanced over his shoulder.  “Are you and Caroline coming?”

 

“Jim…”  Pike was silent for a moment, but then he chuckled.  “Well, why not?”  He stripped off his jacket and draped it over the doorknob and started rolling up his sleeves.  “What can I do to help?”

 

Jim smiled faintly.  “C’mon, Jerry, you can’t cook any better than I can.”

 

“There must be silver to polish, and I can set up the plates for the buffet,” Pike said.

 

* * * * *

 

An hour before the guests were due to arrive, Pike ushered two young ladies into the galley.  “Your hired help for the evening, Jim.”  He gestured over his shoulder.  “And you just received a delivery from a very good tailor on Post Street.

 

Jim looked up from the sauce that he was stirring.  The ladies were both blond and buxom, their stylized uniforms designed to show off their physical attributes to best advantage.  Presumably, Artie had hired them after visiting the butcher and the grocer.  “Good evening, ladies.”  He smiled and added, “Can one of you take over stirring this sauce?  I need to take a few moments to change into evening clothes.”

 

“Of course, sir.”  The one on the right stepped forward to take the spoon from his hand, and the other began to lift the lids from the other pots to check on the food.  “Go right ahead, sir.  We’ll start putting the food on the table.”

 

“Wonderful.  Thank you.” Jim said before he followed Pike out of the galley.  Placing his hand on the other agent’s arm, he added, “You should go home to get ready, shouldn’t you?”

 

Pike nodded.  “Caroline will be wondering what became of me.”

 

“No, she’ll just assume that you’ve been consumed by government work.” 

 

The delivery from the tailor was draped over the couch, and Pike whistled appreciatively as Jim unzipped the cloth covering and held up a jet-black evening suit with an unfashionably short jacket.  “My Christmas gift, I assume.”  A shadow passed over Jim’s face, but he dredged up a smile.  “Not what I would have chosen, but Artie has an impeccable sense of style.”

 

“I’m sure he could hardly wait to see you in it.”  Pike was smiling, too, his smile as false as Jim’s felt.  He turned away abruptly to reclaim his hat and coat.  “Looks like you have it under control.”

 

Jim glanced around the parlor at the crystal glassware that sparkled in the fading daylight, the fine china stacked up on the table, the large silver bowl that held ice and bottles of champagne, and the dozens of candles already lit against the coming dusk.  “Thank you, Jerry.  I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

 

“I doubt that,” Pike said over his shoulder, but his smile widened.  “I’ll see you soon, Jim.”

 

* * * * *

 

Jim studied his reflection in the mirror.  Despite hard-living and dearth of sleep in the last several days, he looked good.  Looking at him, no one would guess how empty he felt inside.  He smoothed his fingertips over the lapels of the expensively tailored suit, knowing that Artie had probably stroked his fingers over this fabric, too, before he’d chosen it.  Jim had visited enough tailors with Artie to know his partner’s usual procedure.  Artie was as exacting when commissioning Jim’s suit as he was about his own wardrobe. 

 

Closing his eyes briefly, Jim allowed himself a moment of pure grief.  This evening would be difficult, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t cancelled the party.  Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he intended it as a sort of wake, a tribute to Artie’s memory.  An evening of fine food and champagne and well-dressed men and women was a fitting tribute. 

 

Smoothing back his already perfectly coiffed hair, Jim turned his back on his reflection and headed for the parlor.

 

His timing was perfect.  Hector was at the door with Lydia, a woman who was still beautiful after all these years.  Both Jim and Artie had enjoyed her favors, but she had been nearly the first to recognize that they were lovers, and she had been warmly approving when she’d realized the truth.  Jim wondered why Hector hadn’t brought his wife, but he wouldn’t have dreamed have asking that question.

 

“Hello, James,” Lydia said, kissing his cheek.  “You look wonderful, as always.”  She slid her hand around his waist to embrace him, and that hand moved discreetly down to briefly caress his ass. 

 

“So do you, Lydia.”  Jim kissed her cheek, too, inhaling her perfume.  Despite her sophisticated appearance, she wore lily of the valley, a light scent that he was fond of.  “Life has been treating you kindly?”

 

She smiled at him.  “Very.”  A slight frown pinched her forehead, and she lowered her voice to say, “Hector told me about Artemus.  You know that…”

 

Jim shook his head slightly and smiled bravely.  “He’s merely late arriving home.”  Some impulse made him gesture around the room and add, “If champagne and good food won’t bring him home, I don’t know what will.”

 

And, somehow, this assertion set the tone for the evening.

 

Hector and Lydia must have somehow spread the word, because everyone that Jim greeted that evening acted as if Artie were merely fashionably and amusingly late to his own party.  As the champagne flowed and the food was consumed, people traded stories of other parties—in Paris, in New York, and in New Orleans—where Artie was the gracious host pouring the champagne and spreading his smiles and laughter among his guests.

 

Jim smiled graciously, but he felt oddly shy and tongue-tied as he and the two girls refilled champagne glasses and piled food on the guests’ plates.  He shook hands and traded cheek-grazing kisses, but the lump of grief in his throat prevented him from saying much more than “Merry Christmas” and “You look marvelous” to Artie’s gathered friends.

 

In fact, Jim was leaning against the sideboard sipping a glass of champagne—he’d eaten a few bites of goose and stuffing but hadn’t had an appetite for much else—and Hector was telling a long, involved story about a dinner party in Washington City—one that Jim hadn’t attended—when the back door to the parlor car opened, and Artie entered.

 

Jim nearly dropped his glass of champagne, and the rest of the party reacted with similar surprise: initially shocked silence, followed by laughter and exclamations of pleasure.

 

But it was Lydia who crossed the room first to greet him with a loud kiss on the cheek.  “We should have known, Artemus Gordon!  Who else would have the gall to show up late to his own wake?”

 

Artie, not looking much the worse for wear for having disappeared for several days, grinned at her and kissed her back.  “Well, I only hope that you saved me some champagne.”  After that, the guests crowded around to greet him.

 

For a moment, Jim waited patiently on the periphery of the crowd, but then, after pausing to tell Hector where he was going, he left the parlor to draw a bath and put out Artie’s evening suit.             

 

Standing in their quarters, Jim glanced up at his reflection in the mirror.  Because of the steam from the hot water, he could barely see himself, but he was disconcerted to see how composed he looked.  He should have been over the moon with joy; instead, he clenched his fist at his right side, inexplicably annoyed with his partner.

 

Therefore, instead of waiting for Artie to make his way back to their sleeping compartment, he closed the door behind him and went down the corridor to the galley.

 

One of the serving girls looked up when he walked in.  “Mr. West, we should carve the second goose and put it out on the table.”

 

“Thank you,” Jim said.  “Otherwise, is there plenty of food?”

 

“Yes, plenty.” She smiled a brilliant smile—she appeared to be enjoying herself immensely.  “Don’t worry, sir.  It’s a wonderful party.”

 

Jim returned the smile—he hadn’t realized that he looked worried.  “I’m grateful to you both.  I’m not sure that I could have handled all of this on my own.”  If it had been a sit-down dinner, he might have taken the goose out to the table to carve, but instead he carved it in the kitchen and laid it out on a serving tray.  He was preparing to take the tray out to the parlor room when the door to the galley opened, and Artie walked in.

 

“Everything under control?” Artie asked in a cheerful voice.  He’d bathed quickly and changed into his evening suit, and his hair was still slightly damp.  “You’ve done a beautiful job, girls,” he added, gesturing toward the parlor from which the sounds of merriment issued.

 

“Hello, Mr. Gordon,” the more outgoing of the two said.  “Actually, Mr. West did most of the cooking before we arrived.  We’ve just been keeping the table stocked.”

 

“And refilling champagne glasses,” Jim added.  He glanced down at the platter in his hand.  “I should—”

 

“I’ll take that, Mr. West,” the girl said, and she took it away from him and proceeded out into the parlor.

 

Alone with his partner, Jim was inexplicably tongue-tied.  He turned away and began to stack used plates in the sink.  “Did you get something to eat?”

 

“Not yet,” Artie said.  “I had to say hello to everyone, and then I took a quick bath.”  He stayed near the door, making no effort to approach Jim.  “Nice-looking girls,” he added.  “Are they intended to be my Christmas gift or yours?” 

 

Jim glanced up sharply, but his voice was level as he said, “As I understood it, they were hired merely to help out with serving at your Christmas Eve party.”

 

“My party?” Artie echoed before turning on his heel to walk out, saying over his shoulder, “Looks like you didn’t need me one bit for this party.”

 

“Dammit, Artie…” Jim said softly, but he was guiltily aware that Artie had every right to say what he’d said.  Appearances were very much against Jim.  He bitterly regretted going ahead with the party, but it was too late now.  Shaking his head, he followed Artie out into the parlor, determined to put up a good front for their guests.

  

* * * *

 

The party, now that Artie had arrived, was a huge success.  Jim and the waitresses continued to refill champagne glasses and heap additional food on their guests’ plates, but Artie brought out his violin and his guitar for Hector to play and someone had brought his own violin and everyone gathered around the trio of musicians to sing Christmas carols. Although Jim enjoyed the music and had a decent singing voice himself, he hung back.  Now, he felt a little breathless as he watched his partner: proud of his healthy good looks and his musical talent, immensely relieved that he was home, but disconcerted by Artie’s earlier bitterness.  He also felt strangely out of place in his own home as Artie reveled in the company of his actor friends.

 

“Thank god he’s home!” Pike said, clapping Jim on the back with a grin.  “Did he tell you where he’d disappeared to?”

 

Jim dredged up a smile.  “No, we didn’t have time to talk, not with a parlor full of guests.”

 

“You’ll have plenty of time later.”  Pike put down a half-empty glass of champagne.  “Honestly, I was feeling a twinge of guilt about calling you two in on this opium smuggling investigation.”

 

“Not guilty enough!” Caroline Pike accused, slipping her arm through her husband’s and smiling at Jim.  “He insisted that he had no choice, but I was furious with Jeremy for nearly ruining your holiday.”  She put her free hand on Jim’s arm and leaned in to kiss his cheek.  “I’m so relieved for you, James,” she murmured in his ear.  “Now that Artemus is safely home, you’ll have a wonderful holiday.”  Stepping away, she glanced at her husband.  “Thank you for inviting us, but we really should be going.”

 

Pike and his wife waved good-bye to Artie, too, but Artie was too busy holding court among his friends to notice, and they left after wishing Jim, “Merry Christmas.  Pass on a good wish to Artemus, won’t you?”

 

Jim nodded and wished them a Merry Christmas as well.  The party gave no sign of being about to wind down, but rather than plunge back into the merriment, Jim began to pick up empty plates to carry them out to the galley.  The more clean-up he did now, the less he would have to contend with once everyone was gone.  

 

* * * * *

 

“Take some of this food with you,” Jim said to the blonder of the two women—he was embarrassed that he’d never caught their names, but he’d been too distracted to care much when they’d arrived and they had all been too busy since then.

 

Artie walked into the galley with the other woman. “You girls have worked hard this evening.  Let’s just get you home, and Mr. West and I can finish cleaning this up.”

 

“Good idea.”  Jim forced a smile and handled over the platter of food he’d prepared.  “Mr. Gordon and I appreciate all your hard work.”

 

The women murmured a token protest, but the eagerness with which they accepted the food caused Jim to suspect that without it, they might not have had much to eat for Christmas dinner.  No matter how things turned out with Artie, he knew he was lucky to have a good job, food, and a place to sleep.

“I’ll get them a carriage home, and I’ll be back to help you.”  Artie still wasn’t looking at Jim.

 

“There’s money in the desk to pay them,” Jim said, keeping his voice as neutral as Artie’s was, but he remembered to pitch his voice with more enthusiasm when he added, “Merry Christmas, ladies.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. West!” they responded enthusiastically before Artie ushered them out, and Jim’s smile faded as he turned back to the business of cleaning up.

 

Jim considered being annoyed that Artie had left him to do the clean-up, but he was actually too tired to feel much of anything.  He worked mechanically, washing up the last of the dishes and putting them away.  The galley was too small to leave cluttered.  As he put away the last plate, he glanced around to be sure that he’d left Artie’s galley as tidy as possible.  He knew that he was already in hot water with his partner for going ahead with the party when he didn’t know whether Artie was dead or alive.  He didn’t really need to draw additional ire for leaving a mess.

 

Artie hadn’t returned by the time Jim finished up in the galley, and Jim moved into the parlor and poured himself a glass of the leftover champagne, wondering if the women were earning extra Christmas money from his partner.  He didn’t like the idea that Artie would demonstrate his pique by blatantly cheating on him, and he liked even less that his money was paying for it. 

 

Still, Jim thought as he sipped his champagne and moved around the parlor straightening the sofa cushions and retrieving stray napkins and glassware, he understood why Artie was hurt and fell the need to hurt Jim back.

 

When the door finally opened to admit Artie, Jim went back to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey.  A stronger drink may not be the best idea, but he needed something to do with his hands and a champagne glass seemed the wrong prop for the conversation they were about to have.  He realized that his hands were shaking.  Exhaustion mostly.  He’d only slept a couple of hours in the last three days, but it was also nervousness.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Jim said with feigned calmness.

 

“It took me longer than I expected to get a carriage, but I wasn’t gone long enough that you had reason to think I wasn’t coming back,” Artie said in a pleasant tone, but Jim knew his partner and he recognized a dangerous look in the eyes he loved so well.

 

“That’s not what I mean,” Jim said, resisting the urge to snap at Artie.  “I meant that when I came home two days ago after successfully completing our mission, you weren’t—”

 

“Oh, I was here at the time we agreed to meet,” Artie said in a clipped voice.  “You were the one who wasn’t here.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Jim said, “I know that I missed our agreed upon meeting back here, but I had to wrap up some loose ends.  I was two hours late, but I hoped that you would be waiting.”

 

“I did wait,” Artie said, his voice roughening, “but you were more than two hours late.”  He shook his head.  “Then I went looking for you.”

 

“I went looking for you,” Jim said.

 

Artie raised an eyebrow at Jim.  “Looks like you didn’t spend much time at it.  The Christmas decorations are lovely, but—”

 

Jim looked away from Artie.  “I thought you had gone out again.  I decorated for Christmas while I waited for you.”  His gaze returned to Artie’s.  “Once I realized that you hadn’t been home, I spent the next two days and nights visiting every dark alley and every opium den in the city.  I talked to every sonofabitch I could find.” He lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug.  “No one had seen you.  Your disguise was too good.”

 

Artie’s eyes flicked away from Jim.  “I suppose that—”

 

“Tim Callahan told me that I’d never be able to trace you because of your disguise.”  Jim gripped his free hand into a fist at his side.  “Not one goddamn trace, Artemus.”  His voice was still calm despite the misery that churned in his belly.  “I suppose you have a right to be angry with me.  I must have given up.  Why else did I come back here sometime around dawn this morning?   When I came back to the train, hoping that you’d be here—well, there was no reason for me to think you’d be here.” He glanced down at the whiskey in his hand.  “I suppose that I drank down more of this than was prudent at the point and fell asleep on the couch fully clothed.”  He looked up again.  “The grocer woke me up to deliver the goose and the rest of the food you’d ordered.  By then, it was too late to cancel the party.  I had no choice but to take over for you and start cooking.”

 

Artie’s eyes widened, his surprise the first emotion that had shown on his face since he entered the parlor.  “You did all this?”  His hand swept over the parlor.  “And prepared all the food?”

 

“What choice did I have?”  Jim put down his whiskey and crossed his arms on his chest.  “Luckily, I found your notebook with all of the recipes you’d planned to use.”

 

“You are lucky,” Artie said with a grudging smile.  “I don’t always use recipes.”

 

“I tried to make it the way you would have.”  Jim’s gaze flicked away from Artie’s face, but then he looked back again.  “I suppose it was a good thing.  It kept me from grieving too much.”

 

Artie’s frown was back.  “You thought I was dead, and you turned our Christmas Eve party into a wake for me?”

 

Jim compressed his lips before he answered.  “Either you were dead, or you’d disappeared.  I thought I’d lost you.  I can’t tell you how it made me feel to be preparing a celebration in your absence for your friends, but I didn’t see any alternative.”

 

“Presumably, you should have been relieved to see me,” Artie said as he crossed the room to select a glass and pour a whiskey for himself.  “But I saw no evidence of that.  Instead of greeting me, you disappeared into the back to lay out my evening suit, and then you calmly went into the galley to carve the goose.”

 

Jim leaned back against the wall and regarded Artie with a sideways gaze.  “What I should have done was push past everyone else, throw my arms around you and sob with relief.”

 

“Instead, you sent Lydia as your proxy?”  Artie raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply without looking at Jim.

 

“It’s not in me,” Jim said softly, “to show my emotions for you in front of other people.”

 

“We’re alone now,” Artie said before turning to refill his glass.

 

“That’s true enough,” Jim said, pushing his glass over in a wordless request for Artie to fill it.  “Unfortunately, you don’t appear to be interested in a show of my emotions right now.  You’re angry with me, and I understand why you feel the way you do.”  He paused and took a breath.  “I don’t know what else to say except that I am sorry.  I love you, you must know that.”

 

“Of course I know that,” Artie said softly.  He put aside both of their glasses and turned to take Jim in his arms.

 

“Artie,” Jim said with a sigh, burying his face in Artie’s neck.  He breathed in deeply, breathed in the scent of his partner’s expensive cologne and the bone-deep smell of his personal musk under that.  He wrapped his arms around his partner and luxuriated in the strength of the arms that wrapped around him. 

 

“I didn’t precisely bring the house down with my show of emotion for you,” Artie said softly in Jim’s ear.

 

“You were angry with me,” Jim said.  “In fact, you showed remarkable restraint.”

 

“I should have been grateful instead of angry.”

 

Jim smiled and turned his head slightly to press his mouth against the side of Artie’s neck.  “I’m glad you’re home.”  He kissed Artie’s collarbone.  “But where the hell were you?”

 

“When you didn’t come home on time,” Artie said in a strangled voice, “I thought you were dead.”

 

“Why would you think I was dead?” Jim said, placing his hands on Artie’s chest and looking up into his face.  “I was looking all over San Francisco for you, but I left a note for your here.  I had the local office looking for you and the San Francisco police force.  I’d spoken with several of your actor friends to let them know I was searching for you, asking them to contact me if they heard anything.”

 

“Let’s just say that Cranston left a fairly convincing trail of evidence.”  Artie took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he added, “I didn’t know that you were looking for me here because I was in Sacramento.”

 

“Standard  procedure dictates that you check in with the local office,” Jim said, despising the petulance in his voice but too weary to find a measure of control.  “If you had bothered with standard procedure, you would have known that I --”

 

“Since when do we care overmuch about standard procedure?” Artie snapped.  “Initially I was frantic with worry for you, but then when I believed you were beyond my help, I was practically numb with grief. But I had to follow the trail to the end.”  He shook his head angrily.  “I only came back because I had nowhere else to go. Then I walk in here and find a party in full swing.”  Brushing past Jim, he poured himself another drink.  “You thought I was dead, did you?  And the way you reacted was to put on your elegant new suit and drink champagne!”

 

Jim grimaced.  “You’re wrong.  I wasn’t celebrating.  I was doing what I thought you would want me to do, entertaining your friends.”  He dropped his gaze.  “But I can imagine how it looked to you, and I am sorry that you were hurt by it.”  Artie opened his mouth to respond, his eyes still dark with anger, but Jim continued speaking in a controlled voice, “Maybe you should consider my point of view.  You were fortunate enough to have some sort of trail to follow, something definite to do.  I thought you were dead, and all I could do was blunder down blind alleys.  I searched everywhere in the city, talked to everyone I could, and I never turned up a single lead.  You and your uncanny ability to disappear into a character—it never occurred to me that it could mean that you could disappear without a trace, voluntarily or involuntarily.”  His throat ached with remembered anguish even though he knew that it was idiotic to feel the same hopeless grief that had shadowed his every step while he’d searched futilely for Artie.

 

Something of that grief must have showed in his eyes, causing Artie to step forward and grasp Jim’s arm.  “No, Jim, you always recognize me, no matter how perfect my disguise.”

 

“Works well,” Jim said with a rueful smile, “if we find ourselves on different sides in the middle of a fight.”  His arm was rigid under Artie’s hand, and he was inexplicably angry with his friend, angry enough to want to throw off Artie’s hand.  When he should be over the moon with joy that the man he loved more than life itself was alive and safe, he was still so angry that he wanted to pull away from him.  “How could I be so foolish that I never considered that your practice of handling your part of the mission in disguise could mean that you could be killed and buried as a different man.  I would never know for certain, never be able to mark your grave and—”

 

“No, Jim,” Artie said in a hushed voice.  “You would know.  Just as I would know.”  His expression was serious, and he shook his head slowly.  “Our connection is too strong.  Cranston wanted me to believe you were lost to me, but somehow I knew you were alive.”  He swallowed and slid his hand down to grasp Jim’s hand.  “And you knew I was alive.”

 

“How could I know?” Jim asked, but then he tightened his grip on Artie’s hand and smiled.  The truth was that he hadn’t given up.  He’d never really believed his partner was dead.

 

“I’m sorry, James. It was wrong for me to be angry with you.”

 

Jim shook his head wordlessly and wrapped his arms around Artie, burrowing his face against Artie’s shoulder.

 

“Jim...”  Artie’s voice was a low murmur as his arms enveloped Jim.  “I was so damned afraid for you.”  He pressed his mouth against Jim’s temple.  “I know that I should trust you to take care of yourself, but—”

 

“And I was afraid for you,” Jim said.

 

Artie’s arms tightened around Jim, and he laughed softly in Jim’s ear.  “We’re both idiots.  We were both too busy being annoyed with each other to realize how relieved we were to see the other alive.”

 

“I know,” Jim said, but he was too tired to laugh.

 

“You look like you’re half-dead on your feet,” Artie said, studying Jim’s face.  “Let’s put you to bed.  Tomorrow is Christmas, and we’ll have all day to celebrate.”

 

 Jim didn’t have the strength to protest, but then he remembered something.  “Wait, Artie.”  He leaned back in Artie’s embrace and pointed up at the ceiling.

 

Artie looked up where he was pointing, and he smiled.  “Mistletoe?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Well, we can’t let that go to waste now, can we?”  Artie gathered Jim close and pressed their lips lightly together.  The kiss was brief: loving, rather than passionate.  “Merry Christmas, James.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Artie.”  Jim kissed him back, but he could barely keep his eyes open, and he broke off the kiss to yawn.  “I’m sorry…”

 

“Don’t be.”  Artie kissed the top of Jim’s head.  “I promise that we’ll make up for it tomorrow morning.”

 

Jim smiled as he watched Artie walk around the parlor extinguishing the candles, before he gladly followed him to their sleeping compartment. 

 

* * * * *

 

Jim woke up cold and alone.  It was an occupational hazard, of course.  Duty caused Jim and Artie to spend far more time apart than together.  Still tired and disoriented, he turned on his side and burrowed his face into Artie’s pillow, inhaling his familiar scent.  An uncomfortable feeling of desolation lingered in his weary brain, and he actually wondered what part of his memories were real and which dreams were.  Had Artie come home in the middle of his Christmas Eve party, or had Jim dreamed it?

 

Flopping on his back, Jim squinted at the sunlight that seeped through the curtains.  It was mid-morning.  He vaguely recalled stripping off his evening finery and sliding under the counterpane.  He vaguely recalled the feel of Artie’s mouth against the back of his neck and Artie’s strong arm looping around his waist.  But then he’d slept like the dead.

 

The door to the compartment creaked open, and Artie appeared in the doorway, and Jim’s confusion gave way to relief and joy.  “Hello, Artie,” he said with a smile.

 

“You’re awake,” Artie said, smiling himself.  He crossed his arms on his chest—he was fully dressed and, in fact, looked like he’d been up for hours.  “I can’t remember the last time you slept like that.  You must have been really tired.”

 

“Probably the combination of exhaustion—I don’t think I slept more than four hours in the last four days—and relief that you were home.”  Jim sat up in bed, stretching and yawning.  “Did I miss breakfast?”

 

“Breakfast?  You’ve practically missed Christmas!”  Artie crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.  “In fact, I brought you breakfast in bed four hours ago.”  He put his right hand out to smooth back Jim’s hair, happy affection lighting up his face.  “But I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

 

Jim grasped Artie’s hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss the palm.  “If she were still alive, my mother would never believe it.  When I was a boy, I was always up before dawn on Christmas Day.”  He put his hand on the back of Artie’s neck and tugged his head closer for a kiss, and Artie obliged willingly.

 

  “Mmm,” Artie murmured against Jim’s lips.  His eyes had drifted shut when they kissed, but now they opened again.  He traced his fingers down Jim’s cheek and over his collarbone and allowed them to linger on Jim’s bare chest.  “You’re in luck,” he said in a voice that was husky with passion.  “I didn’t give your present away.”

 

Jim laughed softly.  “It’s right here, isn’t it?  Tied up with a bow.”  He didn’t wait for an answer before he began unfastening Artie’s cravat and the buttons on his vest and white shirt.  He rubbed his hands over Artie’s bare chest and then dropped them down to the buttons of Artie’s trousers.

 

“Do you want help with that?”  Artie was breathing unsteadily, and his erection was making his trousers uncomfortably tight.

 

“Oh, no,” Jim said in a firm voice.  “I want to open my Christmas present myself.”

 

“Just don’t be all day about it,” Artie said with mock severity.

 

“It’s my Christmas present,” Jim said in a teasing tone before leaning in to kiss Artie’s mouth again.  “I’ll do what I want with it.”

 

“Maybe so,” Artie said.  He yanked down the counterpane, leaving Jim completely exposed.  He ran his hands roughly over Jim’s bare chest.  “But I’m feeling a bit inpatient here.  I unwrapped my Christmas present last night, and I’ve had to be content with merely admiring it for hours.”

 

“Hmm, when you put it that way,” Jim said, gasping softly as Artie’s hand moved lower on his body, “I can understand why you’re so inpatient.”  He looked up at him with an eager smile turning up his lips.  “Get yourself undressed and into this bed as soon as possible.”

 

* * * * *

 

Later, they lay entwined, Artie’s hand stroking slowly down Jim’s back.  Jim’s eyes were closed; he was satiated and content.  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to…” he said softly.

 

“What, Jim?”  There was a smile in Artie’s voice.  “Whatever you want, you know that.  It’s Christmas, after all.”

 

“Did you save my breakfast?”  Jim turned his head slightly to kiss Artie’s shoulder.

 

“Of course not,” Artie said.  “It would be ruined.”

 

“Oh…” 

 

Artie chuckled softly.  “It’s nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.  Wouldn’t you rather have dinner?”

 

“I was hoping for eggs and bacon and pancakes.”

 

“Whatever you want.”

 

Jim opened his eyes and smiled at Artie.  “I already got exactly what I wanted for Christmas.”  He took Artie’s hand and kissed it lightly.  “But now I have a craving for blueberry pancakes.”

 

“And I got exactly what I wanted for Christmas, too.”  Artie heaved himself into a sitting position and gave Jim’s ass a farewell pat.  “Therefore, I’d be more than happy to satisfy your craving for blueberry pancakes.”

 

Jim sat up, too.  “This is the best Christmas ever.”

 

“For me, too.”  Artie leaned in to kiss Jim swiftly.  “Did you want your breakfast in bed?”

 

Jim shook his head.  “Don’t you think I’ve already wasted enough of Christmas in this bed?”

 

“I wouldn’t call what we just did a waste.”  Artie stood up to retrieve his scattered clothing.  “After all, it’s exactly how you said you wanted to spend your furlough.”

 

“You’re right, of course.”  Jim sprawled back on the bed and stretched luxuriously.  “When breakfast is ready, you know where you can find me.”