**No warnings except for a few words here and there. This story is a Modern AU, but I tried to keep the characters as I see them in Lancer. It's complete, but still in editing stages, so I'll post every few days. Thanks!
The Gifts
A kitchen without the clangs and thuds of cooking utensils or crockery, without family around the big brown slab of table, was its own particular brand of lonely. Yet give it echoing voices, both male and female, lights turned high and air filled with a spicy scent of gingerbread, the possibilities were endless.
Murdoch Lancer felt the deep shadows of the kitchen thrown out by the meager light over the stove, and beat them back with his own good mood. At five AM it was truly dark, yet he enjoyed the early hour, the intense quietness of the hacienda, the time to gather his thoughts into one neat tidy bundle. A vibrancy pulsed from him, even in his repose by the counter. Excitement brought a flush. He believed in family, and at this time of year—especially at this time of year—when he had finally gotten his family back, there would be time.
But with Christmas Eve tomorrow, there was much still to do, so he set his coffee cup down on the counter and picked up his jacket.
The house seemed to shift and whisper, breaking the silence as he made his way to the back door. "Tradition," he murmured to stucco walls. It would start this year.
L-L-L
Teresa sat on the side of her bed, already dressed for the day but unwilling to move. A tremor raced through her, swift and sharp. She had a sense that something momentous was about to happen, something meant only for her to see. She clenched her fist and the piece of paper crumpled. It was just an address. She didn't know why but ever since her seventeenth birthday she had an urge to find out more about her mother. There'd been love between her father and mother, and unhappiness and all the other things that a whirlwind marriage may bring. Her eyes blurred for a moment as she remembered Dad—her knight in shining armor, white horse and all. When he'd died she was convinced she couldn't survive, but she had, largely through Murdoch. He'd been a father to her, guardian and friend. He had made her laugh again and he had taught her to dream.
She dreamed now. Of her mother.
The paper in her hand teased with secrets. She stared at the bedroom door, feeling the strength of the house seep into her bones. Determined, she got to her feet and stepped into the hallway.
L-L-L
When Johnny jogged to the back porch leading into the kitchen, he'd sweated out most of the consequences of several shots of tequila from the night before. He had to give Murdoch credit, the old man knew how to throw a holiday fandango for the staff. He'd spent a very satisfying sixty minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the heavy bag suspended from the ceiling in the barn and burning away most of the morning-after headache.
Feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and breakfast. He heard music, loud and throaty, wailing from the radio. With a grin, he knew Teresa was up. These little things caught him unawares sometimes—a lot of times, actually. At one point in his life, he knew there would be no more Christmases. Less than a year ago he and his partner were kneeling in the dirt, praying Garza and his men would ultimately miss with their machine guns. Then a head spin later, he was in California on another God-forsaken dirt road only to be picked up by a wary man in used-to-be white Lotus. The old car was a piece of shit, the man wasn't. Other thoughts intruded.
While Johnny wasn't normally a church-going man, he did attend the lighting of the luminarias and mass on Christmas day when he could manage, it was a small enough gesture, a token nod to his mother after all these years. Mamma had been a liar, a virtuoso at lying, it was said. But she was still his mother, and hand in hand with that thought came a yearning to go back to where she spent her last few years.
His grin wavered and dipping his hands into his pockets, he wandered to the kitchen, right into the dueling scents of tomato and jalapenos.
L-L-L
Scott stopped at the entryway to the Great Room. Even after growing up in a house adorned with possessions, he was amazed. He'd never seen so things crammed into one space before. An old clipper ship sailed on the table behind the couch, its mast sagging with age. The rest of the usual items had been shoved into drawers and pushed onto the bookshelves to make room for the season. Knickknacks and painted globes, a wooden sleigh filled with pine cones. Three ceramic snowmen smiled at him from under their top hats. The tree was by the window and even in his muzzy state from last night's party, he could appreciate the branches laden with colorful balls and glass ornaments. The fandango, as Johnny called it, rivaled the more sedate ones in Boston thrown by his grandfather. More than lavish, those affairs were often thrown for show, the networking they provided. In comparison, the one last night had been more of a barn dance—boisterous and populated. But oh so much fun. A sweat-inducing thought occurred to him—had he really tried to dance a flamenco? As his tongue chased around teeth searching for cotton, he looked about the room.
It should have been crowded, messy. But somehow it was neither and he felt as though he had stepped through a magic portal. Much like his arrival at Lancer. He shook his head at the thought of driving past the broken down motorcycle and its dust-covered rider less than a year ago, only to find out said driver was, in fact, his brother. Magic, indeed. Less magical when he questioned Harlan about the whole business later. Scott had refused to be budged from the subject and Harlan had ignored him, using a combination of guile, guilt and tenacity to wheedle him into eventually dropping the matter. Despite this and because he knew about the worried man under the facade, he felt a tug to go east, strong enough to check on flights to Boston.
L-L-L
Scott walked into the kitchen, stopping to admire the festive green and red beribboned jars on the towel. Less festive was Maria's countenance from the stove. If he had to guess, he'd go with frosty. As in Boston in-the-middle-of-February frosty. She finished stirring what was in the large pot and put a lid on the bubbling mass before leaving with a thinly disguised 'hmph' in his direction.
Johnny started to laugh. Even Teresa had a hand over her mouth trying to stifle the chuckles.
"What did I do?"
Teresa managed to choke out her words. "You danced with her niece last night."
"So? I recall you danced with her, too, Johnny."
"Yeah, but apparently I wasn't up to her standards."
Teresa nodded, merriment dancing in her eyes. "You're all she talked about last night and Maria is getting tired of it."
Scott leaned against the counter. "She's nine!"
"Almost thirteen, and you made a real impression on her."
His eyebrows shot up. "Look, I didn't…"
Teresa waved her hand at him. "It's okay. I've known M-2 since she was born"
His temples pounded out a cadence worthy of any high school marching band. "M-2?"
"Mm-hm. Maria Montoya. M-2 or Maria the second. Our Maria being the first. But listen, she's also in love with Chris Martin from Coldplay and Mike at the feed store." Teresa's eyebrows waggled. "I think she has a type."
She took a sip of her tea. "It doesn't mean anything, she'll fall for the next blond guy she sees. Maria the First knows that, too. She's just making sure you know she knows." Teresa looked up, entirely too cheerful. "And now you know."
Scott blinked. He really didn't know anything except for the fact he needed caffeine. Badly. He took a mug from the cupboard and poured. The first taste was sheer bliss. He managed to make his way to the table where Johnny shoved a bowl of congealed eggs at him. He shoved them back.
"Where's Murdoch?"
"He must've left early, the Suburban's gone," said Johnny.
Teresa looked up. "We're still going into town, right?"
He smiled, the first one of the day and reached for the dry toast. "Well, we have to pick up Murdoch's present."
Johnny cleared his throat. "How are we gettin' to town?"
"That is the question, isn't it?"
"We're not takin' your car, unless Teresa wants to sit in the trunk." Johnny put down his cup. "Does that old heap even have a trunk?"
"My wheels are…vintage. And at least it is a car."
"Vintage?" His brother strangled on the word through his laughter.
"We can take Jelly."
He and Johnny turned to look at Teresa. "No." It was said almost in harmony.
Jelly was the most cantankerous piece of automotive mistake that ever came off an assembly line. Among other things, it shimmied from side to side when it reached its limited cruising speed, hence the ignominious name. But they had come to learn Murdoch had a certain fondness for the rust bucket and kept it around for sentimental reasons.
Teresa sat back in her chair and toyed with her cup. "Well then, I can take Jelly and pick up Murdoch's present while you two wait for him to come back home."
"No!" There was that synchronization again.
"I have my license."
Scott let out a sigh. "Murdoch said it was a provisional one and you have to drive with someone who has a California license. That lets me out. Johnny?"
Surprisingly, Johnny shook his head. It was hard to tell if he was bluffing.
"So I guess you're stuck with us for the day." He shuddered. "Driving Jelly."
"Only I'm drivin'." Scott watched Johnny get up to swing the truck keys off the hook by the back door. "I'll warm it up. Fingers crossed the son-of-a-b…gun will start."
Scott nodded to the back of his brother's departing head. After Teresa left to get her things, he was alone.
He gave up the now-cold coffee and toast to stand by the window, whispering a plea for a few rays of sunshine, but instead was met with what Murdoch termed 'typical' for this time of year before Christmas: cool, gray and wet from the fog. In Boston he would have been met with cracking cold, snow and bright sunshine. It seemed a cruel joke not to have at least the sun here in California. Christmas hadn't been his holiday for a number of years, but this December—amidst family after all—he felt an odd sense of displacement, more so than usual.
tbc