Chapter 1: The Angst of Giving
Remington paused outside the door to the loft and dug deep for even a touch of the holiday spirit Laura was infused with at this time of the year. It was no secret he held no fondness in his heart for the Christmas holidays, having learned long ago that the genial fat man garbed in red didn't hold all children in the same regard no matter what the myth guaranteed. Far too often in his youth, he'd seen the most foul spirited of children rewarded for their poor behavior, behavior much poorer than his own, while he received not even the lump of proverbial coal in his non-existent stocking. In truth, there were a handful of years where he'd have been grateful for nothing more than a warm place to kip on the eve of the holiday or most thankful for a badly bruised piece of fruit which might have saved his belly from aching. But even those were not to be granted, not to one such as he.
As he'd grown older, and the story of the mythical man had been debunked, his lack of enthusiasm for the holiday had not waned. If anything, it'd grown all the stronger now that he was able to see through the eyes of an adult the absurdity of people touting good will to all men on this singular day. Perhaps good will to all men of some means, but not to the street urchins, the homeless, the derelict, the shut-in… the forgotten. In truth, he'd learn to dodge the holiday as best he could, swaddled as it always was in disappointment. In the years since he'd arrived in LA, in fact, he'd made it a point to light out on his own, schussing some mountain slope here or lying on the warm sands with a long, cool pina colada in hand there, all in attempt to avoid the forced revelry and fruitless hopes.
The first year he'd assumed the mantle of Remington Steele, it had been easy enough to disappear for several days with arousing too many unwanted questions. After all, it wasn't as though he punched a clock or was even relied on for that matter. The second year he'd fretted a bit, given his and Laura's personal involvement, but the worry had been for naught. Every two years it was preordained by her mother and sister that she would trek back East and revel in the bosom of her family, even if she wasn't too keen on doing so. The damnable Cannes Agreement last year had, of course, seen to it that there were no questions about his plans for the holiday. The offices would be closed and except for making an appearance with Laura on New Year's Eve at the annual Crockett shindig where they'd be able to network amongst the rich and famous, there wasn't a single expectation of his involvement in any holiday affairs. It had taken every ounce of his cleverness to rope Laura into a night of the ballet, The Nutcracker, of course, but he didn't see that as a Christmas festivity, but a tradition to them.
But damned if he hadn't found a small part of himself… alright, perhaps a bit more than a 'small' part… actually looking forward to the holiday this year. The Agency would be closed for nearly two full weeks as people focused on hearth and home. As such, he'd begun to imagine sweeping Laura away for a week, maybe even ten days, on a romantic jaunt. Just the two of them, no interruptions, and, at long last, none of that separate but equal nonsense. Ten glorious days where they could concentrate on only themselves and what continued to grow between them. The only question in his mind had been the where of it: Maui, Figi, Switzerland, Tahiti… they had each contended for a bit only to be tossed aside. Finally, recalling a conversation between himself and Walter Gallen, he'd settled on Vail. A private home outside of the village, offered up by Gallen to Remington anytime he might make use of it; a quaint village which would enchant his lady fair; the two of them schussing the slopes together as they'd once hoped to do in Aspen, huddling together by the fire afterward to chase away the chill; and, most important of all, absolute solitude, allowing them to revel in what was truly important: each other. He'd even harbored fantasies that perhaps free of all distractions and immersed solely in one another, he might at last find a way to say those words he felt but which stuck firmly in his throat whenever he considered giving them voice. True, there was a certain enjoyment, from time to time, of her attempts to subtly pry the words from him and he enjoyed her pique in those moments, but truth of the matter was, he'd never said them before and the possibility they wouldn't be exchanged, scared the bloody hell out of him.
It was a marvelous plan, Vail was, one which truly tickled his fancy. He'd even planned how he'd get her to acquiesce, understanding she'd put up an argument purely for principle's sake: A good meal, a little wine, a bit of dancing, kisses shared while basking in the warmth of the fire, his lips trailing down that graceful neck of hers as he whispered the words, 'Steele away with me'. But damned if the woman hadn't turned that plan completely on end. Firstly, by using her own considerable and captivating wiles like a weapon against him until he'd capitulated and agreed to be present for the Agency open house. Then, secondly, only adding insult to injury in his eyes, announcing on the heels of his surrender that she'd be leaving the afternoon of the twenty-sixth for Connecticut. The semi-annual command performance, he'd learned, hadn't been cancelled but merely delayed due to the Agency open house. What's more, she'd be gone until January fourth, as she'd been enlisted to help pack up Frances and Donald's house in preparation for their move to the LA area. With that, he'd watched even the annual New Year's Crocket bash go up in smoke. They'd attended The Nutcracker four nights previously, so at least there had been that. But it wasn't enough, not nearly so. His mood had been swinging from petulant to churlish to disheartened ever since.
A mood not at all improved by his attempts to purchase Laura a Christmas gift. Oh, he'd tried, having gone out a time or two… or six. But the impossibility of it all had thoroughly flummoxed him. In years past he'd bestowed upon her household items: decent cookware to replace the appalling collection of pots and pans stored in her cabinets; a suitable set of wine glasses; and an acceptable set of chef's knives on another. In all their years of association, he'd given her one truly personal gift which held a hint of meaning behind it, the heart locket, and he'd watched as she'd taken the box from him with a good deal of trepidation. She'd thanked him for the gift, had, in fact, seemed truly touched by the sentiment, but he could count on one hand… half of a hand… how many times he'd seen the locket dangling about her neck in the years since.
What to do… what to do. A silk nightgown and bathrobe, as she seemed to enjoy his nighttime attire so? Mmmm, no. Most certainly a gift which could be interpreted wrongly in any number of ways. A frown crinkling her nose as she wondered if the gift meant he was solely interested in their bedroom antics, the gift signifying exactly that. A slight downturn of her lips and dulling of those beautiful brown eyes as she wondered if this meant he was dissatisfied with her current choice of bedtime attire, a bit of her self-confidence dashed. A slight narrowing of her eyes as she chafed that he'd dare to believe he had any input, whatsoever, in determining what she wore and when. A nibble of her lower lip and a tentative thank you, discomfited by the intimacy of the gift. No, none of those potential outcomes would do, not at all. And, truth be told, he enjoyed seeing her delectable form draped in his pajama top, wrapped up in his too long robes, the intimacy implied in such an act inarguable, fairly shouting 'At least here in this moment, I am yours.'
He'd considered a bauble of some kind. A bracelet? A ring? A pair of earrings? To do so would risk receiving the same nervous look which had accompanied his gift of the locket. At the mere thought, those ideas were easily, and regretfully, discarded. Oh, how he wished she'd stop being afraid of allowing her emotions to rein free with him, that she'd stop worrying she was in too deep. Those hesitancies incited his own insecurities. How long until she cuts and run again? he often worried. It was exhausting, the time spent wondering how long it was to be, this time, before she lowered the axe on them again. A gift which expressed, quite tangibly, that his feelings for her went far, far beyond a mere shag, could see him once again taken to his knees. No, he couldn't have that… never that, especially incited by his own hand.
Oh, in his overnight bag were stored a few small presents, one of which had left him scrambling at the last minute to come up with. Gifts he knew she'd enjoy but at the same time hinted that it was he, far and above anyone else, who knew her best. But, still, he'd been determined to find something truly personal which could easily be dismissed as practical should he see a hint of nerves from his perennially skittish partner. He'd finally decided on a watch. An attractive gold watch with a scattering of diamonds across its face. Had even thought he might have its back inscribed… 'As time goes by'… a reminder that she was forever to him his Ilsa. But then had to set that idea aside as well, for there was no hedging away from the intent meant by that inscription. Still, a watch it would be. Personal enough, for he'd selected it with great care and it would be worn upon her person, but still holding a practicality that could be grasped at should that nervous look appear upon her face once more.
All that had remained was to pick it up as he'd already rung up the jeweler and had it set aside for his purchase. But, of course, first there was the Agency open house to attend. Then those bloody Santas had appeared, holding them all hostage. He'd watched as the hours ticked by, the store closed, and his chance to retrieve her gift disappeared.
With a sigh, he hoped now that the few small gifts hidden within his overnight bag coupled with an explanation about the watch would suffice.
Finally, with a lift of his shoulder and having plastered on a smile, he lifted his hand to knock upon the loft door.
Laura nervously smoothed her hands over her attire and wondered for the dozenth time if the outfit would be a hit or a miss. The red and white striped wrap dress tied at the waist and fit snug to the waist where it flared out into a full skirt that stopped short at mid-thigh and had been topped off with a Santa hat sitting upon hair which had been pulled back in the front but left hanging free in back. A pair of white stockings and red stilettos competed the outfit. And underneath? The first piece of truly decadent lingerie that she'd worn for the man. Wilson would have been appalled by the little scrap of lace and silk, proclaiming it 'trashy', but she suspected the man at her door would disagree. Still, she'd once thought such garments would get a rise out of Wilson and she'd been wrong. That she might be misjudging Remington's reaction was enough to set loose a host of butterflies in her stomach.
She gave the loft a final glance. The tree tucked into the alcove, fully lit, presents for him scattered beneath its boughs. White comforter, folded neatly, and topped with a selection of red and white pillows, positioned against the wall by the tree. A bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket, flutes sitting next to it, ready for use. Red and white candles set atop the piano, with their flames dancing. Across the room in yet another alcove, a dining table covered in white linen, set with white plates, accented with red napkins and topped with another pair of lit candles flanking a full poinsettia. A bottle of wine, two wine glasses and covered services provided by Chez Rives waiting on them. Lights turned low, Christmas carols wafting softly from the speakers scattered throughout the loft, completed the ambiance. And, of course, the mistletoe hung just inside the door, a none too subtle hint that she'd planned an evening of Christmas romance for them. He might have a flair for romance, but hoped he'd appreciate the effort she'd put into making this a lovely evening for them.
On her dresser in the bedroom sat three presents for her Irishman, two presents selected with the greatest of care and a great deal of self-doubt, but she'd pulled her gumption out from somewhere deep within and purchased them anyway. The first, and largest gift, had been easy enough: the entire MGM library, as promised during the Shane case. The second, two pairs of pajamas and a robe that could be kept here at the loft, had been enough to set her heart into palpitations, given there was a risk he might interpret them to mean an expectation of time shared together.
And the third gift? A few weeks back he'd begun dressing complementary to herself, whenever the opportunity allowed him to do so. Much to her chagrin – she was a detective, after all – it had gone unnoticed by her. It was only after she'd spent that Thursday night after the wrap of the Shane case at his place that she'd recognized the subtle act of claiming her for himself. Showered and dressed first, as was their custom when they spent the night together, she'd returned to the bedroom with a cup of tea for each of them, only to find him muttering to himself as he picked through the array of ties hanging in his closet. She'd dressed that morning in a pink blouse, a wheat colored skirt, and had her matching blazer lying on the bed. He wore a suit of similar coloring, with white dress shirt beneath and was currently plucking through his ties muttering 'bloody pink' under his breath. In the end, he'd compromised on a maroon tie and kerchief, clearly disgruntled he'd had to settle.
She'd made no mention of what she'd overheard, wagering he'd be embarrassed by such a mention. But she'd stored the memory in her mind, retrieving it with a contented smile on those long, lonely nights spent by herself in her bed, without her Mr. Steele's comforting warmth beside her. Thus, with his wardrobe and hers in mind, she'd made the dreaded shopping trip, willing to sacrifice her loathing of the task in order to accomplish her goal. So now, beneath the tree, ensconced in a carefully wrapped box, were six ties and matching kerchiefs which would allow him the latitude of marrying up any number of pieces of their wardrobe. The very idea made her palms sweat and her eye twitch.
Remington had done his best to hide his disappointment when she'd announced she'd be leaving the day after Christmas for Connecticut, despite her honest assurances it wasn't by choice but command. He'd failed, miserably, but then again, so had she. Even worse, she had a sneaking suspicion he'd been making plans for the holidays for them, only to see them dashed. It wasn't as though she wanted to go to Connecticut. Hell, in her opinion the bi-annual tradition was a sure fire way to cast a pall over the holiday she loved most. And this year? She was more reticent than ever to honor the command, as she'd much prefer to spend it with him, enjoying whatever plans he'd concocted in that mind of his. But there had been no choice. To cancel would mean listening for months as her mother lamented how on earth she managed to raise a daughter with so little concern for family.
The only choice had been to make the most of what little time they'd have together. A good chunk of that stolen by Dancer and gang, she woefully acknowledged to herself. She found that annoyed her more than being held hostage had. Setting the thought aside, she gave the room one final glance, then reached for the handle of the door, while concentrating on setting free the wild and impetuous Laura she'd buried a long, long time ago…