Chapter 12: We've Loved These Days

Bullpen, Hoover Building

Friday, 29 October 2018

5 p.m.

As predicted, the last day was routine, with no "doom cases" in the mix. D had taken the whole unit out to lunch, where they'd spent a wonderful hour reminiscing cases, office shenanigans, and friendships. Brian had summed it up nicely when they'd asked him, as the new unit leader, to offer a toast: "We've loved these days."

Myles looked around the Bullpen now, as he picked up the Senior Speakers trophy from his desk; it was very unusual for an agent to have stayed in the same office for 15 years, but he was glad for it. When he looked back to the man he had been, and then at the man he was now, the realization that most of the changes would not have happened if he'd been elsewhere, with other people, hit him hard.

"Not easy saying goodbye, is it?" Dimitrius Gans leaned against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. "But you're going to be a great asset across the river."

"I never thought this day would really come." Myles ran his hand over the file cabinet, the "Closed" sticker pasted on it worn but still vivid. "You made it look easy, my friend. You slid right into Supervisor without much fanfare or stress."

"Yeah, but I had six months to get used to the idea while I was Acting Supervisor," the older man replied, "and I was still in the loop. The only difference was now I was the mouse running that loop."

The Harvard grad chuckled. "And there were days I suspect you would have been more than happy to run the rest of us over with it."

"A few." D walked over and sat down in what had been Bobby's, then Brian's, chair. "Brian's already been in to tell me he'd rather keep you two around than try to find replacements. Lot of candidates, but none he's jumped at yet. I think it'll be easier once you and Jack are officially at the Academy."

"He's a good agent. Bobby trained him well, but then he flew on his own." Myles dropped into his own chair, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head as he propped his feet on the desk. "He deserved his own unit years ago."

"He stayed for the same reason you did," D replied. "You felt you had more to learn here. And, looking back now, I can't say you were wrong. But you need the change now, maybe more than he does. Your experience is invaluable, Myles, to the kids who are coming up. You need to pass the torch and teach every cadet the things you've learned here. And I know you'll find a way to get everyone of them to listen, to some degree."

"Tactics and Strategy… Business Law… Suspect Analysis…" Myles stared at the ceiling briefly. "I have to admit, it's starting to sound far more exciting than I'd thought it would."

"Get you in front of a class, get them involved in a brainstorm session or a scenario, and you'll be in heaven." D toyed with Brian's ever-present string of paper clips. "Even better when you can take them into a field scenario and watch your lessons take root."

Myles' gaze snapped back to him. "How do you know all this stuff? You've never taught."

The older man grinned. "How are your range scores?"

"Oh. That." He grinned as well, a bit warily. "I'm going to walk into that party tonight and find that you saved a target dummy, aren't I?"

D laughed. "No. Though now that you mention it, I wish I had. You were strung so tight that day on the range. But I'd hung around enough that day, and been in a couple of your Hogan's Alley scenarios, to see the potential for a good agent. You just had to get over that last hurdle."

Now he stood. "This place will always be special, Myles. But you have another hurdle waiting for you. Just remember what got you here."

"Front sight, easy trigger, follow through." Myles reached out to shake his hand. "Thank you, D. For everything."

Leland Residence, Adams-Morgan

Friday, 6 p.m.

"Stop fussing, Myles." Elizabeth walked over to the dresser and turned her husband away from the mirror. She ran her hands down over his grey suspenders, then smoothed out his tie. "You'd think this was a medal ceremony at the White House. It's just dinner with friends and family, and a little fun afterward."

"'A little fun,' she says," he quipped, though it came out only half-amused. "Sam and I used to watch the Dean Martin roasts, you know. He's well-versed."

The psychologist laughed. "Well, he's not running the show, love, so you have less to worry about. Just relax and enjoy yourself. It's not every day you celebrate your silver anniversary with the FBI."

Myles pulled her into his arms. "True," he conceded, teasing a tendril of ebony hair out of the elegant twist she'd put up a few minutes ago and curling it around his finger, "but I have this feeling that Jack isn't going to be the one getting the lion's share of 'roasting' tonight."

"You never know." She smiled and kissed him slowly, then pulled back with a sigh. "Time to get going. The girls are all ready, or were before I came looking for you."

He picked up his jacket from the bed and put it on, then entertained her with a comic pirouette. ME LOOK HOWQQ he signed.

Elizabeth laughed. BEAUTIFUL VERY YOU, she replied. ALWAYS SAME-SAME.

District ChopHouse & Brewery, just off the Mall

Friday, 7 p.m.

The District ChopHouse & Brewery was Washington D.C.'s premier steakhouse; located within walking or metro distance of practically every Federal agency building, it boasted more "who's who" names than the Oscars, at least as far as the political movers and shakers.

Sam Leland's name by itself may not have been enough to guarantee them first crack at the banquet facilities, but when you added in the rest of the Leland clan, well-respected in the finance circles, and David Dillingham's granddaughter (her grandfather had been appointed head of the CDC for the last five years of his life, and was a familiar face on the Hill), it was pretty much a given.

Rachel and Sarah's eyes were like saucers, and they couldn't turn their heads fast enough as the family walked into the old building. The restaurant had once housed Washington's Second National Bank, and a little historic interest enhanced the casual elegance reminiscent of the 1940's. Big band jazz, swing and nostalgia favorites played in the background.

"Well." Myles raised a brow at his wife. "Nothing like going out in style. Which senator got his lobbyist luncheon ousted in the name of the FBI?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Sam wouldn't tell me."

The maître'd checked their names against a rather lengthy guest list, then led them downstairs. Sarah suddenly turned to her mother, her expression puzzled. "We're eating in the basement?" she asked, signing it at the same time.

WHYQQ Myles replied, smiling at her. WRONG WHATQQ

"But—" She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her blonde ponytail swinging as she did. Then her eyes narrowed. "Ok, what's going on?"

He laughed. "How would you like to have the party in a for-real bank vault?"

"A what?" Rachel asked.

B-A-N-K-V-A-U-L-T, he fingerspelled, then continued to sign as he spoke. "Not the actual vault itself, but one of the banquet rooms is the old vault room. There's still a smaller vault there, along with a lot of ledgers from the 1940's. That's how they kept track of everyone's money before computers were invented."

"Oh," Rachel replied. "Cool."

There was a murmur of voices coming from the banquet room; the maître'd motioned them toward the area and wished them a good evening. Myles was about to lead the girls in when Jack Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"Myles." Brown eyes showed a combination of laughter and warning. "Let's get out of here before these crazy people get hold of us."

The Harvard grad couldn't help but laugh at his former unit leader's expression. "That bad?"

"You have no idea."

Elizabeth gently took them each by the arm as the girls giggled. "Gentlemen, whatever shenanigans have been planned are for your benefit; you are not allowed to escape. Let's go."

Rachel's eyes widened, and she swung around. DADDYQQ she signed, a smile twitching at her mouth.

Myles glanced up to where she'd been looking and suppressed a groan. "I'll get even with you for this," he murmured in his wife's ear.

"It wasn't me who brought it up," Elizabeth smiled. "Nor was this my idea. Sam just needed to be reminded."

In addition to the banquet tables and the sumptuous buffet, there were blow-ups of several photographs below a large banner that read "On to Quantico, Jack and Myles"— photos of the team over the years, plus a few of the two agents as children.

At the center of the display was a photo of two identical tow-headed boys, perhaps five or six years old; one with a yellow, hand-colored paper plate perched jauntily on his head, and the other covered in what appeared to be randomly scrunched and gathered tan washcloths. They were grinning from the confines of a red plastic swimming pool, which had been decorated to look like a cereal bowl. White fabric, with more washcloths and paper plates, was attached to the pool, and suspenders for each of the boys attached the "bowl" to them.

Tara walked over to him, a gleeful smirk on her face. She gave him a big hug, then giggled as she looked up at him. "So, who's Wheaties and who's bananas? Sam hasn't told me yet."

Myles tipped his nose up in a classically characteristic pose. "Fittingly, I was the fiber and he was the fruit. And that stays between us until—"

"Daddy's the cereal!"

Rachel's voice stopped everyone cold. She'd been looking at the picture the whole time, so there was no way she saw him tell Tara; he had no idea how she'd figured it out. Heads turned, and laughter erupted.

"So much for what I believe is my last remaining secret," he sighed, slipping an arm around his wife's waist. "Is this what I have to look forward to all evening?"

She laughed. "I promise you will enjoy yourself. Only a little of it is mortifying."

"Yeah, Myles," Tara added as they wandered toward one of the tables. "Just that picture… and, of course, your 'Italian Beach Boy' video."

He stopped and stared down at her. "You wouldn't." The only response he got was a sweet smile; he shook his head in amused resignation. "What am I saying? Of course you would."

"Sam wanted to do a sequel, if that makes you feel any better," she grinned.

Elizabeth laughed at that. "I've never even seen the first one. That doesn't even seem fair, since it was the Coffee Club just after that bachelor dinner where you and I first met, love."

"Just think of it as a dramatization of that afternoon on the beach in Monaco," Myles replied ruefully, his face flushing scarlet. "It won't come as so much of a shock then."

The psychologist started laughing even harder. "Oh, oh dear…"

He was rescued from any further immediate abuse by a deep voice ringing over the conversations, as well as a flickering of the lights for those who were Deaf.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Ted Garrett, leaning on a cane but still as intimidating as ever, smiled evenly. "My, that sounded way too official for this gathering." He turned slightly to make sure that Brian Rhodes, who was interpreting, had caught up. "We just wanted to let you know that they've finished setting up the buffet, and the sooner we eat, the sooner the accolades, and the roastings, can begin."

Myles shook his head as Jack nudged him again. "I have never seen a group of people move so fast," the Harvard grad commented as lines rapidly formed. "One would think that dinner isn't the most-anticipated portion of the evening."

"We can still sneak out, while they're distracted," the shorter man whispered.

Myles laughed. "My wife would kill me. If I can endure it, so can you. And the food here is worth it."

Tara rolled her eyes as she listened to her husband behind her. Sam was doing his level best to completely bewilder the catering assistants, and thoroughly entertaining his nieces and "nephew" in the process.

"Hey. Was this cooked in olive oil? Yeah, would you check? It's kind of important." The attendant pursed his lips and with a nod, disappeared through a doorway. "Now, Zach. The trick is to keep going. Get some if you want, yeah. Okay. Now, see? He's coming back. Shh."

The attendant nodded. "Yes, sir. The potatoes were cooked in olive oil."

"What?" Sam looked bewildered. "Olive oil? What are you talking about? Oh...you're probably looking for my brother. He's over there. Highly allergic to soy, terribly so. It's alright, happens all the time."

The girls giggled at the attendant's confused stare, and Zach stifled laughter with one hand when the man moved away.

"Now. Can any of you tell me what this is?" Sam pointed to a dark green dish, probably made with spinach. When none of his faithful followers answered, he sang out loudly, "GROSS! Let's go on."

Elizabeth, who was in front of Tara, leaned over to her. "It's a good thing Logan and Joseph are in the other line with Connie. My sister would kill me if they learned the 'Sam-speak' as well."

Tara shook her head, smiling. "I think this is one of the few reasons I'm glad we didn't have kids of our own. One Sam in the house most times is plenty."

They were interrupted by a query. "Tara? Are these clams? Or scallops? I can never tell. I hate fancy food. Isn't scallop like a wall molding? Are they supposed to be edible?" He grinned as a caterer whispered to him. "Oh. It's crab? Really? It doesn't look like crab. Does it feel like crab?" Sam looked down the buffet line at her, and poked the offending pan.

"Just don't eat it, then, Sam." Tara advised with a grin.

Sam put some on his plate anyway, and then looked down at the trio on his heels. "Now, if Gregory were here, we'd be having all kinds of gourmet food. Hamburgers. Fries. Alfredo. The whole shibang, the works. Pizza, even. Myles never lets me plan out parties, and I can't figure out why."

Tara was about to rescue the poor caterers when another voice sounded from behind Zachary.

"Now there's what I like to see. A man who's not afraid to let someone know when the cuisine is confusing." Howie Fines was right behind Jack and Sue's son.

Sam gave a brief bow, and helped Rachel keep her plate from tipping on his way back up. "I knew there had to be someone else who appreciated a good meat-lovers. Man. I'm so glad I'm not vegan anymore."

Sarah tugged on her Uncle's sleeve. "What's vegan?"

"It's a kind of alien. They only eat tofu and peanut butter." Sam continued moving down the buffet line.

"Wow." Zach's eyes were wide. "You were a alien, Uncle Sam? Cool!"

"It would explain a great deal." Tara took her husband's arm, her expression one of affectionate exasperation. "Why don't we go sit down before they kick us out of here?"

"They can't do that." Sam confided quietly, though he followed her. "I own the manager."

Behind Howie, Jack was chuckling in spite of himself. "Some things never change."

"One can only wonder what life would have been like had Sam been Sue's snitch, instead of Howie," Myles commented dryly.

The snitch turned, half-munching on a raw carrot as he replied. "I hope you're not insinuating that he's as humorous as me, Myles, buddy. Because I can tell you, Howie Fines has done some fine— heh, Fines!— snitch work in his day, and kept it lively as possible."

After Jack translated for Sue, she laughed as well. "I think 'lively' would have been the catch-word for either of them."

Having been to enough of these sort of gatherings, Myles opted to bypass the steak and potato; instead, he had piled his plate with an assortment of smaller items. As one of the "guests of honor," he knew he'd spend a fair amount of dinner responding to voices and touches, like the one on his shoulder right now. He turned, and caught Sue's bright smile out of the corner of his eye as she, too, recognized the person in front of them.

"Troy!" Myles stood and signed HI at the same time, his own smile warm and genuine. Ever since the car-thief-turned-artist had given City at Night to him as a gift, Myles had closely followed Troy Meyer's work thru his schooling and beyond, though he'd never let on. Capturing nationwide popularity very quickly among both the Deaf Culture and the mainstream art world, Troy had left DC about eight years ago for New York and a very lucrative gallery showing. The Leland home was graced with several of his paintings, though Myles hadn't seen him since then.

GOOD-I-SEE-YOU, Troy signed, then caught Myles' hand in a still-crushing grip. YOU F-B-I 2-5 YEARS, YOU ALIVE YOU, BIG PROBLEMS YOU NO, IMPRESSED ME YES.

The deaf man's brows popped up when Myles not only didn't turn to Sue for a translation, but smoothly replied, FUNNY FUNNY YOU. SAME YOU. YOU TROUBLE PUSH-ASIDE NOW FOCUS ART SUCEED. He signed "succeed" in a bigger space than normal, and raised his brows to indicate the level of Troy's career. IMPRESSED SAME-SAME. YOUR WIFE? He indicated the redhead at Troy's side.

YES. SORRY. MY WIFE, J-I-L-L-I-A-N. THIS M-Y-L-E-S L-E-L-A-N-D THIRD.

The woman smiled, signing as she spoke. "Nice to meet you. Troy's been telling me about the lot of you." She responded to the several sets of raised brows. "I'm a CODA; hearing, but culturally Deaf. Troy and I met at his opening in Philadelphia."

They made introductions all around, and Elizabeth offered the two remaining chairs at their table to the couple. Troy had barely sat down when he tapped Myles' arm, unable to stand it anymore. SIGN YOU GOOD! he stated. WHY LEARN? S-U-E PRESSURE YOU?

Myles laughed and aimed a grin at Sue before replying. TRY BULLY SHE, BUT KNOW BETTER. SHE HURT NO ONE SHE Then he indicated Rachel, who had greeted them politely but was currently busy with a rather messy serving of ribs. R-A-C-H-E-L, MY DAUGHTER, DEAF. M-E-N-I-N-G-I-T-I-S SHE HAVE FOUR YEARS-OLD. SHE 9-0, 9-5 D-B NOW. He shifted his body slightly as he indicated her right and left decibel levels. CULTURE LEARN NOW FOUR YEARS PAST.

Troy shook his head, smiling. ME EXPECT YOU SIGN SKILL? NOT. SURPRISE ME. Then he laughed. NO. ME SHOCKED ME. GOOD FATHER YOU INVOLVED HER CULTURE.

They all chatted for a few minutes, catching up and covering the Cultural "life history" for Jillian. Several "past adventures" were shared, from when Troy first met the team, and soon the artist's wife was laughing.

"I knew when I met him that there must be some colorful things in his past," she said and signed. "he was far too 'normal' for most of the art scene I'd experienced."

WHY LOVE ME YES? he replied with a smirk.

Jillian wrinkled her nose at him, but her brown eyes were filled with affection. YES, HAVE CHILD ME AGREE ALSO. She patted her stomach and smiled.

YOU PREGNANT? Sue signed. WONDERFUL-WONDERFUL.

Troy was beaming. BABY COME NEXT M-A-Y. PHILA WE BUY HOUSE. ME WORK STUDIO OVER GARAGE. He suddenly tapped Myles again. REMEMBER NOW ME. ANOTHER PAINTING I-GIVE-YOU UNLESS NO MORE YOU WANT.

NEVER, Myles replied. BUY SEVERAL YOUR PAINTINGS PAST YEARS. I HONOR I.

Troy got up for a moment and went to the doorway; he retrieved not one, but two wrapped canvases, and returned to the table. One of them he handed to Jack; the other to Myles.

WAIT, he signed, EXPLAIN ME FIRST. CALL L-I-Z, S-U-E BEFORE PAINT. He thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to in a way they'd understand. Then he turned to his wife and signed EXPLAIN YOU PLEASE. THEM UNDERSTAND ME WANT.

Jillian smiled and nodded. "Troy wanted to do a subject that would reflect your years at the Bureau; a theme, if you will. Sue and Elizabeth gave him the same idea, so he did two versions of it."

She'd been signing as she spoke, and he patted her shoulder in thanks when she finished. HOPE YOU LIKE, he signed to the men.

Myles pulled the brown paper off the canvas he held, and drew in a breath; Elizabeth leaned over his shoulder so she could see, then looked at Troy with tears in her eyes and signed PERFECT, BEAUTIFUL. Sue was doing the same with the painting Jack had unwrapped. Each agent turned their canvas around, and a soft chorus of ohhs went around the table.

Two medieval knights— the one in Jack's painting on foot, and the one in Myles' on a white steed— stared off their respective canvases at some unseen danger. Only the shadow of a scaly tail was visible in a lower corner. Each knight had one hand on the jeweled hilt of his sword and, in the other, a flaming torch held high. The expressions on their faces, hidden only slightly behind their chain-mail hoods, captured both confidence and trepidation. Mottled backgrounds encompassed the blue and gold of the Bureau seal.

WOW, Jack managed.

Jillian tilted her head toward the agents, then touched her husband's shoulder. NOTICE NOW ME. she signed. CAPTURE THEIR FACES A-LITTLE-BIT. SEE IT NOW ME.

"Troy." Myles' hands were shaking just slightly, to match the emotion in his voice. "These are absolutely incredible. Thank you."

WELCOME, Troy responded. CONGRATULATIONS NEW JOB. YOU-TWO GOOD TEACHER MAKE. YOUR PARTY, MAKE GOOD EXCUSE ME COME VISIT DC AGAIN.

YOU SIT WITH US, YOU EAT, Elizabeth said, YOU-TELL-ME EVERYTHING.

Jillian grinned wickedly. "The way Troy eats," she quipped as she signed, "those caterers will wear out their shoes getting refills."

Jack laughed as Troy pretended to swat his wife's arm. "Famous artist or not, you haven't changed a bit."

GOOD. Sue smiled at her old friend. NEVER BORING.

When everyone had finished dinner and was working on the dessert selections, Ted Garrett stood up again. Brian was right next to him, as interpreter, as he stepped up to a simple podium with a microphone.

"Well, we've reached the moment you've all been waiting for," he boomed, granting a rare grin to the two agents. "An opportunity to tell these guys what you really think of them." An ripple of laughter went around the room, and more than one face blossomed into a wicked grin.

"To start things off," Garrett continued, "we thought we'd take a bit of a step back, in a sense. Ten years ago, a colleague of Myles and Jack, a fine agent, was killed in the line of duty, leaving behind a wife and an unborn child. As is tradition among most law-enforcement groups, those who remain take a keen interest in the family, offering any help that might be needed, and this was no exception."

He tipped his head toward the table where the agents sat with their families and smiled. "Bobby Manning's teammates made sure that his son had positive role models to supplement that of his widow, Darcy D'Angelo, and that Robert, Jr. knew the type of man his father was. Darcy remarried five years ago, to Post columnist Noah Grafton, and Noah adopted Bobby's son last year. But the family has continued to include the team in Robert's life. So, without further ado, may I introduce to you… Robert Manning Grafton."

There was a hushed murmur and a fluttering of hands as a young boy of ten approached the podium. With dark hair, blue eyes and the same killer grin that had captured his mother's heart a long time ago, Robert was fast becoming a man in his own right. He had a serious nature more like his mother, and his stepfather had fostered a wonderful relationship that was evident in the way the boy carried himself. Even now, where most ten-year-olds might have been shaking to face the considerable audience, Robert had a poise that was unmistakable.

"Hey guys," he grinned, prompting a soft chuckle around the room. "Mom said a roast is supposed to be fun, so I didn't have to be real formal or anything." He glanced at his mother and stepfather, who nodded encouragement even as they smiled. "Tara called a couple weeks ago and told us about the party, and she asked me if there was anything I might want to say to you before you…" He grinned. "I think she said 'before they head over the hill.'"

There was more laughter at that, and Jack made a show of throwing his linen napkin at the computer tech.

"I guess the biggest thing I could say is thank you," Robert continued, running a hand through his hair, an absent gesture. "I've known you guys as long as I can remember. Jack, Myles, Brian, Earl… the rest of my father's team. You've always been there, making sure that I had someone to look up to, making sure I minded Mom…" He rolled his eyes a little, making everyone laugh and Darcy glance heavenward in a teasing thank-you-God expression. "You guys, or at least one of you, made it to every t-ball and soccer game, and pretty much every major event in my life. That means a lot, especially when I've seen some of my friends who have only their moms."

He paused, and glanced toward his stepfather again. "Even when Mom got married again, you guys were still there. You made sure that I knew about my real father, told me lots of stories about him… sometimes I forget that I never actually got to meet him. It's kind of cool – I feel like I can say I've had two great dads. That's why I decided to use both names when Noah adopted me last year. So I can honor them both."

He shrugged. "I had a couple of stories to share," he said, "but I think maybe I've said what I needed to. Uncle Jack, Uncle Myles… thanks." He grinned again and returned to his seat amid the applause that followed.

Sue leaned forward a little and smiled at the two men. GOOD BOY, GOOD SON. YOU-TWO GOOD JOB. B-O-B-B-Y PROUD.

Ted Garrett resumed his emcee position. "Who's next?"

Myles shook his head, smiling, as the last of the guests moved toward the exit; behind him, his wife and daughters were still giggling.

Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. "You do realize that auction video will now join the infamous New York roast beef sandwich in FBI legend. You'll never live it down."

The blond agent chuckled. "I'm just afraid some shot from it will show up on the cover of a Nora Albright novel someday."

"Lucky for you she doesn't write romance thrillers," the shorter agent quipped. "That was nice of her to send an email for Tara to read, since her book tour didn't allow for a stop in DC right now."

"See, now, that wasn't so bad." Sue had come over after rescuing Sam from Zachary— or the other way around. She gave her husband a bright smile. "All that worry over nothing."

Myles grinned. "'Nothing,' she says. Wouldn't you think that after fifteen years someone would have learned that putting a microphone in the hands of Howie Fines is just asking for trouble?"

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to find Rachel there; her blue-grey eyes were half-hidden behind drooping lashes. Myles picked her up and let her rest her head on his shoulder, then signed RACHEL ASLEEP with a raised brow for the question.

She nodded slowly, then replied YES, ME TIRED.

"Then I think it's time to go home." He took the jacket Elizabeth handed him and draped it over his daughter's back, then turned to Jack and Sue. "Zach coming over tomorrow after his soccer game?"

"If you don't mind," Sue responded. "Jack's going to help me with my seminar tomorrow."

The Harvard grad smiled. "It's no problem. I haven't a thing planned, and I intend to enjoy that sensation to its fullest." He held out a hand to his former unit leader. "See you at school on Monday?" he quipped.

Jack laughed and shook his hand. "See you at school."