Victor Mansfield, ex-cop, current super-spy, was feeling the familiar depression of the season settling onto his shoulders. He couldn't walk down the streets without being assaulted by Christmas carols, silver bells, and Christmas lights. Gaily wrapped presents filled display windows. He shook his head at all the revelry.
He had already sent his sister her present and received one in return. His parents didn't waste money on presents. They never even sent a card. Then again, neither did he. There was snow on the ground and frost on his windows.
At the moment he was cheerlessly shopping for presents for his co-workers. The bookstore seemed safer than the mall, but the never-ending cycle of carols sent him out to the streets. He ended up in an antique store that was ardently not playing carols. It was dark, dingy, dusty, and cluttered. It suited his mood perfectly. The old man behind the counter smiled as Victor glanced around the shop and relaxed finding no decorations or other patrons. "Another without the Christmas sugar spirit. Welcome. I myself am Jewish."
"Agnostic," Vic replied.
"Shopping for presents?"
"Yeah."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic."
"I usually don't have many people to remember."
"Come, I'll make some coffee and we will talk. I will help you find what you need. I am Saul."
"Victor." The younger man smiled for the first time all day. They talked perched on stools behind the counter. Saul clucked his tongue at Victor's half-hearted defense of fifties collectibles. Victor chuckled at Saul's outrageous stories about other dealers. The conversation drifted to more personal topics.
"I still have my numbers. I refused my son's offers to pay for the removal," Saul was saying. Victor sipped his coffee and nodded.
"Sometimes it's easier to forget the past," he stated. "To cover it up and pretend it never happened."
"I am lucky to have the numbers. No one denies they are real. Some are not so lucky. Some have no proof of the past." Victor found himself caught by the all too knowing eyes. He nodded. Saul didn't push him and Victor didn't volunteer the information. "Now, you came looking for presents. What do you need?"
"The cameo you've angled so conveniently that I've been staring at it all day." Saul laughed and boxed the piece. "The ensuite dagger and sword set in the corner. The finals on that wall. And the Sousa sheet music in that basket." Saul blinked as the young man gathered the named items and placed them on the counter. Then, Victor noticed the posters. His eyes lit up. He flipped through the posters thinking. The World War II Victory Bonds advertisement caught his eye and he added it to the pile. He handed over his visa.
Victor didn't ask prices and Saul didn't quote any. "You will come back at the New Year."
"Yes, Saul. I will."
*****
Weighted down by packages Victor ventured back into the snow. His next stop was the craft store for two shadowboxes and a frame and mat. He snagged a roll of blue wrapping paper on his way through the check-out lane. He escaped to the comfort of Muddy Waters in his truck.
*****
His apartment was dark. He set his packages on the floor and divested himself of his coat and boots. He looked around the cheerless room. He'd systematically packed up every reminder of "The Time Before" and the rooms felt the lack. He snagged himself a beer from the spotless kitchen and settled in front of the coffeetable with his loot. He decided he needed glue first. That retrieved he began to assemble the Christmas presents. He framed the finials in the shadowboxes and set them aside to dry.
He looked up at the camera he knew was there and said bluntly, "Close your eyes if you want a surprise for Christmas." He gave it a few seconds and then wrapped the cameo. "Okay, you can look again." He did the same with the sheet music he framed for Dobrinski. "You can look," he told the observer. The finials dried and he wrapped them for the Cleaners. He put all the presents into a bag and set it by the front door so he wouldn't forget it in the morning.
Then, he turned his attention to the presents he'd bought for himself. He cleaned the swords. He could almost feel their history as he held them. They were genuinely from the 1700's. He carefully polished and sharpened the blades. He placed them into the trunk he currently stored his collection in. His swords were private. They were the only thing that he refused to share with anyone. Not even his sister knew about his obsession with the damn things. He was fairly sure that the Director knew, but she'd never mentioned it. Not even in their fencing. He ran his fingers over the hilts, then spread a layer of cotton over the top layer and added his new acquisitions.
He decided to get the poster framed and put it into the dining room. There was nothing in there anymore. His bedroom could use some redecoration too. All he had in there was a picture of his sister. It was time to repaint. Maybe he should get some plants. Or a fish. He decided he was getting maudlin and it was time to either drink more or eat dinner.
Dinner won by a small margin and he slipped into the kitchen. He could make passably edible food. He'd done most of the cooking at home and no one had complained. He was sure that his father'd have let him know if the food wasn't up to standards. He still had the marks from when he'd left the kitchen in a mess. Oh, this was a wonderful turn of affairs. Thinking about home always made it harder to eat. He abandoned his half-hearted attempt to figure out something to eat and picked up the phone. Chinese sounded just about right.
*****
The director's hunter-green dress with leather bodice and boots made him think of demented biker elves. He supposed it was festive and sexy, but he couldn't bring himself to the point of caring. She lifted the package up gently. She raised an eyebrow. "Why, Victor, I didn't know you cared." Vic shrugged and kept his eyes on the desk. He wasn't in the mood to deal with her teasing today. She cocked her head to the side and settled onto the desk. She reached out with the riding crop he hadn't noticed her carrying and lifted his chin with the end of it. "You need to sleep."
"It's just Christmas time blues. I'll be fine."
"I should hope so. My party is tonight and the long face will simply not do. Nor will the outfit. I'll come choose something suitable for you."
"I think I can take care of that, thank you," he protested. His green eyes sparked when she smiled. "Pyiristahntye!" he snapped at her. "But it makes your eyes so much prettier." She set down the crop and opened her present. She slit the tape carefully and didn't rip the paper. She folded it neatly, rather than crumpling it. Victor didn't know why exactly he was relieved. He filed it away for further investigation. She took the top off the box and inhaled. He blinked. She was actually surprised. Or at least, willing to pretend to be for his good. He felt irrationally pleased. She took out the pin, the pale peach of the shell gleaming in the soft light of the office. She pinned it right above the last button she'd buttoned so it touched her cleavage. "Diana, the huntress. I'm impressed, Liubovnik." "You're welcome."
"The party is at 7. Be here or I'll come for you."
"That could be interesting," he smirked. She smiled.
"So you do notice."
"I'd have to be blind not to," he snorted. "Seven. Here?"
"Yes. There are several people I want to introduce you to."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"You, Victor. Not Corey. Possibly Alex. They need to know you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now get. It's Christmas."
"So I noticed." He left the building and snarled at the traffic as he made his way home. He rustled through the closet until he located a reasonably fashionable shirt that the Director had given him on what she decided was his birthday. He hadn't celebrated the day in so long that he'd forgotten what it really was and couldn't answer her when she probed. Well, if she was wearing his pin, it made sense to wear her shirt. It was a slate blue silk button-down. He pulled on black jeans in place of his more comfortable blue and added combat boots. Corey suggested a vest and Vic agreed. His guns fit well under the black leather when it was unbuttoned, so he wore that one. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at the place that once held a neatly clipped mustache. That had been such a mistake. He'd been trying to look older, not quite so pretty. It hadn't worked. He'd looked like a kid with a fake mustache. Suddenly, he longed for a cigarette. Alex asked him what exactly he was planning to do about that thought and Victor sighed. Sometimes he really hated having an internalized big brother.
He nibbled on a free-form dinner and read the sports pages. When he looked up again it was nearly 6:45. He cursed, rinsed his plate, and grabbed his coat and keys. He pulled into the Agency five minutes late. The Director was waiting for him at the front door. She clucked at him. "My clock is slow."
"Liar." He shrugged and followed her to the party floor. The room was huge. It reminded him of the gym he took boxing lessons in. That might have been because there was an actual boxing ring in one corner, but you couldn't have proven it. He looked around the room suspiciously and found what he'd dreaded. Mistletoe. The place was plastered with the noxious little white berried stuff. The only somewhat safe place seemed to be the "dancefloor" which appeared to be more of a mosh pit. The music was throbbing, but thankfully, not seasonal. The Director had added a red Santa hat to her ensemble. Victor checked her hands and was thankful to only find her favorite riding crop, despite the fact that she had laced it with red and white ribbons.
She tapped it against the side of her leg. Victor glanced around the room. He knew someone was watching him, but had yet to figure out who it was. He saw Murphy and Camier predatorily protecting one of the few tables. They had glasses of punch in front of them and were discussing the finer points of something esoteric no doubt. The Director snagged Victor's wrist and pulled him into a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Come along."
TBC