Work Text:
Late December 1973, in a Washington D.C. suburb
Mason Weaver walks up the driveway of her boss’s boss’s house, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a small wrapped present in the other… but most distinctly, no camera anywhere on her person. No taking photos at the holiday party. It isn’t supposed to be work! Plus, sometimes they get out of hand and no one wants that documented... is what she was told earlier this week when she dropped off her most recent prints at the Monarch office. She had barely resisted rolling her eyes, but had complied. So here she is at her first-ever company holiday party, more nervous than expected without her camera lens to use as a shield.
The last few unraked leaves crunch underfoot as she approaches the small front porch and walks up the steps, the twinkling red and green string lights along every corner and edge of the house providing plenty of illumination to find her way. With a small sigh, she rings the doorbell and stands back, cradling the nice-ish Merlot in her left arm and preparing to plaster on an excited face at whatever lays within the walls of this plush, suburban ranch home. The wait is short before she’s enveloped in a warm yellow rectangle of light. The door opens to a woman in a chic turtleneck, layered pearl necklaces, and a long skirt.
The friendly voice of Suzanne, the hostess, assaults her with something loud and high pitched that is surely a greeting, followed by, “You must be Mason! So glad you could make it.” Reigning in the overexuberance a bit, she uses her half-full wine glass hand to gesture for the newcomer to follow her back inside.
Maybe these do get really out of hand, Mason thinks to herself, yet smiles widely, trying to push through the awkwardness she feels. Once fully in the foyer, the murmur of voices and occasional loud laugh is audible in the background, but it’s definitely not the whole Monarch team that was invited – Mason is pleased she wasn’t too late this time, her constant battle. Suzanne proves her chops as a perfect housewife as she takes Mason’s coat onehanded to hang it in the closet, then coos over the wine bottle her guest dutifully presents.
“Now, the bar and the kitchen are that way – “ the wine glass gestures backward at an open doorway, “which is where I’m going to go put this lovely gift, thank you. There’s a table for the gift exchange boxes just outside the parlor, next to the tree. Would you like me to introduce you to some of the wives?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine thank you,” Mason replies. She doesn’t expect to have much in common with the wives of bureaucrats and program administrators. Also, since she was specifically told this event should be pleasure, not business, Mason has given herself permission to stick to talking to the people she already knows.
The brief nod of dismissal is that of a woman who completed the required welcoming and needs to get back to maintaining a carefully balanced social gathering. But she’s only two steps away when she turns back and raises a finger as if in afterthought. “Oh, Mason Dear, do watch out for James. He’s wearing a hat with mistletoe taped to the front, and he’s had a few already so he’s gotten… extra friendly.” Warning sufficiently communicated, she about-faces and her heels click-clack off across the stones of the foyer.
Mason wonders to herself, mouth downturned, why he isn’t the one receiving some sort of warning for this behavior instead of her, and turns to take her wrapped present to the parlor.
However, she is stopped short when James Conrad appears on the other side of the doorframe right as she’s entering. “James,” she greets, pantomiming suspicion even as she confirms he is not wearing a hat of any sort, though he does look very comfy in a blue cable knit sweater. He appeared way too quickly to not have been lurking and listening as their hostess welcomed her in. But she finds she’s relieved that he did, so she has someone to talk to.
“Mason,” he returns congenially, with a clink of partially-melted ice as he raises his highball glass in greeting.
After a beat where she calls his bluff and holds the silence, he continues in a bit of a rush, “The mistletoe hat is, um… not me, in case there were any confusion. The other James is the one who thought it was a brilliant idea,” he clarifies with a tight-lipped smile and raised eyebrows. She’s come to associate the gesture with an acknowledgement of a joke they’re both in on. Another relief – she’s not the only one who clearly sees how awful an accessory that is, especially with colleagues.
She cracks a smile and raises an eyebrow at him, “I am both reassured and not at all surprised to hear it.”
“Yes... he’s giving our name a bad reputation, I fear.”
Her laugh is genuine, imagining that there is any scenario in which the man-child “other James” in Accounts at Monarch could be mistaken for the calm and collected expert tracker in front of her. However, there are other matters to attend to, and she holds up her wrapped gift. “Let me set this down and then,” she points at his drink decisively. “I need one of those.”
“Right this way,” he leads on, not quite offering her his arm to escort her, but playing out the caricature of gentlemanly etiquette.
Her smile widens as she laughs to herself at when his ‘proper’ side decides to show itself. Maybe this won’t be such a bad party after all.
After stopping by the Christmas tree, they begin to weave their way through the groups of colleagues and spouses gathering in the living room and adjacent dining room. Mason recognizes most of them, but only knows the names of maybe half. Still, greetings and salutations for the holidays are exchanged which makes it slow going.
Skirting along the edge of the living room to avoid the biggest clumps of people, Conrad suddenly takes an unnecessary detour around a chair, away from the corner of the room, and puts a hand on her low back to steer her that way as well. Mason’s forehead creases in question and she opens her mouth to ask “Why…” when he turns back, pointing up at the ceiling over the corner.
“Mistletoe,” is the simple explanation, his eyebrows waggling briefly.
Speechless for a moment at the oddity of certain social customs, she asks rhetorically, “Why does that tradition exist?”
“Well, actually, mistletoe wasn’t consistently associated with romance until the Norse Mythology story of…”
“Ok ok, Encyclopedia Britannica,” Mason chuckles. “Thank you for pointing it out.”
Continuing on, they make sure to introduce themselves to Senator Willis and his circle, including the host - Randa’s replacement, also named Bill. If you’re going to suck up to any big wig, make it the big boss and the guy who brings the funding, Mason thinks to herself.
“Ms. Weaver, your photos from the most recent report on the Japan mission made a big statement in my committee meeting. Veeery persuasive! Keep it up,” Willis compliments.
Surprised at the direct recognition, “Thank you, sir!” is all she can think to reply.
“Say, do you do portraits?” One of the other bureaucrats asks. He probably hasn’t seen her work, if that’s the first question that comes to mind.
“Sometimes, but they’re not normally the type of portraits you’d want to put up on the family photo wall,” she jokes. Everyone chuckles, and it gives her and Conrad an easy exit to continue on.
“Well that doesn’t happen every day,” Conrad comments.
“It’s no Pulitzer,” she counters, lamenting once again the newly restricted audience for her work while at Monarch. “But it does feel pretty nice.”
“For sure.”
“Oh course, I couldn’t have taken those shots if you didn’t get us there, and kept us alive in those caves.”
“We all do our part,” he replies humbly, but she catches his half-smile. “Speaking of which… no camera tonight? It’s so rare to see you without your comfort object.”
“Ha ha. No; I was essentially told to ‘Relax for once.’ Truth be told, I feel a bit exposed without it.”
“No pun intended, I assume?” he shoots back, eyes twinkling, and smiles at her responding eyeroll.
“You’ll do fine,” he reassures more seriously, then admits with a light touch on her elbow, “I also feel a bit anxious, but it’s better already with someone to talk to.”
Mason hopes he can tell from her expression how sincerely she appreciates that comment. They are consistently on the same wavelength, which is extremely useful on missions, but also comforting in a social situation like this when they both feel like fish out of water.
Finally they make it to the wet bar in the dining room and Weaver sets out to pour herself two fingers of the Scotch that Conrad indicates. If she’d learned anything over the past months, it was that he was a reliable judge for which whiskeys to pick, regardless of geographic origin. They clink glasses and move aside to let the next guests pour their libations.
“Did you see Marlow’s family’s Christmas card when you went to the Monarch office? They look very happy.” James asks.
“Aw, no, I didn’t,” she says disappointedly. “Where was it?”
“It’s on my desk, actually. You can still see it next time you’re in. He sent it to me, but it’s meant for the whole group.”
“Well,” one eyebrow quirked up. “The whole group who was on Skull Island, maybe. Monarch is a lot bigger now.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says, pointedly turning his head to look around the room at the crowd of people.
“Oh look, there’s Brooks and the others,” Mason gestures toward the breakfast area off to the side of the kitchen, and they head that direction. With nods, handshakes, and smiles in greeting, they join the circle of their more direct team. Brooks, San, and some of the newer members are there who manage supplies, coordinate transport, and scrape together local contacts on the two missions since they came back from Skull Island. It doesn’t escape Weaver’s notice that only one person in this group has a significant other here with them, compared to nearly all of the office workers and bureaucrats. One of the costs of the job, she thinks wistfully.
After a few minutes of surprisingly pleasant conversation, Mason’s stomach growls and she turns to scout out the hors d’oeurve table. She’s aware that her glass is nearly empty of whiskey, and she didn’t get a chance to eat any real dinner since she was in a rush to buy her gift for the party game.
“Anyone want any food? I’m going to grab a plate.”
“The meatballs are really good!” Randy the supply runner recommends, and Lin follows her over into the short line to get food.
She’s wondering whether she has room for another pig in a blanket on her plate full of meatballs, cheese and Ritz crackers, spinach and artichoke dip and slices of molded Jell-O desserts, when a slightly slurred voice calls from behind, “Hey Mason, Merry Christmas!”
James from Accounts. She closes her eyes with a brief exhale to calm herself, then puts on a smile so it comes through in her voice. “Hi James, Merry Christmas.”
“Want to see what Santa brought me as an early present?” he asks, overeager.
“Can’t, my hands are full with my plate.” She stonewalls and resolutely does not turn toward him. It works, apparently, because she hears him moving off… to bother San.
“Lin, heyy, Merry Christmas! Is this your first Christmas in America?” Mason cringes and can’t help but turn toward her colleague, who glances over in a help me way to Weaver even as she shakes her head “no” to the question she was asked. The photographer weighs her options, one of them being pretending to trip and dumping this plate of food down his front.
“No?” The buffoon says, then points to the parasitic plant hanging in front of his face like a twisted version of a carrot dangling from a stick. “Well, do you know what this is? It’s called – “
“Hello James.” Conrad butts in to the conversation, smoothly angling his broad-shoulders between the other James and Lin.
The other woman steps back immediately and catches Weaver’s eye, the two of them creating some space away from the confrontation but absolutely tuning in to watch the showdown.
“Oh h-hey, Conrad,” the other James intones shakily, looking up into the taller man’s face. “Merry… Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. I have to say, it makes me less than jolly to have people keep asking me about some silly mistletoe hat they think I have.”
“O-oh?”
“Yes. Very childish, don’t you think?” Mason thinks she can see the shorter James’s ears turning red, but he doesn’t back down yet and instead turns defensive.
“Just a little fun in the holiday spirit. Lighten up, man!”
“You’re making people uncomfortable.”
“I’m livening up the party; what’s wrong with a few smooches?” he protests, but more weakly now.
“Take the hat off, James.”
With one final glare, James from Accounts carefully removes the hat from his head and tucks it gently under his arm, sculking off around the side of the food table. Mason hopes it stays off once he’s in the other room.
“You ok?” Conrad asks San as they head back across the room to their circle. Mason notices that a few of their group were watching the exchange, and James gets a few token claps of applause from the appreciative audience.
“Yes, thank you,” Lin replies, shaking her head at the situation.
“I wouldn’t want to kiss him, either,” James deadpans, and with a shared chuckle the three of them rejoin the group.
A little while and another full pour of Scotch later, Suzanne boisterously rounds everyone up and has them settle in the living room in a rough circle: it’s time for a speech from Bill and the white elephant gift exchange. Quarters are packed, so the ground mission crew disperses around the room. Mason and James end up near some of the office staff she only knows casually. Only one armchair is available, and in spite of James’s insistence that she take it, Weaver perches on the arm and pats the cushion for him.
“Gives me a better vantage on the presents,” she jokes, and he shrugs, ceding defeat and sitting down.
The Bill who is not Randa gives a toast to Monarch and all that the team has accomplished since the beginning of the year, including a moment of silence to pay respects for those who lost their lives on Monarch missions, “In the pursuit of truth, beyond both logic and preconceptions.”
Mason acknowledges that is a clever way of splitting the difference between celebrating what those lost were fighting and striving for and also acknowledging - without actually acknowledging - that the “attack first, understand later” approach from Skull Island was a bad idea. He’d read the report, she knew, and until the funding or political pressure changed, Bill was a proponent of the observation and intelligence gathering slant they’d taken since.
During the moment of silence, Conrad whispers the names of the team members they’d lost, ending with Packard. Weaver barely hears him, it is so quiet, but at Packard’s name she sends him a curious but comforting glance.
“I disagreed with him, strongly, but I didn’t want him to die,” he professes. She nods and squeezes his shoulder unobtrusively, rubbing in sympathy briefly before letting go. He seems to take strength from the gesture and sits up a little taller.
“Now, one final toast to everyone here tonight, and to all the great truths we will uncover in 1974!”
Glasses clink all around, and as Bill steps out of the center of the circle, his wife steps in to keep the festivities moving along.
Suzanne recruits one of the secretaries to write out numbers on a sheet of paper and cut them out while she explains the rules of the White Elephant Gift Exchange. “Everyone who brought a gift must take a number from the bowl,” she begins, “And we’ll open gifts in order starting from 1 to… how many gifts are there, Sherry? 38? From one to 38. It’s your turn when your number is up. On your turn, you have the option of either picking a new gift from the pile or stealing an already opened gift from someone else. If your gift is stolen, you get to steal someone else’s gift or open a new one. The next number gets to go once a new gift is opened from the pile.”
“Any limits on gift stealing?” someone asks across the room.
“For each item, only once per turn,” a few grumbles are heard. “BUT – now don’t get grumpy – there is no limit on the number of times a gift can be stolen during different turns.” Murmurs of side conversation and strategy discussion start to increase in volume; Suzanne raises her voice to finish.
“The game ends when…”
Conrad turns to her, brows drawn together, and asks sotto voce, “So it’s fully anonymous?”
“Yes, most times.” She shrugs one shoulder, “Doesn’t have to be. It’s fun to guess who brought which gift. Why, have you not played before? Do they not have this in England?”
It’s an honest question, but his sidelong glance seems to say that even if they do have this party game in England, it’s been a long time since he was in any position to attend a similarly frivolous holiday party.
“What’s got you in a huff, Scrooge?” she asks with a quirk of the eyebrow.
“I may have spent more than the price suggestion, thinking to impress a boss.” He stares at the pile of gifts, jaw tight, as if willing his gift to disappear so he didn’t have to participate.
“Oooh, rookie mistake,” Mason sympathizes with a light jab in the ribs. “Nothing crazy, I hope?”
“No, nothing crazy, just potentially a small waste.”
Suzanne is walking around the room now, shaking the bowl above every Monarch employee’s eye level until they reach in and take a paper slip.
“Will I be able to guess which one is yours?”
“… most likely. Yours?”
“I’m not sure,” she purses her lips in contemplation before smiling. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Suzanne reaches them and Mason takes a numbered piece of paper first, holding it without looking until James also has his in hand. They look at them simultaneously.
“Euh, you’re up first,” he says with a that’s too bad expression, pointing at the neatly handwritten ‘1’ on her paper. “At least I’ll see what options there are to steal from,” and holds up his number: 24.
“First is fine with me. Makes it low stress.” she replies, her back feeling pleasantly tingly where his hand was. The last time she played this game was in college, and watching everyone else getting way too into it was more fun for her than anything related to the gifts themselves. If only she had her camera to document some of the antics.
“Ok, everyone, ok! The order is set,” Suzanne’s voice raises above the commotion and commands the room once more. “Let’s begin! Who has number one?”
“Me!” Mason replies, holding up her slip of paper and standing up from her perch next to James.
She walks up to the table next to the Christmas tree and makes a show of carefully choosing a gift. For no particular reason, she’s decide to look for the shiniest, most outlandishly wrapped one, for the curiosity of seeing if the item inside is similarly crazy.
Finally picking out a small rectangular box with silver paper with both red and green bows, the room is nearly silent as they watch her open it. It’s a case with a hinge clasp, and barely a second after she opens it, someone in the corner asks eagerly, “What is it?”
“It’s a pipe with inlaid silver,” she says and turns the box around to show the room.
“Oh, how lovely. Um, do you smoke?” Suzanne asks, as Mason puts the wrapping paper in the box under the table and walks back to her seat.
“No,” she says, but isn’t worried. She saw the murmurs of appreciation when she showed the pipe, and fully expects someone will relieve her of it during the course of the game.
The game progresses, with some oohs and ahhs, and a goading in good spirit whenever a gift is stolen from a colleague. Brooks, with number 8, unwraps a Christmas tie and bowtie set made out of a Santa-and-reindeer patterned fabric, professing, “How festive” with an empty smile. Mason and James chuckle, but whisper in agreement that he is the most likely of anyone at the party to actually wear them.
As expected, it doesn’t take but a few turns longer for someone to steal Mason’s pipe and giftbox. An older man from the Senator’s office who she doesn’t know comes over and does a bad Nixon impression: “Well, I am not a crook,” as she hands over the small box. The laughter is a mix of true humor and jaded desperation. What a year.
This time when at the gift table, she opens the tallest box still on the table and is rewarded with an electric popcorn popper. Ok, not bad, Weaver thinks, and expects she is stuck with it for the rest of the game.
Right after Lin opens a set of hand-painted ornaments showing famous buildings and monuments in Washington D.C. is when things start to get truly interesting.
James from Accounts is number 20, and he opens what Mason immediately guesses is Conrad’s gift. As the bottle of liquor is pulled from the nondescript holiday bag, a collective, “ooohh” goes around the room as people begin to suspect it cost more than the $10 suggested price. And yes, right on cue, James makes a very quiet, pitiful sound of regret in the seat beside her and meets her gaze sidelong.
The “what is it?” that always follows a participant being slow to describe what they’re holding sounds especially eager this time. The lesser James squints as he reads the label, trying to determine exactly what he’s got.
“It’s Bourbon. From… Canada, I think? I’m not sure.”
Mason bites her lip at the groan of displeasure from Conrad, lest she start laughing at his predicament. The study in contrasts between the two men of the same name couldn’t be more apparent this evening.
“Bourbon can’t come from Canada, you nitwit,” James says under his breath, but loudly enough that the people in the next few seats chuckle.
Little does it matter, though, whether the recipient actually knows where his bottle was produced, because within 15 seconds it has been stolen and he’s opening another one – a Christmas novelty candle making kit.
The bourbon is stolen on every subsequent turn, including by Conrad, who Mason chides for stealing his own gift back, knowing it won’t last anyway. After it’s stolen on turn 25, he picks out a modest-sized box and opens a miniature terrarium kit, complete with a small bag of potting soil and humidity controls.
Mason is surprised when her popcorn maker is stolen on turn 35 as part of the domino effect after the bourbon exchanged hands again. Randy on the mission planning team, who shrugs in apology and says, “I really like popcorn.” This time she picks out a box that turns out to be an electric putting trainer, which looks nice but she doesn’t play golf. Oh well.
In a turn of events that seems a bit too suspect to not be rigged, Senator Willis has the 38th and final piece of paper. He saunters over to the person who had paper slip number 37 and good-naturedly says, “Hand it over, William,” to chuckles around the room.
William lets out a resigned sigh and says, “Yes, sir” as he proffers up the bottle of bourbon.
As the senator returns to his seat, the murmur of voices starts to rise once again, until Suzanne cries out, “Wait, we’re not done! Remember, the person who went first and had to pick the first gift now gets the option to steal or to keep what they have.” The room goes quiet as those who remember it was Mason turn toward where she and Conrad sit.
Oh, yeah, I do! Mason thinks, pleasantly surprised. She and James had been talking when Suzanne went over this part, but she remembers the rule from that previous time in college.
“Mason, honey, are you going to keep your putting trainer or steal something else?”
She looks down at her electric putter, pretending to think it through, and the photographer knows all eyes in the room are staring at her with bated breath. Finally she looks up and asks demurely, “Senator, do you play golf?”
The room erupts in raucous laughter as she stands, a smug grin now splitting her face, and walks over to the highest-ranking official in the room. She doesn’t say anything, just holds out the electric putter kit box in one hand, the other palm open to receive her due.
“I do play golf, actually.” He replies quietly, with a chuckle that fortunately is full of good cheer and no malice. “But I really wanted that bourbon. Nicely played.”
“Thank you, Senator. Merry Christmas.”
The hubbub of activity has picked up again, with conversation groups reforming to rehash their experiences and share who they think brought what. As she returns to where she was sitting with the heavy bag in her hand, very pleased with herself over something a bit silly, a corner of James’s mouth quirks up as he fights to not mirror her so-open smile.
“Have a flair for the dramatic, do we?” is all he comments when she flops back on the now-vacant sofa seat adjacent to their chair.
“It’s all about telling the right story,” she replies.
“I’m glad it was you who got it,” he admits, sincerity clear in his eyes.
“If you’re nice, I might just share some with you,” she winks at him, and something subtle shifts in his expression that she can’t name. Whatever it was, a warm and inviting feeling stirs in her gut suddenly, and she’s worried she may blush.
It’s unclear if James notices anything, or at least he’s skilled at keeping the conversation light after she was accidentally flirty. He returns to a previous conversation topic: “I’m still not sure which gift you brought.”
“Any guesses?”
“Was it holiday-themed?”
“Yeah,” she says, but tilts her hand back and forth in an ‘approximately’ gesture.
After a moment of thought, he lands on something: “Did you bring the painted ornaments?”
“Yup, that was me! Picked them up when was buying a set for my mom. Now that I’m officially based in DC, I can get her touristy stuff as gifts.”
“They looked too nice to just be for tourists,” James doubts.
“True. A friend of a friend paints them for a boutique store. But they’re still kind of touristy.”
“I’m sure your mom will like hers.”
Maybe the whiskey from earlier is getting to her head, but she still feels a bit flushed. With a quick smile, Mason stands and says, “I’m going to get a glass of water; want anything?”
James shakes his head and looks back down at his terrarium box, reading the advertising on the side. It’s not something she would have expected him to find appealing, but he looks intrigued. Just add plants, Mason notices as she steps away. Includes gravel and bark for drainage!
Or at least she thought he was reading his box. A few steps away she hears her name hissed in a whisper and looks back, confused. Conrad is looking at her intently, eyes serious and locked on to hers. He gestures with one finger for her to walk back to him him and whispers something that could be, “Mason, cmere.”
Distantly she realizes that if they were in the field and he gave a command with that tone and intensity, she would have been back in an instant. In the field it meant, Do as I’m telling you, right now Weaver, and I will lead you out of danger. But the disparate location, use of her first name, and their recent light exchange are not jiving with her expectations, and she hesitates.
“What? Why?” she asks, brow furrowing.
Clearly agitated but trying to hide it, he stands up quickly and goes to her, taking her forearm in one hand as he tries to guide her to another location. “You should step away from the…”
But a series of whistles and whoops interrupts whatever he was going to say next. He closes his eyes for a moment, exhales, and meets her gaze as he finishes his previous statement: “… mistletoe.”
Knowing exactly what she will find but unable to stop herself from looking, Mason slowly raises her gaze to the ceiling. Yup, she had walked right under the mistletoe that their hosts had so thoughtfully mounted where foot traffic was likely. To make matters worse, whatever attention had not yet been on them yet in this corner was quickly becoming focused and louder, cajoling for a kiss.
“Shit,” was all she could reply. She’d been too distracted by her success with the gift exchange to be even remotely aware of that landmine hanging in the corner.
“I’m sorry,” he laments in a whisper, and she can almost see the gears turning as he tries desperately to figure a way out of this situation. He lets go of her forearm and starts to turn, fingers wide and palms moving up and down in a gentle placating gesture, but the beasts will not be subdued.
“Come on, steal a kiss!” someone hounds from across the room.
“Man up, Conrad, just kiss her!” They lock eyes at that voice. It’s James from Accounts, heckling for his name-twin to do what he had been unable to finagle. Maybe it’s retaliation for taking his hat, expecting that Conrad would back down and be knocked down a peg in the social standing.
As much as she hates the setup and the fact that her colleagues are rooting exclusively for him to take something from her, she’s doing the social calculus in her head and it’s not looking good. She is now the object in this new, stupid game, not another player; James the male who has to prove himself worthy, and bowing out would affect his reputation within the “boy’s club” of the office. Especially since she just showed up the big boss with that last steal in the gift exchange. She glances down briefly in embarrassment.
James is not that kind of player. He tried to prevent this situation. It’s neither of their faults, but it’s not that big a sacrifice to throw him a bone here. He has guided and helped her time and time again through tricky situations.
“It’s okay,” she says, glancing back up to meet his gaze. The room is so loud with catcalls that they’re speaking above a whisper now, but it’s only for each other.
“On the cheek?” he asks, eyebrows raised as he tries to compromise further. She can see the relief in his eyes, but knows somehow that he would not have demanded this favor if she had not offered freely.
In reply Mason lifts her chin and tilts one cheek toward him slightly. He squares up to her, hand resting ever so tenderly on her upper arm to hold her steady and leans in slowly toward her, lips beginning to pucker. The cheers calm down from their fervor pitch to a mere encouraging background noise, now that the actors are finally playing their parts correctly.
He’s moving so hesitantly it feels like slow motion, but maybe that’s just her perception of time distorting. James is definitely treating her like a cornered animal he’s trying to calm, showing her that he’s not actually a threat.
She has accepted her fate and closes her eyes, when that microexpression from just a few minutes ago pops up again in her mind’s eye. Except now she can name it: desire. She’d coquettishly offered to share the whiskey with him, and if his body language had been translated into words, it would have said, “I would like that very, very much.”
Mason Weaver realizes, with sudden clarity, that she would like that very much as well.
Damn it all, I *want* to kiss him!
At nearly the last millisecond possible to avoid bonking noses, she whips her head back around and meets him full on the lips, adjusting her head tilt to accommodate. Eyes once again open, she both sees and feels when he registers what has happened – he freezes momentarily, assessing the situation, and bright blue eyes meet hers in question before they separate barely an inch with a small smack of a peck.
I wish I could capture his expression right now, she thinks. It’s a mix of wonder and admiration painted on a face that suddenly looks more innocent and youthful than his many years of hard experiences would belie.
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, she realizes. Well, might as well fully lean into the theatrics tonight. She issues him a challenge with her eyes and a hint of a quirk of the lips. A new, unfamiliar spark lights up his gaze in response, and her heartbeat quickens. Suddenly heat pools in her belly, in a way that hasn’t happened in a very long time.
Then they are kissing again, and this time he means it. There is both a gentleness and a hunger in how he’s holding her – sturdier grip on her upper arm, his other hand sliding around her waist to her lower back. One or both of them must have stepped closer to each other, but she couldn’t say who it was. She realizes her hands are also on him, clasping one arm and cupping his neck, keeping him near. His lips tease hers and she gives back in kind, exploring their soft curves with an urgency she didn’t expect from herself. When his lips part further and she first feels the tip of his tongue tentatively tasting, requesting entry, is when the happy whooping from the rest of the room finally penetrates her overloaded senses and she pulls back, still close but staring a bit wide-eyed, pupils blown.
Mason expects she must look a mess, bright blush coloring her cheeks and tips of her ears, if James is anything to go by. They step back to actually give each other a semblance of space in this – oh God – house filled with coworkers. Mason looks at her shoes, the wall, back at James – and she has to bite her lip to stop the shit-eating grin that’s trying to take over even as she fights the feelings of embarrassment. His eyes are drawn to her lips and he exhales sharply, forcibly turning himself away from her and toward the room to address their audience.
“Shows over, folks” he says, and she can hear the answering smile in his voice. “Nothing more to see here.”
And, remarkably, the people seem to have gotten what they were looking for, because with a last whistle and some applause, most of them do indeed turn away or clear out to give them some privacy. Mason glances around the room quickly and sees Brooks’s shocked face, jaw dropped in an I can’t believe that just happened expression, and Lin beaming in excitement. The other woman meets her eyes briefly and nods at her in approval, one eyebrow raised as if impressed. Mason nods back a quick acknowledgement, but she really needs some space away from all these people now. Preferably with James, so they can figure out what the heck just happened… and possibly have an encore performance, her brain helpfully proposes.
Mason looks around and spots a likely escape route – into the front sitting area of the parlor, near the entryway – and starts to head that way, pausing and turning back to look at James. Her cheeks burn from her blush and hurt from the intensity of her smile. She makes sure she meets his eye, and hopes it’s clear that she wants him to follow her.
He’s two steps behind her into the room, quickly joining her on the sofa facing away from the living room. By some mutual, unspoken agreement they sit down a foot apart, even as their torsoes are angled in toward each other. Is he also afraid that if they sit too close there won’t be much opportunity for talking?
After a beat of silence that somehow isn’t awkward, James says, “Well, that was… wow.” She’s not sure how to begin, either.
“Is this what most company holiday parties are like?” she jokes.
“I don’t know, but it’s turning out much better than I had hoped.”
“Looks like I did have to watch out for a James with the mistletoe after all, huh?”
Conrad blushed a fresh shade of burgundy, prompting Mason to reach over and squeeze his hand briefly to soothe the barb. He turns his hand within her grasp so their palms touch, reciprocating and not letting go. How can her heart start racing just from holding hands? It occurs to her that she may not be able to stop herself from doing something very stupid for her career if they don’t go somewhere more private, and soon.
“Do you want to head somewhere we can talk… and maybe open the bourbon?”
The words are barely out of her mouth when he replies, “Yes. Absolutely,” and Goddammit she’s smiling again, isn’t she. James’s piercing blue eyes hold hers, an intense, unreadable expression on his face, but one she very much wants the chance to decode. It’s almost predatory, but in a way that is extremely appealing.
“I’ll get our coats?” he offers, standing and half pulling her up with them since neither had let go of the other’s hand yet.
“I’ll get the gifts,” she assents.
Thirty seconds later, without even a thought of saying goodbye to their hosts, the Senator, or their team, Conrad is holding the door for Weaver as they step out together into the winter cold.