Chapter Text
"No, I did actually have to spell it out for him. Very clearly." One of John's arms goes around Sam's thighs – the easiest place to reach where he's sat at the table, with Sam stood next to him replenishing their three cups.
John does end up joining them the Friday they make cholent – but they decide it's not the best time to take their chances with Tate, so he scurries out before the first Seudah Shabbat (Shabbat meal). A relationship between two men breeds no children, and opposing Sam’s union with a wealthy spy would likely do little to keep them apart. Sara is certain Tate wouldn’t risk exposing his grandson for nothing, but that conversation is still a headache she’s happy to put off for as long as possible.
John has been over at other times, however. Sara has been to the tavern more often when it's only the three of them, and John is home now, belly full, sharing good wine and card games by the hearth. It makes the past months worth it just to see the way Sam beams.
"So I was right, that you were already sweet on my Shmuel back before leaving for Raborsch!"
John concedes with an unperturbed shrug. "I was sweet on him well before that."
That's when Sam leaves his side, stepping back to stare at him with crossed arms and a critical arch to one eyebrow. "I liked you, too," he protests, "but I wasn't crazy enough to think we could…"
"Me either," John sighs, head canting up to look at Sam with dazed eyes and—ah, that's all it takes to draw Sam back into his hold. Before Sara has any chance to poke fun, John turns his attention to her. "He's not joking, though. When I confessed to him, he pushed me."
"That is not what I'd call 'confessing'," Sam flushes, his accent thickening with the emphasis. "Besides, you may notice a few reasons to refuse you," he flicks a hand palm-up, gesturing at everything and nothing around them.
"Of course!" John replies, eyes finding Sara’s with a cheeky smile. "'A Christian nobleman walks into a Jewish tavern…'"
One of Sam's hands rushes to cover his mouth. "… And its Jewish owner makes him sleep downstairs for mocking his concerns," he finishes, while Sara stifles a chuckle.
Sam ignores her for now, frowning in wonder at John, instead. "What did you think I would make of it, when you said—" he seems to realize his mistake as he grows beet-red, and his hand leaves John's mouth to splay over his own eyes and cheeks.
And because Sara has also been twenty and somebody’s child, she opts to let this one go.
She’s not sure she quite manages to keep her face in check, though.
"You are both going down," Sam warns, sitting back down next to John and reshuffling the cards on the table.
≫∘ ───٠◦٠♡٠◦٠─── ∘≪
She gets a taste of her own medicine later, when she has Sam’s head resting on her shoulder and she catches John looking at them with a longing that makes her heart ache.
"I—hic—I’ve gotta say," John slurs, a few extra cups in than herself and Sam, "I never imagined I’d meet someone like you two. And… you," he points a wobbly finger at her, "you’ve—done more for us than my family ever would. If you ever join us in Mikulov, you’ll see." He gulps down the rest of his wine. "My relatives act like they know nothing, but they’re masters of loa—loaded commentary. What’s the saying? ‘A kluger ver—versteht—’"
"A kluger farshteyt fun eyn vort tsvey (A wise man hears one word and understands two)," Sara supplies.
"There. Except in their case, even a donkey would get what they mean." When his fingers try to clutch the bottle of wine again, Sam does the kind thing and drags it out of reach.
Sara takes the opportunity to tidy up the rest of the table; just for the sake of affording them some privacy, she pretends she doesn’t see Sam kiss John’s cheek, or hear John’s dreamy sigh as he melts into him.
"Well, that’s nonsense," she says, putting a mug of her herbal tea in front of John in place of his wine cup. "Do Christians have anything like the Roman matron, mayn khaver (my friend)?"
"The—Roman matron," he squints. His eyes dart to Sam for help, but her son is staring at her with something open and frail on his face.
‘Go on’, she gestures.
"The matron…" Sam huffs, a small smile blooming on his lips. "The matron thinks herself as good a matchmaker as God, so she marries off all her slaves to one another to prove her point. But a day later, many come to her battered and bruised, claiming to hate their spouse."
"Ja, see? Some matches are better left in the hands of God, than to our earthly meddling."
Sam lets out a crass snort at that. "Please," he begs caustically in their mame-loshn (mother tongue), "if you didn't like John as much as you do, we'd all be in trouble."
Sara swats him. "He agrees," she announces in Czech. "You two are destined and I'd be arrogant to oppose it."
Drunk or not, however, something in John’s amused expression tells Sara he perfectly got the gist of what Sam said.
≫∘ ───٠◦٠♡٠◦٠─── ∘≪
"I’m taking him home," Sam declares not half an hour later, referring to his and John’s usual sleeping place at the tavern.
Sara casts a glance to where John sits sprawled on the bench deep in sleep, head resting on the table. She hugs her son’s arm in a quiet farewell before he decides how to go about getting John all the way there.
Sam simply turns all the way and squeezes her into his larger form. She feels his nose press into the top of her head, their tired and sated frames drawing equal comfort from each other.
Once released, she lifts Sam's left hand to her lips and kisses just below his knuckles. "It's a good thing, then, isn’t it?" she whispers, dragging his hand along as she points a finger upwards, "That He and I see eye to eye on your marriage."
Sam’s eyes roll sideward, but his hand stays put where Sara covers it in all of three more kisses.