Cold Comfort

It was so cold the air rang. The Seine froze. Boughs cracked off trees, doves dropped from the sky, hands clawed inside gloves, and old women put on three extra shawls. Noel, Noel, it was good to be in Paris and alive.

Methos ankled down the Rue Mouffetard, humming behind his scarf. He passed among lights and gold and holly and riches in window displays. He savored perfumed women, bright eyed and gay; soigne men, in the camel hair, swoop-lined coat of the season, with pink cheeks and lickable currant lips; children--well, he drew the line at finding joy in the presence of children, but fa la to them, as well. He walked, no, he sailed through the shopping horde, buoyed by bonhomie and the complacency of the single, unobligated man.

Methos didn't give gifts. Life was simpler that way. Truth to tell, it had been generations since anyone had inspired the thought and bother, let alone the motivational guilt. He was, to the world, unattached; minimally funded; serially orphaned, life after life. I'm beholden to no one, he thought with satisfaction. Nobody loves me. He grinned. A pyramid of potted Scottish grouse caught his leeward eye. Mac, now, Mac bought gifts. Mostly for women, granted, with potential kissy returns, but still. He was generous, and in the habit. He bought for his brood--Richie, Connor, Amanda, even dear dour Darius on one occasion. Probably Joe, as well, under the counter, in the back room, in the dark.... (An errant, husky speculation fogged his mind's lens. He blinked it away.) He gave to orphans and widows and Maurice.

But not to me! Methos stopped short, blocking a confectioner's door. He thought. He reconsidered. No! Never a Christmas, never an inquiry about a birthday invented or observed. A woman burdened with packages--wrapped packages! Christmas gifts!--elbowed him off the doorstep. He stared at his reflection in the window, pale above a tray of marzipan pigs. I was once given a palace in Spain. I've been presented with emeralds, ivory, incense, and a taxidermied moose. I've been treasured. I've been loved. I've been gifted with the best of 'em, Bub. So what the hell is wrong with you?

He looked at the end pig. The end pig looked back. Was he too recent an acquaintance? Too male? Too unworthy of the bounty MacLeod? Surely not. The man had opened to him his home, his pantry, his plump leather couch. Hell, he'd never be in Paris in December, in this flensing cold, if he didn't think...if he didn't want...if he didn't damn well feel like it. He frowned. He shrugged. Screw MacLeod. He tossed a scarf end past his ear and tacked back into the human flow.

+++

"No reason. I thought you'd appreciate the company."

Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod, kilted in a towel, lowered his sword. "I'm getting dressed."

"So I'd hope." Over Mac's broad, bare shoulder Methos could see an open bottle on the table in front of the fire. By it was an inch-filled glass and a litter of paper and ribbon. "You needn't bother, I'll help myself."

Sword in one hand, towel cinched with the other, vulnerable whisky to his rear. Mac hesitated. Methos smiled. He opened his cold coat wide, brushing one wing across Mac's chest. The blade swung up between them, wavered, and then, to Methos's surprise, slapped the side of his face. It stung. Mac stood down and stepped away. "Get your own glass."

Hanging his coat, Methos watched MacLeod lay up the katana on a rack. The towel drooped, slid, and dropped to the floor. Mac picked it up, flipped it over his shoulder, and walked naked to his drink. The fire's glow reflected gold on a long, wide back, on a magnificently muscled hip, on full and flexing curves.... He must have made a sound; Mac turned. He must be staring. Well, who wouldn't? "Save it for the ladies," Methos said aloud, and walked over to the galley for that glass.

Settled in the couch, Mac behind him somewhere making soft clothing-a-naked-body noises, Methos focused. Table. Gifts. The paper was burgundy, satin striped, the ribbon a plain, pale gold. Objects were wrapped, but not all labeled. A small square package, likely a jeweler's box, for Amanda. A bottle in a bag, with a bow round its neck. Something about the size and heft of a good leather-bound book...for Richie? He sniffed. Hope springs eternal in the self-educated breast. He caught the scent of something peppery, teasingly seductive. Not the flat one. Not the one that rattled when he shook it. Sandalwood, he thought. Cinnamon? Warm, sophisticated, decidedly not MacLeod's. Mac wore a cologne too light for him, a citrusy, clean blend, two centuries old. Methos had been itching to get it off him....get him off it, since they met. He picked up the last box on the table and inhaled. This bottle, ah, this package, here. A different paper on this one, a curly ornamental seal. He pressed it to his nose again, and sighed. A bitter base note, and something sweet: smoke, honey, leather. My boots, my horse, my man. Exquisite. And odd. It was an intimate gift, a distinctive scent. What man in Mac's life merited this? Me. This is the gift for me.

A cabinet door shut behind him. He had a swift urge to pocket the box, eyeing his coat across the room, when a weight dipped the couch back and Mac leaned over him. Mac's hand closed on the box, on Methos, his wide, hot hand over Methos's bones. Mac tugged the treasure from his hand. He tore the paper off the box, opened it, and snorted softly at the label on the bottle. "Better drink up. I'm leaving, soon." He twisted off the top, and sniffed.

"Meeting someone?" For Mac. Not me, nothing here for me. Methos poured himself another two fingers of scotch, perversely, and sprawled back against the cushions. The area around the fire was his domain. The rest of the barge was chilly. Outside it was bitter. He'd stay in his little spot of warmth, and MacLeod could go.

Mac spilt a few drops in his palm and rubbed his hands together. He slid his hands along his jaw, into his hairline at the nape of his neck. The scent bloomed. "I'm going to the concert at Ste. Anne's. Come with me."

"I'm not really in the mood for Christmas carols. Have a nice time. Don't fall on the ice and freeze to death."

"It's Brahms, in fact. Father Bernard might be there; you'd like him."

"Is that who sent the cologne? Pretty bold for a priest." He leaned over his knees, reaching for the bottle Mac had set down, but he was too late again. Mac plucked it off the table.

"It's a little joke, from a friend." He turned the label to Methos's view. "L'Immortelle. Like the flower." He was smiling more than the weak wordplay deserved.

"Sweets to the sweet," said Methos sourly. "It doesn't suit you, my bonny scotch bonnet."

"Scotch bonnet's a pepper." Mac picked up his coat and scarf from the rack. He hesitated, then dropped the bottle in his pocket and lifted Methos's coat. "Come with me; you'll enjoy yourself."

"Happy where I am." Methos looked down at his knees, at the drink in his hand, until he heard the hatch door close, behind Mac. Cold air eddied through his bubble of warmth. Mac's scent thinned and disappeared.

+++

He caught up with him in the park, just visible through the evening blue and a drifting veil of snow. He slipped on the uneven walk, but Mac didn't break stride; knew he was there, of course, had to know it was he. They walked together for a few turns in the path, then Methos asked.

"So, what did you get me?"

"Pardon?"

"For Christmas; it's a custom to give gifts, I've heard. What are you giving me?"

Mac stopped short. "Give you?" He rounded, and Methos stumbled back a step. Mac followed. "What am I giving you? You? The man who's had it all? The man who has nothing?"

"I don't...."

"Food. Shelter. The clothes off my back." The path was deserted. Mac bulked black against the twilight, snow haloing his head, his scarf a gleaming white band. He stepped forward again, and Methos stepped back.

"My drink. My bread." Whisky on his breath, under the heady scent. "The light of my hearth. The warmth of my fire." His eyes glinted, his body smoked with heat.

Methos shivered, and backed again, stumbling over a small barrier edging the walk. He slid on black, cold-crisped grass, back against a tree, retreating until the back of his head hit damp, rough bark. Twigs tangled in his hair, ice scratched his ear.

"My arm against your enemy." Mac grabbed a branch of the tree and swung closer, chest to Methos's chest.

"Not enough," Methos gasped. His sword hung heavy on his thigh.

"Nothing, then." Mac's face was against his, his breath steaming against Methos's lashes, seeping between Methos's lips. "Nothing is enough." The scent of everlast and oak, sandalwood and smoked tea, caressed his cheek. Methos's back was cold and wet, but his front was warm and alive; Mac moved the fractional space it took to bring their mouths together. The kiss was voracious, delicious, whiskied, spiced, and sweet. He opened to Mac's sliding tongue, thrust a thigh between Mac's thighs, pushed his fist deep into Mac's overcoat pocket, struggling, wrestling into the hands undoing his flies, sliding inside, groping for flesh. Mac's hand closed on his sex, a hot/cold shock, as he grasped the coveted bottle. Mac laughed into his mouth. For me! For me! Methos sang, in his gleeful, greedy heart, and the snow fell down all around them.

-End-