Christmas Story

"Think of the children."

"Bugger the children; think of me." Methos slouched in the cushions and scowled. "I've come halfway cross the globe to see you, I'm still wet, and you're throwing me out."

"It's two hours," said MacLeod absently, buckling the wide black belt. "It's a party; it's Christmas; it's tradition."

"It's the arse end of the year and it's raining."

MacLeod stood half-dressed in boots and red pants and an undershirt. "Help with this and I'll feed you. Or you can inflict your gracious company somewhere else." He shook out the white wig and settled it on his head, then caught Methos's eye in the mirror and took it off. Turning around, he picked up his katana and slid it through the belt. "Christmas," he warned again.

"Christmas. Jesus marzipan Christ. Joe's the graybeard; let him do it. Give the little bastards splinters sliding down his knee."

While Methos grumbled -- and tracked his every move -- MacLeod loaded his bag and pulled the costume jacket on.

"...suiting up to get peed on and sticky and kicked when you could be here in the warm with conversation and dinner and a fine draught of..."

"Forgot about that." MacLeod scooped a flattish bottle lovely with seals from the table and tucked it in his belt.

"Hey!" Methos swung to his feet. "That's a gift -- it's customary to share."

"I will; come to the party and you might get a sip." Seeing Methos standing, at last, he walked to the elevator gate.

"An expensive gift."

"See: you're in the spirit already." He turned off the lights.

"Tradition." The colored light from a window wreath caught Methos's eyes and they sparked green in the dark.

MacLeod pulled up his beard like a shield and waggled cotton eyebrows at the pest. "Aye. Tradition." The elevator groaned up the shaft.

"Chestnuts roasting. A log on the fire. Silver bells." There was no menace in the soft voice, but Methos leaned closer and MacLeod's hand went to his sword.

Methos smiled cynically and raised empty hands. "Mistletoe." He laid a palm on MacLeod's chest for balance, craned his neck back, and reached up to touch the ribboned bundle hanging from a beam. "Pick a berry for a kiss."

Mac watched a gleam of yellow light slide down his throat and swallowed. A prickle of sweat sprang up under the hand on his breast. Then Methos lowered his arm and moved his hand from MacLeod's warm chest to pull down the silken beard. Mac braced his back against the gate; he felt a knee brush his thigh, a thumb caress his lips; the elevator rumbled up behind him and he jerked his head to the side as Methos clapped the other hand to his throat.

MacLeod spasmed against the gate, gurgling; between the long fingers wrapped around his neck a stem of waxy berries shuddered in blood. The room went black, his eyes rolled white, his beard sopped rank and red.

"There's tradition and there's tradition," murmured Methos, reaching into Santa's belt.

-End-