Chapter Text
December 24, 1995
By mid-afternoon most days, Joe's would just be starting to pick up, blue-collar guys cutting off a little early, a few businessmen killing time after a cross-country flight with nowhere to be until the next day. On Christmas Eve it was practically a ghost town, at least until ten or so. Dawson was taking advantage of the quiet to work on inventory, printouts spread out in front of him, when the door opened and pale winter sunlight outlined a familiar silhouette.
"Mac! Long time no see." Dawson's practiced eye read the man he'd made a study of for twenty years, and saw that Duncan MacLeod was relaxed and in good spirits today, probably thanks to all the time he'd been spending working on Anne Lindsey's house, getting it ready for mom and the new arrival. Not much made him happier than giving generously of himself to those he cared about, and having his gifts accepted. "How's life treating you?"
"Good, Joe. I'm good." MacLeod glanced at the papers spread on the bar. "Making your list and checking it twice?"
"Yep. Got you down for a lump of coal, as a matter of fact."
MacLeod's brows arched. "Well, if I've been naughty, I guess you would know."
He really was in a good mood if he was willing to joke about Dawson's avocation. Joe couldn't help returning the grin. "And don't you forget it."
"Like you'd let me."
Joe chuckled. "What brings you to my neck of the woods? Can I get you a beer or something?"
MacLeod leaned on the bar, his expression turning serious. "No, but there is something you can do for me."
"I will if I can, you know that."
"Come over to my place tonight. Rich and I want you to spend Christmas Eve with us."
Taken aback, Joe felt his face warm. He shuffled the papers spread out on the bar. "I appreciate it, Mac, but I gotta stay here and finish up this inventory--"
"No buts," MacLeod insisted. "You told me yourself it's hardly worth it to you to stay open on Christmas Eve. So, close up for a few hours, and meet us at my place. Seven o'clock."
Joe spread his hands, and looked for a way to get out of this gracefully. "Look, Mac -- I really do appreciate it. It's just that I don't usually do that whole holiday thing, you know?"
As soon as the words were out, Joe realized that he didn't have to tell this man anything about being alone for the holidays. He immediately felt like a heel for thinking he did, but Mac just nodded understanding. "To tell you the truth, I was counting on you being there. Besides, Rich says he'll kick my ass if I take no for an answer."
"Well, I don't know, that might be worth seeing." But he'd made up his mind, and MacLeod's smile said he knew it. The man was insufferable. "Okay," Joe relented, "seven it is. Should I bring anything?"
"Just your sparkling personality." MacLeod slapped the bar lightly and pushed himself away. "Thanks, Joe."
"Sure I can't pour you a beer? I could use the distraction."
"Can't. Got another stop to make." MacLeod's grin escaped again, and Dawson knew the source of his Christmas cheer had to be Anne Lindsey's new baby. He'd never seen the man lavish affection on anyone the way he had on that child. MacLeod had tried to keep his distance, tried to contain his obvious adoration so as not to spook Anne, but it was painfully obvious to anyone who knew him. Dawson just hoped MacLeod had the sense to back off before Anne had to push the issue.
"How many presents you going to buy for that kid, anyway? She's barely a month old, you know. It's not like she's gonna know what the fuss is all about."
Wounded, MacLeod protested, "It's her first Christmas, Joe! First Christmases only come once. I'm allowed to spoil her a little, aren't I?"
Joe smiled, and if there was sadness behind the smile, he didn't think Mac could see it. "Sure, buddy. At least until she's old enough to drive."
MacLeod raised a hand in farewell. "Later, Joe."
When he'd gone, Dawson went back to the inventory reports. It was several minutes before he realized he'd been singing "Christmas Blues" under his breath.
* * *
Duncan whistled what he cheerfully suspected was a dreadfully off-key rendition of "Merry Christmas, Baby" as he unloaded what he suspected to be far too many celebratory supplies from the T-bird's back seat. He hadn't intended to buy quite so much for just the three of them, but it seemed to be the season of excess. Anne had certainly thought so when she'd seen the presents he'd brought for Mary. For her part, Mary was largely unimpressed with her presents, but seemed quite taken with Duncan's hair tie, which had ended up in her possession for the foreseeable future. Already a femme fatale of considerable charms, little Mary had made at least one conquest, and Duncan was more than happy to be the first in what he was sure would be a long line of admirers.
Shifting the heavy armload of foodstuffs, beer and Christmas decorations, he turned and pushed his way backwards through the door of the dojo, maneuvering himself and his supplies successfully around the door with some exertion of skill and balance. Almost immediately inside the door, however, his careful balancing act was nearly defeated by a large and somewhat treacherous pile of fir tree needles. Whistle halted mid-note, Duncan recovered from the near-slip and frowned.
As his gaze followed the trail of fir needles, punctuated by a second, smaller pile just inside the interior doors, progressing in a ragged but mostly straight line across the dojo floor and ending in another, formidable pile in front of the lift, his frown deepened. He started to cross the room and his boots made an unpleasant, sticky sound on the wood floor. Sap.
"Richie!"
As if summoned out of thin air by the force of Duncan's bellow, Richie appeared at the top of the stairs. "I'll clean it up, Mac. Don't you worry about a thing, okay? I swear, when I'm done, you'll never know a Christmas tree came through here."
The pattern and quantity of shed needles had alerted Duncan's suspicions. "Just how big is this tree, anyway?"
Richie hurried down to ground level and started to take some of the heavy paper sacks from Duncan's arms, piling them into his own. "You're gonna love it, Mac. It was the best one on the lot. Seriously, wait till you see it."
"Because I told you I wanted something tasteful, something that wouldn't take over the whole living room, remember?"
"Well, it's a big room, right? I mean, those ceilings have got to be, what? Thirty feet? Maybe forty. And you got extra lights, right? Yeah, you did, that's great. How many more strings did you get?"
"Richie." Wide, blue eyes met his. "How big?"
"Uh..." Richie looked at the paper sacks. "I think we might need some more lights."
* * *
Despite Duncan's best efforts, it was hard to stay mad at the kid. He couldn't help remembering that first Christmas after Richie had come to stay with them, how Tessa had encouraged the idea of the three of them making new traditions together, how determined Richie had been to make it the perfect family Christmas, complete with luminarias and eggnog and the most perfect Christmas tree he could find. Tessa had despised eggnog, but forced herself to drink some because Richie had made it; the tree had been a success that year but the luminarias had been a disaster, refusing to stay lit in the wet, cold fog that rolled in from the coast. The whole experience had been awkward and tense and Duncan had loved them both for trying so hard, and somehow, it had worked.
Tessa had been killed the next year, and December had come and gone unnoticed, both of them still numb with grief, unable to face the thought of trying to pretend the two of them were still a family, with Tessa gone. The year after that, Richie had made himself scarce, and Duncan hadn't pushed it. Anne had broken with him not long before that, and he hadn't felt much like celebrating himself.
This year he'd been smarter. He'd asked, and Richie had stayed, and so it was tough to stay mad about the tree, or any of the kid's usual antics. To his credit Richie had managed to get the lights on without sending the monstrous fir crashing through the front windows, and they winked festively now among the branches. A glance at the clock over the stove told him it was time to put the dessert in; Joe would be there in half an hour.
Duncan put three ramikins into the oven, the egg, sugar and vanilla beginning almost immediately to release their sweet aroma. Dinner under control, he wiped his hands and came around the kitchen island, grabbing his beer and joining Richie where he stood gazing up at the tree.
"I think we'll just skip the ornaments, what do you think?"
"Yeah," Richie agreed. "It looks nice like that."
"That, and I don't think they have enough ornaments in the Pacific Northwest to cover that tree."
Richie grinned. "You could be right about that." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, I almost forgot! You got a postcard today, from Florence."
"Really? Who from?"
"I don't know. I put it on the hall table with the other cards."
Duncan fanned the small stack of cards, most of them from the university faculty or from business associates, the small postcard appearing between them. On the front was a photograph of Cellini's bronze statue of Perseus from the Loggia dei Lanzi, the classical hero wielding a curved sword and proffering the head of Medusa as proof of his bravery. It took him a second, but then Duncan started to grin. "It's from Adam," he said, and turned the card over.
It wasn't signed, but the handwriting was extraordinarily graceful, speaking of skill learned in another century. Though he'd seen that flowing script only once before, in the margins of his copy of Sartre's Being and Nothingness, he'd have known it anywhere.
Christmas in Florence, it said at the top. Then, in Italian:
I wanted to take her to Bethlehem, but twenty-eight years of occupation are not easily put aside, I'm afraid. Even hoping for the best, tensions are bound to be running high, and besides, I'm a romantic at heart. How can you go wrong with Florence?Did you know that Cosimo tried to put Cellini off finishing his Perseus? He was absolutely convinced it would never stand with that great head dangling off the end of its fist, and refused to cough up another quattrino. Benvenuto ended up throwing his pots and pans and (so I heard) half his furniture into the furnace to finish the thing. Alexa and I agree it was well worth a bit of redecorating. He's quite magnificent, all told. Can't quite say why he reminded me of you, though -- maybe the wings.
Duncan imagined the smirk that had accompanied the writing of those words, and couldn't help laughing.
P.S. Give Joe our love, and give that kid of yours a good whack with a stick about the head and shoulders for me, will you?
"What's so funny?"
Duncan tucked the postcard back into the pile. Richie and Methos weren't on the best of terms at the moment, given that 'Adam' had been the one to separate Kristin's head from her shoulders. Fatal attraction or not, that hadn't sat well with Richie. "Wouldn't translate," he said, and changed the subject. "You mind setting the table? Joe should be here any minute."
It was good to hear from Methos. He'd missed that irritating, intriguing presence in his life more than he'd realized, and it made him feel better to know that things were still all right, that Methos was finding some happiness, for a little while, at least. For a little while was the best their kind could hope for.
Look after yourself, my friend. He lifted his beer in a silent toast and cast the wish out into the world.