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The apartment was dark, what little illumination there was provided only by the faint pinpricks of light coming from distant buildings and streetlamps.
Krycek stood at the window and looked out over the city at night.
He hated this time of the year, with its overly-bright festivities, crowded shopping centers, much too enthusiastic holiday cheer. Jealous? Sure he was jealous. As if he had nothing better to do than suffer through holiday dinners with nameless relatives, endless gift wrapping, holiday hassles. Yeah. Right. NOT.
He had a job to do, namely babysitting an arrogant, stubborn, fool of an FBI agent. Krycek gritted his teeth. Mulder always did get under his skin like no one else could. The man's single-handed talent for getting into trouble was nothing compared to his ability to make Alex simultaneously furious and desperately wanting in one breath.
He banged his head against the cool glass. And why was Mulder always on his mind? He didn't need this, the man tormenting him when he wasn't even around. Krycek pulled back just enough so he could watch his breath fog the glass, lost in thought once more.
He didn't know how long he was at the window, but the resounding sound of the doorbell buzzing through the apartment made him spin around, gun already drawn in his hand in one fluid movement. Shit. Even assassins ought to get Christmas Eve off. Crossing the room quickly, he stood tense behind the closed door and peered through the peephole, but he wasn't prepared for who he saw there.
Methos. There was no mistaking that tall figure standing on the other side of the door. Why was he here? He didn't need to ask how Methos had found him, that was a given. Still, it's been...a long time.
Holstering his firearm, Krycek pulled the door open to look upon that familiar figure.
"Methos."
"Hey," The Immortal turned a warm hazel gaze on him and smiled, making Alex's breath catch. He hadn't expected this, a visit from his oldest of friends, but one glance at that mischief-filled smile brought up a flood of memories. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the other man.
"I, uh, brought chocolate," Methos said, holding up a foil-wrapped package to evidence this and putting on his best Adam 'oh-I'm-so-innocent’ Pierson expression. Inwardly, Methos snorted, as if it could ever fool Alex, but nevertheless it was fun to see Alex wrestle with exasperated amusement whenever he presented the assassin with his grad student façade.
Sure enough, Krycek heaved a long-suffering sigh and stood back to let him in with a mumbled, "Oh, very well."
Grinning, Methos shouldered his way past Krycek and made his way to the kitchen, with its little island counter and sleek appliances. He deposited his package on the smooth granite surface of the counter, and turned around to face Krycek with a little shiver.
"Alex, why is it freezing in here? Is the heater even on?"
Krycek was leaning against the entryway, just watching him, but Methos had already spotted the white thermostat mounted on the wall next to the fridge and made a beeline for it. Glancing at Alex as he thumbed the numbers up high, just the way he liked it, he caught the half-hearted shrug and rueful smile the assassin tossed his way. Alex knew he hated being cold.
For a second, he let his own gaze narrow in consideration as he took in the darkened rooms and Alex's much too quiet demeanor. The younger man was in a holiday slump if he ever saw one, whether Alex himself knew it or not. Well, he was just going to have to remedy that.
After shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back of a chair, Methos flung an arm around Alex's shoulders and pulled him bodily away from the entryway and into the kitchen, stoically ignoring the other's muffled squeak of protest.
"We, my friend," he jabbed Alex in the chest with a finger as he pulled him along, "are going to make hot chocolate. The best kind, just the way the Parisians make it. That powdered stuff is just not gonna cut it."
He grabbed a small pot and set it on the stove, poured milk into it, and then set it to heating.
Walking over to the counter, he seized the packet of chocolate and tore it open, unwrapped the crinkly foil from each of the individualized chocolate blocks molded on wooden sticks.
Leaning forward on the counter, he waved one in front of Krycek.
"Come on. I brought these all the way back from France for you. Act a bit more enthusiastic, hmm?"
"Sorry." Alex looked up quickly and took the stick from Methos, offered him a smile and a soft "Thanks" that cut straight to his heart. Poor kid really wasn't very used to gifts and the like, was he? But Methos was heartened to see that Alex's eyes went noticeably brighter at the sight of the chocolate.
Alex had retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and was now staring at the milk heating on the stove with a near predatory gaze. Chuckling, Methos checked the pot again and turned off the heat, turning to pour two steaming cups of milk into the mugs on the counter.
"All right," Methos set the pot aside and snatched up his own chocolate stick with barely-concealed glee and eyes glowing with pleasure. "Ready to try these?"
They both dipped the sticks into the hot liquid, watching as the chocolate left swirls of dark brown in the pale white, continued to stir until all that's left was the creamy, slightly frothy concoction and a bare stick.
Alex closed his eyes as he took his first sip of the rich blend; he couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure from the back of his throat. It was so sweet, and smooth, the dark milky taste of cocoa present in every sip. He chanced a look at Methos, who had the same blissed-out expression mingled with nostalgia.
Eventually they retreated to the living room, content to just sit side by side on the couch, drink hot chocolate and watch some generic Christmas special on TV.
After a while, Methos spoke quietly, "It's Christmas Eve."
"Yeah," Alex's eyes were distant; he looked everywhere but at Methos.
Concerned, Methos shifted so he could lay a comforting hand on the other's shoulder. When Krycek didn't shrug it off, he put his arm around the younger man, gave a light squeeze.
And he knew it was the right thing to do because Alex turned to him, leaned into him wordlessly, asking silently for what he wouldn't allow himself to say out loud. And Methos knew. He knew all too well what it felt like, that aching loneliness that one just couldn't shake, the kind that's been part of you for so long you don't even feel it anymore. Much.
Not until someone comes along and reminds you all over again what it's like to feel. Isn't that right, Alex?
Instinctively, he tightened his hold protectively around the younger man. See, it's not so bad. A little comfort doesn't have to hurt. And it shouldn't. Not tonight of all nights.
"It's what you make of it," he whispered to the dark head nestled against him, felt Alex nod against his chest, hand still curled loosely around his empty mug of hot chocolate. Methos tugged at it gently and Alex let him take it and set it aside.
Shifting, Alex nuzzled him slightly in wordless thanks, tried to offer back a little of what Methos had given him tonight. Methos chuckled and finding the remote he thumbed down the volume, pulling Alex back so they sank comfortably into the butter-soft leather cushions.
They fell asleep to the soft flickering light of the television screen and the warm aroma of melted chocolate.
Methos was the first to wake the next morning. He hugged Alex's warmth to him just a little while longer, chin resting on top of that dark head, but no matter how much he wanted to stay he knew it was time for him to leave. It was easier this way, really, for both of them, with goodbyes unsaid because neither knew when they would next meet.
It was a measure of how much Alex trusted him that the assassin didn't wake up when he gently disentangled himself and pulled away, retrieved his coat and put it on.
Methos pulled out a square box wrapped in red from the inside of his jacket. Carefully he tucked the box underneath Alex's arm. We all need our tools of trade, he thought. He knew Alex had a nice one - one had to have, in his line of work. But this one was elite. He'd had it specially made and imported from Russia.
Methos leaned in to kiss the sleeping man's cheek lightly.
"Merry Christmas, Alexei," his voice whisper-soft as it drifted to Alex's ears. "I hope you catch your lisitsa someday."
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Methos Alex's eyes flew open and fixated on the spot Methos had just vacated. Hugging the gift close to him he felt a lump in his throat. He looked down at the box in his arm.
Tugging off the lid of the box, Alex caught his breath. Lying there, nestled within the tissue paper, was one of the finest pieces of weaponry he'd ever laid his eyes on. Gingerly, he reached for the silver and black gun, letting fingertips skim the cold metal before his hand closed around the handgrip. Lifting the handgun and letting its weight settle comfortably into his palm, he absently caressed the barrel, the trigger, already memorizing the feel of it.
A small, business card-sized piece of paper fluttered out when Alex moved the box to the side. He bent to pick it up and read, in Methos's neat scrawl:
Take care of yourself.
(And you owe me two presents next year)
Alex's lips quirked in amusement. Standing up he walked over to the window, scanned the sidewalk down below. Outside the snow fell thick and heavy, cloaking everything underneath a blanket of white. A lone figure made its way across the street. Without looking back or up, Methos lifted a hand and waved, and Alex let his forehead drop to the glass with a fond smile upon his lips.