"Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-lah—"
Whack! A long black tail lashed out, knocking the radio
onto the floor, where it died in about a dozen pieces and a
most undignified manner. "Fa-la-la my furry ass!" Jim
Ellison snarled. Needless to say, he was not in a holiday
mood, despite all the bright lights and decorations. And
there were a lot of decorations. Fox had gone all out,
what with this being their first holiday season together.
Hanukkah, Yule and two Christmases—Western and
Russian Orthodox—made for a very festive household.
Too bad half his family was on the other side of the
continent and wouldn't be back until the scum they were
hunting was either dead or behind bars. Jim knew which
he preferred and he was quite certain Alex agreed.
Unfortunately, the Bureau wouldn't see it that way. Idiots!
He growled an extremely rude Chopek insult that often
led to mortal combat and curled up on the sofa to start
grooming himself. Not that he needed to, he was just...
"Restless again, love?" Blair ignored the wreckage,
ignored his rumbling stomach, which was insisting on
more solid nourishment than an algae shake, and put his
arms around his cranky, catty Sentinel. Jim snuffled. "I
know, I miss them too. Damn it, this is so not fair." It
had been a very stressful month, what with school and the
wedding, moving into a new home—the loft was way too
small for four adult males, two of whom tended to spend
a lot of their time as huge felines, a panther and a snow
leopard—and now this case. Throw the Silly Season into
the mix and well... you get the picture. The one bright
spot in it all was that at least Blair's classes were over
until January, so that while his mate would be prowling
the streets again, he wouldn't be doing it without his
Guide. Or on all fours, which was easier on Jim's
heightened senses but played havoc with the nerves of
Cascade's good citizens (most notably the Mayor and half
his aldermen) who still weren't quite used to having a full
Sentinel in their midst. Aliens they'd been dealing with,
ever since the Rebel Alliance had established an embassy
after the fall of the Consortium—thanks in no small part
to Mulder & Krycek—but a cop who was a walking
crime lab and could be human or not as he chose? That
was an entirely different matter. That made people very
jumpy, especially the ones with something to hide.
"Fair or not, that's the way it is," Jim sighed into the soft
tangle of curls, thankful that their link permitted him to be
understood—but only by Blair, Fox or Alex—as
easily as if he were speaking English. "I guess I'll have to
get used to it, after all it comes with the territory." He
added rather wistfully, "It's just ... I really wanted the
holidays to be," he was going to say happier but changed
his mind, "extra special this year."
"And they will be." Suddenly Blair was absolutely certain
of the fact. "Come on, I'll fix us lunch."
Ellison snorted. Yawned a big yawn, the only purpose to
display a very impressive set of canines. "Okay. But feed
me sprouts again and you'll be lunch, Darwin."
Blair grinned, got up and walked over to the refrigerator.
Halfway there, he stuck out his tongue at the pussy cat
and wiggled a sassy backside. "Promises, promises."
The panther pounced.
Twenty minutes later, Blair was the one purring and
licking up the cream.
SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON, DC
Alex woke up cold and alone. The Beloved, the Guide,
was gone. For the third night in a row. He wished he'd
never agreed to this, but the separation was as necessary
as it was painful. Of all the agents in the whole damn
F.B.I.—or so it seemed to him anyway—only Mulder
and Krycek had the right qualifications for the job. So
they'd taken the earliest flight out of Cascade, only to be
told on arrival that Fox would be going it alone on the
undercover assignment. Alex, to say the least, had not
been pleased. He'd actually growled at A.D. Simmons and
was sorely tempted to shift forms and express his
disapproval the old fashioned way, with fang and claw,
until Mulder had taken him aside and explained that there
was every chance the suspect would recognize his
partner, thus blowing the entire operation. And they could
not afford to let another terrorist slip away. So he'd given
in, although it went against every instinct to be parted
even temporarily from his Guide and primary husband.
Now here he was, wide awake at four in the morning—two days before Christmas, could the Fates be more
cruel?—feeling absolutely miserable. He'd been in the
spirit world again with his Fox. Loving his Fox. Being
loved in turn by the Panther and Wolf, Sentinel and
Guide of the Great City. Screaming in ecstasy as his
mates brought him to a long, soul-shattering climax.
Finding—gods, not again!—his thighs and belly covered
in half-dried come and his prick still maddeningly hard.
No use to touch it; he'd tried that before and knew all too
well he wouldn't be able to obtain relief on his own. No
use his changing shapes to try and get rid of the problem
either; that only seemed to exacerbate his condition.
Which left him with two equally unpleasant options:
ignore it and try to get some sleep—hopeless!—or drag
himself into the bathroom and stand under an icy shower
till his goose bumps got goose bumps and started bitching
at him about the cold.
Never one to take the easy way out, Alex Krycek, former
Rat Boy, now Sentinel of Earth, rolled carefully onto his
side and pulled the blankets up around him, seeking
warmth. His groin throbbed and his eyes watered. Tears
streaked his face and he carelessly let them fall.
Because the ache in his balls was nothing—no, less
than nothing—compared to the unremitting agony in his
heart.
The Lavender Parakeet was a low-class dive on the seamy
side of town. A hazy,smoke filled throwback to the 1930's
... in the worst possible way. Hardcases and wanna-bes of
every description might kick up their heels at other clubs
along the Strip; those who hung out here were the real
deal. Genuine Grade A scum, the absolute bottom of the
barrel.
The joint did serve a mean gin-and-tonic, though. And the
band played music you could actually dance to. Assuming
you'd come here to dance. Most people came here to deal;
be it sex or drugs, guns or information, there was always
a ready market.
Fox Mulder leaned over the table and whispered
something in his companion's ear.The redhead with the
Mr. Universe physique blushed and grinned. He let his
eyes roam heatedly over the other's trim, leather-clad
body, licked his lips in a very provocative fashion, then
reached out and squeezed his "date's" hand. Message
received and understood.
This was it. The informant had finally stopped jerking
them around and given them the straight goods. Their
suspect had just walked in, flanked by an army of muscle.
She was a brunette now—big improvement on the bleach
bottle blonde look—but pure piranha through and
through, according to her rap sheet and Alex, who'd
worked with her a couple of times while playing at being
a Consortium thug named Arntzen. Now that Spender
was gone, she'd found herself another sponser, one with
ties to some really heavy hitters in Afghanistan and the
Middle East.
The same filth responsible for the slaughter of innocents
on 9-11. Mulder swallowed hard. Clenched his fists.
Ellison and Krycek were right; some bastards, their
crimes too great for mercy, did not deserve to live. For
the good of the tribe—Humanity—they had to be put
down. One did not, could not, permit a rabid hyena to run
loose and infect the whole jungle. And it was sheer
insanity to think one could be cured. The best thing, the
only thing to do, was to put a bullet through its diseased
brain and end the misery. Unfortunately, they needed
Marita alive. Not necessarily healthy, but alive. The
Agents moved in.
All hell broke loose.
DULLES AIRPORT, CHRISTMAS EVE
The place was a bloody madhouse and he wanted nothing
more than to be out of it. On the next jet and gone, back
to good old Cascade with its never-ending rain. Where
there was nothing to worry about but everyday crooks
and the odd homicidal maniac and visits from his
annoying in-laws. Days and nights of sheer bliss wrapped
up in Jim's sweet loving and Blair's warm cuddles—in
bed or out, Sandburg just loved to snuggle. He wouldn't
even mind it if the little scamp sat on him again and
tickled him totally breathless as "punishment" for all his
wisecracks about tongue or worse, tofu burgers. Oh, how
he longed to spend Christmas at home.
So, apparently, did the rest of the country. And they had
all congregated right here. In this terminal, in this lineup,
waiting for luggage inspections—he only had one bag, a
carry-on, he always traveled light—then tickets and
boarding passes—cripes, were they all on the same
flight? He hoped not. Anyway, it was enough to get on an
ordinary person's last nerve, let alone a Sentinel's. At least
he could turn his dials down and tune the racket out. His
mate didn't have that option.
He did have one hell of a shiner, though. Alex gave a soft
growl of sheer annoyance and frustration. Nobody
touched the Guide with impunity. Lucky for her the bitch
was cooling her heels in a maximum security cell.
Otherwise, he'd have simply ripped her throat out. He still
would, if that Intelligence guy was stupid enough to let
her go in exchange for turning on her bosses, like she had
on the Cancerman.
Eventually their flight number was called and they
boarded the airliner. The petite stewardess was scared
half out of her wits by the sight of him. Krycek was in his
transitory form: a seven-foot tall humanoid male with big
jade eyes, thick, white fur with black swirls and
splotches, a feline face and a bushy tail almost as long as
she was tall. Poor thing had obviously never seen a
Sentinel, except maybe on TV. But she got over it when
Mulder flashed his badge—Alex refused point blank to
wear a collar, claiming that it was undignified. If the fools
couldn't recognize his bonding bracelets, too bad about
'em. Soon they were ready for takeoff. No sooner was the
"please unfasten your seatbelts" announcement made than
he put his tail to good use by snagging Fox right into his
lap with it. As usual, the Beloved protested; however
Alex's nose told him that he didn't really mean it. He
closed his eyes and settled in for the long ride home.
CASCADE, LATE AFTERNOON ON CHRISTMAS
DAY
The sticky, sweaty, sated jumble of flesh and fur on the
living room floor—there was a perfectly good
custom-made bed upstairs but as usual they hadn't made it
that far—possessed but a single common thought: thank
God the neighbours weren't home.
Then again, they probably had been heard all the way
to Kansas.
CPD, THE CAPTAIN'S OFFICE, DECEMBER 28th
Simon Banks nearly swallowed his cigar. Again. His best
detective had come back to work looking more relaxed
than he'd seen him in weeks, hell, months. Long before
the whole Naomi catastrophe, at any rate. Ellison also
looked as though he'd recently been thoroughly,
passionately and quite expertly mauled.
"Whoa! What pack of wild animals did yourun into
lately?" Jim smirked. "Just the usual menagerie. Besides,
you're a fine one to talk." He indicated the fresh bite
marks on Simon's neck—no doubt the Captain had been
hoping his buttoned up collar would hide them. Almost,
but not quite. "Looks like Rafe and Brown worked you
over real good." Simon flushed. Did everybody know?
Was he wearing this big neon sign that said "Just Got
Laid"? Then again, to a Sentinel, he probably was. "Oh,
by the way, congratulations. When's the ceremony? You
know we'll all be there with bells on."
"Huh?" Oh, that was dignified.
"The wedding." Simon blinked. "You do plan to marry
them soon, I hope. After all, it's been scientifically proven
that children do best when their parents stay together." He
goggled. Children? Parents? What the fuck was Ellison
babbling about? Was there Golden in the fruitcake or
something?
"You mean you didn't know? Rafe's a hybrid, like Blair
and Alex." No, he hadn't known. Odds were that Rafe
didn't either. They had no secrets from each other, at least
not serious ones. "Judging from his scent—and a few
other things—I'd say he's in heat."
"In...heat?" There, that wasn't too bad. At least it hadn't
come out a girly little squeal.
Jim nodded. He was really enjoying this. Payback for all
the times his boss had made him squirm. "So's Alex.
Don't look at me like that, it's perfectly normal." The
smirk was now an outrageous ear-to-ear grin. "And unless
I miss my guess, we've got another..." He made quite a
production out of counting on his fingers.
"Eight-and-a-half months before the stork gets here."
Home for the Holidays
by MadByrd
CASCADE, WASHINGTON
