Disclaimer: All things AtS belong to Joss Whedon, et al. All things Smallville belong to DC Comics, the WB, et al.
Distribution: The normal places.
Author’s Note: #42 at the TtH Holiday FFA.
Summary: There are some traditions that are better than others around the holidays.
The traditional holiday fruitcake deserved to be hacked into a thousand pieces and fed to rabid wolves, as far as Connor was concerned. He poked at the immoveable lump with a fork, raising an eyebrow at its density. On second thought, it would most likely leave a sizeable dent in his axe. Best to leave the fruitcake alone.
“It isn’t a demon,” Wesley murmured. “No need to glare at it as if it may attack at any moment.”
“If it isn’t edible and it isn’t a weapon, I fail to see its use.”
Wesley shrugged. “Tradition.”
Connor grunted. Already he hated that word. Tradition had meant hauling that oversized tree into the lobby and decorating it in gaudy decorations and lights. Tradition had meant inviting all of these… people… to the hotel for a Christmas party. His gaze narrowed as two of the guests stopped in one of the doorways, looking above them before laughing placing a kiss on each other’s lips.
“Why do they do that?”
Wesley’s gaze followed his finger. “Ah. The tradition of mistletoe. When two people find themselves beneath it at the same time, they… well… kiss.”
“Sounds almost as barbaric as the fruitcake.”
“Yes, well,” Wesley shrugged. “Some find it pleasant.”
Connor nodded, not seeing it himself, and refilled his plate from the ‘finger food’ Cordelia had arranged for the party. He wandered through the guests, looking for any sign to indicate that any of them were anything other than they were supposed to be. For the most part they were former clients of his dad’s agency. Others were just acquaintances that the group had made over the years.
And none of them appeared to be demonic in any way.
Well, aside from the guy leaning on the wall back there. But his father had assured him that he was ‘harmless’ and ‘to be left alone’.
He would comply, so long as the demon didn’t get out of hand.
Connor looked down at the woman that had joined him at some unknown point. “Excuse me?”
“You look bored,” she shrugged.
“Well aren’t you just filled with holiday cheer.” Despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm over speaking with her, the blonde stayed at his side, following him as he traversed the outer perimeter of the room.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Who are you?”
“Chloe Sullivan,” she smiled. “And you?”
“Connor – no last name?”
“What? Are you taking notes?” he snapped.
“Of course not.” Her grin grew. “I’m using a tape recorder. This’ll be a write up in my school paper come next Friday.”
Good question, for which he had no answer other than the fact that he doubted her classmates would care about some boring holiday party.
He had a split second to look up where she was pointing, right over his head, before she had launched herself into his arms.
Her lips were warm, soft. Definitely two things that he thought, in some hazy part of his brain, that he could get used to.
Get ‘used to’?”
He made to push her away, only to find that she’d pulled back on her own.
“Merry Christmas, Connor No-Last-Name.”
He licked his lips, tasting the remnants of her kiss.
Maybe mistletoe wasn’t as evil as he’d previously thought, after all.