Mistletoe, Illyria/Methos, EUF universe
Universes: Highlander x AtS
Disclaimer: David Panzer et al own HL, Joss the Almighty owns AtS
Characters: Illyria, Methos, Wesley
Genre: Holiday Contemplations
Rating: what do you think the holidays should be rated, eh? No one is every happy around the holidays, but there's little actual violence, planned or otherwise.
Setting: December past the end of AtS5, four months from Encore Une Fois, which took place about August of that year. During the bar scene of One Good Turn.
Summary: What Illyria spies over Methos’ shoulder when the trio are talking. Her thoughts on the Old Man and the holidays.
Prequels: Encore Une Fois. If you haven’t read that one, you’re going to be very lost. It explains how Wesley and Illyria came to be a couple of sorts and shows the first meeting of Wes and Giles after his First Death. In One Good Turn Methos and Joe meet another Watcher who has alarming news about the Game, and two new players: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and Illyria. There’s also a drabble called Gingerbread, another holiday memory of Fred’s that Illyria shares.
Holiday Fic For All: #164 Methos/Illyria
She watched him over Wesley’s shoulder, eyes bright with anticipation. She knew what he was, what his kind always did. They watched; they challenged; they died. Sometimes Wesley would let her play with them first, but it always ended the same way.
Another dead Immortal.
The filth in the booth didn’t act like most of them did, though, all nervous excitement. He sipped his beer with obvious savoring, eyes cautious but calm. He seemed to recognize them, and watched them dance as if they were beautiful.
Illyria knew that look from her own Wesley’s eyes. He thought she was beautiful, and that was satisfactory. Her guide should worship her- that was the way of things. That those things weren’t progressing as she expected, well, not surprising. Nothing in this new world worked the way it should.
She knew the slim man with his impressive nose was old, older than most. When they slid into seats opposite him, she could smell age in him. The lightening under his skin was stronger than most. Perhaps he would be a worthy replacement for the half-breed. Not that he would have the stamina of Spike, but something of his cautious reliance.
But Wesley didn’t want to play, not tonight. A few words were exchanged, but Illyria sat still. Wesley had promised her a Christmas gift, though he would not say what. He’d left their hotel hours before, returning with the stench of Laskani demons on his clothes and pretty words of death and destruction.
Death and destruction were suitable gifts.
Over the shoulder of this ancient Immortal, Illyria spied something interesting. A waitress was hanging a clump of greenery over the door. She remembered this from the Shell. Down in Texas shooting mistletoe from the trees, her parents kissing like young lovers and unaware of her embarrassment.
But it was not her embarrassment, and she should never forget that. Not even when the night pressed close with Wesley’s sleeping breath and warmed her skin with possibilities.
When they took their leave, the Old Man was still sitting there, nursing his beer. He watched them with ancient eyes, and Illyria almost wished they had time to speak more. Perhaps he would understand how far the world had fallen. Maybe one day she and Wesley would find him again and ask.
Maybe he would worship her, too.