The man stood away from all the clusters of people in the airport. He was too far from the entrance to be one of the businessmen, waiting for their cabs. Too close to the gates to be part of the Starbucks line. Not near enough to the baggage claim to be watching for something. He simply stood, unmoving, near enough to the domestic arrivals gate that anyone who noticed him figured he must be waiting for someone, though he was aloof from people who brandished signs and hushed excited family dogs.

Anyone who kept an eye on him for longer than a few minutes noticed how his frown would intensify and his fists would squeeze closed whenever the group of sparkly-antler-wearing carollers started a new song, as if every single tune was the one he hated most in the world.

Lots of people wait in airports. Being a place to wait is essentially an airport's primary function. This particular man wouldn't have looked so out of place if it weren't for a few noticeable things.

First, his clothes. His leather jacket was as black as the coal parents were still threatening their children with, even though the presents were already purchased, wrapped, and hidden in the guest bedroom closet, the one with a lock on it. The jacket had a few more fastenings and straps on it than were strictly necessary, and was just that side of worn that it didn't look expensive, merely big and dark and vaguely reminiscent of television shows about motorcycles that came on after 9PM.

Similarly, his dark sunglasses, unseasonable for December even in California, did next to nothing to hide the murderous look on his face, which was a disturbing contrast to the cheerful red and green (and blue and white and black, since this was a self-consciously inclusive airport).

But, mostly, the thing that made this man stand out was his preternatural stillness. In 3 hours of waiting, he hadn't moved an inch. Not to scratch his nose, or check the time or look longingly toward the Duty Free. When people walked past, they gave his shoulders a wide berth. The only parts of him that moved were his clenching hands and his deep scowl.

Airports aren't known for being places where the atmosphere is relaxed and carefree, so naturally, his presence was bound to make a few people take note.

Bigoted passersby dismissed their worries because of the lightness of his skin. Mothers held their children's hands tighter, refusing to feel guilty about their protective instincts.

A nervous man, flying for only the second time, the first in his adult life, clutched and shredded the last tissue he'd had in the travel pack, unable to keep his eyes from flicking back to the lonely, waiting man. He'd seen the news. He knew that there were whackjobs who targeted places like this.

Who knew what he could be hiding under all that leather? Perhaps he wasn't as buff as he looked, perhaps the bulk was due to something more sinister. After an hour of fretting, panicking and texting of last wishes to his loved ones, the nervous man screwed up his courage.

The tension in the surrounding area dialed up further the closer he got to the security booth. He was about to clear his throat and gain the guard's attention when the man with the sunglasses-after 3 hours of complete stillness-moved. He wove quickly and quietly through the crowd that waited for flight number 1793 from Connecticut.

"Derek!"

The bright, jovial cry came from another man, who didn't look at all out of place amongst the students who flew home in droves this time of year from Yale. His smile stretched his wide cheeks, and was met with an answering one from the man with the sunglasses. Soon, neither of them were smiling, because they were too busy kissing, and the sunglasses were shoved out of the way.

Most of the onlookers found something else to gawk at fairly quickly, a fair few of them as red-cheeked as the jolly Santa the airport had hired to distract cranky, overheated children. (The ones that didn't were old enough to know of such things, and were unashamed of their appreciation.)

"I told you I could take a bus. You didn't have to come all this way," the new guy said, though the tone of his voice gave away that he hadn't had any intention of buying a bus ticket. Derek's reply was lost in the shoulder of his hoodie, since they hadn't yet parted from their close embrace.

Whatever he'd said, it shocked a laugh from the newcomer, who pulled back from the hug to ask, teasingly, "have you been hanging around here looking like a serial killer? Again, Derek? For real?"

This earned him a shove and a quiet grumble, then they were kissing again, slowly and longingly, like it hadn't quite sunk in that there wasn't the distance of a whole country between them. Hands grasped and bodies pressed together as their reunion stretched out for long minutes, sweet as the candy cane flavouring that the Starbucks had run out of that morning.

When someone finally did involve security, it was to warn them against public indecency, and send them off where they obviously wanted to be.

Home.