This Connor story was inspired by the song, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own and didn't create the characters of Connor MacLeod or Duncan MacLeod, nor do I have any rights to the Highlander universe. I'm just dallying there a bit with them - without permission, of course. No profits have been made (by me anyway), and no pixels were harmed in the writing of this story. I also borrowed the song lyrics without permission. The characters whose names you don't recognize are mine, however, so please don't take them anywhere without checking with me first.
A Merry Little Christmas - part 1
Weary and drained as he always was after a Quickening, Connor MacLeod slogged through two inches of dingy grey slush on the way back to his loft in lower Manhattan.
It was still snowing - though it was hardly fair to call this wet sloppy precipitation snow. Barely frozen globs of it dribbled from his hair, under the collar of his coat, then down his back like so many cold icy snakes, and added to his already foul mood.
He hadn't wanted to fight Cole Slater, not tonight anyway, but Slater had insisted. The brash and cocky man had been young for an Immortal - barely one hundred, if Connor's instincts were on target. And they usually were.
They'd had no quarrel. No prior run-ins. The late Mr. Slater had simply been out head-hunting, and he'd thought adding Connor MacLeod's head to his collection a splendid idea. Except, he'd thought wrong.
Perhaps that was the way The Game was meant to be played, Connor mused as he walked down Broadway, but tonight he simply hadn't been in the mood. For over four hundred years he'd lived by the credo, There can be only one, but occasionally he grew bone-tired of the fighting ... and the killing that ensued. Sometimes he just wanted to be left alone.
He shook his head, then breathed out his dissatisfaction with a snort of humorless laughter. "Dangerous thinking, old man," he growled.
Without waiting for the "walk," sign to flash permission, Connor hurried across Broadway just south of Canal, then turned down Walker.
A brick church, so dingy with years of accumulated soot that one could hardly guess the original color, stood in the middle of the next block. Like so many in the city, it stood toe to toe with the sidewalk, challenging the encroachment of the secular buildings around it. As Connor passed by, the doors opened without warning and a gaggle of people spilled out into the night.
Bundled up in scarves and colorful hats, they were well and heartily into the second chorus of Joy to the World. They sang in three part harmony while the leader of their little band conducted his mini-choir - walking backwards down the three steps. He stumbled on the last one, and right into Connor.
"Hey!" Connor snarled. "Watch it!".
The young man smiled as he held up his hands in a gesture of apology. "Sorry man, I didn't see you," he said, reaching out to touch Connor's arm. "Are you all right?"
Connor sidestepped the man's gesture of comfort, then pulled the collar of his rain coat tighter.
Letting his arm drop to his side, the man continued to smile despite the rebuff. "Merry Christmas!" he said.
"Christmas is a humbug," Connor muttered, then he hustled off down the street before the man could try to infect him with his Christmas cheer. "A humbug!" he repeated, just on principle.
Today was four days before Christmas, and he suspected that was the real reason he found himself mired in this deeply morose bog. Christmas often had that effect on him. It reminded him of his youth - a youth so long past that it often felt like it had happened to someone else. And it reminded him of the joy-filled holidays he'd spent with Heather. It taunted him and insisted on reminding him just how lonely an Immortal's life could be.
And he hated it. Oh, not the loneliness. He'd come to accept that, but he hated the sentimental spirit of the season that tried to hoodwink him into feeling sorry for himself. Self-pity was a dangerous and slippery emotion that could get an Immortal killed. Even if he wanted to wallow in it - which he didn't - he couldn't afford to.
As he approached his shop, he swallowed the uninvited feelings, hammered them until they were flat and lifeless, then he buried them in a dark corner of his soul. But even after he closed the shop door behind him, he could still hear their voices mocking him.
No wonder he was in a bad mood. "Humbug," he grumbled again, simply because saying it out loud stilled the persistent voices if only for a moment. And because right now he identified completely with Ebenezer Scrooge's sentiments - he had no time to waste celebrating what was simply another day among many.
Giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, he inhaled deeply. The musty smell of a store filled with old and mostly rare books told him he was home. It had a quieting effect on his troubled soul, and he relaxed somewhat as he strode through a narrow aisle between the shelves to his office at the back.
When he left New York for London thirteen years ago, he'd given the antique shop to Rachel, his ward and good friend. He'd been in New York for a decade or two back then, and it had been well past time to leave. Now he had returned - even though it was really too soon to do so - because he couldn't resist the magnetic lure of the city's raw energy.
For some inexplicable reason New York City fit him like a second skin. It was noisy and pulsing with life. A man had to be alert in this city. He couldn't be complacent or lazy. And the inhabitants had a natural tendency to look the other way when strange things happened - a godsend for an Immortal coping with a Quickening's destructive power.
He stopped before a roll-top desk that hugged the right wall of the tiny cluttered office. A bundle of mail lay in the center where he'd tossed it this afternoon before leaving to meet Slater. Loosening his coat, he withdrew his sword, laid it on the desk, then picked up the thick packet.
Judging by the top half dozen or so envelopes, it didn't appear to contain anything of real interest. He tossed the bills in the slots at the back of the desk and the advertisements in the wastepaper basket. As he worked through the pile, one item, near the bottom, but more colorful than the rest, snagged his attention. He pulled it out.
A Santa sitting atop a bright red toy-filled sleigh smiled up at him from the front of the postcard. He almost tossed it in with the advertisements, but some instinct made him turn it over.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, was written across the left side in a an exuberant scrawl.
Let your heart be light, followed. And the last of the three lines read, From now on, our troubles will be out of sight. It was unsigned, but postmarked -Ludlow, Vermont.
"Humph!" he breathed out with a snort, yet an icy apprehension crept down his spine - as real and as cold as the slushy snow that had slipped under his coat collar earlier.
The postcard was addressed to Connor MacLeod - not Edward Wilson, the name he'd been using for the past year. No one but Duncan knew that he'd returned to New York - not even Rachel. No one ... except perhaps ... he spat out a few Gaelic curses - then added one in English just for good measure ... those damned Watchers.
If those meddlesome Watchers had leaked his new identity there'd be hell to pay. He didn't care that Duncan called one of them a good friend. Didn't listen when Duncan tried to convince him that they served a purpose. He didn't like being Watched. Not one minute. Not even one second.
He fired the offending piece of cardboard into the wastebasket, then dumped the rest of the mail on the desk. He could deal with it in the morning. But as he retrieved his sword, then headed for the door at the back of the office - the one that led to the freight elevator - an irresistible urge rippled through him.
Like a Siren singing to lure an ancient mariner to his death, that blasted postcard called to him, and the damned song was stuck in his head. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas ..."
He fought against it for a moment, but the urge was too strong. Muttering another string of curses in three different languages - just for variety - Connor snatched the card out of the clutches of the trash can. He slammed the elevator gate down with more force than was necessary, then snapped his finger against the card all the way to the sixth floor.
"Have yourself a merry little Christmas," he growled as he stuck a push pin right through Santa's beard into the square of cork mounted next to his refrigerator.
* * * *December 22 burst forth with a blare of bright sunshine and a bold blue sky. The air was cold, yet crisp and clean - for the city anyway. It was one of those rare winter days when all the elements converged in an attempt at perfection. But it didn't brighten Connor's mood - not even a crumb.
He had taken a moment to speculate on the postcard while he poured himself a glass of orange juice that morning, however, since there was nothing he could do about it, he'd shoved it into the back of his mind - just to the left of the barely breathing pile of self-pity he'd dumped there last night. By noon he'd nearly forgotten both.
A phone call from a good customer, who was looking for a particular book, had him hunkered down in front of one of the shelves when the bell over the door jangled. He didn't bother to look up. Mrs. Lopez, his capable assistant, could handle it.
"Hello, Ben," she chimed in a deeply resonant voice that still contained a shimmer of accent, even though she'd left her native Puerto Rico as a child. "Isn't it a gorgeous day?"
Though she saw him at least four or five times a week, one would think she hadn't seen the mailman for years, Connor thought, as he finally spied the book he was searching for.
Most times he didn't mind the plump fiftyish widow's cheery nature - though he could certainly do without the come-hither looks she frequently threw in his direction - but today she was getting on his last nerve. All morning, she kept babbling on about her holiday plans and dropping broad hints that he was welcome to join her and her family if he had no plans of his own - which. of course, he didn't.
To forestall an outright invitation, he'd mentioned that his cousin, Duncan, might fly in from Seacouver. It was a convenient lie, but Serafina Lopez wanted all the details. Details he lacked the energy to conjure up. All morning, he had hoped that something else would distract her. The mailman's timely arrival would have to suffice.
Connor pulled the book from the shelf, then turned to beat a fast retreat to his office - but he wasn't fast enough.
"Mornin' Mr. Wilson," Ben called out. "Merry Christmas!"
Pretending to be totally engrossed in the leather bound book, Connor grunted. Without turning around, he waved his hand - an acknowledgment and a dismissal all wrapped up in one gesture. It didn't work. The mailman hurried after him.
"Here's your mail," he said. "And a little something to wish you a Merry Christmas."
As he stopped walking, Connor drew a deep breath. It seemed as though the entire world was conspiring to push Christmas at him whether he wanted it or not. Judging by the sound of the footfalls behind him, the mailman had gotten closer to his back than Connor deemed comfortable. With a scowl on his face, he turned on his heel to confront the invader of his personal territory.
Smiling brightly, the mailman handed him the mail and a small clutch of something wrapped in red cellophane and tied with a green curly ribbon. On closer examination, Connor saw it contained cookies.
With some effort, he forced his mouth into a smile as he tucked the book under his arm, then accepted Ben's offering. "Ehr ... thanks," he mumbled.
"My wife goes on a baking binge every year," the mailman said with a self-conscious shrug. "I can't eat 'em all, or I'll be as big as a house - so I pass 'em out to the folks on my route."
"How nice," Connor replied, without much vigor. He wondered if the mailman was hinting for a gift in return or merely infected with the spirit of the season. Infected, he decided, when Ben finally touched the brim of his hat in a salute, then turned away.
"Do you have time for a cup of coffee, Ben?" Mrs. Lopez asked.
Inwardly, Connor groaned. But at least Serafina would be busy with the mailman which gave him the opportunity to escape to his office. He did precisely that before they could try persuading him to join them.
He dropped the cookies and the book on the desk, then pulled the elastic band off the bundle of mail. A smattering of bright color about three pieces down in the stack of mostly white envelopes had snagged his attention when Ben first handed it to him. With the faint sound of alarm bells sounding in his head, he extracted it from the pack.
A smiling and goofy-looking reindeer with Christmas lights strewn on its antlers decorated the front of yet another postcard. Connor turned it over.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it began - just like the other one.
The second line read, Make the Yuletide gay, and was followed by a third which read, From now on our troubles will be miles away.
This card was also unsigned, postmarked Ludlow, Vermont, and addressed to Connor MacLeod.
"I don't know about my troubles, "Connor muttered as he studied the handwriting in an attempt to learn the identity of the sender. "But yours will be on their way home when I find out who you are."
"Bad news?" Mrs. Lopez asked from the doorway.
He hadn't even heard her approach - not a good sign.
"Do you want something?" he snapped.
"Just to see if you wanted anything for lunch," she said with good cheer, undeterred by his icy response. "I'm going over to Dean's Deli, and I thought you might like me to bring you back a sandwich or something."
Feeling every bit as old as the retired history professor he was pretending to be - with the help of some grey hair dye and a little stage makeup - Connor dropped down into the hard oak chair in front of the desk. "I'm not hungry," he said, then as a twinge of guilt pricked his conscience, he added, "... but, thanks."
Mrs. Lopez didn't budge. When he looked up, she was still standing in the doorway. She lifted one dark eyebrow as she crossed her arms over her ample chest. "Somebody's in a bad mood," she said.
"You probably have a lot to do," he said, ignoring her comment. "Take tomorrow and Christmas Eve off."
If these postcards were from another Immortal bent on driving him nuts before issuing a challenge, he'd be better off with no distractions. And Mrs. Lopez would be better off safely away from him.
"With pay?" she asked in an incredulous tone as she dropped her arms to her sides.
"Yes, yes, of course," Connor answered. Anxious to have her gone, he picked up the rest of the mail, then began to sort through it.
"But what about the Christmas rush. You'll be so busy," she said, still planted in the doorway.
Obviously it was going to take more than the promise of two days off with pay to get rid of her. Connor got up, then crossed the room to her side. "This isn't Macy's," he said with the glimmer of a smile. "I'll be fine. In fact, take the rest of today off too."
He cupped her elbow in his hand and attempted to tow her toward the front of the shop. The task was more difficult than leading a mule with its hooves dug in. The woman was simply unmovable - unless he exerted more force - which he really didn't want to do. He just wanted her out of the way.
"Why are you trying to get rid of me?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"I'm not," he lied, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Go ... be with your family ... have a nice holiday."
While she was digesting this, he managed to turn her around and nudge her toward the front of the shop. He grabbed her hat from the coat rack, then settled it on her head. Releasing her, he took her coat and held it open for her.
"I smell a rat," she said, "a big rat." But she slipped her arms into the coat. He was making progress.
"What are you up to?" she asked, as she adjusted the red velvet hat he'd just plunked on top of her head.
"Nothing," he replied, opening the door. "Go. Enjoy your holiday."
She stood in the open doorway, squinting at him for a moment, then she smiled. "You're a sly one," she said, wagging her finger at him. "But you can't fool me. That card you were reading was from an old girlfriend, wasn't it? You're expecting company, aren't you?"
Apparently, if she couldn't have him, she wanted to play a part in the matchmaking. "Yes," he lied, giving her another nudge. "My cousin, Duncan, from Seacouver. Now go."
Without warning she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "Well, have a nice visit with ... your ... ah-cousin, Duncan," she said with a knowing sparkle in her brown eyes. "And a very Merry Christmas."
He removed her hands from his neck as gently as he could considering how frustrated he felt at the moment. "Go," he said again. "Before I change my mind." Not that there was any chance of that.
She smiled, waved, then headed down the street. Connor closed the door behind him. Leaning against it he let his breath out in a sigh of relief. Now he could concentrate on the matter at hand.
