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 6

Despite the snow it was rather pleasant out when Connor left the restaurant. The air was cold, but dry, and there was hardly any wind. On a whim, he turned in the opposite direction from the one that would take him home, then he began to walk.

He walked without a clear destination, and for no reason other than to simply enjoy being alive. Despite his earlier disgruntled frame of mind, a warm glow diffused throughout him now. He couldn't shake it. Didn't want to shake it.

Christmas lights twinkled at him from apartment windows and blinked at him from balconies. Occasionally people passed by him - singly or in small groups. They smiled and laughed, exchanging cheery greetings with one another. Billowing puffs of moisture escaped from their mouths and swirled around noses and cheeks rouged by the cold.

As he neared the East River, Connor was truly amazed by the silence that surrounded him. And after 480 years not much amazed him, not much at all.

This couldn't compare to the absolute silence of a country night, of course. You can't ever find that in a city of 6 or 8 million people. But the falling snow had muffled the most strident sounds of city life and left it still, and quite peaceful.

Silent night. How appropriate, he thought with a soft chuckle, then he stopped to watch the dark swirling water of the river flow by.

"Damn you, Duncan," he said with a smile. "You can never leave things alone. You always have to meddle."

He could no longer be angry at Duncan for sending the postcards. Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten that there were advantages to living for so long. But the advantages always got buried under the quest for survival, and the fighting, and the killing. Sometimes he forgot what he was fighting for. To live. To be sublimely contented on a night such as this. To walk the city streets in a timely snowfall, and to revel in peaceful solitude - at least for this moment.

He inhaled deeply, let the breath out slowly, then turned away from the river and began to walk home. Wonder if anyone's still selling Christmas trees, he thought, then he laughed. "Don't get carried," he said aloud. "You'll get sloppy."

* * * *

The familiar droning pulse began as the elevator groaned its way through the fifth floor. A chill ran down Connor's spine, and shattered his pleasant mood. He reached under his coat for his sword. The instant the old elevator stopped on the sixth floor, he lifted the gate with caution. Holding the blade ready to strike, he moved into the hallwa

y.

"Duncan?" he called out. "Is that you?"

No answer.

With all his senses on alert, Connor stepped to the door. There was something taped to it. A note on computer stationary with a holly border.

Through the years we all will be together, it read in the same scrawl that had lined each postcard.

If the Fates allow, it continued.

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

"What the--" Connor snatched the note from the door, then crumpled it into a ball.

This nonsense had gone too far. Way too far. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his keys, but then he noticed that his door wasn't quite shut. He'd locked it, when he went out. Now, it opened at his touch.

"I really hate surprises," he muttered. "Duncan, where are you?"

No answer.

Maybe it wasn't Duncan after all.

With his shoulder against the jam and his sword held high, Connor rolled around the wall and into the loft. "Dunc--"

Then he stopped. Stood perfectly still. He blinked to clear the vision before him. It didn't go away.

The room was dark, but the flames of nearly a hundred candles, in all shapes and sizes, flickered where they sat on every flat surface. They filled the large room with a soft eerie glow.

In the corner by the fireplace, a large Christmas tree stood. A real tree if the strong pine scent that drifted across the room was any indication. White lights twinkled from within its boughs, and the light refracted off colored glass balls, silver tinsel garland and crystal icicles. Soft music and a crackling fire added sound to the scene.

"Show yourself!" Connor ordered as he inched toward the light switch.

Before his fingers touched the switch, a figure rose from the sofa. Turning slowly, the intruder faced him.

Though adrenaline still surged within him, Connor lowered his sword a notch or two as he took a step forward. He'd stepped into a dream. He was quite sure of that.

The apparition in this dream wore a long green velvet dress with a high neck. Gleaming red hair spilled over one shoulder like silken fire.

"Merry Christmas, Connor," she said, lifting one hand slowly. A large silver star dangled from a wire she held between her thumb and forefinger.

Connor shook his head, partly to clear it so he could think, and partly in absolute astonishment.

Abiageal Flynn had never been pretty, never been what one might call cute, but she certainly cleaned up well. "Good way to get yourself killed," he said moving another step closer.

"Not while I have this." She lifted her other hand enough for him to see the flickering light dance along the blade of her sword.

Connor smiled. No matter what else she was, Abby Flynn was Immortal to the bone.

"I saved the star for you to put on the tree top," she said, swinging the star.

Connor's senses snapped back into place with a bang. The fog surrounding him froze, splintered, then fell away in a thousand crystal shards.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted, suddenly angry at her nerve. "And how the hell did you get in!"

Abby laughed softly as she rounded the far end of the couch. "You never change, Connor. That's why I love you."

She took a few cautious steps closer to him, then she stopped - a little more than sword's length away. Connor noted that she still carried hers, as well as the star. "I came to wish you a Merry Christmas, and ... I picked your locks," she answered his questions calmly, and in order.

Still staggering under a heavy load of incredulity, Connor could only stare as she took one more step toward him. "You what--"

"I picked your locks," she said with a shrug. "Handy little trick I picked up from Harry the Dippper back in 1618. Charming character who could pick a lock or a pocket before you could blink. I'm not exactly in his league, though. You really should call a locksmith in and get better ones."

Connor didn't know whether to laugh, kiss her, or to strangle her with his bare hands. "You picked my locks?" he snapped the question out.

"How else was I going to get in?" she responded, holding her ground with a smile.

"And how did you find me?"

Abby set her sword down on the top of the sofa back, then she eased one hip onto the cushiony back as well. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and smiled. "I've been looking for you for years, then I ran into that cousin of yours in Paris. What's his name ... Duncan? He told me you were back in New York."

Connor narrowed his eyes as he made a mental note to have a long talk with Duncan, then set his sword down. "Took you 140 years ... I'm not that hard to find." He met her gaze, while he shrugged out of his coat. "I thought you were dead."

"Me? No," she said, laughing softly. "I'm tougher than I look."

"You look good," he conceded.

"So do you."

"Want a drink?" he asked, stepping back toward the cabinet where he kept his liquor. He needed a drink while he sorted all this out.

"Oh ... wait," she said, then she slipped off her perch and rounded the sofa. She snagged a gaily wrapped package from the coffee table, then returned to his side. "I brought this." She held it out to him.

He wasn't sure why he hesitated. It wasn't like she was going to hand him a bomb or a poisonous snake. Perhaps his innate sense of caution was still acting in his best interest.

"Take it," she said, pushing it toward him. "It's for you."

He took it. Even though it was wrapped, he could tell from the shape and the weight that it was a bottle of some sort. Still, he opened it gingerly, as though it might bite. His mind was still grappling with the bizarre situation.

As he peeled the wrapping from the bottle, he smiled "Glenmorangie - Scotch whiskey. Not Irish?"

"Well, it's a Christmas present for a Scot," she said, laughing. "Why would I get Irish whiskey?"

"Because you only drink Irish whiskey, so you only buy Irish whiskey," he said, laughing with her. "There's no accounting for taste."

"Exactly what I always say," she parried. "Where are your glasses?"

"In the kitchen," he said, nodding his head toward the narrow aisle of cabinets on the far side of a long serving island. "Over the sink."

He watched her retreating form for a moment. She definitely looked good, even better than he remembered. "So where have you been for the last 140 years?" he asked, as he opened the bottle.

"Oh here and there," she shouted, over the thump of cabinets and the clink of glasses. "I've had a bed and breakfast in Vermont for about a year, now. It's nice up there in New England."

She strolled back in with a tumbler in each hand. The dress ran straight from her neck to the floor and clung enticingly to her generous curves. Connor smiled.

"After you left for America, I went back to Ireland," she continued. "I hung around for a decade or two, then I got married to a mortal who owned a sheep ranch in Australia. After he died, I stayed on there for awhile."

"Australia? How did you get to Australia? You always hated boats."

"Still do," she said, holding the glasses out so he could fill them. "I was scared to death and seasick the whole time. If there'd been an Immortal on board, I think I would have let him have my head without a fight."

"But you went anyway."

She shrugged. "I loved him."

Connor let a deep breath out on the whisper of a sigh. But she hadn't loved him enough to go to America with him. At least now, he knew where he stood.

With out a word, he poured the golden amber liquor into the two glasses.

"Sometimes people make mistakes," she said, softly, as though she'd read his mind. She held her glass in both hands and stared down into it. "And sometimes people learn from those mistakes ... if they live long enough."

She looked up, then and watched him with serious eyes until he met her gaze. "And sometimes, they even get a second chance ... a new start."

"Sometimes," he said, then he looked away. He stared into the whiskey in his glass as though it held the wisdom of ages, but it refused to give up any of its secrets.

After a moment, she touched her glass to his. "Merry Christmas, Connor," she said softly.

He took a deep breath. "Merry Christmas."

"So shall we put the star on the tree?" she asked, after she had taken a sip.

"If you like," he answered with a shrug, then followed her over to the tree.

A question suddenly surfaced. "How'd you get this in here?" he asked.

"Elves," she replied with a laugh. "Santa's elves." She nodded to indicate a stool set up alongside the tree.

Connor shook his head. There was no point in questioning her further. He knew from experience that he wouldn't get a straight answer, so he mounted the stool and placed the star on the top of the tree.

When he climbed down again, Abby slipped her arms around his neck, then she kissed him. "Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, Connor MacLeod," she said, when she finally pulled away.

Circling her waist with his arms, he gazed into her eyes and remembered what he'd always told Duncan. "You have all the fun, and most of the good women."

No matter what the future might bring ... tonight, it was his turn.

THE END