Disclaimers:  The characters in this story are the property of James Parriott, Sony/Tristar and probably some other people I don't know about.  No profit is being made from this fiction.  Permission to archive to JADFE, www.fkfanfic.com, and the Inn of Crossed Swords.
Comments and caviar to stormborn@prodigy.net.

I was informed in the UF chat Friday night that I was expected to write an UF 'X'mas story, and I thought I'd share it with the JADFE list as well.  Hope you all like it.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1998

Driving home from the precinct at four in the morning he wondered what to do with himself. It wasn't the first Christmas he'd spent alone, but in his time in Toronto he'd gotten unused to it.  In years past he and Natalie had spent the day with the Schankes'; this year Nat had organized a holiday getaway for herself, her sister-in-law and niece, and Myra and Jenny Schanke.

Once . . . once he would never have been alone on Christmas.  It was something Janette had insisted upon: they always spent Christmas together, and always in Paris.  LaCroix, of course, would scoff,
rising to the height of his declamatory skills:  the holiday was 'the syrupy glaze with which mortals seek to sweeten their rotting souls' and 'the invention of an upstart religion to replace a celebration too ancient to be abolished.'  Still, he lavished extravagant presents on his children, and they on him.

Nick smiled.  He and Janette would plot together for weeks on LaCroix's gifts.  There always had to be one 'special' present.  He remembered the year they'd had a blanket made for him of imported
Russian sable, lined with red satin . . . Well, he thought, he still had one friend left in Toronto this day.  He turned the Caddy towards the Raven.

LaCroix was tidying up the soundbooth when he arrived.  "Good morning, Nicholas.  To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Maybe I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas."

A snort of disgust escaped the elder, and Nick grinned at him.  "OK, maybe I just wanted to stop in for a drink before I went home."

"Much more sensible of you.  Come."  He led the way back to the bar, where he pulled down a bottle of special reserve and two glasses.  There should have been three glasses; LaCroix hesitated in the act of pouring just as it crossed Nick's mind.  Nick downed his drink quickly to shut out the thought, and laughed nervously.  "Maybe I thought I might get lucky--" he said jokingly, then clamped his mouth shut.  Where had *that* come from?  He set down his glass.

"I--I didn't mean to say that.  I don't know what I was thinking.  I'd better go."

"Why?"  Just the one simple word, uninflected.

Why?  He didn't know why.  He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes on the floor.  Lightly as a breath, cool fingers caressed his cheek.  "It is customary to exchange gifts on this day, is it not?"

"You know it is."  He thought of that sable blanket wrapped around them both on a winter morning long ago, and shivered.

"Perhaps, Nicholas, we could give one another a gift this morning?"

Nick glanced up, then his eyes wavered past LaCroix toward the backstairs.  "All right," he whispered.

They went straight to LaCroix's bedroom.  Nick shrugged off his coat, throwing it over a nearby armchair, and toed off his shoes as LaCroix went about the dark room.  One by one a half-dozen wax tapers budded into flame.  LaCroix arranged them near the bed, then held out his hand.

Nick went to him, into his arms, into his kiss.  The full lips were gentle and he lingered there for a while before opening his mouth to welcome the invasion of LaCroix's tongue, wet and ripe against his
own.  His arms went around his master's waist, under the suitcoat, tugging the silk shirt loose from the trousers.  LaCroix broke the kiss to nuzzle his son's face with his half-open mouth, elegant fingers working on Nick's buttons to get at his throat.

LaCroix's back was smooth and supple under his hands but his reach was encumbered by the layers of clothing.  He stepped back far enough for LaCroix to get rid of suitcoat and shirt and the other went on to strip off the rest of his clothing as well.  Casting his shoes on the floor next to Nick's he chuckled quietly.  "What?" Nick asked.

"Do your colleagues never wonder, Nicholas, how you can afford bespoke shoes on a policeman's salary?"

Nick had to laugh.  It lightened the moment and he sat on the bed, watching with pleasure the unveiling of his lover's body.  Supple and strong, coolly efficient yet elegantly sensual, he never tired of looking at it and the knowledge of what that body could do to his made a delicious shiver run through him.  He lay back to give LaCroix room as the other sat on the edge of the bed.  LaCroix opened a drawer in the nightstand to take out a small box.  "Roll over, Nicholas, on your stomach."  He took a small vial of oil from the box.

Recognizing the heady aroma of frankincense as LaCroix uncapped the bottle, Nick complied willingly, cradling his head on his folded arms. He heard the sound of LaCroix rubbing his hands briskly together to warm the oil, then those hands were kneading his shoulders, working the oil deep into the muscles.  Nick moaned at the exquisite sensation.

LaCroix worked his way down the long muscles of his son's back, working out the chill and tension.  His touch on Nick's buttocks was almost unbearably arousing; Nick's hips started to grind of their own volition.  LaCroix slapped him lightly with a soft chuckle and moved quickly to the tendons along the backs of his thighs.  When he'd finished with the calves and ankles he said again, "Roll over."

Nick hesitated.  "I'm hard," he confessed.

"I know.  Don't concern yourself, Nicholas, it's not going anywhere."

A small dribble of oil on his chest, then those long elegant hands, splayed out to massage his pectorals.  His nipples were already so hard they ached.  "LaCroix . . . please."

"Shhh, easy."  Relenting a little, LaCroix rubbed one tight bud in a rhythmically circular motion while he bent to suckle the other.  Nick groaned, grasping at LaCroix's head.  "Damn you," he hissed.  "Hurry up!"

LaCroix moved down the body laid out for him, alternately working the oil in with firm, sure strokes, and teasing his son's flesh with kisses.  Arousal had already claimed Nick's conscious thought: when
that mouth finally closed around his cock he wasn't expecting it.  He growled with lust, bucking his hips under his sire.  LaCroix wasn't teasing any longer.  He went at it with a direct abandon, drawing
Nick's cock in deep.

A sudden urge struck Nick: he pushed at LaCroix.  "Lucien . . . Move around . . . I want yours, too."

LaCroix stared at him for a moment, his eyes paling to white fire, his lips parting to reveal the tips of his fangs.  Then, quick and catlike, he twisted his long body on the bed so that his groin was level with Nick's face.  The lovers turned into each other's bodies, arms around each other, mouths opening wide in worship.

It seemed as if they could go on like this forever.  The emotional and the sensational met in this exchange, transcending the hot immediacy of lust.  Cool spit coated stony shafts, tender tongues caressed rosepetal cockheads, hands that had known each other for centuries comforted.  With his head nestled on his friend's thigh Nick felt secure in their love and, for once, at peace with it.

LaCroix was quickening--with a start, Nick realized he was too. Carefully they worked their pace in synch with one another.  This time there was none of the familiar desperation in Nick's hunger, only an exultant joy as he reached the crest and turned his head to pierce LaCroix's femoral artery.  In the same instant he felt the quick stab of pain in his own thigh, and then . . . bliss.  An ecstasy that nothing in his experience, mortal or vampire, had ever matched.

There was strength in his master's blood, and comfort.  He remembered something he'd known for the first time long ago in a thick-walled house that smelled of orange blossoms: he could never lose LaCroix. LaCroix would always be there for him.  The knowledge filled him until tears ran down his face.  He sent it through their link--love you. Love you, LaCroix, my master, my father, my friend.  Always love you. And LaCroix answered him: Mine, Nicholas, no matter what.  Forever.

They lay side by side in silence.  Sated and comfortable, Nick half-dozed a little, thinking of other winter mornings.  A thought occurred to him and he asked, "LaCroix?  Do you remember a Christmas gift Janette and I gave you once--a sable blanket?"

A low chuckle, and the other swung his long legs over the side of the bed.  He was back in a matter of moments.  Nick felt the air swirl above him and opened his eyes just in time to see a red-and-black cloud descending.  He laughed, and his lover laughed with him as he climbed back into the bed and tucked the fur around them both. Holding his most precious possession in his arms, LaCroix whispered, "Merry Christmas, Nicholas."

<FIN>

Molly/StormBorn
UF/FKPagan/Cousin/Inn-mate/NA
stormborn@prodigy.net
http://members.tripod.com/~StormBorn/index.htm
LaCroix.  Punk Enough.