"We call it New Year's Eve," Adam murmured, grabbing a large glass and filling it with something glowing and potent.  "Here, try this, it's an old recipe of Caspian's."

Duncan averted his gaze, trying not to remember the ancient Celtic laws of hospitality.  It's not like it will kill him, he argued to himself.  And it can't be any worse than what Methos offered him the first time they met.

Besides, he doesn't even taste it.  No soft tissues.

Adam cast his lover a darkling stare. Narrow-minded bigot.  Just wait.  Someday I'll find my recipe for scumble, he thought, and poured half an inch of the punch into his own glass.  He lifted it to his lips, smelled it, saw the liquid try to crawl up the side to reach him, and casually brought the tumbler down, looking for the nearest plant he wanted to kill.  As he glanced across the crowded room (considerably less crowded at their end, where he and Duncan were greeting their newest guest), he saw Connor come in.  The elder highlander hung his coat on the rack with all the other heavily-weighted outer gear.  Connor's tux had a suspicious sag to it, but who was going to ask the man who killed the Kurgan if that was a sword in his pocket or was he just happy to see --

The cold gleam of bared teeth backed off at least one drunken idiot who'd apparently tried the line out.

"Come on," Adam said, his own teeth brightly shining.  "I'd like you to meet one of the family."

He towed Death over to the whiskey cabinet (Connor had a nose like a bloodhound's for the good stuff), Duncan trailing behind ready to rescue his clansman.

"Connor, come and meet an old friend of mine," Adam began, malicious amusement bubbling in his eyes.

The dour man turned around, a bottle of 25-year old single malt and a cut-crystal tumbler in his hands, ready to pour.

The sherry-colored eyes took in the black robes, the scythe and traveled up to the polished white skull in the shadowed hood, the eye sockets that held galaxies in their infinite depths...

"Oh, it's you," Connor said and poured his drink, then topped off Death's glass of punch.  A writhing mist floated up from the bottom of the tumbler.

"So where'd you meet this old bastard?" the elder highlander asked Death conversationally.  "And hae ye come for anyone here, or is it a social occasion?"

OH, TWO OR THREE THOUSAND YEARS AGO, AROUND THE TIGRIS -- OR WAS IT THE SINAI?  NO, I WAS INVITED.

Connor bared his teeth.  "I'm sure ye were -- he's daft as well as -- but never mind that," he added, catching sight of Duncan's face.

"And where did you two meet?" Adam asked, eyes narrowed.

Connor immediately looked away, pursed his lips and tried to look as innocent as a lamb.

Death merely looked.

"Well?"

"It's been a wee bit..." Connor mumbled, finishing his drink and pouring more.  Death needed another hit as well.

"Connor," Duncan began.

"Nay, then, it was at home, in Scotland," Connor capitulated.  He never could deny his bairn anything, and Duncan knew it.  "Why do you think I don't go there anymore?"  He eyed the scythe with professional interest.

"Nice edge.  What do you use?"

LIGHT, MOSTLY.  SOMETIMES THE WIND.

Connor nodded sagely.  "That hones well --"

"Connor.  How did you two meet?" Duncan asked slowly, enunciating as he would for a half-wit or a foreign-language speaker.

Connor looked stubborn.

Adam, who'd been sulking ever since he realized Connor wasn't going to pitch a hissy fit, perked up. This might be interesting.  It's hard to embarrass Connor.  Gods knew he'd tried often enough.

THERE WAS A MAN CALLED RAMIREZ, I BELIEVE... NICE FELLOW, THOUGH HIS CLOTHES WERE A BIT GAUDY.

"Oh, aye, that was the peacock, all right," Connor agreed, with some relief.  "You came for him, and I spotted you.  You were a bit late, as I recall."

I KNEW HE'D WAIT.  HE WAS QUITE THE PHILOSOPHER ABOUT IT.  I HATED TO INTERRUPT YOUR ARGUMENT.

"I never argue," Connor said automatically.  "It was a discussion."

"Wait a minute.  You were arguing with Ramirez, and he was dead?"  Adam didn't believe it for a moment.  "I thought the Kurgan killed him."

Connor looked irritated.  "It wasn't an argument.  It was a discussion.  And of course we were talking.  I was a damned fool, wanted to go after the Kurgan, and Ramirez thought I shouldn't."

"Well, we know who won that one," Duncan said, fascinated.

"It wasn't -- well, maybe it was," Connor conceded grudgingly.  "Anyway, I had Heather to look after.  But I got the better part of the bargain," he added, brightening up.  "I got the haggis."

Adam stared at Connor, then at Duncan.  Duncan's eyes hadn't left his kinsman, even when he was pouring himself two new glasses of aged single malt.

"You got the haggis?"

Connor had the grace to look ashamed.  "Well, we were discussing things when Death showed up, and we hadn't finished..."

SO HE DECIDED TO MAKE A CONTRACT WITH ME.  A TYPICAL 'SCOTS' BARGAIN' HE SAID -- HE EVEN OFFERED TO MAKE THE TERMS AS ADVANTAGEOUS AS ANY HE'D GIVE TO AN ENGLISHMAN.

"Connor.  You didn't," Duncan breathed.

Adam forgot himself sufficiently to throw back the glass of punch in his hand; when he realized what he'd done he froze, afraid to breathe.

"Ramirez hadn't gone with the Kurgan; he could do a lot with his quickening he never told anyone about.  The mad bastard bled off a bit of it, enough to bring down the tower (he was trying to kill the Kurgan, but it didn't work), and then he just sort of dodged around and hid with the animals, waiting until I showed up.

"He was a teuch auld bastard -- he wasn't sure it would work, but he was willing to try."  Connor poured himself and Duncan another drink.

"So what did you have to trade?" Adam asked in a hoarse whisper.  (His throat wasn't capable of anything else; the drink was eating its way through his vocal chords.)

HIMSELF.

"Himself?  What --"  Adam caught himself and automatically patted a choking Duncan on the back.

"Myself," Connor said, irritated.  "What, you don't think I'm worth anything?"

"No, no," Duncan said hastily.  "I'd never say a thing like that."

Connor was mollified, but only just; a half-pint of the good stuff slid down his throat, which helped.

"Let's take this from the beginning, Connor.  Ramirez managed to fob the Kurgan off with some bits and pieces of his Quickening -- and then managed to stick around until you got back from the market, make himself known to you and then argue with you until Death showed up?  That's -- Never mind.

"So then what happened?" Duncan asked patiently.  He knew better than to let Connor tell a story in his own way.  You never found out the end (or the beginning) if you did that.

Connor sulked a bit, but it was much too ineffectual when done against a backdrop containing the Grim Reaper.

"Well, I was a wee bit upset and all, and I'd just got Heather to sleep when Ramirez tapped me on the shoulder -- the man had nae sense of timing," Connor scowled, still irritated.  "Probably why he lost his head.  Anyway, he told me what had happened (Heather'd been a wee bit confused), and I swore and started looking for my sword.  Sae he whapped me across the back of my head and started in on wha' my brains would be good for after the Kurgan had killed me... it was a wee bit loud for a while."

Duncan sighed and poured more whiskey, almost resigned to an empty cellar after this party.

Adam stared, fascinated.  If you could choose where your quickening went after your death --

"Well, then Death showed up and got impatient --"

I AM NEVER IMPATIENT.  BUT THE ARGUMENT DID NOT SEEM TO BE REACHING A CONSENSUS IN THE NEAR FUTURE.

"It was a discussion.  And that was because the auld haggis wouldn't give in."  Connor drank again, looking pleased.  Duncan thought he'd finally tasted the twenty-five year old brew.

"Anyway, Death told us tae make it short, so we got down tae cases.  I told the peacock I wouldn't go after the Kurgan if he'd stay around, and he agreed.  Sae then I haggled with Death, tae see what he'd take tae leave Ramirez be."  Connor's smile was a fearsome thing, almost as bad as the one the grinning skull wore two feet above his head.

"We MacLeods are good at haggling," Connor said proudly.  "I offered him my sword (I knew Ramirez' blade was around there somewhere), but he wouldn't take it.  Sae then I offered him the auld nag, the chickens (they'd not lay eggs for months, sae addled were they by the Quickening)... But he was a hard man."  Connor shook his head.

"So what did you offer him?" Adam asked, eyes narrowed.

"Well, I tried offering my first-born child."

All the Immortals rolled their eyes.

"But he wouldnae take that, either.  Sae then I brought out a keg o' whiskey frae Jamie's auld still, an' --"

"You offered Death guid Scots' whiskey, frae Heather's father's still?" Duncan asked, incredulous.  Even for Ramirez' quickening, that seemed too great a sacrifice.

"Ah, weel," Connor blushed faintly, and Duncan's mouth dropped open another unattractive inch.  "Wha' else could I do?  The haggis was listening tae us, ye ken."

IT WAS QUITE A DECENT DROP OF MALT, Death put in brightly.

"So what else did you pay him -- besides the whiskey?"  Duncan asked, at the same time Adam put in, suspicion rife in his voice, "But that wasn't enough, was it?"

Connor drained his tumbler dry again, then met his cousin's eye with a surly look.  "We fought, if ye must know."

"You fought?  You fought Death?"

Both Adam and Duncan turned to stare at the seven-foot tall cowled figure, then swiveled to face the five-foot six inch high Scot.

"Right."

It was a good thing, Duncan thought later, that Connor hadn't seemed to realize Adam was being sarcastic.

"Well, Ramirez wouldn't let me go after the Kurgan, and I was a wee bit young --"

"And obviously none too bright," Adam put in.

Connor glared at him.

"So who won?" Duncan asked, drawing the fire away from his lover.

Connor's eyes darted to one side.

Death's starry irises glowed with an eerie blue tint.

"Weel, it wasn't my time tae dee, ye ken," Connor finally said.

HE WAS QUITE GOOD, FOR A MORTAL.  REALLY.  QUITE... AMBITIOUS.

Both of them looked up at the ceiling.

"Connor.  What happened?" Duncan finally prodded.

Adam was impressed.  He hadn't realized Duncan could narrow his eyes and emit thunder and lightning.  At least, not without a quickening.

"Weel, it wasn't my time.  Sae when he had me pinned, I... reminded him that he couldn't kill me," Connor said brightly.

THE PROPER TERM IS 'CHUTZPAH', I BELIEVE, Death added.  THAT WAS RIGHT BEFORE YOU TRIED TO KNEE ME, WASN'T IT?

Connor shrugged.  "Whatever.  I hadn't figured out ye've got no soft tissues.  Ramirez jawed at me about that, later.  Said I'd not learned a damned thing.  Not but what he wasn't right.  I'd of done better tae -- never mind.

"But it was about then that Heather woke up."

"Heather?"  Duncan's mouth dropped open.  "She must have been terrified."

"Um... she'd been bad off, ye ken... so I'd fed her a bit of whiskey, too."

"She was drunk out of her mind," Adam translated, fascinated.

"She got a wee bit, um, loud, and tried tae stop the fight."

"She was hysterical and threw a bucket of cold water over you -- and then went for the broom.  Or was it the soup ladle?" Duncan offered.  He could see it now in his mind's eye -- and wished, devoutly, that he couldn't.

"Sae then Ramirez whapped me again --"

AND ME, Death added brightly.  THE GENTLEMAN WAS QUITE EXASPERATED.  SUICIDALLY SO, YOU MIGHT SAY.

"You could say that.  Tellit me tae take notes and learn frae my blossom... the bastard.  Sae while Heather had him cornered, I tellit the boggit he could hae Ramirez when he tookit me," Connor mumbled.

AND I AGREED.  I THINK IT WAS THE BROOM, Death added in a pensive tone.  IT LOOKED VERY... DANGEROUS.  ALTHOUGH NOT AS DANGEROUS AS THE WHISKEY, NOW THAT I THINK ON IT.

Connor's smile was feral.  "I tossed him another flagon whilst I settled Heather back tae sleep.  An' then, wi' Ramirez there, I took him in while Death was sampling the brew.  The next thing I knew it was daylight.

"D'ye ken how much work that damn quickening made for me?  Never did get the roof tight again," Connor grumbled.  "The haggis tellit me it was the Kurgan's fault... hah!"

"Hush, ye auld fule," Duncan said thickly.  "Ye mad bastard.  He could hae killed ye!"

"Not a fat priest's prayer o' that," Connor said, that knowing (and annoying) grin on his face.  "My time hadn't come yet, only Ramirez'.  But I'll go bail if I'd known what a pain he'd be, I might not have taken him.  All that folderol about not fucking students and such..."

"Ethics?  You're complaining because you got a conscience with Ramirez?"  Adam was mightily amused.

"Eh, weel..."

"Not much of a one, as I remember, Captain --"

"Hush your wheet!" Connor said, scandalized.  "They've still the money on my head, blast ye!"

Duncan smirked.

"An' ye're being a poor host," Connor added, taking his revenge.  Duncan looked around and saw that most everyone was at the other end of the room.  And carefully not looking in their direction.

"Ah.  Circulate," the younger Scot said as he pinched Adam's tush, and went to the door to greet some new arrivals.

Adam's narrowed eyes promised thunder and lightning later, but Caspian's punch was working on him and instead he stumbled when he tried to move and hastily had to find a seat.

"Christ.  You'd think I'd know better," he moaned, feeling the hangover start.  That was one of the many problems with Caspian's recipes -- they fought back, usually in a perfidious fashion.  Any decent punch would kill you first, then give you a hangover so you'd have time to get over it before you came to.  Not Caspian's.  An instant of drunkenness, hours of hangover, and then a painful death.

Kronos had liked it.

Trying hard not to move his head, Adam stared at his guests.  Connor was illustrating something with two glasses and a bottle.  Death drew his sword and demonstrated a move, Connor watching and nodding his head.

He decided he could safely abandon this particular pair of guests (who truly deserved each other) and guiltily fumbled his way into a nice, quiet corner where he could die in peace.

It was after they'd waved the last of the departing throng out the door ("Good riddance," Adam had muttered under his breath.  Caspian's punch had managed to attach itself to epithelial cells and showed no signs of leaving gracefully), that Duncan and Adam realized they still had hangers-on.

Squeak was investigating the cheese board, turning his nose up at the green- and blue-veined specimens (he liked cheddar, Adam noted, storing the thought away for Christmas next year), his black robe trailing cracker crumbs and parsley in a festive motif.  With him was his date, a feathered companion who looked suspiciously like a raven, and who was busily impaling olives and cocktail onions.

(Adam hoped, scratching surreptitiously, that Hop was finding something to his satisfaction as well.)

And in the corner next to the whiskey, Connor and Death were still weaving lines among bottles and tumblers and decorations discreetly torn off the walls while they 'discussed' sword strokes.

At least, Adam thought that was what they were discussing.  He seemed to remember at least one point in the evening when they'd laid Connor's sword and the scythe down and Connor had started hopping from one end to the other -- Duncan said it was a Scottish dance.

Really.

Adam had his doubts.

Duncan cleared his throat.  "Um... Connor.  It's four o'clock in the morning, cousin."

"Is it?"  Connor looked up, his head just under the scythe's blade.  Several fine hairs drifted down.

Well, it's a better haircut than he had, Adam thought, too numbed by drink and delayed lust for terror to take hold.  (Just the thought of having Connor in him, not to mention what a quickening would do to Duncan's antiques -- and when the Scot sulked, no one got any nookie -- was paralytic.)

"Four in the morning," Duncan repeated, and Adam began to wonder just how much alcohol had been consumed.  He started to count the empty bottles, but had to give up.

He wasn't at his personal best, either.

"Ah.  Time tae go," Connor said, and without slurring the words, either.  Adam almost had to give him some respect.

QUITE RIGHT, Death said, drawing an hourglass out of his robes.  Squeak, a piece of brie in one hand and white cheddar in the other, darted under the swirling black robes.  IT'S THE NEW YEAR.  THINGS TO DO, PEOPLE TO SEE...

"Or not," Connor said.  It took him two tries to get the katana back in the tux, and Adam craned his neck so he could see how he'd done it.  He'd have to get his own altered, even if Duncan thought it a social faux pas.

THANK YOU FOR THE INVITATION.  IT'S BEEN QUITE... INTERESTING, Death said, shaking Duncan's hand.

"Glad to have you," Duncan returned amiably -- and quite sincerely.  Which only proved, in Adam's opinion, that he was the One.

I'LL BE IN TOUCH WITH YOU, Death added, turning to Adam, who started turning pages in his memory, looking for old enemies and wondering when they'd arrive in Seacouver or if they were there already.

ABOUT THE CASE, Death reminded him, and Adam perked up.

"The Patrician's new tax?  He hasn't killed it?"

NO.  IT APPEARS IT WILL NEED A TEST CASE.

"Great!  Tough for you, of course," Adam added with belated sympathy, "but I'm looking forward to getting my teeth into it."

"He'll no' have to go out of the country, will he?" Duncan asked, worry creasing his brow.

"It'll be just like a vacation," Adam said hastily.  "You can come along and help."

The considerable quantity of liquid he'd imbibed helped lull Duncan's suspicions, and he nodded happily.

Connor had found his coat, now, and was attempting to climb into it.  Adam couldn't help noticing that it hung a bit awkwardly in the pockets as well, and he speculated on Glocks, long-bladed daggers, garottes, poison and other toys that immortals loved so well.  Connor didn't seem to have the same hang-ups that Adam was trying to eliminate from his kinsman.

It's a good thing he and Duncan don't fight.  At least, not for real.

Duncan had a cab at the door and was helping Connor with the coat, when Death turned, already fading at the edges.

OH.  I ALMOST FORGOT, Death said, holding his hand out to Connor, who took it, head cocked to one side and those unexpectedly shrewd eyes alight.

I BELIEVE IT'S TRADITIONAL.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HIGHLANDER.  THERE CAN BE ONLY WHIN T'OUSAND.

And then the tall, black-robed figure was gone, and Connor was staring at the small box in his hand, the ebony paper covered with tiny scythes, skulls and funeral wreaths (embossed black-on-black -- very classy) making it quite a festive parcel.

Adam's fingers itched as he stared at the present.  It was just the right size and shape for a book -- a very thick book.

Connor didn't seem to be in any haste to open the wrapped box.

"A present!" Duncan said happily.  "It's good he remembered, I'd near forgotten myself."  He headed for the closet, Adam's tightly-focused stare trying to keep track of both his lover and the package -- only to fail miserably when he saw Duncan open a fake wall (one that Adam hadn't known about) and take out a gaily-wrapped parcel.

Connor ripped Duncan's gift open immediately, grunting with approval at the three dozen thick, white beeswax candles inside.

"I knew you'd be able to use them," Duncan said, smiling at Connor's half-smile of thanks.  "And," he added, meeting Connor's eyes with his own, "you make sure you're alive to use them."

The presents nearly hit the floor as the two embraced.  Adam caught them, juggling candles and unknown with unconscious grace as he narrowly eyed the parties' tight clasp.  Judging it in the 'fraternal love' (well not Adam's version of 'fraternal love', thank goodness) category, he thought he'd allow it...

But it's a good thing they only see each other once a decade or so.

Blunt-tipped fingers grabbed the black package back from him and tucked it into an inner coat-pocket, then found the candles and put them away as well.  Another hug and the Scots' bastards separated, Adam glowering at them both indiscriminately as he went to the door to let Connor out.

To Adam's surprise, Duncan was the one who brushed by him, then came in again, Connor handing him a small cake and a glass of whiskey.  One swallow and the cake was gone, as well as the liquor.

"First footing, lad," Connor said, as if Adam should know about obscure Scots' customs.  "Duncan's the Dark Man.

"Best of luck in the New Year," Connor added to his cousin, and this time brought his kinsman's head down to press his lips to Duncan's forehead.  Adam was caught by surprise when Connor turned and did the same to him.  His mouth gaped open and he looked like a green lad, timid with fright and indignant with it as well, as Duncan told him after walking Connor to his car.

"You're bloody lucky I didn't screech the house down," Adam grumbled, rubbing his posterior.  "Your drunken sot of a cousin pinched my bum while you weren't looking."

 Duncan nodded solemnly.  "Ah.  D'you want me to call him back to kiss it better?"

And left the mess behind him as he ran up the stairs, Adam after him not two seconds later.

Good thing he'd drunk so much.  Makes him slower, Duncan thought much later, and smiled in immense satisfaction.

It was much later in the day, lazing away on pillows and sipping hot tea while Duncan worked industriously downstairs, that Adam considered the party, Connor, his old friend Death and all.

'Start as you mean to go on...'  It's bound to be a very good year.

people have toasted the New Year, or at least gotten a drink, since 5/30/01 when I got counters back up!
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