Christmas Gifts

For the first time in a long time, Connor has the money to spend on gifts, and people to get them for, but he's out of practice at it. The holiday is more stressful for him than he's willing to admit to anyone. While he deliberates over presents, he's been doing a lot of baking, making double batches of half a dozen different kinds of cookies. Tins of cookies go out to everyone in his very limited circle of friends, even those he's only spoken with a few times, but knows well enough to know where to send them.

In addition to cookies, his closer friends get a few carefully-chosen gifts.
For Nicholas there's a set of antique handcuffs, that date from right around the turn of the century. It's probably better not to ask how Connor came by those.
For Casper, there's a tooled leather hip flask, and of course it's not empty, because that would be a shame. There's also a blanket left neatly folded at Father Leavy's forge late Christmas Eve. That's in addition to the sizable donation he's made to the church. He's very grateful for getting to use the forge.
For Clark there's a nice Leatherman Tool with case, and a bag of dog treats that are probably for Shelby.
For April, a painting kit with easel. Which is not a hint, but he really appreciates the painting she made of himself and Kairos.
For his first student in almost a century, Jelani, there's sword technique book and a very old but nicely polished and oiled sgian dubh. He's not going to admit to having made it unless she asks.
Duncan gets whiskey, a sword maintenance kit (because these things do get used up), and a sgian dubh that Duncan just may recognize as Connor's own handiwork. He makes a brief, slightly awkward visit in person to deliver these, and wish his kinsman happy birthday as well as merry Christmas.

On Christmas morning, for Kairos there's a few gifts from the Nexus that he clumsily explains about, a mini anvil, hammer, and hacksaw, and a plier set. She probably already has these things, but he's not sure what else she might need in her jewelry-making supplies, and tools do wear down and break eventually. There's also, presented very sheepishly in a slightly dusty velvet box, an antique ring set with a pearl. He's careful to let her know that while it's antique, it's never belonged to any woman he knew. There's also a very big, square, flat box made of cardboard and duct tape, and a little awkwardly wrapped because the box is roughly as wide as a roll of wrapping paper. Inside is a flat metal celtic tree of life wall hanging, set with lots of delicate little hooks. It's pretty obvious he made it himself, and he explains it's supposed to be for hanging jewelry from. Beside his handmade work of art, the stocking filled with chocolates, peppermints, and oranges is pretty insignificant.

Christmas morning

Connor sleeps sprawled, one foot hanging out from under the covers, recovering from a late-night indulgence of spiked eggnog. It's tradition.
The bedroom door creaks open, a quiet sound of protest that would normally wake him, but it goes unregarded. A figure lingers in the doorway cautiously, assessing him, and then creeps slowly into the room to stop a few feet away. There's another pause, another quiet moment of thought, and then the gentle tugging on Connor's arm begins.
"Dad? Dad?"
He groans, and tries to shake off the touch without opening his eyes.
"Dad? It's Christmas dad! Pleeeease?"
One grey eye opens, and blearily regards the boy. Dark-haired and dusky tan from the sun, John stands by the bed with his best pleading look. He grasps his father's arm again gently, but doesn't pull. The clock reads barely past six A.M.
"I could make you coffee!"
Connor pictures John on a stool at the kitchen counter, spilling coffee beans on the floor and trying to work the grinder. He groans again. "No. Just... half an hour more?"
John says nothing, sinking down to sit beside the bed. He watches his father with a sorrowful gaze, waiting. Connor can feel it through closed eyelids.
"...Has it been half an hour yet dad?"
Connor collects himself with a sound halfway between a groan and a chuckle, rubbing his eyes. Who can be annoyed at a child for being impatient on Christmas morning? He shakes his head a little, bemused, and looks to the side of the bed again.

John isn't there.

This isn't the house in Marrakesh, it's Kairos' home in the mountains in France, and there are no children here to badger him awake, or lead him grumbling in his bathrobe out to the tree, or tear the paper impatiently off boxes of toys.

The clock still reads barely past six A.M. and it's Christmas morning, but the house is quiet, and Connor is alone in his room. He stares blankly at the place beside his bed where John would be, until it's almost half an hour, a real half hour that even the ghost of John won't let him sleep in.

He gets up, after that, because there's no way he can sleep. Regina doesn't mind an early morning walk, and then he makes tea, instead of coffee, because he can do it without letting the kettle whistle or any other noises that might wake Kairos. Then he sits in the living room, looking at Christmas, and seeing other trees and other mornings. When he hears Kairos stirring he's quick to make coffee, and seeing her makes him smile. He's got a girlfriend who loves him, and he's gradually relaxing into a more idyllic life than he ever thought he could have again. Connor is deeply grateful, but he has moments of wistfulness all through the morning and the rest of the day.
Some part of him worries about just how damn much scotch people have given him for Christmas, and part of him worries even more that he'll be drinking a lot of it, tonight.