Warmth In The Night: Giles fluff

Title: Warmth In The Night
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Summary: socks
Point: ceruleancat who said, "does he wear socks to bed when he's cold?" and who likes fluff like a sheep.



He wears socks to bed, Giles does, especially when it's cold, because the blankets sometimes travel up a bit and his feet stay uncovered. It's not exactly the sexiest or most dignified solution, those thick woolly bits of fluff in various colours, but it serves the purpose. And anyway, who sees him in bed? He sleeps alone, he lives alone. He can be as ridiculous as he likes, padding to the bathroom in the morning still wearing the socks, before changing into a more respectable appearance. Who has he got to impress?

In the evening he gets ready to bed after a long day, pulling the socks up on his weary feet and he sighs with relief. It's silly, just how pleasant the socks are. He slips under the covers, pulling the blanket over his shoulder, and falls asleep.

Middle of the night, there are quiet noises and a body slips into bed with him, warm and familiar. Sleepy, he inhales the scent he knows so well, and doesn't even think about it until something extremely cold presses itself against his shins. Giles sits up in bed as if bitten.

"Ethan?"

"Yes?" Ever so innocent, as if it hasn't been years since they last saw each other.

Giles sighs. "Your toes are frozen."

The response is the same shocking cold, although by now somewhat warmer, sliding up against the thin fabric of his pyjamas, pressing up his thigh. The jump and hiss it causes are far less dramatic than the previous reaction, as the move was predictable.

"Bastard."

Ethan only grins and burrows further into Giles' blanket. Giles sighs and removes the covers, getting out of bed, and pads towards his wardrobe.

"Where are you going?" For just a moment, Ethan's voice almost betrays insecurity.

"I'm going to get you socks," Giles says.


[end]

Pulse : Highlander

Title: Pulse
Fandom: Highlander
Characters: Kronos, Methos
Summary: a strange moment



The body's cold; Kronos has his fingers pressed against the dry skin, where there should be a pulse, and there isn't. The jugular is quiet, empty. He sits by the body and keeps his hand on its throat, and the hours tick by.

He thought Methos infallible. He thought Methos magnificent. He thought death could never claim this man, who was devious and slippery like the sun lizards, and like them could outsmart any foe. Disease and fire and blades could not overcome his Methos. He doesn't know why this, this of all things, could claim the life to which he dedicated his own.

The sun has set. The dark blue night is getting cold. And then, almost intangible, under his fingers, he feels a flutter. He's sure it was there. He leans closer, his face an inch from Methos' mouth, and he can feel the first shaky breath against his cheek. The vein under his fingers starts throbbing again, pumping precious life blood. Methos coughs, and Kronos scrambles back.

Methos sits up, and coughs again.

"You waited," he says in a dry, scratchy voice, unused and dusty.

"What are you?" Kronos breathes in reply.

"I am Death," Methos smiles a hideous smile.

"You are life," Kronos mutters quietly a few hours later, when they are both riding away, and Methos can't hear him over the gallop of hooves.