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As a flit-wolf, who (as a species) had his wings from birth, Colter Dark Claw flopped onto the living room sofa automatically adjusting his wings so that he didn't sit on them, lean against them, or otherwise damage them. Frankly, he mightn't have cared if he'd bent them sideways, as tired as he felt. His perfect husband, Guy Alluvinder, a flit-tiger whose wings were summonable (and, at the moment, hidden amid the emerald tribal markings on his black fur), had a nice, mild, spice-laden hot tea ready by the fireside, along with a kiss and a grin. "I'm almost grateful to be comparatively tone deaf."

Cole, having trained himself to avoid swearing now that the little ones were becoming more verbal, sighed softly. "They barely have any idea what tomorrow is, or so we're led to believe. What is keeping them so intensely wired tonight?"

"The presents under the tree, of course."

"How could they possibly understand that idea? They're, what, nineteen months?"

"They're still feral, at this age; they can_smell_toys." Guy grinned at his husband's laughter and gave him a kiss. "How many choruses of what?"

"I think I went through six renditions of_St. Judy's Comet,_ which is itself an irony." Cole sipped at his cup, both for the wonderful fragrant spice of the Russian tea and for the hot water and honey that would help soothe his throat. He smiled over the rim, gazing at his beloved flit-tiger. "We may have to make you learn how to play some particularly relaxing instrument, just to save my voice!"

Cole set his cup down, and the two cuddled for a bit before the fire, each in his favorite fleece warm-up pants, enjoying both the warmth of the fire and the chill of the night air from the distance of the bay windows. The lights on the tree were the only other source of light, and the evening lay gently around them, each with his thoughts, but neither would be surprised that they were the same. Christmas Eve was always a special night, no matter one's professed beliefs. Somewhere out there, Guy knew, the magical elf of the solstice and the season was flying across the world, delivering each special gift, whether in fact or in faith, it didn't matter. The magic is what mattered, and Cole had been right - the yowens made all the difference, now and every day of the year.

The front door chime, usually loud and resounding properly though the house, rang softly, as if knowing that the little ones were asleep. Cole frowned. "Are we expecting anyone?"

"Not that I know of," the flit-tiger answered, rising, "but it explains why I thought I saw automobile headlights out front."

Padding softly to the front hall, Guy opened the great front door easily on its silent hinges. He recognized the guest at once, and although very glad to see him, he kept his voice low. "Eoin! What a delight!" He welcomed the Saluki inside, putting a finger to his muzzle. "We finally got the yowens to sleep just a bit ago."

Eoin grimaced a bit. "I hope I didn't wake them."

"The chimes are on a timer; at seven each evening, they automatically go into 'soft' mode." The flit-tiger hugged the slender canine and welcomed him into the living room, where Cole managed to stand (despite his professed exhaustion) and get his own hug.

"What brings you out in this Christmas Eve? Shouldn't you be at home, rummaging through Benedict's stocking? Or panty hose, or whatever?"

Eoin laughed. "You know us too well. That's for later. Actually, I probably won't be here long. Zachary is going to be joining in the Christmas Eve festivities - well,some of the festivities," the pup corrected himself, grinning, "and he'll be staying the night in order to enjoy Benedict's Christmas breakfast bonanza tomorrow. When I went to pick him up, he asked if we could swing by here; he has a present to give to Jerry. When I called Benedict to say that we were making a detour here, I was told that I'm to offer the four of you said brunch delights, if you'd care to join us."

"All four?" Cole asked, then chuckled. "Why am I surprised? We already know he likes to play Dragon Grampa."

"Five, counting Jerry. Zachary will be asking him."

"You know," Guy mused softly, "we_do_ have the folding high chairs that we could put into the car... I'm not one to pass up any chance of enjoying Benedict's cooking."

"Think we can get Annabelle and Paulo to give up playing with their toys for that long?" the flit-wolf wondered.

"We could probably bring one or two in the car. Once they smell the food, they'll settle into Devour Mode quickly enough not to care."

It was Eoin's turn to laugh, then to look just a little wistful. Guy put a forepaw to the Saluki's shoulder. "You okay, Eoin?"

"Yeah, just..." His smile was still warm, but a little sad at the same time. "Touch of envy, maybe. It'll pass. I don't mean to be a rude guest, especially as I'll not be staying long, but is that Russian tea I smell?"

"The sheer superiority of the canine nose," Cole grinned. "There's plenty; let me get a cup." On carefully muffled pawpads, he strode to the kitchen to fetch another cup.

"First Christmas with the yowens?"

"Second," Guy said softly. He looked at Eoin, knowing there wasn't enough time to ask the really important question. Instead, he said, "Yes."

The Saluki looked at him oddly.

"Worth every fight, every obstacle, every minute."

"Here we are then," Cole said, cheerily if softly. He stepped to the table and filled the cup from the teapot and turned to pass it to Eoin. It was only then that he seemed to notice his visitor's expression. He hesitated, looking to his husband, then back to their guest.

"Thank you," the pup said, taking the cup from the faintly confused flit-wolf.

Guy moved to his husband's side to hug him. "I was just telling Eoin how wonderful it is to have our wee bairns. And how worth it it's all been."

"The ghosts of the season sure worked quickly this year, didn't they?" Cole grinned and kissed the flit-tiger warmly. Looking at Eoin, he asked, "Which of the three are you?"

Sipping his tea, the young Saluki's face went through several expressions before he lowered his cup and smiled with what Guy thought would best be defined as determination. "Future."

* * * * * * * * * *

"Not too late, I hope?"

Jerry was surprised, although not unhappily, to find Zachary at his door. "Not at all. Come in, it's freezing out there."

"I can only stay a moment," the Akita said, entering. "Eoin and Benedict have offered me an orphan's haven for Christmas Eve, and brunch tomorrow. I'm told that I'm to invite you also; Eoin's up at the house, inviting Cole, Guy, and their yowens." The pup snorted softly, smiling at himself. "I said it without pausing this time. Maybe I'm getting better."

"You're doing just fine, Zachary."

"I have a few things for you. This first." The athlete opened his arms and, with great tenderness, wrapped his arms around the golden-furred otter and hugged him gently. Jerry's arms went around Zachary's back and pressed as warmly as his still-sore ribs would allow him. The moment lingered, and the grad student wondered whether there might even be something like a kiss coming, but he set the idea aside. The gesture would be just friendly, one day, but right now, Zachary was still trying to understand what his feelings were, and how to express them. This, truth told, was a wonderful beginning.

The Akita broke the hug slowly, pulling back from the otter and smiling broadly. "And this," he said, reaching into his jacket, "is something I hope you'll like."

Jerry took the CD case into his webbed forepaws, his eyes growing wide. "How on earth...?"

"I asked Guy about your music. I think this is the band he was talking about. Ashra?"

"Ashra, or Ashra Temple... that's one, but this is Ashera, and don't be worried - this artist's work is even harder to find than Ashra! And they're both favorites of mine. Where in the world did you find this?"

"I did a lot of digging through the stacks of the used book store. They don't organize their music very well." The Akita's tail dipped a bit, ears slightly splayed. "You sure it's okay?"

The otter started to move, held himself back. "Zachary... I almost kissed you, but it would only have been meant to reassure you. Maybe I'll give you a short history of ambient music one day, and I'll tell you about Ashra, and Ashera, and Ojas, and Brian Eno, and David Parsons, and all the rest." He smiled up at the pup. "I promise you - this is perfect. And thank you."

Jerry watched Zachary's face go through several expressions, worried that he might have gone too far, said too much.

"Will you come to brunch tomorrow?" the athlete asked. "I want you to."

The otter nodded, smiling softly. "I'll be there."

Shifting from one hindpaw to the other, Zachary said softly, "I'd probably better go. I mean, I don't want to keep Eoin from Benedict for too long."

"It's fine. Thank you, Zachary."

"You're welcome. And I'll see you tomorrow." He moved in to give the otter one more hug, still minding the sore ribs. As Jerry returned the embrace, he felt the Akita turn his muzzle and plant a quick whisper of a kiss to his cheek, then pull away and take himself out the door. In the warmth of his small apartment, Jerry touched his cheek, as if he might be able to feel the kiss lingering there, a tender Christmas ghost.

* * * * * * * * * *

Cory Wind Runner took the plate from in front of her dinner guest as he discreetly disguised a not-so-delicate belch. The handsome young Clyde put a forepaw to his lips, looked quite appropriately embarrassed, and chuckled a little nervously. "I'll take that as a compliment," the mare smiled. "It's good etiquette in some countries to compliment the chef with a good burp. Shows a healthy appreciation for the meal."

The broad-chested stallion smiled. "That was, then, a thoroughly belch-worthy meal. In one epicurean stroke, you've managed to appease both glutton and gourmet."

"Thank you, milord," Cory bowed slightly, grinning.

Gabriel laughed. "I think I reference Lord Peter a bit too much, but he does have some of the best lines in literature. And if I may say, you're far more attractive than Bunter."

"Now that," the mare replied, setting the dishes in the sink, "is a compliment I'll take anytime."

"Let me help," the Clyde offered, rising from the table.

"Not a bit of it. I'm just going to let these soak." She ran water in the sink, added some dish soap to make a bit of froth. "I've always thought one should attend to one's guest ahead of the dishes."

Standing near, but not too near, the stallion smiled softly. "If you'll allow me a bit of buttering up, Cory, you're quite wonderful. That was a delicious meal, and you've been very kind over this past week. I suppose that I'm enough of a romantic, in the literary sense, that being alone has never been my idea of a good time, especially at this time of year."

"Would you care to indulge me in a bit of my own WinterFest tradition?" Turning off the water, Cory wiped her forepaws on a cloth before returning it to its location looped into the handle of the refrigerator door. "My favorite version of_A Christmas Carol_ is the 1984 film with George C. Scott, and I've watched it every Christmas Eve since I got the VHS tape. Not to worry: I've upgraded to DVD at least."

The stallion grinned. "Welcome to the twenty-first century," he chided very gently, his lush black forelock dancing coltishly in front of his eyes as he chuckled gently. "I don't think I've seen that version. I know the Patrick Stewart."

"And a fine one it is; I just have a warm spot for this one, for a few reasons. I also have a bit of dessert in the refrigerator, but I thought we might watch the film first, to let dinner settle. Would that suit you?"

"From eartips to frogs."

Cory grinned. "Takes an equine to get that joke! C'mon in."

She led the way into the living room, inviting her guest to settle onto the sofa as she readied the DVD player. The mare had always enjoyed her videos, but she'd never gotten bitten by the technology bug that demanded her to have the latest and greatest of everything. Her speakers were modest, her screen a comparatively small 150cm diagonal measurement, and although she'd upgraded her player to a Blu-Ray, she'd waited until she could ensure that all of her old DVDs would play properly. She had learned a lesson from those who had bought into Betamax for its superior quality, then got shafted when VHS cheapness took over the market.

Returning to the sofa, she reached for the universal remote and, once more patting herself on the back for figuring out all the necessary tricks to modern technology that allowed her to have "one switch to rule them all," she cued up the film. "Ready?"

"Yes, please."

The young stallion put his forepaws to his denim-covered knees, his cobalt blue velour top unzippered slightly at the neck, but nothing obvious or untoward. In his way, he was almost "uptight," to use a very dated word. Cory would have snorted aloud at her use of it, but she didn't want him to think that she was laughing at him. "I'm guessing it's still strange for you to be cold at Christmas."

"It's a novelty," he admitted. "I'm used to it being up around 30 or 35; it must be minus-two out there."

"Not quite snowy. I don't think we'll be having a white Christmas this year, but it's still chilly enough." She paused, letting her gut tell her one last time that it was okay. "Cold enough for a cuddle?"

Gabriel's deep lapis lazuli eyes started briefly, then considered her softly. "I'd be honored, Cory."

"Good," she said, sliding closer to him and putting her head to his shoulder. "I've been wanting to find out if that velour shirt was as soft as it looked."

It was, without question, just as what was beneath it was hard-packed muscle that was as impossible to ignore as it was good to lay against. It had been a very long time since she'd been able to cuddle with anyone, much less a fine young Clydesdale like Gabriel. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she realized that there was just the faintest hint of his scent at his neck, perhaps a bit below. She tried very hard not to compare it to anyone else, but even without someone specific to match it to, the aroma tickled some part of her hindbrain in ways that she'd not enjoyed in... had it been a few years? Had it really taken so long?

Cory pressed the button on the remote and heard the familiar words:"Marley was dead, to begin with. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate..."

It was during the scene with the Ghost of Christmas Present that Cory found herself reaching for Gabriel's forepaw, and she was not disappointed. Beneath his huge green robe, the giant of a ghost reveals the wraith-like kit and pup, starving, ragged, scowling, nothing of civility left them. "Their names are Ignorance and Want. Beware them, for across their brow is writ the word Doom, unless the writing be erased."

"Have they no recourse?"

"Are there no prisons?" the ghost mocked savagely. "Are there no workhouses?"

"Cover them," Scrooge said. "I do not wish to see."

"I thought not." The spirit closed its capacious gown.

"Are they gone?"

"The are hidden," the spirit informed him, "but they live."

Cory felt Gabriel's forepaw squeeze her own. She stole a quick glance to his face and saw something there that might almost have been terror. Even that faint hint of his scent had changed, augmented, exacerbated. Granted, this moment of the film always disturbed her as well, but for the young stallion... The mare gave a rapid thought, wondering what could have happened to him to have caused such intense reactions in him.

The film made its way to the end, through Scrooge's redemption, to his being "better than his word. He became as good a master, as good a man, as the good old city ever knew. It was said that he knew how to keep Christmas better than anyone. May the same be said of us. And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, everyone."

The credits rolled and Cory forced herself to sit up and away from her particularly comfortable equine pillow. "You like?"

"It's very good! I'm impressed with the costuming and all; they look like they were inspired directly from the illustrations in the original. The performances are all terrific."

"And it's older than you are, by a good decade or so," she grinned. "How about dessert?"

"I'd love some. What's the treat?"

"Well," the mare's ears went back a little. "Dessert isn't my specialty, so I cheated. Have you found Goddess Bakery yet?"

"Seen it as I've trotted by on some runs," Gabriel admitted. "I've been afraid that I'd never be able to burn off the calories just from the scents coming from their ovens."

Cory managed a laugh at that one. She walked back into the kitchen. "I probably should get back into running. You might not know it to look at me, but I actually got my bachelor's degree through a track scholarship."

As she reached inside the fridge, she had the feeling that the silence was just a bit too prolonged. She looked up, her brows knotted. Gabriel stood near the dining table (an elegant term for the garage sale reject she'd never found reason to replace), his eyes downcast. It took a moment for him to raise his head again. "I'm sorry, Cory. I was about to be glib, but I was afraid it might come out wrong."

"Well, why don't you try me, and we'll see."

The Clyde looked at her steadily, his arms to his sides. "I was going to say that I can still see the runner in you. I was going to say something about how you'd look with the wind in your mane. I don't want to... well, it felt too personal, I suppose."

For a long moment, Cory looked at Gabriel and tried to understand what she was seeing. One of his ears flicked, a gesture of nervousness, but not of deception. He wasn't lying, and he wasn't being coy, at least not intentionally. There was something else, though, a kind of sadness behind it all, but from what source? Mentally, she shook herself, trying to keep her tail still as she withdrew the plastic-domed foil pan from the fridge. "Well, promise yourself some extra distance over the next day or so. I'm hoping that I'm not stereotyping, but I know that I love my oats and apples, and the ladies at Goddess Bakery have come up with a cake roll made with oats and granola in the batter, and a magnificent apple compote inside. Let me serve up a few slices. If you're really daring, I have some French vanilla ice cream..."

Chuckling, Gabriel held up his forepaws, the feathers dangling handsomely below. "Best not to have too much decadence in a single evening! I'll sample the cake on its own tonight."

"Good choice."

Setting the plates on the table, Cory sat, and the stallion, ever the gentlefur, followed suit. She took a bit for herself and waited for his reaction to his first bite. The look in his eyes suggested something like mild ecstasy, which is precisely how she felt about this particular recipe. "This is..." He shook his head, his braided mane dancing. "I'm vain enough to think myself a good cook, but this is better than anything I've even had the chance to dream up! I might be able to figure out a recipe, but for now, I'm just going to enjoy it."

"Another good choice!" The mare chuckled gently, helped herself to another forkful. When it was safe to speak again, she chanced her arm. "Gabe... let me know if I'm poking my muzzle where it doesn't belong. That speech in Dickens about the children, about Ignorance and Want... that really seemed to--"

The stallion waved a paw lightly. "It's okay. I'm not really secretive about my past. I just don't broadcast it on all frequencies." He paused, setting his fork down with reluctance. "I'll spare you the gory details. Let's just say that I wish people had listened to Dickens. Ignorance and Want - the twins of despair in this golden age." The Clyde cleared his throat and continued. "I don't know how much real poverty you've seen, or experienced. I don't want to assume everyone here is rich; I know that's not true. This is a nice house you have, but for all I know, you've had times when you didn't have one at all, much less one of your own."

"I don't know much of your own native peoples," Cory said softly, "but you'd be amazed at what you have to go without on the rez sometimes."

He looked at her, and she saw just for a moment that Something she'd seen at The Extra Credit, that first day they'd met. The certainty within her was that it was the phrase_go without_ that had done it, but she still had no idea what that might mean.

"I'd said I was a romantic." The stallion smiled lopsidedly. "Maybe this is just part of that."

"You've grown well," she offered. "I won't pry. Whatever happened, Gabriel, you've become quite a fine young male. Of course, you might be hiding a serial killer behind those eyes, but I doubt it."

"Serial killer? No." He resumed his attack on dessert, his smile a little larger. "All the really good reasons for knocking off a bunch of people have been done on_Criminal Minds_ by now."

"Tough act to follow, certainly." Cory listened to her heart once more, feeling it tick and tremble with something like sympathy, with need, with understanding. All the clichés about a "tough colthood" aside, she knew something about how much it hurt to grow up that way. And it was Christmas Eve. The ghosts might yet be avoided, or at least satisfied without making a personal appearance. "So. Good dessert?"

"Delicious." The stallion polished off the last of his slice and set the fork carefully on the plate. "I'll try to refrain from licking the plate clean! Cory, thank you; this has been the best Christmas Eve dinner I've ever had."

"I'm pretty good at breakfast, too."

The mare tried not to focus on how high and forward the stallion's ears went up, thinking,As the kid goes for broke.

* * * * * * * * * *

Royal Hornsby had kept one particular tradition every Christmas Eve that he'd been in business. He closed his doors at 1pm on the 24th, and he spent the rest of the afternoon baking, preparing, decorating, gathering everything that he could in order to be ready for the evening. His staff, on a strictly volunteer basis, helped him put the NORAD Santa Tracker on the big screen at the back of the café, got hours of WinterFest music together (some traditional, some of what might have been called New Age), and made sure that every possible Styrofoam-free environmentally-friendly takeaway cup and plate was available. Restaurant-sized coffee containers, each holding 18 liters, were labeled and filled with the best libations available - cocoa, herbal tea, Russian tea, decaf coffee, white chocolate mocha, and a few others - and stood ready to serve the guests. The pastries, cookies, scones, biscuits, strudel bites, slices of streuselkuchen, clumps of fruits and berries and fondue pots of chocolates and caramels to dip them in, all stood ready in perfect display.

At 7pm sharp, the dark brown-furred skunk swung wide the doors, welcoming those who were for whatever reason left on their own on this night. Exchange students far from home, even those whose religion made them feel all the more alienated from this celebration; those for whom home might have been a box in an alley or a closet in abandoned house; the priests and pastors who came to warm themselves in true communion before they gave their midnight masses; the constabulary on watch who took in turns a chance to be welcomed and fed a trifle; the elders who had no family fire to hang a stocking by; the young who wondered if the dream that they chased was real enough to be worth having stranded them alone on this of all nights; the lost, the found, the wandering, the wondering, the neighbors and couples who quibbled on every night but this one... in they all came, anyhow and everyhow, to enjoy the hospitality of the evening without charge for anything at all. Donations were welcome, but all knew that any such funds were to be split among Royal's staff as their tip for serving and sharing their friendship on this special night of the year. This, as best he could manage, was Royal's way of sharing the magic of WinterFest.

Faces came and went with the evening, and the skunk never missed an opportunity to address by name anyone he knew, and to learn the name of anyone he'd not yet met. Games were played, prizes won, even gifts exchanged. Knowing of Royal's celebration, the local benevolent associations would bring anything from clothing to toiletries, blankets and scarves to tiny luxuries that extended some little dignity, as simple as ribbons for the hair or charm bracelets for the wrist. For just this small time, on this one night, all were welcomed and given comfort.

Toward the end of the evening, Royal cast his eyes across the room, ensuring that those who lingered were well looked-after. The crowds were usually quite nice about the request to leave at 11pm, and Royal was ready to stay on till midnight or past, if need be. One year, a young undergraduate exchange student had needed just a bit longer, just to have someone to talk to. Royal lent a sympathetic ear near the fire, and the small red panda had been particularly grateful. A music student who fought depression, the panda had composed a string quartet that he dedicated to Royal; it's premiere took place there in the café one evening, and those who attended were unanimously agreed that the panda showed great promise. All it had taken was an hour of Royal's time, without which the world might not have benefitted from the creative talent who had taken refuge in a coffee pub one Christmas Eve night. This was the magic of WinterFest. Royal never ignored it.

As the skunk looked about, his eyes rested on a black komodo dragon slightly smaller than himself. The lizard seemed quite content to keep his own company, a cup of decaf coffee in one foreclaw, the crumbs of some pastry on the plate near him. Royal made his way to the stranger, stood smiling at him. "Welcome, friend," he said. "I don't believe we've met. My name is Royal."

The black lizard looked up at him, blinked once with slow deliberation, allowed something of a smile to cross his lips. "You are our host, I believe?"

"At your service."

"Quite a celebration."

"My attempt at channeling the magic of the season," Royal grinned. "We're all glad that you could join us."

"My compliments on your coffee." The lizard's tongue flicked out once, tasting the air. "Please don't think I'm complaining in any way when I note that it is decaffeinated. I can understand why, given the hour."

"It seems a reasonable guess," the skunk offered. "I'm sure that the sugar in the pastries will keep the sugar plums dancing in some heads this evening."

The small komodo dragon chuckled throatily, a sound that should have been made from a creature of larger stature. Royal had the strange impression that he was looking upon someone who wasn't what seemed to be. His years of knowing and serving Benedict told him that he should in no way show that he suspected any such thing.

"I understand that you roast your own beans here."

"I do," Royal said, permitting a touch of pride to mask his suspicions.

"I shall have to return to try some of your varieties," the lizard observed. "I'm told that there's a particularly dark roast called Pitch Blend. I do so enjoy that full-on bitterness from a darkly roasted bean. I take it that you'll be closed tomorrow?"

"One of my few days off." The skunk did his best to smile. He didn't feel like smiling.

"Then perhaps I shall return the day after." The sleek black komodo dragon rose slowly. "I should like to try it. Twice, of course. The first for flavor... the second for satisfaction."

Royal stood frozen to the spot as the lizard reached into a pocket and removed a folded bill, which he placed upon the table, with the "100" face up.

"Thank you for your kindness, my good skunk. I know how important it is to do a good turn whenever possible. My best also to your venerable patrons." The lizard wrapped a thick scarf about his neck. "They are loyal to you. I might not have heard of the Pitch Blend another way. Oh, and you do have Cornish cream, I believe?"

The skunk could barely nod.

"Excellent. I can see why one would become a regular patron of your fine establishment. For now, I will bid you good night and a very Merry Christmas."

The komodo dragon moved slowly through the thin remnants of the crowd, without anyone giving him a second look. At the door, he turned back to the skunk and locked eyes with him.

Nunc per ludum, dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris.

Royal felt his knees buckle, and he was fortunate enough to land his butt in the chair next to the table with the impossible gratuity upon it. His breath quick, his forepaws shaking as he pushed back his damp headfur, he tried to remember what the guest had looked like. There was a sensation more than a memory of the voice, a vague idea of an innocuous conversation, a phrase (Latin?) that he somehow felt etched into his mind, and nothing else about the customer remained. No description of him at all, save for a single detail - an impression of something huge and black, leaving behind a feeling in Royal rather like his having narrowly missed being struck by an oncoming truck.