It was the smells that first alerted Major Eberbach to the time of year. Having trained himself to ignore the cold, he had not noticed the onset of winter; much less the heavy coats worn by the people he passed on the streets as he left his office at NATO headquarters. His standard trench coat, worn over his usual suit, sufficed to keep him warm enough most of the time. Nor had he noticed the increased traffic near the shops of Bonn as he strode purposefully toward his flat. The aromas of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon spiced cider and brought him to an abrupt halt.

Christmas.

The Major looked around at the familiar surroundings now decorated with shining tinsel, glowing lights, brightly colored ribbons and wreaths. Odd that he hadn't noticed those things - or the noise -- before.  Bells incessantly ringing, auto horns blaring, singers caroling... gah! One week until the day itself and the frenzy was already palpable.

Idiots. These people were idiots, all of them.  Laughing, prancing about, singing like fools. Did they not know how precariously the world balanced between good and evil? Were they oblivious to the serious situations that rocked the world? Did they not care that even now, while not on field assignment, the Major carried his handgun in its shoulder holster and a small capsule in his shirt pocket? How could they be so carefree?

His hands had grown cold, but he was still several blocks from the warmth of his flat. The vendor was nearby and quietly courteous. The cup warmed his fingers and the smell of the cider eased a sudden tightness in his chest. Cautiously, he sipped the hot cider as he studied the busy scene around him.

Children were running in the cold evening air, tugging a parent's hand toward some shop or other, laughing, excited to see what tomorrow would bring. Some of the smaller ones were asleep in a mother's arms, warm, safe, content. Had he ever been such a child, such an innocent -- taking delight in such mundane things as snow and colored lights? It seemed not. Duty had always been paramount -- duty to his title, to his family, to his country.

Now the taste of cider reminded him of the long past Christmas Eves of his childhood, spent huddled in his pajamas and robe in the warmth of the huge kitchen of Schloss Eberbach. Cook had indulged him every year with cakes and spiced cider long after he was supposed to be sleeping. How he had looked forward to that treat! He would savor the hot drink and listen to Cook hum carols while she baked for the next day's meals. No lavish gift left under the Christmas trees of his youth held the warmth of those memories.

It seemed so long ago.

He supposed he should call his father to confirm their plans for the following week. This year, as ever, the two men would attend services and spend Christmas Day at Schloss Eberbach. The meals would be delicious, the wine exceptional, the conversation dutiful and stilted, the gifts awkwardly exchanged. The prospect made him wish for an international incident, a terrorist sighting... anything to call him away and give him a purpose during the holiday. Humpf.

Still sipping his rapidly cooling drink, Klaus wondered what his alphabet were doing this evening. Parties, dinners, shopping? Did they laugh with their families? Did they have children of their own? He seemed to recall that Agent Q had a few pictures on his desk. And what were the criminal element doing during this season? The thief called Eroica, for instance.

Klaus snorted. He could guess. Dorian would be holding court as the Earl of Red Gloria at that English castle of his -- the one with the poncy towers that seemed to suit the slender thief right down to the ground. It would be filled to bursting with perverts of all sorts, cavorting like pagans and enjoying the bounty of Dorian's ill-gotten gain. Dorian himself would probably be standing permanently under the mistletoe, kissing male and female alike with lecherous abandon, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief and his golden hair shining like an angel.

Damn.  Dorian could screw up Klaus' Christmas from across the globe.

Because now that Klaus had started thinking about him, he saw Dorian everywhere. In the boy whose face was plastered against the toyshop window with his eyes wide in wonder, in the woman reveling in her new fur, in the petty criminal sizing up the vulnerabilities of the shops. He heard his ridiculous laughter and the lilting tones of his voice in the bells. Oh, fuck. 

Klaus crushed the empty cup in his fist. It was not for men like him to be making Christmas wishes. He had duties and responsibilities to attend to. He could not be thinking of indulging his carnal desires with anyone, much less with a man. Much less with a man well known to Interpol.

Except, of course, that he did think of it. He had thought about it for over ten years. Claiming Dorian, marking his flawless skin, biting those perfect lips, and tugging his fingers through that glorious mass of hair. It was his Christmas wish: to find enough strength in himself, in "Iron Klaus," to reach out and steal the thief.

No. It would be far better to ignore Christmas and its blasted wishes than to give in to his lustful desires and weaken himself for his work, his duty. His dusty, bloody, painful, exhilarating, rewarding, dry, wretched, everlasting duty. 

Klaus looked again at the festive scene before him. Idiots, he had called them. Perhaps they were not. They were, after all, happy and content with themselves and the lives they had chosen or been given. They could change to suit themselves whenever they wanted. 

Refusing to examine the other side of that coin, Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach straightened his spine and took a deep breath of the wintry air. As he strode toward his flat with military bearing he once again closed out the cold and the bright lights. He thought of the open files on his desk and forgot even the taste of hot, spiced cider at Christmas.

End