Part 2
(02:34 AM, 12 December 2004)

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    "Troublesome," Hazel said, as in their procession their boots crunched on the well-tread snow outside the inn doors. "A night like this is poor for spiritual work."
    "An irony," Sanzo suggested. A cloud formed in front of his mouth when he spoke that was half cigarette smoke and half frost.
    "Surely you'd have noticed as well. Revelry on a holy night scatters the air. The clarity of the spirit is absent."
    The Buddhist thought, briefly, that Hazel had to be describing what he'd written off as a buzzing in his head, just one nuisance of many that idiot people brought on. But certainly did not think guiltily that he couldn't really remember when he'd last engaged in meditation. Or any form of prayer, at all, the use of the sutra for battle aside. Well, what had he to pray to?
    Well, what did Hazel think he had? To have merited that episode tonight?
    Why was he out here walking with him? Even if under the pretense of getting out for some air, talking had not been on the agenda. But tonight was making things strange. It seemed better to suffer it with the Westerner than his idiot comrades, anyway. And he could about guess the bishop found little spiritual solace in that shikigami bodyguard of his.
    Spiritual solace. What the fuck. Sanzo was just fine without that. The foreigner's vocabulary was getting to him.
    "Quite nice of you to tolerate me like this, Sanzo-han," Hazel Glosse said graciously, face lit up unnaturally by the light through the inn windows, where the party was still ongoing. "Not concerned for danger tonight?"
    Sanzo took a last drag and flicked the butt into the snow to hiss out. "A man who prays sincerely to his god on a holy night and then goes to commit murder has one or both priorities misaligned."
    "I could have been insincere. How did it look to you?"
    The blond considered. "Did you steal the candles?"
    Hazel laughed. The snow deadened the sound. "If I had, you could deduce it as some sort of ploy?"
    "Lended weight, at least."
    "Fortunate that you are a holy man and not police, Sanzo-han. You're at liberty to make such judgments of character."
    "I appear to be alive," Sanzo pointed out.
    "Fairly astute."
    Sanzo wished he had another cigarette. As it was he knew the pack from which he'd drawn his previous one was empty. And didn't want to be watched as he searched robes for a spare he wasn't so sure was on him.
    Because it seemed odd to say what he did.
    "You wouldn't try anything," he said, removed. "Not on this night."
    "Yet, not a night you yourself hold in any regard."
    "Of course not," Sanzo countered with annoyance.
    "And yet I am alive. How very considerate you are for the religions of others, Sanzo-han."
    ...He really wanted his cigarette now.
    Sanzo moved toward the doors instead, and Hazel shadowed his movements readily. Kept pace with each other unthinkingly, stamping snow off their boots on the steps. Only looked up when they found themselves at the doorway, both trying to enter at the same time. They succeeded in passing off any awkwardness or mumbled goodnights, until one or the other suddenly had the misfortune of looking up.
    "Ah--"
    It was Hazel, oddly, that had the greatest objection to the mistletoe nailed over the doorway.
    "Must people feel the compulsion to discard all of a missionary's work save the most secular and superstitious?" he complained. "I'll bet some merchants spread the plant here, some years back. Typical..."
    It was the night. It was the damn night, and the buzzing in his head and the drinks he'd downed earlier that did it. Sanzo tried reasoning.
    "The tradition extends back farther than that. It's had its use as a ward, and a truce symbol," he deadpanned. "Youkai of the western isles finding their enemies on the battlefield would stop at seeing it, both lay down their arms and declare a peace until the next day. They..."
    He floundered, his senses finally catching up to point out his behavior.
    But the damage had been done. Hazel's eyes were on him now, intent and almost surprised. But curiously warm.
    "...A truce, then, this?" the bishop proposed.
    Sanzo paused.
    "...If you want to put it that way," he relented, feeling foolish suddenly.
    "Ah. I suppose I could accept that."
    "Hnh. Fine."
    "Splendid."
    Then he leaned up to demonstrate mistletoe's modern tradition.
    With his boots on, Hazel barely had to reach at all, and was aided even more by Sanzo meeting him halfway. Quite before either of them even started to compute what they were doing.
    For complaining so much about the cold, the Westerner was really warm. Hot. It was almost like being scalded.
    "'...And wild and sweet the words repeat, of peace on earth, good will to men,'" was the murmur as lips parted. In English, incoherent, but Sanzo's mind too preoccupied to ask for translation. "I suppose we should say goodnight."
    The bishop Hazel Glosse tipped his damp hat, slid out of sight through the door.
    ...Dammit. What the hell.
    Strange night, nothing. This was batshit insane. He didn't even want a cigarette now.

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gag punchline:

Hazel: *skippity skip back to room*
*thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpskeeetthumpthumpthump--*
Hazel: O o *realizes it's someone running up the stairs, but who--*
Sanzo: *LATCHES ONTO ARM*
Hazel: Yee! Sanzo-han--!
Sanzo: Kick out your shiki.
Hazel: What--
Sanzo: Kick him out and we're using your room. I'm sharing mine with three people, it can't work.
Hazel: ^^; What are you...? *didn't really plan anything like that, come on, it's a holy night--*
Sanzo: I like candles. Candles? Good aesthetic. All right? Let's go.
Hazel: Sanzo-han~! Sacrilege~!
Sanzo: >_> *glareofdoom* Shoulda thought of that before.
Hazel: *wails as he's dragged off*