undergrounds | HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS... (DEC CATCH-ALL)

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HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS... (DEC CATCH-ALL)

I. THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

Faolan draws his coat tighter around him, not so much cold as uncomfortable where he stands, peering into the window display of the store in front of him. He's not been Christmas shopping in... Nearly a decade, if he's being honest with himself. This year is the first he's had reason to in a long while, and while grateful for that fact, he'd spent so much time avoiding the rush he'd forgotten it all. Forgotten how many people there were out in the shops at this time of year. Forgotten about the music.

He glances up at the speaker above him, frowning at it as it starts to pipe up its next Holiday song. The most wonderful time of the year indeed, Faolan thinks to himself. He's got one person to shop for, and he hasn't the faintest idea of what to be getting for him. Save for that he should be. Lancelot's asked him over for the holiday, and he'd have to be a pretty shit friend not to get him something in return for his hospitality. The only question is what. Being on a budget and having very little idea what the other man would like, Faolan is rather at a loss.

If he has to listen to much more of his holiday music he's going to go mad, though. Grumbling low to himself, Faolan fishes his headphones out of the pocket of his jacket and shoves one into one of his ears. At least he's half spared now, he thinks to himself as he turns and, peripheral hearing now gone, walks into the next shopper over--

II. DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW

Faolan slouches behind the line, waiting to switch lines on the way over to Hillingdon. He's been waiting there for god knows how long, and he's half expecting that he'll be waiting there forever. God only knows how late he's going to be in, at least no one's going to be expecting him right away. He wonders (rather dramatically, but then he's been waiting there for a while already, and his normal hour-long commute is dragging on ever longer) if anyone will notice his absence in time or whether he will perish here out of starvation or boredom or whether he'll wind up going mad and getting himself arrested just to have something to do.

His one saving grace perhaps is that he has thought to bring coffee. It's only from his coffee maker at home, nothing fancy, but it's caffeinated and since he's got it in the travel mug that Lancelot had given him for his birthday, it's still warm now too. Though it's going fast.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to flick through it, thinking about possibly calling someone to complain, but who would he call that isn't already at work or probably still sleeping. So with a sigh he slips it back in his pocket and raises his coffee for another sip...

III. O TANNENBAUM, O TANNENBAUM [CLOSED TO HILLINGDON MEMBERS]

Faolan certainly isn't one for this season. Nor is he a particularly social person at all. But he has been saying to all the other members about how there needs to be more of a sense of community to Hillingdon, and while he has no intention of forcing any sort of holiday party on them, well. He did threaten free food to Sirius, and he figures that may not be a bad idea after all. Nothing fancy, but he makes certain that there's a fire going in the fireplace, and he's brought in some donuts and made some coffee and hot chocolate and set it out.

It's by no means a formal party, and it's by no means a required get-together. But Faolan makes it a point to sit out at a table in the sitting room himself, in front of the fire as he works on a bit of the records-keeping that no one but the man in charge would have ever expected there to be for a place like this. And anyone who passes through is welcome to join him, or to talk to anyone else who passes through for that matter. To sit with him in front of the fire and speak to him or quietly on their own as he does his work, it doesn't matter to him. If you build it, they will come, or so the saying goes. Faolan's certainly counting hoping so, at least...

*** ooc note: Hillingdon members, feel free to use this as something of an open post if you like -- just note if the thread is intended to be Open To All (OTA) if you do! :)

IV. FROM NOW ON OUR TROUBLES WILL BE MILES AWAY [CLOSED TO LANCELOT]

Faolan chews on his lip as he makes his way up the walk to the front door of Lancelot's flat. He doesn't quite know why he's nervous about this. Maybe it's because he hasn't been asked to join anyone for a holiday in so long, he can barely remember the last time he's spent one with anyone. Maybe it's because he knows himself and he knows that he's probably making something out of nothing. That he's probably worrying about what he's brought with him more than he should be, and that Lancelot could care less, as long as he's there himself. But he can't help who he is or the fact that he finds himself standing on the other man's front step, fretting over a gift, not for the first time.

At least this one is better than a Monkey's paw, he thinks to himself, as he adjusts his overnight bag over one shoulder and the bag of gifts in his hand, before he steps forward and, hesitating, rings the bell. The muffled sound of music creeps out at him through the cracks in the door, and Faolan shifts slightly in place, struggling to make it out as he does.

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Faolan shoots a look back at the other man, at the accent, at the attitude. At the words. His eyes narrowing slightly as he's ushered along into the other man's bedroom, displeased with Lancelot being called a slut even as otherwise overwhelmed as he is.

And then he's standing in Lancelot's bedroom, and that wriggling sensation inside of him doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. The only reason he gets to setting down his things being Lancelot's encouragement, the man's hands nearly removing the bag for him. He sets down the bag of his gifts as well, unable to help a curious glance around as he does, only just remembering enough of himself to say, "Ehm. Lily. There are things in there she's going to want to get at. You'd better make sure to keep her away from it until we sort it all out."

He straightens, moving to slide off his jacket, holding it in his hands for a moment afterwards. Uncertain what to do with it. Uncertain what to do with himself for that matter. Had Lancelot planned for everything to fall into place like this? And if so, why? "A drink sounds good to me," he says, trying his best not to sound desperate.

"I'll shut the door," Lance assures him. "Just leave your jacket wherever, throw it on the bed or hang it out by the front hall if you prefer."

He digs his hands into his pockets, offers Faolan an easy smile in contrast to the other man's obvious nerves.

"Don't worry, they don't bite. I can make it easier with a rum and coke though, you can pour the rum."

Lancelot gently guides Faolan to turn around and begin walking back out, hand at the small of his back and ready to close the door behind them once they're clear to keep Lily out.

Faolan glances behind him at the bed, thinks about having to walk all the way back through the group of men out in the sitting room to hang his jacket up, and decides that leaving it there is the lesser of two evils. So he tosses it across the foot of Lancelot's bed and allows the other man to lead him back out of the room, thinking that the idea of rum and coke sounds pretty good right now. Pretty good indeed.

He knows he needs to calm down once he's back out there. Knows he needs to relax and just go with whatever the evening brings. The drink will help with that. A generous drink, for that matter, although by the sounds of it he'll be allowed to mix it as generous as he wants.

Lancelot's presence helps too, as he steps out with the other man back into the area with the rest of them. Though he glances back at him warily, hoping that the other man will forgive him if he doesn't really know what to do with himself in a situation like this, not at first at least. But he'll try. God, he'll try for Lancelot's sake at least.

"How... Do you all know each other then?" he asks, doing his best.

"Work," Lancelot fills in.

"Don't think we're all civvies like him," Arthur lofts an eyebrows as he takes another sip of his drink, as if he'd be affronted by the suggestion should it come up. Gwaine just laughs again, light and playful as he gently wrestles Lily.

"Ah, come on. We can't all look as good in as officer uniform as you do."

Percival gets up quietly to follow as Lancelot leads Faolan through to the kitchen, begins getting him out the coke and rum so he can make himself a drink and checks a timer carefully.

"You need any help?" he offers, expression painfully earnest for someone so intimidatingly large.

"Fine, thanks Percy. Mince pies need another few minutes anyway. Just keep Gwaine and Arthur from choking each other."

"With the Police..." Faolan tries not to let the fact that that bothers him show on his face. It isn't difficult, given the fact that Percy is suddenly close and trying to help and making Faolan feel even shorter and even more insignificant than normal. He narrows his eyes slightly, frowning at the easy camaraderie that they all seem to share between one another before forcing himself to turn back to the glass in front of him and the drink he's preparing. One step at a time, just put one foot in front of the other. (And if he mixes the drink stronger than normal, who's to know...)

He raises the glass to take a sip, turning to lean against the counter and watch the big man -- Percy, he supposes -- make his way quietly back out to the sitting room. Watch Arthur haughtily sipping his drink across the room. Watching Gwaine playfully rolling around on the floor with the dog. Glancing to the side at Lancelot, so natural at playing the host to all of them in turn.

The unspoken question, the question that keeps that frown creasing his brows as he stands there, doing his best to stay out of their way, is where he fits into all of this. The fact that he isn't certain he does the most uncomfortable of all.

Lancelot elbows Faolan gently, offers him a grin as he pours out some coke for himself.

"Come on Mr Grumpy," he teases gently, "nobody's going to arrest you. Come sit down. Maybe you can even prise Lily off Gwaine for a few minutes."

"Ah! Keep your hands off my girlfriend."

He laughs brightly at Gwaine again, gently tries to draw Faolan back toward the others and pulls up some chairs from the breakfast table.

"She likes Faolan, you'll have stiff competition now. Better keep plying her with treats or she'll leave you."

'Mr Grumpy'. Faolan can't help but give the other man a look at the nickname. It's not the first time he's used it on him, and he's willing to bet it won't be the last. He's not going to deny that he's got something of an attitude, and that yes, he can get moody. Hell, he even uses the travel mug for good measure.

So when Lancelot offers him a chair, he sinks into it. Mostly because the other man is still right there and he's got the drink to nurse and some space to keep distance between the rest of them. Not that he's anticipating anything, but he feels better at something of a distance, for the time being.

Although. Girlfriend? Faolan has to raise his eyebrows at that slightly, glancing between the pair of them. Poor Lily, fought over between Lancelot's friends. Wouldn't she like to know that he's got some things for her, in the next room. He hopes she'll like them -- she certainly seems to enjoy pretty much anything. He doesn't have anything for her at the moment, but he will give his best ear scratches if she does decide to say hello to him instead.

He feels awkward. He doesn't know how to make conversation at the best of times and this is certainly not one of his best times. He glances sideways at Lancelot once more for guidance. The drink is going to be gone far too quickly if left to his own devices...

He winks playfully at Faolan as he shoots him an uncertain look, Gwaine making a dramatic show of dying from heartbreak on the ground. Lily's ears perk forward at the display, tail swishing uncertainly as she tries to work out what she's supposed to do. Is this a game? Should she be doing something? She leans in sniff at him, licks curiously until Gwaine can't tolerate it any more and begins to fight her off.

Arthur rolls his eyes at the display, takes another sip of his drink and refocuses his attention away from the nonsense.

"So Faolan," he prompts, "what is it you do exactly?"

A timer begins to beep and Lance jumps up, begins to rescue the mince pies from the oven and arrange them onto the plate -- swinging back with it a moment later and carefully setting them down on a side table just out of reach of dog noses. Faolan can answer for himself, no need for Lance to speak for him he thinks.

Faolan shifts uneasily, swirling his drink in his glass somewhat and raising it to take a sip (to buy himself more time to answer, really). What does he do? Well, he's a Night Council Guardian these days, although obviously he can't just say that. He glances to Lancelot as he rises and leaves him to defend himself against the other man's curiosity. Of course he would, though.

"This and that," he answers at last. "I've been a private investigator, for the most part." He glances across at the other man, trying to determine whether this will be an acceptable answer or not (he's willing to bet not, but given the choice between this, the truth, and the fact that he's just finished up a stint as someone's personal bodyguard, it's probably the best that he can do).

He shrugs, feeling as though he'd like nothing more than to climb into his glass and not come out. "It pays the bills. More or less."

Arthur raises an eyebrow at this, as if to express surprise at the answer -- or perhaps surprise that it would be anyone's answer.

"Well," he says, "if you can get the work --"

"Ah, there's always plenty of private work going," Gwaine interrupts, ruffling Lily's significant mane now that she's given up on wrestling and decided instead to simply drape against him. "Less strings, more freedom. Good if you can get it."

"He's good," Lancelot adds, flopping back into a seat, "although not as quick on his feet as I am."

"Not sure anyone is," adds Percival, and he shoots Lancelot a questioning look as he reaches for a mince pie. Just in case he should be waiting.

Faolan nods slightly, glancing at Gwaine, honestly a bit surprised the other man knew anything about it. It's true, after all. If you can get the work, it's good. Depending on what the work is, and who the client is, it was good money. When and where he could get it. It was the dry spells that did him in, though, and when they happened they were rough.

He throws a look sideways at Lancelot, wondering if he really thinks he's good or whether he's just saying so for conversation's sake. He'd said some pretty words to Sylvia for him as well, but he had to wonder what of his work he'd actually experienced. Alright, so there had been the wolf. And the shifter they'd gone after. And then there had been the job with the fae. But...had he really done that much?

Percy's comment amuses him, considering the other man's size, bulk. It's something to latch onto. Something that may find him a common ground, in all of this -- Lancelot. "Good to know that I'm not the only one that he's leaving in the dust," he comments, as casually as he can.

Lancelot holds out the plate toward Percival with a smile, flicks him a wry smile before handing it over to pass around the others slowly.

"Quicker than he looks!" Percival agrees, seeming earnest in both his admiration and frustration at this. "Wanted to time him and everything but he wouldn't let me."

"Strong than he looks too," Gwaine adds, gently moving Lily so he can reach for a mince pie. "Don't challenge him to arm wrestling."

Arthur snorts in disgust at this, taking a mince pie as they come around.

"He's not that strong," Arthur protests, seemingly not impressed by Lancelot's supposed talents.

"He lets you win," Gwaine adds, and grins in pleasure at Arthur's annoyed frown in response to that.

Lancelot flicks his eyes away, hands the plate of mince pies on to Faolan and lofts an eyebrow at him.

Faolan takes one of the pies off the plate when it's given him, before raising it to Lancelot to offer him in return. Don't think he hasn't noticed you not feeding yourself here, Lancelot -- you may be playing host but that doesn't mean you can't treat yourself some in the process too you know.

He has half a mind to comment about the way the other man scales the side of a building like it's old hat, but that might be a rather suspicious comment, all things considered. So instead when he speaks up, it's to say, "This is almost refreshing." Not that Faolan's bitter about the other man's abilities by any means -- he really isn't! Not when it comes down to the difference between success or failure, life or death. It does get to be a bit much sometimes. He half wants to ask Lancelot how he explains these abilities away to his normal coworkers -- how he'll explain his telekinesis if it comes up. He supposes he can just ask as much later, once they're gone.

Edited (edits out repetition upon the light of day...) 2015-12-19 13:29 (UTC)

He takes a mince pie as Faolan holds out the plate, smiling a little shyly at being silently called out on his fussing.

"Very funny," he says finally, as if gently trying to brush off the teasing.

"I could beat him, though," Gwaine says suddenly, and he grins a challenge over at Lancelot who blinks in confusion. "I know his secret."

Percival regards Gwaine with surprise, clearly not quite believing this, but Arthur looks deeply satisfied by the suggestion.

"Go on then!" he encourages.

"His secret?" Faolan asks, glancing at Gwaine and then at Lancelot, surprised at the turn of phrase. Surprised that the other man should have trusted someone with the truth about his abilities if he is to be so obvious and flippantly casual about them. Or did they know all along and have they just been having him on?

"What secret?" he continues, warily. Has Gwaine figured Lancelot out and is he now about to break it to the others in a place and time like this? Just when he thought he could settle into this party at last, just when he had thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all...

"Yep," Gwaine supplies, and he pushes to his feet and dusts a little sugar from his hands. "C'mon then, Lance, give me your best shot."

He grabs a chair and flips it to sit opposite the man, resting an elbow on his knee and holding out his hand to Lance. The man blinks again in confusion, sets aside the plate of mince pies and takes it.

Percival shoots Faolan a look that seems to say look don't ask me, then nods slightly in their direction.

"My money's still on Lance," he says, with something of a conspiratorial air.

"Ready?" Gwaine prompts.

"Get on with it," Arthur growls in turn, and Gwaine does -- pushes his strength into it. Lancelot holds him easily, some level of wariness in his face still -- waiting for the catch of this all.

Then Gwaine's other hand snakes out and touches Lancelot and he flinches in surprise, gives a light gasp of protest even as Gwaine turns over his arm with a laugh of triumph.

Faolan doesn't quite understand what is going on. He sits, balanced on his chair, drink in one hand, mince pie in the other, and tries to figure out how he should be responding to this situation as he watches the other man flip his chair to sit opposite Lancelot. Arm wrestling. His secret. What the hell is going on? The fact that Lancelot himself obviously doesn't know makes his stomach crawl even further up into his chest. Is he going to do something to Lancelot? Is there a secret to Lancelot's abilities that even he doesn't know about yet?

And then Gwaine is reaching for Lancelot's hand, and Lancelot looks like he will win (no surprise there), until Gwaine makes an unexpected move, surprising Lancelot and thus winning the upper hand to overpower him and thus win. Leaving Faolan sitting in his chair staring at the pair of them blankly. Had he just...? Oh, for fuck's sake.

"That's the secret?" he asks, trying to keep his voice as calm and neutral as he can, though he can hear himself and mostly he just sounds confused.

Percival sighs at the display, resigned to the fact that Gwaine has cheated and that, in his opinion, isn't much fun. Arthur, on the hand, laughs brightly -- seeming really rather please by the turn of events.

Lancelot squirms, trying to fend off Gwaine without knocking over any drinks, plates or elbowing anyone nearby.

"Stop," he manages, a little breathless from trying to both defend his dignity and suppress laughter. Gwaine eases off, shuffling his chair back into place and taking a victory sip of his drink as Lily fusses around between them all. Something is happening, and she is excited! What is happening? Can she join in? She wants to play too!

"What'd you expect, sunshine?" Gwaine quips, offering Faolan a wry smile. "I'm not a black belt or anything, got to work with what I have."

Edited (html) 2015-12-20 15:13 (UTC)

Faolan shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at the question, at the nickname, at Gwaine himself and the smile on his face, the easy grace that he carries himself as he drops himself back into his seat again. He's not really sure what he wants to say to the other man, not even sure that he has the grounds to do so even if he knew, so when he finally manages to mutter something back to him it is to say, "I'm pretty sure a move like that would get you disqualified, with anyone else."

He raises his drink to take a sip, and if it's a bit of a generous swallow then that's neither here nor there. He's still awkwardly palming his mince pie, waiting for the excitement to die down before eating. Glancing aside at Lancelot to see if he's alright, if that was okay, if this is normal, trying to get a cue, something from him to right himself in the situation again. Rather uncomfortable with the fact that he knows he hasn't got a clue how to handle himself, amongst all these people. None of them as kind, gentle, understanding as Lancelot himself. Loud, with all their questions they'll want answered eventually, with expectations of him that Lancelot himself seems to have given a free pass on instead. Will he meet them? Can he really do this? He honestly isn't certain of any of it.

Lancelot lets out a huff of amusement, straightens himself a little before shooting Faolan a sideways smile. He's fine, a little ruffled but fine.

"I'm not so sure Gwaine is worried about the rules," he says instead, and rescues his drink to take a sip. "But, he did win. I suppose if this were a street fight and I were a criminal he'd have me arrested by now."

"Oh, there's plenty criminal about you," Gwaine offers, and he winks playfully before settling in to eat his mince pie.

"I'm pretty sure that if this were a street fight and he'd gone in with a move like that, he would have been stabbed," Faolan grumbles in return, before taking a bite of his mince pie himself. It's good, of course. All of Lancelot's food is good. It does a little to improve his mood, but he can't help the fact that he still doesn't feel quite right here. Which sits at odds with the fact that he's sitting in a room he'd begun to be quite comfortable in, given the number of times he'd been over already.

Lancelot seems to be enjoying himself. His friends don't really seem like bad sorts. He hasn't appreciated a few of the comments that Gwaine has tossed in the other man's direction, and Arthur seems to be judging nearly everything that Faolan says or does, but there's nothing really wrong with any of it. Just with him. He takes a deep breath, and downs a little more of his drink. Which is disappearing fast, all things considered.

"Good thing I didn't have a knife, then. Although I suppose I could have attacked him with a mince pie."

He shoots Gwaine a lopsided smile in turn, drops his eyes shyly and takes another bite of his own mince pie. He catches sight of Faolan draining his drink out of the corner of his eyes, glances around to judge everyone else's with a slight frown.

"Anyone want another drink?" He offers, getting to his feet as he sips a bit more of his own. Gwaine holds up his nearly empty beer bottle questioningly and Percival nods in turn.

"Drink something yourself, Lancelot," Arthur adds, "don't hold out on our account."

"Ah, leave him alone, he's a lightweight!"

Gwaine grins as he pours out the rest of his beer, shrugs a little.

Faolan watches that shy smile and the way the other man seems to be taking care of the rest of them and rises to his feet as well. "Yeah. I'll get it," he says. Lancelot usually has him mixing his own drink anyway, and for all he knows, he's even planned this. To rescue him, give him a moment to gather himself. Who knows how he's coming off to the rest of them, he can only imagine.

He moves towards the kitchen with his empty glass and his mince pie, only relaxing once he knows that he's out of the way of the other men. He sets his glass down on the counter and takes in a deep breath, trying to collect himself. And trying to figure out what to do with his mince pie.

Lancelot trails after him, digging in the fridge for the beer he bought for the others and some coke for Faolan -- grabbing the rum down off one of the higher shelves.

"If you don't like them," he says finally, gesturing to the mince pie with the bottle before setting it down. "You don't have to eat it. I won't be offended, I can get you something else."

Faolan glances down at the mince pie in his hand and then back up at Lancelot, blinking sheepishly at him. "I. No, no, I like them," he says. "It's good, I'm just."

He glances over his shoulder towards the sitting room, lowering his voice to make sure that, even if it's obvious that they're talking, they won't be overheard over the other men's conversation. "I don't know what I'm doing out there. I'm no good with people, Lancelot. I'm pretty sure this isn't news, not to you, not to anyone. For a second there I had thought..." He trails off, shaking his head at himself, then looking down at the mince pie in his hand once more.

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