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

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"Thought what?" Lancelot prompts, and turns to lean one hip against the counter. "And if you like mince pies, you might try eating them. Even better than holding the, I promise. Might help you feel better too."

He flashes a small smile, shrugs a little. Just a thought, Faolan. Don't have to if you don't want to.

Faolan shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he says, because he doesn't really want to admit to the other man his fears. That Gwaine might have known the truth, that he might have been about to share secrets in front of others so flippantly, that he might have known more. That he had assumed the worst of what he's sure are only ordinary men, sitting out there. Lancelot's friends.

He raises the mince pie to take another bite out of it, intending to finish before he gets his drink settled. "I'm sorry," he says, after a moment. "Your friends are... They seem like good people. I don't mean to..." He shrugs, a bit helplessly at that.

"They're police," Lancelot quips lightly, "they've seen worse. Besides which, you're good people too. Just need to lower your hackles a little."

Grinning playfully he nudges the bottle of coke closer to Faolan, lofts an eyebrow questioningly at him.

"You're fine," he adds more softly, "I promise."

Then Percival is beside them, picking up the beer bottles Lance had set out and giving Faolan a small smile that melts into a frown.

"You all right?" he prompts softly.

Faolan glances up at the big man addressing him. And up some more. He's used to being short, but this is just ridiculous. This...Percy, did Lancelot say his name was? He makes him feel like a child, standing there dwarfing him like that. Not that he hasn't been before, but not as of late.

He finds himself at a loss for words for a moment, before he can gather himself again, glancing down at the counter and the bottle of coke that Lancelot has set out for him. "I. I'll be fine. I'm sorry if I'm spoiling the mood. I am not all that used to company, and someone," he glances aside at Lancelot, pointedly, before back at the counter, "did not warn me to prepare myself for it in advance." He shrugs slightly. "I think because he knew I might not have come if he had."

Percival frowns in concern, studying Faolan a moment before swapping the beers to one hand and giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"You're all right," he assures him, "ignore Gwaine, he's a prat."

"What's that?"

"You're a prat!" Percival says louder, beginning to walk over and hold out a beer to Gwaine. He just laughs lightly at that, leaving Lancelot to turn back to Faolan and bump their shoulders together playfully.

"See?" Lancelot says more gently, "you're fine."

Faolan colors slightly at the reassurances from the other man, both verbal and physical. The hand on his shoulder and the words he's been offered. He isn't sure that he'll ever have any of the casual ease that these men have managed with each other. But he'll try. For Lancelot's sake. For all of them, really. For this stranger who seems to care, even though he really has no reason for it. Their only connection being the man standing with them and perhaps the city they live in.

He glances up at Lancelot as the other man nudges him, before finishing the rest of his mince pie, to have both hands to make his drink with. "Yeah," he says softly. "I'll be alright. Just. Go easy on me, yeah? Please."

"Nobody is as hard on you as you are on yourself, Faolan."

The evening wears on, idle chatter ranging from Gwaine's heavily exaggerated tales of arrests he made to Arthur's angry declarations about how London would be run if he were in charge.

Pictionary proves that none of them can draw, especially not Arthur, and that Gwaine will only pick things where he can draw something lewd. Percival is surprisingly the best at this.

Lancelot is, slowly but surely, persuaded to drink until his face is a little coloured from it and he's laughing far too easily at things that aren't that funny.

Arthur is on his feet and on the phone, pacing a little as he debates something on the phone.

(Snatches of the conversation include 'Well tell her she can't. What do you mean -- look, just tell her she can't do that! It's already been arranged for --)

Gwaine is draped on the floor again, ruffling Lily's ears, and Percival is enthusiastically trying to ask Faolan about his experience in the private field.

Arthur finally interrupts as he dramatically hangs up his phone.

"Looks like I've got to go, the draconic Christmas rituals are beginning."

Lancelot looks around curiously, one hand still teasing at Lily a little as he studies Arthur.

"Are you sure? Do you want to take something with you?"

Mince pies, alcohol, anything really. Something to make things less draconic, he supposes.

Faolan has had a lot more to drink this evening than he might have done on other occasions he's been over Lancelot's, but he's holding it far better than the other man himself, he must say. Pictionary is... An interesting experience, to say the least. Arthur's attitude frankly annoys him at times, as does Gwaine's constantly raucous sense of humor. Percival's presence, along with Lancelot's, does help counteract the pair of them somewhat, though. The man seems almost painfully earnest in everything he says or does. Perhaps even more so than Lancelot.

He's doing his best to field questions without letting on that he'd been doing work that was, for the most part, off the books. He's almost certain that, if not for the fact that he's been reluctant to socialize all night, this reluctance to talk about himself in particular would have stood out.

He's settled into the company somewhat, but the curious glance he throws in Arthur's direction at the interruption is still perhaps somewhat wary. 'Draconic'...?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject