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 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'...?

"Pendragon family," Percival fills in quietly, even as Arthur sighs and says no, no, he doesn't want anything -- shrugs on his coat and generally grumbles about the weather and the traffic on the way back. "Don't get on that well."

Lily gets up from where she'd been sprawled with Gwaine, stretches out a moment before slowly and tiredly padding over to Arthur, swishing her tail questioningly. What's going on? Are they going somewhere? Is something happening?

"Well," Lancelot says, slipping to his feet regardless, "I do have things for you and your sister. You should take them, at least."

The flat is a little too small for a proper tree, only has a smile fibre optic one that gently twinkles, but Lancelot slips away and returns a moment later with a bag filled with wrapped gifts.

"Here," he says, and grips Arthur by the arm. "I'm sure it'll be fine, but... if you need to escape you can always come back here."

Gwaine groans from where he's flopped out, sits up a little and checks his watch.

"Ah, I suppose I should be making a move sometime soon as well if I'm to get through the traffic."

Edited (missed a bit) 2015-12-21 16:37 (UTC)

Faolan glances to Percy, wondering whether he should recognize the name -- he's been in the city for a while, but he hasn't really paid attention to what he hasn't had to. Which is to say, the normal side of it all. The non-supernatural section of the population. Or was it just Arthur's own personal poking at his family. Who's to know for certain. "I see," he says quietly, nodding slightly in thanks to Percy's explanation.

He watches Lancelot play host with the same casual grace he has spent the whole evening doing, though he is perhaps a bit less steady on his feet now than he had started the gathering. Glancing up at the mistletoe where it's still hanging as it had been since when he had first arrived and idly wondering whether the rest of them had received the same treatment as he had. What the caustic Arthur Pendragon might have thought of that.

There's a flurry of activity suddenly as people get up to go, as Lancelot's fields them bags of presents and assures them they can come back any time. Arthur gives a vague wave goodbye to Faolan, Gwaine goes as far as a wink and Percival very politely shakes his hand and tells him it was good to meet him.

Then the flat is suddenly empty aside from Lancelot, Faolan and Lily -- who has crashed out on the floor again in exhaustion. People are so tiring.

"Means there's more mince pies for us now!" Lancelot points out, although in truth he thinks he couldn't possibly eat another mince pie now. Possibly not ever again. He flops down onto the futon beside Faolan and rubs at his face tiredly. Lily's got the right idea, he thinks.

Faolan does see them off himself, as best he can, in his own way. He nods in response to Arthur, colors in response to Gwaine, and he does shake Percival's hand in return, trying not to feel too intimidated by how dwarfed the other man makes him feel. With all three of them gone, the absence is noticeable, the flat suddenly quiet and still as Lancelot drops down beside him and Lily sprawls on the floor at their feet.

Faolan lets out the huff of a laugh at the other man's words, glancing beside him to make sure that Lancelot doesn't actually mean it himself. He's probably had enough to last him a whole year, until next holiday season, he thinks to himself. He shifts to look down at Lily, whose attentions were mostly otherwise occupied thus far this evening. Noting the way Lancelot's rubbing at his face out of the corner of his eye. "It's been a long day," he observes absently, although whether he's commenting on the behavior of the dog or the man or both even he's not quite certain.

"It has," Lancelot allows, watching Lily yawn with a fond sort of smile. Then Lancelot squirms to look at Faolan better and frowns a little. "Forgive me," he adds more softly, "I hope it wasn't too much. Perhaps I should have warned you, but..."

Well, but he thought perhaps Faolan might not come if he did. Yet he wanted him to come, wanted him to experience a little company other than himself. To join in a little, experience some holiday spirit if he could manage it. Not to say that Lancelot wasn't a good source, but there's a difference between one person and a group of friends.

Faolan turns to glance at the other man, before shaking his head. "No. If you had warned me, it's like I had said before. I might not have come, and you know it," he says, quietly. "Don't worry about me, it was fine. Your friends are..." He trails off, trying to think of the right way to express himself and describe them all at once, but finds that he can't quite. Not easily, anyway.

"They seem like good people," he says at last. "Percival is nice. Gwaine is..." He trails off again, digging for the right words. "Well, he's a character, and he could stand to be a bit less free with his words, but he seemed a decent sort. Even Arthur has his charms," he notes, "even if I did feel like he spent half the time judging me for something or another." He turns his head to look at Lancelot proper. "It's obvious that they all care for you though. For all their eccentricities." And that, more than anything perhaps, is why they can't be all that bad, regardless of the few hangups that Faolan still has here and there.

He laughs softly at Faolan's awkward descriptions of them, turns to flop back onto the futon and watch Lily once more.

"They're good friends," he says finally, "but so are you, Faolan. Your comfort is equally important."

Lily's eyes half-lid a little as she allows herself a doggy nap, and wonders if adults are still allowed naps as well. It seems very appealing watching her.

"I assume you don't want anything big for dinner after all that, but... there's a little cheese in the fridge and some biscuits. Some small finger food, mini kievs, sausage rolls..."

Lancelot shrugs a little, turning back to Faolan finally to flash a smile.

"Whatever you feel like. Tomorrow I thought maybe some fish -- do you like fish? No... problem with shellfish?"

He squirms to sit up and study Faolan curiously, already mentally re-arranging things just in case.

Faolan huffs out something of a laugh in turn at Lancelot's fussing, shaking his head at the question. "No problem with shellfish, no. I'll eat whatever you're making, and I'll even do my best to try and remember to be grateful for it as well. Make what you like, I trust your judgment." He quirks a little smile at the other man. "You've certainly not let me down yet before."

He leans back into the futon, regarding the other man closely. "You're allowed to take a moment to rest before you start worrying about feeding me again, you know," he says. "Though it might pain you to consider the thought, you don't actually need to play host for me. Not the whole time I'm here, at any rate." He quirks another odd little smile at Lancelot, noting the way that he seems almost as pliant as Lily at the moment, where she lies drowsing on the floor.

"You are my guest, Faolan, that means I am your host. But..."

He slumps again, half leaning against Faolan and playing at nonchalance.

"If you really aren't bothered, I could order us cheap takeaway for the entire rest of your stay instead -- leave you to fend for yourself for breakfast and lunch."

Faolan raises his eyebrows at the...suggestion? Threat? Trying to figure out whether Lancelot is having him on, as he's slumped against him like he is, or whether he's serious. Whether in his attempts to suggest that he need not make too much of a fuss he's pushed the other man too far in the other direction. Is such a thing possible? Could Lancelot ever really sit back and watch him struggle to feed himself in his own kitchen?

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Faolan replies, with the wry quirk of a smile. "I said you didn't need to play host, not that you should take things that far. In fact, I think it's better for all of our sakes if you don't. Your kitchen will thank me for it."

Lancelot laughs again at that, shakes his head a little at the idea. After all, Faolan is right. He couldn't sit back and watch someone struggle in his kitchen. The temptation to help and interfere would be too great.

"I already have the shellfish, and I stocked up for everything else too. So you're stuck with my cooking."

He matches Faolan's wry smile and pats at one of his arms vaguely.

"So I can only hope you went on a starvation diet in preparation. There is plenty of food to get through."

Faolan's gaze slips down to where Lancelot is patting at his arm for a moment before back up at the man himself, with something of a careless shrug. "I think I can stand such a fate," he responds. He has told the other man that he enjoys it before, after all. "I'll do my best to make a valiant effort, in any case," he adds, with the quirk of a smile.

He stays where he is, turning to regard the other man for a long moment, before settling himself once more, leaning back into it instead. "I only meant that. I hope you don't feel like you need to go out of your way any more than you might for any of your other friends. Not for me. I've stayed over enough lately you might as well set out a bed to match Lily's," he comments, turning with another wry smile to see how such a comment might go over.

"I think hers would be a little small for you, but if the futon doesn't suit you any more..."

He glances down at Lily, jerks an eyebrow meaningfully.

"I suppose she might be willing to swap. She could take the futon for the duration and you could take the dog bed. I would warn you, though, there's a few of her things in it that might not quite be to human tastes."

Chewed things.

Faolan narrows his eyes at the other man's joking around, shaking his head at the offering. "Mmm, no, the futon suits me well enough, if you don't mind me setting up camp in your living room as I seem to have done."

He glances down at Lily where she lays sprawled on the floor as well. "I'm not so sure that Lily would be as generous as that, for that matter. Nor would I ask her to be. Just because I may fit in her bed, she has already made it her own, as you say. No, the futon is fine for me. I've slept in far worse places, and it is comfortable." He had only meant... Well, that Lancelot set something aside just for him. In a joking way, of course. But elaborating on that point would sound an awful lot like asking for as much, and he has already asked -- and received for that matter -- so much of the other man already.

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