[What's the name of the game, again?]
It's late night. Isn't it always late night? Sure it is, honey bunny, it's always late night, ain't nothing but late nights anymore. Late nights of thinking too much because it's too quiet in your room. It's too neat and organized and your thoughts have entirely too many tidy little vacant surfaces to bounce back from. They hit you hard when they do, smack dab in the noggin. You never see 'em coming.
You never see them...
Did you know Santa is a product of commercialism? No? Well, why would you? You don't care. Anyhoopla, Santa is like an alagmam-- amalgamation of these different little myths about gnomes and some guy who'd bring you a lump of coal and some saint or other. Red suit with fluffy white trim? Bullcrap. Jolly rotten, drunken flush to the cheeks?
...Not sure about that one. Most of it's bullcrap. And don't even get me started on Valentine's Day. Hallmark? Hellmark, more likely.
***
It's the Holidays that hit him the hardest. Maybe because he always secretly wished to take part in them, and for a while there, he did. Like normal people. Like the majority of the day-dwelling planetary population. And then he didn't, anymore. He couldn't. And suddenly, all the joy of the glitz and glamor was sucked right out of them all. Not even Halloween is fun anymore.
And suddenly, the mouthful of chicken pilaff sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he rolls his jaws slowly to work past the momentary nausea.
And suddenly, he doesn't want to be part of any of it, anymore.
"Pardon me for saying so, Gov, but you're pissed."
"Don't be silly," he shakes his head at the charmer of a demon standing guard in the corner of the room, by the hidden door. "I'm buzzed, like a busy bee."
A beat, and one teeny little sweeping gesture later, half his G & T is soaking happily into the carpet. How a drink can do anything happily, it's better not to ask, but it makes perfect sense to him.
"Say, Gus. Why do you keep calling me Gov? What's it mean?"
"Governor," replies the other demon, his angular face as unmoving as ever. The slightly sardonic amusement is only there in his eyes, if you were to look closer. You might not want to, though. You might not know which pair to look into.
Lorne chuckles, downing his drink and choking on it between his fit of giggles that he's too drunk to bother terming otherwise. "You Brits, you. You're sooo cute."
"Thanks, Gov. I'll pass it on." Gus isn't one to keep silent if it doesn't suit him better than talking. Most of the time, it doesn't. "You're still drunk. More importantly, you're on about the Holidays again."
"You know, I used to know another Brit once. He was more of a pet kinda guy, not so much a Gov kinda guy."
Gus, being paid the insane amount that he is, doesn't let out the comment he most wants to. If the pay's this good, you don't want to be fired, and he's no exception. "Is that right, Gov?"
"Never called me pet, though. Not that he would." He pushes away the plate, sick of food for the night. "More a ladies' man than a guys' guy."
"Indeed, Gov."
***
Spike. It isn't the first time Lorne has brought him up, him or one of his old friends. Never by name, of course, but you don't need to be hatched last week to know who he used to be. The Host. Friends with Angel Investigations. Lorne, to some, Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan to almost no one.
But Angus knows. He was hatched well before Wolfram & Hart put the AI crew on the map. Long before Earth almost burned over. Point being, he knows. Word travels fast underground. You don't mess with someone who went up against the big bads and lived to tell the tale. Not even when they're a drunken slob on the best of days.
"Come now, Gov." He lets himself act as the next best thing to a solid object, helping his boss out of the recliner. "Let's get you settled for the morrow. Got a long night ahead of us, haven't we."
"No gin tomorrow?"
Angus shakes his head, the discs of his horns rattling softly. "No gin tomorrow, Gov. No tonic, neither."
You never see them...
Did you know Santa is a product of commercialism? No? Well, why would you? You don't care. Anyhoopla, Santa is like an alagmam-- amalgamation of these different little myths about gnomes and some guy who'd bring you a lump of coal and some saint or other. Red suit with fluffy white trim? Bullcrap. Jolly rotten, drunken flush to the cheeks?
...Not sure about that one. Most of it's bullcrap. And don't even get me started on Valentine's Day. Hallmark? Hellmark, more likely.
***
It's the Holidays that hit him the hardest. Maybe because he always secretly wished to take part in them, and for a while there, he did. Like normal people. Like the majority of the day-dwelling planetary population. And then he didn't, anymore. He couldn't. And suddenly, all the joy of the glitz and glamor was sucked right out of them all. Not even Halloween is fun anymore.
And suddenly, the mouthful of chicken pilaff sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he rolls his jaws slowly to work past the momentary nausea.
And suddenly, he doesn't want to be part of any of it, anymore.
"Pardon me for saying so, Gov, but you're pissed."
"Don't be silly," he shakes his head at the charmer of a demon standing guard in the corner of the room, by the hidden door. "I'm buzzed, like a busy bee."
A beat, and one teeny little sweeping gesture later, half his G & T is soaking happily into the carpet. How a drink can do anything happily, it's better not to ask, but it makes perfect sense to him.
"Say, Gus. Why do you keep calling me Gov? What's it mean?"
"Governor," replies the other demon, his angular face as unmoving as ever. The slightly sardonic amusement is only there in his eyes, if you were to look closer. You might not want to, though. You might not know which pair to look into.
Lorne chuckles, downing his drink and choking on it between his fit of giggles that he's too drunk to bother terming otherwise. "You Brits, you. You're sooo cute."
"Thanks, Gov. I'll pass it on." Gus isn't one to keep silent if it doesn't suit him better than talking. Most of the time, it doesn't. "You're still drunk. More importantly, you're on about the Holidays again."
"You know, I used to know another Brit once. He was more of a pet kinda guy, not so much a Gov kinda guy."
Gus, being paid the insane amount that he is, doesn't let out the comment he most wants to. If the pay's this good, you don't want to be fired, and he's no exception. "Is that right, Gov?"
"Never called me pet, though. Not that he would." He pushes away the plate, sick of food for the night. "More a ladies' man than a guys' guy."
"Indeed, Gov."
***
Spike. It isn't the first time Lorne has brought him up, him or one of his old friends. Never by name, of course, but you don't need to be hatched last week to know who he used to be. The Host. Friends with Angel Investigations. Lorne, to some, Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan to almost no one.
But Angus knows. He was hatched well before Wolfram & Hart put the AI crew on the map. Long before Earth almost burned over. Point being, he knows. Word travels fast underground. You don't mess with someone who went up against the big bads and lived to tell the tale. Not even when they're a drunken slob on the best of days.
"Come now, Gov." He lets himself act as the next best thing to a solid object, helping his boss out of the recliner. "Let's get you settled for the morrow. Got a long night ahead of us, haven't we."
"No gin tomorrow?"
Angus shakes his head, the discs of his horns rattling softly. "No gin tomorrow, Gov. No tonic, neither."