Cordelia's Apartment | Los Angeles, CA | Christmas
"Cordelia, would you pass the sweet potatoes?" Fred asked, beaming at the others over a plate of more food than Wesley had ever seen on a single plate in his life. "I thought I might as well try some of what Lorne is always calling me."
"You're a lot less orange, but I stand by my comparison," Lorne teased as he intercepted the bowl from Cordelia and passed it to Fred. "And meals with you always make me feel like I just gained ten pounds."
Fred giggled, scooping some of the potatoes onto her plate. "I just don't want to miss anythin' really good," she explained. "Christmas in Texas is a whole lot different from here, and I wanna make sure I get some of everyone's cookin' so no one feels left out."
"In that case," Angel said with a gesture toward the only tray that had so far gone untouched, "you should try mine."
Fred paused, peering at the plate with suspicion. "I... I'm just not so sure what it is."
Wesley and Cordelia exchanged a glance. "Angel," Cordelia began carefully, "decided to grace our Christmas dinner with some traditional Irish cooking."
"I'd have preferred some Irish liquor, am I right?" Lorne cut in.
"They're sausages!" Angel defended, reaching to the highchair beside him so he could cover baby Connor's ears with his hands. "Everyone likes sausages."
"They just look a bit off-color," Wesley hazarded. "Not that this should be terribly surprising, given..."
"Yeah, yeah, centuries of rivalry between your sections of the same damn country," Gunn dismissed, waving his hand. "When do we get to the dessert? I got a cake."
"Charles!" Fred giggled. "We all agreed we were gonna cook."
"Yeah, no way could I cook for y'all without sacrificing my hard-earned reputation as a badass," Gunn replied. "And I sure as hell don't know how to make that buttercream thing you like, so I think what you really mean is--" he affected Fred's twang-- "'thank you, Charles.'"
Fred beamed. "Thank you, Charles," she echoed, pausing between forkfuls to smile at him across the table for just a moment longer than necessary.
Wesley was suddenly left with a feeling in his stomach as though he'd swallowed one of Angel's toxic sausages, and he didn't know why.
[[eh, idk, i just wanted to write this. nfb/nfi.]]
"You're a lot less orange, but I stand by my comparison," Lorne teased as he intercepted the bowl from Cordelia and passed it to Fred. "And meals with you always make me feel like I just gained ten pounds."
Fred giggled, scooping some of the potatoes onto her plate. "I just don't want to miss anythin' really good," she explained. "Christmas in Texas is a whole lot different from here, and I wanna make sure I get some of everyone's cookin' so no one feels left out."
"In that case," Angel said with a gesture toward the only tray that had so far gone untouched, "you should try mine."
Fred paused, peering at the plate with suspicion. "I... I'm just not so sure what it is."
Wesley and Cordelia exchanged a glance. "Angel," Cordelia began carefully, "decided to grace our Christmas dinner with some traditional Irish cooking."
"I'd have preferred some Irish liquor, am I right?" Lorne cut in.
"They're sausages!" Angel defended, reaching to the highchair beside him so he could cover baby Connor's ears with his hands. "Everyone likes sausages."
"They just look a bit off-color," Wesley hazarded. "Not that this should be terribly surprising, given..."
"Yeah, yeah, centuries of rivalry between your sections of the same damn country," Gunn dismissed, waving his hand. "When do we get to the dessert? I got a cake."
"Charles!" Fred giggled. "We all agreed we were gonna cook."
"Yeah, no way could I cook for y'all without sacrificing my hard-earned reputation as a badass," Gunn replied. "And I sure as hell don't know how to make that buttercream thing you like, so I think what you really mean is--" he affected Fred's twang-- "'thank you, Charles.'"
Fred beamed. "Thank you, Charles," she echoed, pausing between forkfuls to smile at him across the table for just a moment longer than necessary.
Wesley was suddenly left with a feeling in his stomach as though he'd swallowed one of Angel's toxic sausages, and he didn't know why.
[[eh, idk, i just wanted to write this. nfb/nfi.]]