(no subject)
Aziraphael and Crowley bluster in the door around mid-afternoon, windswept and red-nosed and (in one case) just a little disgruntled at the cold. It's to everyone's benefit, therefore, that the Tonks-Wrangle collective just so happen to coincidentally, by chance, and not at all strategically, have handy a supply of mulled wine and already-hot mince pies, courtesy of one of 'Dora's judiciously-applied heating charms. It's hard to keep any sort of antipathy towards the holiday spirit going in the face of such seasonal delicacies - though Bernard seems obscurely threatened by the fact that the wine, lightly spiced with ginger by 'Dora, receives more ethereal accolades than his own efforts in the realm of pastry. 'Dora simply makes cryptic comments about having some left over, and looks mysterious.
Once any spectres of a grinch-like (in Bernard's words; Aziraphael insists on referencing Dickens, to no one's real surprise) mood have been banished, there is a mass migration to the couch - and armchairs, and floor - in front of the Christmas tree by the fireplace, and there, in the warm glow of the fire and the gentle twinkling of fairy lights, the family, as whole as it's been in a long time, celebrate the true meaning of Christmas: rampant commercialism.
(Aziraphael 'accidentally' treads on Crowley's toe; Crowley is cheerfully unapologetic.)
After Sunny ceremoniously awards both Aziraphael and Crowley their own personalised masterpieces, lovingly crafted in a blinding array of paints, glitter, and her new favourite media, a sort of three-dimensional neon glue, 'Dora takes centre-stage. The mystery behind the wine is revealed; in addition to presenting the angel and the demon with stationery sets and sleek fountain pens (navy blue and black, respectively), together with an admonishment to write home more often, 'Dora proudly announces that she thinks she's gotten pretty good at this cooking lark, and grandly unveils two small baskets of ginger biscuits made with her own newly-invented recipe.
Aziraphael is the first of them to give in to the hopeful look on her face, expression of satisfaction mixed with a fair dose of 'impressed' so very well prepared that his expression of astonishment at actually tasting one is faintly ridiculous. It's Crowley who congratulates her on her success (since the angel's mouth is rather full, by that point), proclaiming them actually very good, surprisingl-ow. Sunny spends the rest of the afternoon constructing increasingly elaborate schemes in an attempt to filch one, succeeding around five o'clock when Crowley falls for the 'help! I've fallen and I can't get up!' routine. In his defence, he claims later, there was no way he could have known Hiss was in on the plan. Everyone else says it's karma, except for Bernard, who just looks a little afraid.
The angel's gaily wrapped presents are handed around next, since he's the most visibly excited about potential reactions. Sunny tears the paper off her gifts gratifyingly fast, her squeal of delight - loud for the Really Big Hat, but near earsplitting upon discovering the remote control pirate ship - almost drowning out 'Dora's thanks for the packages he'd put together for herself and Anthony. Crowley is suitably ecstatic at receiving one of the few remaining bottles of Jodeau-Kalmann; Aziraphael is pleased enough with his reaction that he barely remembers to reprimand Bernard for the Barman's impressed swearing at his own present. Roethke is rather better received than Crowley's gift of an orthopaedic cushion - delivered with a smirk, and a remark on how Bernard shouldn't be so secretive about the aches and pains in his aul' bones - but that's alright, because Crowley's gift to 'Dora (a day at an exclusive London health spa) is more impressive than Aziraphael's. And because Bernard cheerfully reveals that in the spirit of the season, he sponsored a starving Nigerian orphan in Crowley's name. Crowley keeps a straight face whilst reading a printed-out letter of thanks, complete with a shaky 'X' for a signature, but loses it completely when Bernard gives him a matching action figure to go with it.
The last gift to get meted out doesn't look much more impressive. Crowley certainly doesn't seem that worked up about seeing Aziraphael's reaction; he hands the angel a plainly-addressed envelope, almost casually, and promptly busies himself watching Sunny chase the long-suffering Ellie around the room by means of a demon rabbit in a pirate ship. It'd take watching, and closely, to see the nervous tension coiling its way along his shoulders and up his neck as Aziraphael slides his finger under the flap of the envelope, laughing at something Bernard has said (though doing his very best not to show it).
It's a moment or two before anyone notices that the angel's gone silent (save, perhaps, Crowley, who's equally still - and looking ever so slightly, it must be said, as though he's about to throw up). It's a moment or two before 'Dora asks what could have him so distracted and Bernard insinuates - not nearly quietly enough - something about vintage librarian porn.
He shakes his head - somewhat impatiently - in response to their questions, but the smile that's spreading slowly across his face, the smile he lifts his head to direct at Crowley, is wide and genuine and far brighter than its been for months now. He murmurs something about remembering, something the demon dismisses with a flip comment. It's the same as usual, same as ever, and entirely meaningless when laid against the way the tension in Crowley's shoulders abruptly dissipates, the fact that Aziraphael fetches himself another glass of mulled wine and chooses to perch on the arm of Crowley's chair rather than return to his own seat. Six thousand years and change does a lot for wordless communication.
There's much to be said, still, for the other sort of communication. There's a brief lull in conversation when dinner is announced - even Crowley is lured from the fireside by the smell of Bernard's cooking - and then afterwards, as everyone recovers from a food-enduced stupor. But the wine makes the rounds again, and then the brandy - and Ellie helps considerably in waking people up by showering the gathering with icy snowmelt, upon returning from her evening frolic in the grounds of Milliways. Conversation picks up in earnest then, lasts as long as the drink and the firelight and rises and falls in the same flickering patterns, muted or lively in accordance with whether Anthony is dozing, flopped happily on a new teddy, or wide awake, batting enthralled at the Christmas tree lights (and, once, spitting up a mince pie on his sister's head).
Once any spectres of a grinch-like (in Bernard's words; Aziraphael insists on referencing Dickens, to no one's real surprise) mood have been banished, there is a mass migration to the couch - and armchairs, and floor - in front of the Christmas tree by the fireplace, and there, in the warm glow of the fire and the gentle twinkling of fairy lights, the family, as whole as it's been in a long time, celebrate the true meaning of Christmas: rampant commercialism.
(Aziraphael 'accidentally' treads on Crowley's toe; Crowley is cheerfully unapologetic.)
After Sunny ceremoniously awards both Aziraphael and Crowley their own personalised masterpieces, lovingly crafted in a blinding array of paints, glitter, and her new favourite media, a sort of three-dimensional neon glue, 'Dora takes centre-stage. The mystery behind the wine is revealed; in addition to presenting the angel and the demon with stationery sets and sleek fountain pens (navy blue and black, respectively), together with an admonishment to write home more often, 'Dora proudly announces that she thinks she's gotten pretty good at this cooking lark, and grandly unveils two small baskets of ginger biscuits made with her own newly-invented recipe.
Aziraphael is the first of them to give in to the hopeful look on her face, expression of satisfaction mixed with a fair dose of 'impressed' so very well prepared that his expression of astonishment at actually tasting one is faintly ridiculous. It's Crowley who congratulates her on her success (since the angel's mouth is rather full, by that point), proclaiming them actually very good, surprisingl-ow. Sunny spends the rest of the afternoon constructing increasingly elaborate schemes in an attempt to filch one, succeeding around five o'clock when Crowley falls for the 'help! I've fallen and I can't get up!' routine. In his defence, he claims later, there was no way he could have known Hiss was in on the plan. Everyone else says it's karma, except for Bernard, who just looks a little afraid.
The angel's gaily wrapped presents are handed around next, since he's the most visibly excited about potential reactions. Sunny tears the paper off her gifts gratifyingly fast, her squeal of delight - loud for the Really Big Hat, but near earsplitting upon discovering the remote control pirate ship - almost drowning out 'Dora's thanks for the packages he'd put together for herself and Anthony. Crowley is suitably ecstatic at receiving one of the few remaining bottles of Jodeau-Kalmann; Aziraphael is pleased enough with his reaction that he barely remembers to reprimand Bernard for the Barman's impressed swearing at his own present. Roethke is rather better received than Crowley's gift of an orthopaedic cushion - delivered with a smirk, and a remark on how Bernard shouldn't be so secretive about the aches and pains in his aul' bones - but that's alright, because Crowley's gift to 'Dora (a day at an exclusive London health spa) is more impressive than Aziraphael's. And because Bernard cheerfully reveals that in the spirit of the season, he sponsored a starving Nigerian orphan in Crowley's name. Crowley keeps a straight face whilst reading a printed-out letter of thanks, complete with a shaky 'X' for a signature, but loses it completely when Bernard gives him a matching action figure to go with it.
The last gift to get meted out doesn't look much more impressive. Crowley certainly doesn't seem that worked up about seeing Aziraphael's reaction; he hands the angel a plainly-addressed envelope, almost casually, and promptly busies himself watching Sunny chase the long-suffering Ellie around the room by means of a demon rabbit in a pirate ship. It'd take watching, and closely, to see the nervous tension coiling its way along his shoulders and up his neck as Aziraphael slides his finger under the flap of the envelope, laughing at something Bernard has said (though doing his very best not to show it).
It's a moment or two before anyone notices that the angel's gone silent (save, perhaps, Crowley, who's equally still - and looking ever so slightly, it must be said, as though he's about to throw up). It's a moment or two before 'Dora asks what could have him so distracted and Bernard insinuates - not nearly quietly enough - something about vintage librarian porn.
He shakes his head - somewhat impatiently - in response to their questions, but the smile that's spreading slowly across his face, the smile he lifts his head to direct at Crowley, is wide and genuine and far brighter than its been for months now. He murmurs something about remembering, something the demon dismisses with a flip comment. It's the same as usual, same as ever, and entirely meaningless when laid against the way the tension in Crowley's shoulders abruptly dissipates, the fact that Aziraphael fetches himself another glass of mulled wine and chooses to perch on the arm of Crowley's chair rather than return to his own seat. Six thousand years and change does a lot for wordless communication.
There's much to be said, still, for the other sort of communication. There's a brief lull in conversation when dinner is announced - even Crowley is lured from the fireside by the smell of Bernard's cooking - and then afterwards, as everyone recovers from a food-enduced stupor. But the wine makes the rounds again, and then the brandy - and Ellie helps considerably in waking people up by showering the gathering with icy snowmelt, upon returning from her evening frolic in the grounds of Milliways. Conversation picks up in earnest then, lasts as long as the drink and the firelight and rises and falls in the same flickering patterns, muted or lively in accordance with whether Anthony is dozing, flopped happily on a new teddy, or wide awake, batting enthralled at the Christmas tree lights (and, once, spitting up a mince pie on his sister's head).