Law books smelled of old glue and the dryness of paper.
It wasn't as bad as the smell of age and gravitas of Wesley's office,
but it was enough to bring home each and every day how different Gunn's life
was now.
His office smelled like pine today. Wesley glanced at the wreath hanging around
the doorknob as he and Angel strolled in. "You, as well?"
"Me, you, everybody." Not that Gunn was really complaining. He had no
problem with Santa Lorne, although he had to draw the line at the button Lorne
had tried to get him to wear. Red and green was never—never—gracing his
lapels.
"He's everywhere." Angel took the only remaining chair, grimacing an apology as
Wesley perched on the edge of Gunn's desk. "He's plotting with Harmony to make
a blood-flavored eggnog!"
Gunn and Wes exchanged a look. "How. . .thoughtful of him," Wes said
diplomatically, while Gunn tried not to make a Mr. Yuck face. "With any degree
of success?"
"Not yet, and I—Eve. Welcome back. Have a good Thanksgiving?" No one could
mistake Angel's tone for sincere.
Eve sauntered into the office, employing that incredible talent of hers to make
everyone in the room but herself and Angel superfluous. "You definitely like to
make waves, don't you, Champ?"
"Well, you know me," Angel returned, leaning back in his chair. "I'm a
wave-maker. What are the Senior Partners upset about this time?"
"Oh, not the Senior Partners. They couldn't care less about a giant tree
adorned with the symbols of rebirth and holiness."
"Oh, good. Let me just call Lorne, and he'll get the créche scene set up."
Eve's smile went tiny. "Sure. Nothing like a little nativity to brighten up
those long winter days. But you might want to have a care about your employees,
Angel. Scuttlebutt's not too thrilled with the way you're handling what's
traditionally a gloomy time of the year for us."
"Great." Angel smiled, retroactively warming to Lorne's idea. If Eve was
opposed to it, it had to be a good thing, right? Noticing Wes and Gunn's
distinct disinterest, Angel rose. "Why don't we take this to my office? Gunn,
Wes."
They filed out, leaving Gunn and Wes looking at each other bemusedly.
Conversations with Eve always went like that, but Gunn wasn't interested in
trying to figure out—again—why he didn't trust her, even after the
almost-strangulation. "Man, there's something wrong with a company that hates
Christmas," he said instead. "It's the best time of the year!"
"Commercialism run rampant, convicts dressed in red velvet and false beads,
dangling children on their knees? Blood-eggnog? Lets not forget Christmas
carols repeated ad nauseam, either. Oh, yes, I can see how this would be a
favorite of yours."
Snorting, Gunn propped his feet up on his desk. "Bah, humbug to you, too. Nah,
Christmas isn't about all that. It's about big ass trash-can fires you gather
'round, singing the hymns my mamma taught me. About takin' a night off from
hunting, since even the vamps celebrated Christmas Eve."
Scrounged up feast of whatever they could buy, no one complaining that it
wasn't enough, or it wasn't as fancy as the stuff some of the folks they saw
walking down the street had. Presents that were made or bought through pawning
your own stuff. The gifts were nothing special, no toys or fancy brand name
sneakers, and were most often weapons, but they meant something. Each
and every item, every moment, was worth more because they had so little else.
And here he sat in a leather chair that cost more than the entire gang used to
spend on food in a year, dressed in tailored Armani from neck to feet, not to
mention the shoes, looking at his collection of vintage Bandai toy robots,
about to make plans with Wesley to have lunch at Vincenti's—guaranteed to cost
Wolfram and Hart a few hundred.
What would Alonna say if she could see him now?
Somehow catching his mood, Wesley's cynical expression faded. "I was planning
on being here, this Christmas," he said, remembering awkward, downright painful
family dinners and deciding there and then, that even the chance of seeing his
mother again didn't make up for the dread he felt at the thought of facing his
father again. He swallowed, then added diffidently "I don't have a bonfire, but
would a fireplace suffice?"
TBC