Secret Santa gift for Angel left in Lorne's care? Check. Other gifts slipped under the tree? Check. Right, once more onto the breach and all that rot. Spike took a deep breath, adjusted his coat, brushed some imaginary lint off his brand-new pants, and strode through the open door into Angel's inner sanctum.
"So, when do we get to open our prezzies?" he asked with more cheer than he actually felt.
"And a very nice evening to you too, Spike," Fred greeted him, part sugar, part spice, while Angel remained silent, acknowledging Spike's arrival with a cursory nod. Spike thought he looked slightly constipated from the effort. Obviously, Angel had received the same 'play nice' lecture Lorne had given Spike.
"Fred! You look smashing! I like the hair," Spike exclaimed, pointedly ignoring his gloomy looking grandsire. "Very fetching."
Fred thanked him with a blush and a radiant smile. She had indeed taken the opportunity to dress up and her hair cascaded down in a mass of beautiful pre-Raphaelite curls. When Wesley and Gunn arrived shortly afterwards, it became apparent that Spike was the only one who hadn't made a visible effort to smarten up. Angel, Wes, and Gunn all wore expensive Armani suits, ties, and shiny new shoes. Lorne looked his usual self, dressed in a striking suit that looked like golden velvet; if he ever grew tired of the garment it would make great covers for sofa cushions.
"Whoo hooo, you made it!" Lorne gushed, as though Spike were the guest of honor and his social calendar had made his attendance doubtful. Maybe he was trying to make up for Angel's lack of enthusiasm. "Are those pants new? One of these days you have to let me dress you in something other than black."
Spike suppressed a shudder, but he let the enthusiastic party demon drag him to the table.
A large circular dining table was set up in the middle of Angel's suite, with white table linen, expensive crockery and cutlery, a silver candelabra with lit candles, and a Christmas-y centerpiece made from holly, pine, apples, and nuts, with a red-and-gold bow that issued peremptory marching orders to be merry.
Lorne hadn't lied when he'd told Spike he'd be sat between Fred and Charles, but he'd failed to mention that Angel was seated directly opposite him. Wes had been placed to Angel's right, next to Gunn.
When the caterers arrived with more than a dozen lidded dishes and placed them on two smaller side tables, Spike sniffed. Various greens, potatoes, roasted goose, apple sauce, cranberries, chestnuts. Mouthwatering aromas, but….
When the caterers had left, Spike turned to Lorne. "I thought you said we were gonna eat Mexican?" he said accusingly.
The green demon passed him a Plexiglas pepper mill with crushed red chilies inside. "Now it's Mexican, hotness," he said, smiling.
For several minutes the only sounds were requests to pass the sauce, beans, or another helping of meat, the clatter of cutlery on plates, and contented chewing. Lorne had picked a good restaurant, the food was excellent, on the traditional rather than the Nouvelle cuisine end of the culinary spectrum, and everybody, even Angel, enjoyed the smells, flavors, and textures of the dishes. There was a very basic pleasure in sharing a meal with friends, something Angel had almost forgotten. The desire to relax, to allow the ever present tension in his gut and shoulders to uncoil and slither away, warred against and surrendered to a lesson learnt the hard way, namely that the universe never ran out of other shoes to drop.
"So, what did you find out about our guest?" Angel reluctantly broke the silence, turning to his right.
Wesley put down his knife and fork and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, organizing his thoughts before replying. "The fact that Rayne worked in the mail department, able to enter offices at will under the pretext of delivering mail, suggests that he was planted here as a spy rather than a saboteur. I doubt anyone would go through the trouble of planting him here for a few Christmas pranks. I'm certain our recent troubles were Rayne's idea. From what I've been told he's a chaos worshipper with quite a history in that respect."
"Do we know how he got Numero Cinque's job in the mail department?" Angel asked.
"Not yet. Du to the holidays several people in the personnel department are unavailable and Rayne is uncooperative - so far. I could of course use force," Wesley said matter-of-factly, "but I don't think that will be necessary. Apparently Rayne was held prisoner by a covert government organization called the Initiative – one more avenue of investigation that is closed right now, but will reopen after the holidays."
Spike silently put down his cutlery, the mention of the Initiative labs draining all flavor from the delicious meal.
"Looks like Christmas is the natural enemy of a proper investigation," Gunn chipped in as he ladled some more potatoes on his plate.
Wesley nodded and carried on. "Mr. Rayne is a man who values his freedom. I'm certain the prospect of having to spend some more years in confinement will prove persuasive. He knows he's not getting any younger. Believe me, soon Mr. Rayne will tell us everything we want to know."
Angel nodded. Wesley didn't have to tell him that if Rayne remained unhelpful it might be necessary to resort to force after all. They couldn't afford to be lenient, not when they'd set up camp in the belly of the beast. Given half a chance Wolfram & Hart would swallow them whole, or chew them up and spit them out. Angel sighed and pushed his plate away, having lost his appetite.
Fortunately, the others seemed just as keen on changing the subject. By the time the chocolate cake had been reduced to mere crumbs and the dishes were cleared away, everybody was in good spirits and talking about sports, movies, and books. Even the two vampires felt strangely included.
Around ten o'clock Lorne excused himself and disappeared in the bathroom only to reappear a few minutes later in a red and white Santa outfit. It was a plain outfit, no glitter, no white feather boa, just a fake beard and a cushion to create the illusion of a rotund belly. Even so, Spike thought Lorne looked as camp as a row of pink tents.
"Even if I live another hundred years, this one will stay with me," he whispered into Gunn's ear. The other man nodded slowly.
"I was going to book John Rhys Davis to play Santa, and give you your presents," Lorne said cheerfully.
"Who?" Fred interrupted weakly, stunned by the vision in red, white, and green.
"Gimli." Gunn and Wesley answered as one.
"But then I decided, I would like to have the honor," Lorne continued, unaware that he looked like the Grinch who stole Christmas. He smiled and reached into the large sack he was carrying and fished out the first present.
TBC