get the party started [eris+pm]

20 december 2002

Winston had never really had any reason to buy any women gifts -- except his mother. So he had turned to her, asking for advice, and once he had thoroughly explained @Eris Rosier -- she seemed to always be at work, she wasn’t married -- to her, she had only been able to say, ‘sounds like a cat lady’. He honestly didn’t know if she had a cat, or even liked them, but it would have given away the surprise if he had asked.

So when she turned up to the party after the Secret Santa gift exchange was over, Win took it upon himself to hand deliver his gift. He (his mother) had wrapped it in shiny gold paper, and he held it out to her with a wide smile. “Secret’s out,” he said, barely containing a giggle. She didn’t take the gift immediately; he waved the package a little, just to make sure she saw it.

He sipped at his eggnog to give him something to do besides giving away what he had bought her. It was one of those tiny calendars for her desk, but instead of one of those paper ones like he had (joke of the day), hers was magic; a different cat every day, charmed to show the right day no matter what. It had no expiration date -- it went straight from 31 December one year to 1 January the next -- so she would never need to replace it, would never need to buy another calendar.

Had he overdone it with such a great gift? Probably, but at this party (for the Minister, Department Heads, and various other high levels) he really needed to make a good impression. “Hope you don’t already have one of these.” He didn’t add that she would need to get rid of the old one if she did; that much would be obvious to her very soon. “Merry Christmas,” he added, taking another sip of his nog, making it quite clear that he wasn’t going anywhere until she had opened it.

[[ pm me if you want to party with winston ]]

Acting like a good leader was so very exhausting – who genuinely enjoyed these things? The food? Yes. Alcohol? Absolutely. Pretending to be merry? Definitely not. She had arrived after the allotted Secret Santa time, hoping to avoid both having to give and receive – she had been assigned Winston Foss, Head of the Department of Mysteries, and she had not bought him anything (her excuse: “It’s classified”). She doubted anyone would tell him she had been his Santa anyway (the whole point was that it was secret). She wasn’t sure who had been tasked with getting her something, and she didn’t have high hopes for it being anything remotely useful.

Gareth Cadwallader unceremoniously shoved a tissue paper crown on Eris’ head and she made a mental note to kill him first if she ever chose to go out in a blaze of glory. The blonde witch took a sip of the buck’s fizz that had been provided, wrinkling her nose only slightly at the orange juice ruining what could otherwise be perfectly acceptable champagne.

Eris turned her head to look, first, at the box held out to her and, second, to the man holding it. Winston Foss. She stared at him. He waved the box at her, so she took it delicately. “Oh, thank you,” she smiled, fakely, looking at the present suspiciously. He was gazing at her expectantly, so she set her half-empty flute down on the nearest table to free her hands. She should have pretended to have Black Cat Flu, rather than have to endure this.

She really didn’t want to know what was inside, but she also had been trying to get at least an inkling of what went on in the Department of Mysteries for years. Winston’s mind was an impenetrable fortress and she had absolutely no hope of ever getting in there under normal circumstances. She smiled at him again, doing her best impersonation of someone who looked excited (possibly coming across as looking more constipated). With little patience, she ripped the gold paper and revealed the gift inside: a cat calendar. “Oh,” she said, her voice lilting in a way that tried to hide her (expected) disappointment.

“Wow, thank you.” She smiled at him again, “This is— so… cute.” She crumpled the paper and tossed it on the table, scooping her glass back up and downing the rest of her drink. She frowned at the now-empty flute and gestured as if to say she needed more, with a regretful expression.   

Dominic picked up two drinks quite by accident— he generally brought his wife to work functions, and was, of course, a gentleman, but Madge was taking her niece to see a play, so he’d opted, instead, for the Ministry. He wondered if the play was his wife’s way of opting out; probably. A few of his colleagues knew her, and liked her, but it was his work event. He felt just as out-of-place at the library ones; he’d once been trapped in a forty-five minute conversation about Herman Melville, whose works he had not read, with a woman he’d been afraid to tell that he’d had to give up on even the abridged version of Moby Dick. (He’d tried, but it’d been just so gloomy, hadn’t it?)

Anyway, he had two glasses. One for him, and another for him, since he’d picked it up for Madge before his brain had turned on.

He’d been pretty pleased with his own Secret Santa gift exchange, which had taken place as soon as he possibly could, since he’d bought Tommy Dorsey records for Vivvy Schwartzmann, which he’d not wanted to carry around for any longer than he’d needed to. Of course, she’d then presented him with Tommy Dorsey records, which he was stuck carrying around for the rest of the party— but they’d had a good laugh about it.

As he wove through the party— stopping halfway through his round to eavesdrop on Joseph Pepper, who was showing a group of Magical Maintenance workers an amusing photograph of his dog— he spotted Winston Foss, talking animatedly with Eris Rosier. He made his jolly way over, just as Eris said in a painfully friendly tone that whatever Winston had given her was “cute.” He looked over her shoulder—

“I bought one of those for my wife!” he said. He patted Win on the back in greeting— he supposed his friend didn’t know Eris as well as Dominic did, but still couldn’t fathom thinking a cat calendar was an appropriate, fitting gift for Eris Rosier. Wow. Eris made an awkward gesture, obviously hopeful to refill her drink, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Oh! Lucky I picked up an extra,” he said, and offered his second drink to her, gave her an easygoing smile. “Happy Christmas, to both of you.”

He was suspicious of Eris Rosier, currently—and had been, in intervals for about twenty years— and didn’t want her to know that, but he also wanted to talk to her, in case anything prudent came up; he’d have to be subtle, careful, observant.

“Look what Big Vivvy got me—” now he had both hands free, he didn’t need to clutch his records under one arm like this; he held them out for his colleagues to see, raised his eyebrows happily. “Tommy Dorsey! Win, what’d yours get you?” Frankly, Dominic had run short on ideas for gifts for Winston and could use some help. (He was of the opinion that novelty socks got repetitive and boring after five years— though his wife was of the opinion that it made for a fun tradition.)