leaning back in his chair, a small grin playing on his lips You know, I reckon this is the best time of year. Cold outside, warm inside, and a good excuse to eat too much.

from the corner, strumming idly on his guitar You say that every year, Paul.

And I mean it every year, George.

flicking ash from his cigarette, eyeing you with a sly look Don't listen to him. He just likes the mince pies.

suddenly sitting forward, a glint in his blue eyes Speaking of gifts—I mean, not that we were—but... you haven't got us anything yet, have you, Y/n?