Pizza does have the benefit of being not in the slightest bit Christmas-y, so there's that. Gwen stares at them a little longer, pinches the bridge of her nose (blames absolutely anything except herself or her feelings for rambling anything at Arthur that might have precipitated this), then - well, leaves the door open and moves out of the way, which is probably the most gracious invitation inside they can expect. She accepts the headband, even if she doesn't immediately put it on:

“I'm about a bottle and a half ahead of you,” she says, making a lazy gesture toward her living room in what can loosely be interpreted as invitation or instruction, “so you'll have to catch up.” This is presumably why she is going to her kitchen, instead, to get three glasses.

(She has been drinking out of the bottle, like the class act she is.)

In her living room, there is more or less no sign of Christmas cheer. There are no cards, no gifts, no decorations-

Well.

Sort of.

The sleeping man at the end of her sofa is very convincing, glasses askew, open book pressed to his chest, head tipped back against the cushions. His chest rises and falls gently, his weight on the sofa shifting it the way it ought to, and Putin, satisfied that nothing happening at the door is a problem for him, has gone back to sleep around his feet.

The moment Gwen thinks shit in the kitchen, standing in front of the cabinet with the wine-glasses, coincides perfectly with the moment in the living room where Emery, who wasn't there in the first place, vanishes abruptly.

Putin raises his head, but this isn't completely unprecedented - not quite enough for him to jolt away in surprise the way he had the first time Gwen's security blanket illusion had dissolved without warning, turning a sleepy dog blink on the interlopers.

She brings the glasses, and manages, “What?” like she definitely thinks nothing happened worth commenting on, probably.

Inch by inch, she relaxes, and this is - all right. She's never played board games on Christmas day, for one thing, so there's no comparison for it to suffer for; it isn't some sad attempt to recreate what isn't here (-no, that was Daddy, snoring over his book), it's doing something new with (ugh) people who (ugh) care about her. Who cared enough to read between the lines and then turn up, with their feelings and their liquor and their board games. And their 'not asking awkward questions'.

So she should maybe be a bit less of an arsehole about the whole thing.

“I've only ever played Trivial Pursuit and Cards Against Humanity,” and please, imagine what the latter is like in a world that thinks the game is 'fuck, marry, kill, eat', “so that's probably a good idea.”

She squints at nothing.

“Do you think Twister is a board game? You don't know.” Arthur, she means, but Daenerys gets really good at things in an endearingly niche way. It's possible she also doesn't know, but it seems equally possible she might have not only opinions, but some kind of branding deal in the works. Dragon Twi--

Actually, that's a bad idea.

“It's more like a floor game.”

(Hey, you know what isn't a board game? Cards. Drunk girl.)