There was a charming and particularly convenient little Muggle tradition this time of year. Come December, Muggles believed that a man in red robes and a pointed hat came through your fireplace. And, as Adon appeared in the Trevelyan residence fireplace with a flash of green, he was going off of this. Though the home he was currently entering through means of the Floo was not expecting him, had no cookies, had laid out no socks, Adon arrived in his crimson Auror’s robes and a pointed Christmas hat all the same. There were a few notable differences – Adon’s robes lacked the white fringe of fur; he did not come with a clinking of bells or a heavily gift-laden sack over his back, he was not, of course, Father Christmas.

In fact, Adon was not there to make rounds and to bestow gifts. He was, however, there to evaluate naughty-and-nice. Adon didn't really know what or who the hell Jonas Trevelyan was, but he didn't suspect he was very nice. Withholding information, arbitrarily meddling in the case . . . Really that was all Adon had against him, but it was enough. Adon, quite like Santa, tallied and summed a man up in two columns: In the absence of legitimate information on the man, Adon had, in a moment of gut feeling, placed Trevelyan into the "naughty" (or, in Adon's vernacular, "people who piss me off") column.

This similarity to Santa was merely tempermental. There were calculated, remarkable similarities that Adon had seen to. Aside from the red robes and the pointed, wizard-like hat, Adon had magically charmed a snowy-white beard upon his face. Because it was showy and ridiculous and he could. It helped with the whole “demented magus” thing that apparently Father Christmas went for. It was the Christmas Spirit, after all.

Adon stepped from out the fireplace, spitting a few wooly tendrils of his beard out and licking his lips with disgust. The beard had the consistency of spiders’ legs. Adon retched and smoothed as best he could, the mass of white perched on his chin and lips.

The place was silent, even though it was seven in the evening. As Adon whistled a brief tune and poked at the various objects cluttering the mantelpiece, it became apparent that no one was home just yet. Adon pulled up a chair beside the fireplace and began to flip through his documents from the case, frowning at several botched-entries that didn’t fit his meticulously frenetic categorization style. No doubt Jonas’ . . . ‘improvements.’ He breathed through his nose, wondering just who would find him. He had heard Jonas had two little ones. Or maybe five. Some little ones. At any rate, that shouldn’t be too hard, should the situation arise. He had candy-canes in his briefcase and owing to the disgraceful lack of precautions taken about the house for security, he very much doubted Jonas’ children had been prepped or primed on how to not take candy from strangers.

Besides. He wasn’t a stranger. He was a man in red who had come through their fireplace. Every Muggle kid dreamed of meeting one of those.

Christians. Muggles. He’d never get it.

There was movement in the room, but it wasn't the target that the zombie had expected.

The sitting room of the small house was perfectly kept, with a floral print sofa and two matching blue chairs facing towards a simple brick fireplace.  No stockings hung from the mantel, but a rounded pine tree sat in the corner of the room, its taller branches laden with handmade ornaments though the lower were suspiciously bare.  All in all, it was not the sort of location where one expected to be attacked by the undead, which was what Gwenna Trevelyan had been counting on when she'd first selected it as the best place to lay in wait for her younger brother.

Unfortunately, though admirable in their persistence, zombies were not particularly noted for their ability to stay awake.  After cutting her clothes with scissors, dying her face and hands with red food coloring that had been secretly sequestered from the kitchen the day before during an intense Christmas cookie baking marathon, and smearing her mouth with toothpaste to create what she thought was a gruesome drooling effect, Gwenna had sprawled out behind the couch to begin her watch.  She had been certain that Artie would come downstairs before too long, or at least that her mother would pass through after cleaning up the kitchen from dinner, but there had been a shortage of cooperative victims passing through that evening.

Though she was embarrassed to admit it, between the post-dinner stupor and the lack of immediate attack opportunities, the zombie had dozed off.  It wasn't until footprints fell against the plush white carpet and a whistled tune split the air, that the horrific creature stirred and realized that some poor victim had entered her domain. 

Taking care to move silently, the undead brain-eater peered around the corner of the couch, scanning the room in search of her next meal.  It didn't take her long to spot him - a man that she didn't recognize was lowering himself into her father's old chair.  Gwenna squinted at him, moving to wipe the toothpaste off of her face before she remembered that it was supposed to be drool.  He was wearing some sort of red bathrobe and a beard that was immediately recognizable as Santa Claus.  If it hadn't been for the unforgettable Christmas four years ago when her father had ruined dinner by intently asserting that there logically couldn't be a Santa, Gwenna might have been almost convinced.  As it was, she decided, just because he was dressed up like a man who ought to give her presents didn't mean she couldn't try to eat his brain.

The young girl hoisted herself to her feet, moving as silently as she was able.  Bracing herself on hands and knees, she crept forward, waiting until she was almost in range before launching her vicious attack.

"RAWRRRGHUHHH!" she shouted incomprehensibly, launching herself at the man's shoulder in an attempt to sink her teeth into his arm.

Adon was not the only person in the room any longer. He was not the only red person in the room any longer.  Adon looked up just in time to see something small, black-haired, and yes, very red lunge at him with a great commotion. Adon stuck a leg out for leveage and shifted the papers quickly to the side of the chair. As she catapulted towards him, he  reached his arms out to receive her and pull her back into the chair. Shifting himself to the side, Adon was able to maneuver quickly to get himself out of the chair. The chair tipped a bit and Adon reached a hand out.

Krav Maga in the military had served him well. He hadn't thought, however, it would much come in handy when dealing with -- he'd have to go with nine-year-olds. Eleven, if pressed.

Now standing, Adon squinted down at the little lobster, folding his arms across his chest, before he recalling himself. He was not smug-ass Auror Eleor just now. He was Father Christmas. Harbinger of joy and sugar. "Ha-ha-ho!" Adon managed, stooping down somewhat to get a better look at the -- what was she? "A lion? A bear?" he asked in a playful sort of tone, as though one often broke into houses dressed as Santa and was often received by . . . lions. Bears? Monsters.

Little monkeys. Dyed red and . . . What the hell had happened to her? He quirked a brow. This was clearly play -- no distress about it. But if mama-bear came in while he was like this, crouched in front of her cub, he'd be the one in distress.

"Where's Papa-bear?" he asked with a bit of a smirk.

It had not taken very long past the initial zombie assault for the creature to realize that her victim was, indeed, an intruder.  For one, his laugh had been emphasized entirely wrong, which ruled out any remaining possibility that this could have been Saint Nicholas; for all of his faults and his probable lack of existence, Gwenna was certain that Santa would have never mixed up his 'ho's with his 'ha's.  For another, he had completely failed to recognize her as a zombie, and then flubbed his line again by not threatening to ground her if she didn't stop.

"Gwen!" came a woman's voice tiredly from upstairs.  "That better not be you eating your brother again!  Didn't we just talk about cannibals?"

Gwenna bared her teeth menacingly in the direction of the stairwell, and then returned her attention to Santa.  After a moment's beat, she showed him her teeth too, just to make sure that he felt included and didn't get any ideas.  Dealing With Strangers was something that she felt very competent in.  Even strange, flaming strangers like they'd seen on Halloween.

"If you touch me, I'll shout," she informed him matter-of-factly.  "Mum killed a man once with her elbow, I'm a zombie, and me brother's a vampire.  He's horrible," she added, making a face for effect that was probably made worse by the toothpaste.  "Sucks your blood right out, he does, and then I eat your braaaaaains."

Looking at the man up close, she could tell that he definitely wasn't really Santa, not that she had doubted.  The red thing he was wearing looked awfully more like a dress than a bathrobe up close, and she thought the toes of his boots looked rather girly and not good for scuffling around in chimneys at all.  Whoever he was, if this was his plan for breaking into houses during the holidays, he didn't seem to be very bright about making his disguise authentic.  Not that Gwenna would have thought too highly of even the best-dressed burglar who stole into her home only to sit in front of the fireplace doing paperwork.

Whatever he wanted with her father, though, she wasn't having any of it.  Gwenna drew herself up, fingers curling into claws, as she eyed the man suspiciously.  She wasn't sure why her father would be investigating this bloke, but that had to be the only reason why someone would break into their home.  And if he intended to kidnap Gwenna and hold her for ransom, she was going to be a dragon and bite off his arm.

The temptation was there to bite off his arm anyhow, but even dragons had to know who they were eating first.  "Why do you want to know?" Gwenna asked suspiciously, eyeing the man up and down.  "You're not supposed to be in here.  This is our house."

The voice. They were not alone, but as of yet, Adon hadn't been suspected. He didn't know how long he could keep this up. If not for the kid, he'd have just gone and looked for Jonas elsewhere. (After standing on a corner to collect anonymous donations from passersby that the outfit seemed to produce.) Adon also looked up at the stairs, frowning, not snarling as the little lobster did. He tugged at the lapels of his robe, straightening them in an official, boring, office-person-like gesture before sticking his hands in their pockets as he reconsidered the little one in the chair. A zombie, huh? Interesting choice -- maybe he'd go for that next time he broke and entered. It'd be more exciting, at any rate. As it turned out, the Father Christmas get-up had yet to produce one comment or reaction. And he'd thought he'd been clever.

At least there was some reaction -- a proper reaction. The kid had learned some practical defense mechanisms. "If you touch me, I'll shout." Good. "Mum killed a man once with her elbow, I'm a zombie, and me brother's a vampire.  He's horrible. Sucks your blood right out, he does, and then I eat your braaaaaains." . . . A little less practical.

Adon kept a straight face. "Mmm," he said, considering. "You'll be disappointed, I'm afraid." There was a light sigh to accompany the blasé tone. "My mum says I haven't got any brains."

He looked back up at the stairwell, considering. He could possibly ask to see Mrs Trevelyan. Only he was currently sporting a rather ridiculous  beard. That couldn't be dispensed with without a little show of magic which he was not entirely sure he was willing to venture just now.

"It's listed as your father's house. I'm looking for him because I work with him. And he's on my naughty list because of," he leaned forward to recollect the paper from beside her, "this paperwork which he has done. It's atrocious. I hope they're teaching you better skills in school, kid. Because this is just. . ." he flipped through it before frowning and tucking it away with a puff of his cheeks. "If he's not here, he's at his office, then, I'd think?"

Adon didn't know where that was, but he figured he could get that address -- he did have all wizarding and Muggle records at his fingertips, after all. If Jonas had acquired a place legally, he could find it.

Unfortunately, the bathrobe man's response to her threat was not nearly as cowed as Gwenna had been hoping for.  She was quite willing to accept his mother's assessment that he didn't have any brains, since no intelligent kidnapper would have disguised himself as Santa when attempting to lure children away from the safety of their homes.  Not even Artie was quite naive enough to fall for that.  If the man had thought ahead, he would have dressed up as something scary, like the spaghetti monster that still gave Gwenna nightmares after she'd seen its sticker on someone's book.  At the very least, if he wanted to keep his original disguise, he should have offered to give her presents sooner or made sure that he got the details of his ho-ho-hoing correct.

Even so, there was an obvious flaw in his explanation.  Gwenna skidded back as he leaned forward to reclaim his papers, and then squinted at the man, trying to decide if it would be worth it to go through with the normal procedure for eating his brains just to see what a head without any looked like on the inside.  As far as she knew, her father didn't work with anyone.  And even if this bloke did work with him...

"If you worked with him, you'd know where he was," Gwenna informed the man accusingly, recovering to glare at him.  "He doesn't live here anymore.  And I don't believe that you don't have any brains," she added, adjusting her balance so that she was ready to pounce.  "We learned about 'em in school; everyone has one.  If you didn't, you couldn't be --"

"Gwenna!"

Gwenna looked up, but almost before she could, another figure had swooped in.  It grabbed for the girl, who let out a very un-zombie-like cry as she was unceremoniously yanked back behind her mother.  Throwing an arm around her daughter, the woman pulled her close, positioning her body between the girl and the perceived intruder.  Though she didn't nearly match the Auror's height, she met his gaze furiously, her face pinched and white but her eyes glinting.

"Who are you?" she demanded, anger trembling in her voice as she raised a cellphone in one hand.  From the gesture, it wasn't clear if she was threatening to use it or to send it flying at Adon's head.  "How dare you break into our house!  Get out!"

Mamma-bear had arrived. She swooped down, however, more like a mother hen, gathering up her little zombie under one arm. Adon felt a twinge of regret here. He hadn't meant to frighten anyone. Still, there was no need for alarm. Adon had been in worse PR and Muggle-Mage situations than this. The people in Muggle-worthy excuses had spent so much time with him, they were on first-name basis. And he got on with them; perhaps owing to their habit of going out for drinks after long discussions of Adon's recent disasters. They'd laugh about this later, he was sure. He had the proper authority and badges -- even for Muggle purposes -- and while he didn't technically have a search warrant, he wasn't exactly searching their house, either. So really, no cause for alarm. At least on his part. He remained calm, keeping his breathing even and his hands visible, so she needn't worry about weapons.

"I'm --" Adon had begun, but the woman shrieked, holding up a glowing device Adon recognised as a cell similar to one that Dreogan used. But this one was smaller. He held up his hands. He thought the device was used to call people; it wasn't a weapon to his knowledge -- not a gun or any ammunitions; Adon had training with those. But he slowly bent over to sling a strap of his briefcase over his shoulder before taking a step back away from them.

"How dare you break into our house!  Get out!"

Now that didn't make much sense. He doubted she perceived that. "Do you want me to leave or answer your questions first?" he asked in a soft, even tone as she moved quickly, threateningly. "How about this," he said, taking several more steps backwards as he glanced briefly over his shoulder, leaving the sitting room and through the entry way back. "I step outside your home and you can ask me whatever you like. Or I can just leave if you'd prefer."

He got the information he needed; the bastard wasn't here and he doubted he'd get any more information that that due to this disruption.

He'd flay Trevelyan when he got a chance.

One got the impression he was accustomed to retreats. Adon took several more long, backwards steps; they'd almost become, as with most of his movements, graceful. Reaching a hand back, Adon felt for the knob and grasped at the metal, feeling the cool heat up under his hand as he turned. He stepped back, feet scraping slightly across the threshold as he felt for the edge of the step. Waiting, making sure the door would not close upon him -- unless she slammed it -- he released the handle and stepped back onto the front step, feeling a cushioning beneath his feet. He glanced down momentarily to see a "Welcome" mat.

Adon gave one, quiet laugh at the irony.

This was not the way that the attack was supposed to go.  Gwenna bared her toothpaste-stained teeth as her mother hauled her away, although experience had taught her that infectious zombie bites should only be reserved for younger brothers when parental figures were nowhere within eye- or earshot.  Still, she glowered up at her mother as the intruder was hurried away, well before she had the chance to determine whether or not his claims to lack a brain were true.

"Mum," she said, in a tone that she would have admitted was dangerously approaching a whine if it had come from anyone else.  "You can't kick out Santa!  He said that he --"

"I can very well kick out Santa," her mother snapped, stepping close to the entrance so that she could slam the door.  "Gwenna, what were you thinking?  You know better than this!"

Underneath the toothpaste and the food dye, Gwenna found herself blushing very nearly as red as her fake zombie blood.  "But he said he knew Dad," she complained, very nearly pouting.  It wasn't that she necessarily wanted the man to stay - she'd been ready to turn him into one of the living undead, which wouldn't have done very much for his health or her family's safety in the long run.  But even so, he'd been her intruder to run off.  Scaring him away with a cell phone took all of the fun out of it.  "And I wasn't going to bite him hard, just a little -"

Her mother stopped with her hand on the door, her eyes narrowing as she looked back at Gwenna.  Her expression tightened, and she turned to give the man who had retreated outside a hard, angry look.

"Gwenna, go upstairs," she said quietly, her fingers tightening around the phone in her hand as she stepped outside.

It was the sort of tone that didn't allow for argument.  Gwenna fled the scene, tattered clothing fluttering behind her as she raced to her room.  Her bedroom was right above the front door.  With any luck, if she kept the lights off and listened, she'd still be able to see how this played out.

Whatever was happening, it was even more exciting than a zombie attack.

-----

Anna Nguyen - formerly Trevelyan - stepped out onto the porch, her phone still in hand as she eyed the man.  She waited until the cascade of footsteps pounding up the steps before shutting the front door behind her.  Artie might still be young enough to gamely obey instructions, especially when they were given in the form of a military order - whatever else she might think of her frustratingly absent ex-husband, at least his discovery of that trick had saved quite a bit of her sanity - but she wouldn't put it past Gwenna to disobey if it meant getting another bite in.

Her home secured, she took a moment to warily regard the figure outside.  Despite the red dress - was it a bathrobe? - and the ridiculous beard, the man was decidedly less threatening now that he wasn't standing in the middle of their drawing room with Gwenna in front of him.  It certainly didn't look like the sort of outfit that one would wear for breaking and entering, although ringing the police with the refrain that 'Santa did it' would probably beg a response equal to Polyphemus accusing 'Nobody' back in Ancient Greece.

"I suppose you think it's funny, showing up dressed like that," she said, watching the jolly red figure warily.  "Take that ridiculous beard off, wouldn't you?  I don't need the neighbors deciding that I'm hosting a costume party."

She regarded him for a long moment.  Though her nerves might disagree, she wasn't sure if this man was a threat.  He'd retreated when she'd told him to.  Staying inside where no one could hear them would have been the smarter move if he'd really intended them harm.  Every sign, coupled with Gwenna's words, pointed to this being some sort of horribly thought out prank involving her husband.  If Jonas hadn't always been adamant for as long as she'd known him that he'd never had any friends in school worth mentioning, Anna would have been convinced that this was intended as some sort of ill-informed reunion.

She wouldn't give this man that out, though.  If he wanted to explain, he could do it himself without any assistance from leading questions.  Anna crossed her arms, closing her fingers tightly around the cellular phone to keep her hands from trembling as she looked him over again.

"Who precisely are you?" she asked matter-of-factly.  "Aside from Saint Nicholas.  I can tell that much from the dress."

Adon watched the exchange between daughter and mother -- however tense -- with an air of fond attention, smiling subtly as the little lobster marched up the stairs. Adon shook his head, grinning, but, catching eyes with Mrs Trevelyan, dropped the expression instantly. He didn't know how that might be taken.

The parental disciplining didn't end there, however. Adon felt himself, standing a step lower than Mrs Trevelyan, in a position of submission to the towering Authority. Funny, he thought he was "the authority."

"I suppose you think it's funny, showing up dressed like that," she said, watching the jolly red figure warily.  "Take that ridiculous beard off, wouldn't you?  I don't need the neighbors deciding that I'm hosting a costume party."

"Look, Mrs. . . Trevelyan, isn't it?" he compressed his lips into a fine line. "I'm happy to oblige you in most anything at the moment, and I can assure you you're at no real risk. The only thing, however, you may have to hazard is your dignity. . . the beard is attached to my face, I'm afraid." He tugged as a demonstration. Of course, he could remove it, and if she absolutely insisted, he'd do it -- but that would require magic.  Would serve her right.


"Who precisely are you?" she asked matter-of-factly.  "Aside from Saint Nicholas.  I can tell that much from the dress."

"They're dress robes. And thank you," Adon said primly as he looked down at his red Auror's robes. "I was beginning to think there wasn't much likeness." To his knowledge, Father Christmas was not normally attacked by zombies or threatened with "cells".

He leaned back on the rail lining the front steps, folding his arms across his chest as he likewise regarded her. Well, Jonas Trevelyan had probably married up. She seemed clever. A good mom, too.

"Adon Eleor," he responded candidly to the question. Honesty was the best policy, he always said. Also in Adon's lexicon was a borrowed quote: If you must tell the truth, make them laugh. Otherwise they'll kill you. Adon believed in this. It was why he appeared dressed as some martyred Christian lard. "Your husband took over a case of mine during a leave of absence and I'm sorry to say, did a shoddy job of it. If he doesn't live here, he ought to at least update the records." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'll see to that. It's not smart of him, you know, to have it so public." He fished inside his robes a moment, frowning. "Now, which sort of identification would you prefer? British, I presume." He tugged at the heavy badges around his neck -- more like millstones than anything. Auror badge, nope. Israeli dog tags and Lucient badge. Nope. "Here," he said, tugging at it and lifting it off of his neck. "This work for you?" The badge read "Metropolitan Police," carrying the official seal.

Fortunately, he'd secured as much on his last visit to MI-6. The meeting had been exhausting, but thus far had paid off. It was a good cover for the Muggles. Most Aurors carried something similar, should they encounter a situation. Adon was much more comfortable with telling a palatable and plausible lie than undoing a truth through an obliviating charm. It seemed unethical, somehow, to take someone's knowledge away from them.

The woman pressed her lips together as the white-whiskered man addressed her by what he obviously presumed was her married name, but she elected not to correct him, staying silent as he launched into his explanation.  Somewhere overhead, she could hear a window creaking carefully open.  Her eyes flickered upward for a moment before refocusing on the man in front of her.  Overly nosy zombies were a problem that she could deal with later.

However frankly Adon Eleor seemed to answer her questions, it didn't take a lawyer to see that something wasn't right.  Anna accepted the badge at face value, examining it without reaching out to take it from him, but she knew that even its presence didn't mean much.  Considering that the man in front of her was standing dressed as Santa Claus, he could have easily purchased a toy badge at the same place he got his dress and beard.

"What did you say the name and rank of your supervisor were again?" she asked politely, her voice only slightly dry as she nodded for him to take the badge back again.  "I'm sorry, but I think you must have my husband confused with someone else.  Jonas hasn't lived here for over a year," she informed him in a matter-of-fact tone.  "And as far as I know, he's never had anything to do with the Metropolitan police.  Most of the work he does is for insurance companies, quite honestly."

She frowned at him, flexing her fingers around her phone.  "To be honest, I'm offended that you'd think it was all right to stroll into our home without even knocking, whatever you think that Jon did," she said bluntly, giving him a frank look.  "What exactly were you hoping to accomplish, Mr Eleor?  Intimidating my husband?  Scaring us?  You could have chosen a bit of a better disguise than Santa Claus to do it with."

"I didn't say. I actually report to Adnan Mushallam in Israel, to be honest. I'm rather a new exchange here. His title is Head Lucient . . . roughly translated," he said. There. Honest-to-God truth. He tucked the badge into his robes with the rest of the dead-weights, giving a light sigh before raising an eyebrow. "If there is more than one Jonas Trevelyan, I'm fu. . ." he cleared his throat; she was particularly maternal. And there was a child overhead listening. Swearing would profit him little. "That would just make my day," he finished sarcastically.

He looked overhead, winking at the window without seeing the figure within before snapping his gaze back to Mrs Trevelyan, disbelief apparent on his face.

"Insurance companies?" he repeated, smirking. "Really." Who did she think she was kidding, here? "Insurance companies." Seriously.

Unless . . . Adon felt a sinking feeling as he watched her face. Unless she really bought that. Unless she was the one being fooled, here. "Shit," he hissed under his breath, shaking his head as he looked down the street. He gave another sigh.  "Lovely." He did not want to get caught up in little domestic deceptions. Whatever Jonas was telling the missus was far from his problem; he wanted to keep that distance there, if at all possible. He'd suspected perhaps there'd been no mention of magic. But. . . insurance companies? It would take better lies than that to pull off an investigation in the Magical world. Was this who Raynor had trusted with his investigation, his project of the past three years? He grit his teeth, being sure not to bare his teeth into a sneer. It was tempting.

"I appreciate your honesty," he returned, leaving it at that. "And your advice. I'll keep it in mind and go as Muggly the Bear instead next time." He realised only moments after that this was a British, magical children's radio programme; not one she would have heard of. But really, first impressions had gone to pot by now, so it didn't really matter. "Or maybe a zombie." He was quiet a moment as he looked down the street again. "Well," he said with a bit of a shrug of his shoulders, "any parting comments? Final questions?" He'd have to go track down Jon now and wasn't particularly relishing it; even less now after this encounter.

Anna was not particularly impressed with the smirking, the sarcasm, or the swearing; fending off a man-eating zombie every evening was bad enough without having to chastise it for language in the process.  Whoever this Adon Eleor was, and wherever in the world he reported to, she couldn't help but doubt his story.  It was a little too pat, didn't quite make enough sense, and he'd avoided her last question anyhow.  Whatever reason he had for seeking out her ex-husband, she didn't particularly want to give him allowance to sneak up on Jonas, dressed up as some snuggly bear or not.

"Wait for just a moment, won't you?" she asked, giving him a polite smile as she angled herself slightly away.  Flipping open the cellular phone in her hand, she scrolled through a series of options before finally selecting one.  Raising the phone to her ear, she watched Adon out of the corner of her eye as the receiver began to ring.

It took several - not that she was surprised - before someone picked up.

"Oh, nothing in particular," she said in reply to the muffled voice on the phone, still keeping a watchful eye on Santa.  "We've just had a bit of an odd visitor tonight that I thought you might like to know about.  He claims that you've been working with him for the Met.  An Adon Eleor."

The pause stretched out for a long moment.

"A-don El-e-or," Anna emphasized, giving the individual in question an apologetic look as she repeated his name into the phone.  "Yes, he's still here now.  Dressed up as Santa Claus, in fact," she said, eyeing the man's beard again.  "Gwen might owe him a bit of an apology, but at least she was a zombie and not the swamp creature tonight.  What?"  She paused again, and then smirked, her gaze shifting back to Adon.  "Of course."

Raising her eyebrows coolly, she held the phone out to the Auror.  "Here you are," she said evenly, looking quite smug.

Adon understood temper tantrums. He understood mood swings. But he still didn't get women. The switch of mannerisms -- polite, considerate, even mild -- made Adon knit his brows. She looked at him like she would a kindly grocer. Or a delivery boy, when an order had gone wrong. She did not look at him like a man who had shown up in a chimney and had wrestled with her daughter. It was the kind of response that was too polite to be believed; Adon didn't buy the sweet, business-like tone for a moment. The woman was covering, holding down the lid of Pandora's box, waiting for the grand finish.

At the request to wait, Adon gave a surprised, "Sure," shrugging and lingering on the doorstep, looking about idly at anything he could comfortably keep his gaze on without looking too much like he was prying. He once or twice glanced up at the overhead window, but from this angle, it was too difficult to tell. His observation was limited, however, his ears being directed towards the conversation he was trying very hard to appear like he was not hearing.

Nothing in particular. Right. More baffling still was the apologetic glance and the mentions of apologies from Gwenna. Really, her defensive chompers could have served her well, if he had been up to more than just cornering Trevelyan. But, somehow, it wasn't Trevelyan that was cornered at the moment. He leaned more heavily against the rail, thinking. It wasn't that he couldn't leave whenever he wanted. It was that he probably shouldn't.

And what was Trevelyan saying, exactly on the other side of the line? Likely nothing that had prompted the sudden change in his wife -- that had transpired beforehand -- but. . . she was smirking at him. Adon felt the tables turned. He felt out of place in this beard, on this street.

If Adon had been surprised before, he was more so as the "cell" was handed to him. "Oh. . .Really?" he said, taking it in both hands a moment, frowning. Pressing it against his ear and mouth, as he had done before -- as he'd just seen Mrs Trevelyan do -- he sighed.

"Trevelyan." He waited a moment. "Ah. . . This is Adon Eleor. Yeah. So." Was he supposed to wait for a response? He frowned and looked up at Mrs Trevelyan. Damn that smirk. That was his smirk. "I saw the files and . . . and. You know what?  Get the h-- just get over here. I don't want to talk about it over this thing!"

He was supposed to wait for a response, Adon was fairly certain. But sometimes things just . . . buzzed. Like the cheesegrater in front of Stella's house from earlier. Adon frowned as he waited for something from the man. A word, a sound . . . a buzzer. . .

He looked back at Mrs Trevelyan.

Still smirking.

The private investigator's former wife continued to smirk as Adon spoke into the phone, making no movement to intervene or to concede him any privacy.  The hand-held device similarly stayed quiet for a long moment, as if it was taking some time for the Auror's words to travel through the Muggle airwaves to the man on the other end.

"Yeah, about that," said the man's voice on the other end of the phone at last.  The words were short and clipped, as if the speaker were taking strict care in their selection, or perhaps enunciating through tightly gritted teeth.  "There might be better ways to go setting up a time to chat than to go charging into a bloke's house.  You know, stopping in during business hours.  Owling.  Calling ahead."

Though implicit in the tone, 'not being a bloody arse' was left unspoken.

There was another slight pause, and then an audible, short burst of exasperated breath.

"It's going to take me a lot longer to get over there," Jonas commented quietly through the phone.  "You want to wait, there's a pub down the road I can meet you at.  If you can get here quicker - without vanishing in front of anyone," he added, sharpness edging into the words as he emphasized the caveat, "the office here isn't that far from Diagon."

Trevelyan's voice was much higher than he'd anticipated. He couldn't tell if this was due to some mood. From the tone, he imagined a pinched face. Throbbing temples. Maybe a vein or two visible. Adon could not help a slight smirk at the image.

"Yeah, well," Adon said in a voice of deep contemplation, "perhaps if you'd given me some way of contacting you rather than leaving me to my own devices -- perhaps if you hadn't made your family the easiest contact --" He leaned more into the phone, his voice turning to a harsh whisper "What were you thinking!? You know how easy it is to find them? Moloch!"

He looked back up, apologetically at Anna. He didn't wish to make Trevelyan appear incompetent to his wife -- well, maybe a little -- but he did want her to know; and he wasn't sure if Trevelyan was the sort of man to say it.

He considered his two options for a moment. He wanted to make this as damned inconvenient as possible for Trevelyan. So he'd choose the pub. But he wanted to punch the man now. . . Going 'here' would be quicker.

But perhaps he should not punch the man just now. He considered, for the first time, deep breathing. Adon took a deep breath and sighed into the receiver. He still wanted to punch the damn lights out of -- "I'll meet you at the pub," he stated tersely before handing the phone back to Anna. "Well," he said, "your husband summons. Tell your daughter her apology is unnecessary." He squinted a bit. This was uncomfortable. "And. . . I extend my own. This has all been a misunderstanding."

Damn it all. If she didn't take that, she'd get nothing more.

He shrugged his cloak about his shoulders a bit, reaching for the clasp before undoing it and moving down the remaining steps. He turned. Saluted casually -- the woman had an air of a field lieutenant, anyhow -- and draped the cloak over his arm, leaving him in his work attire which made him appear for all the world a respectable G-man. Excepting the Converse. And the beard.

The beard. As Adon trudged along the road several paces, he pulled out his wand, frowning as he shook it, as though to redistribute the magic evenly along it. Once he felt a safe distance from the house -- two houses away, at least, he raised the wand to his face and wiped at the air about his chin vaguely; the beard floated away like so many dust-covered cobwebs, drifting in the wind before disappearing altogether.

Something -- a thought -- made him stop in his tracks a moment. He glanced back over his shoulder as he considered that he did not know precisely where "down the road" this pub was. Only that he'd given the cell back to Trevelyan's wife as soon as he could to be rid of the thing. He also realised . . . he now was looking at Mrs Trevelyan sans-beard. A slight grimace and Adon continued his progress down the road, rationalisting that however ineffective, embarrassing or inconvenient showing up at the wrong pub or late or -- God forbid -- not showing up at all, it could not match the disaster of returning to the Trevelyan household and displaying a much more conflicting, albeit respectable, appearance.

These thoughts were only reaching resolution when he saw the heavy wooden sign hanging overhead: Saracen's Head. Adon narrowed his eyes, trying not to be offended. Fantastic. He should have dressed like that for his grand entrance. Didn't all Middle Easterners wear facial hair and turbans? Fanfreakingtastic.

Adon pushed open the door with a bit more force than intended and sat down heavily at the bar. "You better have arak, if you're going to have a sign like that," he told the bartender.