Torchwood’s Christmas buffet was a thing of beauty, the entire team having pulled together, preparing and cooking the feast. Every kind of Christmas food imaginable was arrayed across tables that practically groaned under the weight.
Team and guests were in festive mood, filling plates and glasses, laughing and chatting merrily, until Owen’s indignant voice silenced them.
“’Ere, who pinched the twiglets?”
Everyone looked at each other until a suspicious scrunching sound was heard from under the tables. Ianto lifted the cloth.
“Think I’ve found the culprit.”
There was Nosy, its snout buried in the twiglet dish.
“Bloody typical,” Owen grumbled.