A Good Christmas
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Author: Dark Star Email: eternity_ds@hotmail.com Websites: Dark Star's Portal Summary: Fear not said the Angel, Let nothing you affright Disclaimer: Joss Whedon is creator and owner of all things Angel Rating: PG 13 Category: Fluff, Humour, and Christmas Notes: This was written for the Christmas Challenge at the
Angel Elders and had to include: A novel use for a Christmas cracker. Here goes… * "You want me to what?" "We would be…" "…very grateful…" "…Aaaaaaaaaaaaangelllll…" Angel raised a hand in a futile attempt to pacify
the excited floating Furies. "I've never done it before, " he replied
doubtfully. "We have… " "…faith in…" "…you." In unison, the ladies handed him a spoon, a bowl,
and an apron, and began shepherding him toward the kitchen. Feeling rather
like a parcel in a child's party game, the women gently bounced him between
them, ushering him in amongst the assortment of festive necessities. "Why do you want me here?" he
asked again, panic burgeoning in his chest as he desperately sought a way to
escape. "We would…" "…do it ourselves…" "…but we are.." "…unfamiliar with …" "… the diet of …" "…the human species." "I'm sure you could manage this." Angel
commented uncertainly. "It's probably quite straightforward." The Furies hovered around in the air beside him.
At one time it would have unnerved him, but he had known the ladies for many
years. After he had set up home in the Hyperion hotel, he received a phone
call from the women asking for his help. He rushed to their aid, but was
unprepared for their request. In order to find suitable accommodation, the women
visited an agent sensitive to the needs of demon and supernatural beings. He
had cut them a really good deal on the property, but in return he sometimes
asked them for 'special favours' for his contacts. His most recent was a
request to provide a traditional Christmas dinner for an important English
client, unaware that the Furies had absolutely no idea what a traditional
dinner was, or how to provide it. They had then contacted the only person
that they knew in Los Angeles to help them out. "We have…" "…obtained the…" "…things that…" "…you have…" "…asked…" "…for." Angel scanned the table appreciatively , noting
that the ladies had laid out the table beautifully, with a gorgeous decorative holly and ivy
centrepiece; a proper tablecloth and cutlery, and had even, though from god
knows where, had found some crackers to finish the look. Realising he wasn't going to get out of it, and
not being one to duck a challenge anyway, he rolled up his sleeves, washed
his hands, and manfully proceeded to tackle the turkey and all its trimmings. * The Englishman turned out to be a jovial man who
appreciated all the effort taken to make him feel welcome. He enjoyed his
dinner, and the company of his beautiful - if rather weightless - companions.
Angel stayed in the kitchen, through choice, and worked his way steadily
through the courses. He'd wanted a really traditional dessert, and while he'd
had to buy the plum pudding - because it was so late - he made his own Brandy
butter from a recipe he remembered from his youth. When he presented his dessert to the women and
their guest, he asked for their opinion because he worried about the accuracy
of his memory. "Wonderful," The Englishman murmured. "Ladies?" Angel asked hopefully as they
licked at their fingers in delight. "Mmmmm…." "…mmmmmm…" "…Angel…" The meal was a huge success, and while he didn't
want to admit it, Angel even enjoyed it himself. The Furies were rapturous
over his home-made Brandy Butter. So much so, that they commissioned him to
make it at every opportunity, until the very mention of his name provoked a blissful,
"Mmmmm, Angel…" At the end of the evening, the Furies showed their
gratitude by handing him a gift. It appeared to be a journal of some kind;
Angel opened it up and found it full of pictures, pleasant memories of his
own past, captured in photographic detail. Stunned, he asked, "How?" "These are…" "…images from…" "…your head…" they explained. "It is…" …our gift…" "…to you." Angel sunk to the sofa to examine his gift. He was
so wrapped up in the pictures that he didn't notice the Furies quietly
retiring and leaving him to his happy memories. Images of Cordelia teasing him with donuts, Lorne
congratulating him on a mission accomplished; Doyle sharing a bottle of
matured whiskey. But one page drew him back again and again, and so
he carefully took an unused cracker - removing the snap - and folded it in
half to place between the pages. When he had finished, he returned one final
time to the saved page. Sunnydale, a beautiful blonde slayer and a tender
kiss at the deserted ice rink. "I didn't even notice," she whispered in
his mind; and he slowly closed the book with a smile on his face. It was a good Christmas. End. Note: The summary comes from the Christmas carol: 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' . Return to Fiction Index
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