A Good Christmas.
Author: Dark Star
Websites: Angel Elders, Scribes of Angel, Blood Roses
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.
Any item from a traditional Christmas dinner.
A reason for the Furies swooning over Angel.
A very unusual gift.
"You want me to what?"
"We would be…"
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… "
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.
"…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.
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.
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?"
"…your head…" they explained.
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.
Note: The summary comes from the Christmas carol: 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'
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