Christmas
Presence
Author: Dark Star Email: eternity_ds@hotmail.com Websites: Scribes
of Angel, Blood Roses, White Carousel Summary: All I want for Christmas… Disclaimer: Joss Whedon is creator and owner of all things Angel Timeline: Future Rating: PG 13 Notes: This is my offering for the ghost story challenge
at the Blood Roses forum Pairing: B/A Category: Romance, angst Distribution: Just ask, please Thanks to Becks for the edits. *** Time: Christmas Eve, 19 minutes to midnight. Finishing off the lines of the pentagram with utmost care,
Angel sat back on his heels and glanced around. His room looked warm and
welcoming, a soft glow from the abundance of candles casting an inviting
ambience to his home. Nervously, he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly
wishing that he could see himself in a mirror and make sure that he looked
presentable. Angel anxiously patrolled his room, checking that the
cushions were plumped up, his best shirt lay neatly to hand, and that
everything was in order. Finally, nothing left to do, he knelt down next to
the pentagram, and draped the shirt over his knees. 12 minutes to midnight Almost trembling with anticipation, Angel fidgeted
nervously. The minutes seemed to drag by, and he checked the clock for the
hundredth time. Had the clock stopped? Was he going to miss it? Worriedly checking his wristwatch, he was mildly calmed by
what he saw, but he still fidgeted. Oh, god… wasn't it ever going to get
here? 9 minutes to midnight Carefully, Angel removed the ancient stone from round his
neck. This stone was his most precious possession, and it had never - not for
a single instant - left his sight from the moment that Willow had given it to
him. Cautiously, almost reverently, he leant forward and placed
the stone in the very centre of the pentagram. Mei animus. He drew his fingers reluctantly away from his precious
stone and sat back again. There was nothing left to do now but wait, and he couldn't
help but steal another glance at clock. 5 minutes to go. Oh… supposing it
doesn't work? Unable to tear his gaze away from the stone, he allowed
his memory to wander back to how it came into his possession. He felt again
his original grief when Giles called to tell him that Buffy had been killed
while bravely fighting a Vass Beast that was terrorising the local church.
Angel was devastated that such a terrible thing should happen - and at
Christmas of all times - that he had come very close to ending his own life
too. He had been so distraught, so unwilling to bear her loss again, that he
almost hadn't paused when the phone had rung again. Willow's voice struck
dread into his heart; he had a horrible fear that they had dragged Buffy back
yet again. As much as he selfishly wanted her back, he knew she would have
hated that, and he allowed his anger to spill out and he raged at her. Once she could get a word in, Willow assured him it was
nothing like that, and she begged him not to do anything silly. She had
something for him, she said, to do with Buffy, and curiosity held him back
from a final walk in the sunlight. When she arrived, Willow handed him a box containing a
grey, uninviting piece of rock, and he stared at her in confusion. "It's a Brazilian soul stone," she said,
meaningfully. Angel stared back, not understanding why that was
important. "I gave it to Buffy for Christmas," Willow
explained. "I made her hold it. She was meant to give it to you to hold
but she never got the chance." Willow shrugged, "It was meant to
unite your souls together and bring you both peace - forever." "Oh." Angel muttered, struggling through his
grief to understand what this was supposed to mean. "That's a…
shame?" "No, no," Willow said impatiently, "You
don't understand. Buffy was the last person to touch this, meaning that her
soul was imprinted upon it, and locked at one place. That means, that once a
year, on the anniversary of her death, you can activate it and bring her
back." "What?" Angel screeched, almost dropping
the stone in his astonishment. "I know what you're going to say," Willow went
on. "But this isn't going to disturb her eternal rest or keep her out of
heaven or anything like that. It's… just a visit. She can only stay for
twenty-four hours - but in that time she'll be here, and she'll be real,
Angel." Willow explained how to activate the stone, should he
chose to do so. Realising how important it was to keep the stone safe, Angel
asked her to set up a protection spell over it, and Willow promised that as
long as he lived, then both the stone and Buffy's presence would be kept safe
inside it. For the whole year he struggled with the decision about
whether to activate the stone, but in the end, he couldn't resist it.
Selfish, perhaps, but he couldn't bear the thought of not seeing her ever
again. His attention was dragged back to the present, when the
stone began to ripple with a gentle blue light. His eyes darted to the clock,
and saw the time was exactly midnight. He stared back at the stone, attention riveted to the
light. He watched with rapt awareness as the light turned to mist, slowly
solidifying into the human form of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Angel sat absolutely still, afraid that a sudden movement
would make her disappear again, and it was only when she was completely
corporeal did he whisper, "Buffy." Her welcoming smile radiated warmth, and she breathed,
"Angel." She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light, and Angel
was glad that he had remembered to use the candles. For a short while after
materialising, her senses were hyper-aware, and bright light hurt her eyes.
Angel moved, slowly and deliberately, and wrapped the shirt around her
shoulders to cover her naked body. The stone was only able to activate her
presence, not clothing, and he always had something to hand for when she came
back to him. At first, he always bought her something to wear - usually
something expensive and beautiful like a gorgeous silk robe. But she had
gently asked if she could wear something of his because she said it made her
feel small and fragile and closer to him; So now, he bought himself
something beautiful, and kept it just for her. She melted against him, warm and human, and he enfolded
her in his arms in awe. He didn't know exactly what she was, and he didn't
really care; for one precious day, once a year, she was his. He lived for
this day; it was what kept him going through the hard times, through pain and
loneliness, to keep this rendezvous with her. One awful year, they had argued. It had been a
particularly bad year, and he hadn't eaten properly or taken care of himself.
Buffy told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he didn't look after himself
she wouldn't come back. That prospect had scared him so much, that he had
vowed to her to be more careful. She made him promise to live for her;
to do things, make friends, even take lovers, because she couldn't bear him
to be alone. He had agreed - with reservations about the lovers - to please
her. Anything, just as long as she kept coming back to him. It was a beautiful day, full of love and laughter. They
talked, and loved, and touched. He leant her some clothing and they went for
a walk in the park, stopping under an ancient oak to reacquaint themselves
with each other. She teased him over his attempts to make her something to
eat, and he luxuriated in being able to see, taste, and touch her. But time doesn't stand still, and as midnight approached,
their mood grew more serious. Lying on the bed, curled up in Angel's embrace,
Buffy stirred and looked up at him. "You promise to look after yourself this year?" "Of course," he replied, before briefly closing
his eyes. "But it's hard, Buffy. I miss you so much." "I know," she whispered, gently stroking his
cheek. "But it's not our time yet, Angel. When you have finished your
work for The Powers… we will be together. I promise." "I…" he started to say, but his voice cracked
and he fell silent. She hated it when he fell apart, and he mustered all his
resources to be strong for her, and he just held her tightly. A slight hum was coming from the stone, and they both rose
from the bed and crossed reluctantly back toward the stone. Buffy removed his
shirt, and handed it silently back to him and then went to stand in the
centre of the pentagram, her eyes firmly linked with his for the whole time. Her hand sought his, and her eyes glistened as she
murmured, "Same time, next year?" He nodded, unable to speak, and watched sadly as her body
shimmered with the blue light, before turning translucent and finally
flickered away. He couldn't move; for a long time he stood there, the shirt
she had worm clutched tightly against his chest as he just stared at the
place where she had been. When he finally found the strength to move, he bent down
to pick up the precious stone and carefully returned it to its usual resting
place near his heart. Stiffly, he began tidying up the room and bringing it
back to normal. All he had to do was just get through the next year, and she
would be his again. He stopped, sinking into the nearby armchair and letting
his head forward into his hands. It was so difficult, and he longed to be with her so much.
His fingers curled round the Brazilian stone, and he was comforted to know
that she was there with him. Every year he hoped he would be released from
his fealty and he could be with her. Every year he hoped that this would be
their last stolen meeting and he could rest. But the Powers had not yet
finished with him. For seven hundred and ninety-three years he had waited,
hoping that this would be his last year. He stood, going about his tasks, and trying not to feel
sad. Whatever he had to do, whatever it took, he would do it. If it meant
working another thousand years, he would do it, gladly. For her. End Return to Fiction Index
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