AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written in 2004 for the BTVS Secret Santa on livejournal, for sheryllc who wanted Buffy/Angel Christmas fic. Thanks to hermionesviolin for the beta read.
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Epilogue to Magic Snow
1: Christmas Present
Angel and Buffy have very short phone conversations. They weren't supposed to have any anymore, but things come up -- averted apocalypse things. They just want to be on the same page. When that's out of the way, she says, "How are you?"
He says, "Getting there."
"Still with the vague and shadowy then?"
"You know me."
She says, once or twice, "Angel..." with nothing to follow it.
He doesn't tell her where he is, and when Cordelia finally does, the phone calls stop for a while.
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What happened after the big Christmas was that the dreams went away. If they didn't leave for good, at least they changed. The pain changed from outstanding, unbearable First-Evil-induced trauma to the garden-variety kind that keeps him souled and unhappy. He sees Jenny less, and she never sounds as vindictive or looks as unafraid. He stays in the city of sun and light, of movie stars preening before their own reflections, maybe because it's the opposite of where he belongs. When he sees snow on television, he gets a weird mental picture of Drusilla catching flakes of snow like gnats and twisting in the wind. It's actually one of the better snow memories he has to focus on.
Cordelia hangs red and green lights in the office, and she shrieks that there could be ticks in the wreath. She lounges at her desk and says, "He could call her. Calling's still okay, right? It's not like they hate each other."
It's been less than a month, and Wesley and Cordy have taken to discussing Angel's life while he's in the room. Wesley's eyes still dart around awkwardly about it though, like he isn't quite sure Angel won't maim and kill him, or worse tell him to leave the agency. He says, "Overall, I think it's a decision that Angel himself has to make."
"And I think that a little friendly advice -- or criticism, or nudging with pointy objects -- couldn't hurt. Look, this is the kind of thing I'm normally far too busy to care about. When my heart is going out to poor little Buffy and her doomed lovers routine? You know it's serious."
"Are you certain you're not just bored? A lack of demon mayhem, and so we resort to--"
"Hey, let's pretend this has nothing to do with the recent patheticness of my life, and concentrate on the very intense patheticness of theirs. This is about closure. A broody, un-closured creature of the night is nobody's friend, Wesley."
The ex-Watcher looks off, wistfully. "It is the holidays. People get particularly lonely, and... it is nice to hear familiar voices. I suppose if it wasn't completely reconcilitory, only--"
"Oh please, no one's pushing for the completely. Only works fine."
"Angel, have you any imput on this?"
"I was waiting to see how long it would go on without me pointing out that I'm standing right here," he answers. "But for the record, maybe the holidays are when people like me should be particularly alone."
"What about that time where you wanted to go back to Hell, and then the universe started snowing?"
He groans, "I wasn't looking to go back anywhere," because he wasn't at all. If he could just keep things from happening, happening to him and... Buffy. "It was more about-- going."
"Well... good that you handled that without the burning then," says Cordy. "How's it working out?"
"Second of all, Wes--" Wesley's eyes pop up at the diversion. "You were saying something about demon mayhem?"
Wesley opens his mouth excitedly before he remembers he has nothing important to say, which seems to physically pain him. "Lack of it, I was actually saying," he admits quietly.
Cordy sighs. "Don't change the subject. Haven't you even been listening at all?"
"Not really, no," says Angel.
She shoots a look at Wes and mutters, "See, this is why we can do the thing where we act like he's furniture."
"Angel, if this conversation is making you uncomfortable, please don't hesitate to-" Wesley is a thirty-year-old ball of barely-restrained fear, and Angel wishes every day that he didn't find that interesting.
Cordy interrupts, "Oh, bonus? You two can't get any kind of groiny over the phone." The bad image makes her head jerk up suddenly. "Oh god, if you do, don't use this phone. I sit here."
It isn't supposed to be like this; he figured that much out. They were trying for distance and moving on. Instead she has his phone number, and he knows the exact amount of gas it takes him to drive up to Sunnydale. They barely survived Thanksgiving, in more ways than one, but she doesn't know that anymore. It's complicated, which is the last thing life is supposed to be when you disappear.
Only he didn't disappear, clearly. Back to square one. If there is a higher power, that power is taking all its godly energy to forcibly keep him from taking the coward's way out, no matter how many times he tries. But that doesn't mean he should give in and call her again.
He already sent her gift in the mail.
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Every now and then, Angel likes to brag about having a photographic memory, because that puts him in control of it. It's one of those hilarious cosmic tragedies, so perfectly goddamn funny that someone had to prearrange it. Someone had to decide it would be fun to combine a soul and flawless mental recall, just to see what would happen.
He had only one real picture of Buffy stowed away, and only the Irishman had seen it. He wasn't going to hold onto anything like that, even promised he wouldn't, but it somehow found its way into his hand and then into his pocket the night he left. The sketches didn't start until... August, maybe. He doesn't date them. He hides them places he knew his staff of misfits wouldn't look. The first thing he knew when Wesley showed up was that he needed to get them out of the books again.
He's always been perfect at shadows and shading, and can draw almost any kind of light reflected off her. Almost. He is very detailed, and knows how important it is to get the exact thing her eyes do when she smiles, that makes her look smart and a little like she's hiding something or giving something. He could say he loses hours doing this on slow nights, but that would be fanatical and unhealthy. It wouldn't be like the coping, souling detective version of him, so it's not the kind of thing he should share with anybody.
In December, he becomes interested in drawing her happy, the only way he wants to imagine her. He got the image of her laughing with her friends, and meant at one point to draw them all, but he couldn't find it in him to care about finishing the others. So it was just her, laughing, with the shortish hair and the boots -- when she used to have those. He doesn't know why he sends her that one, folded in two with no card and one of the office's Christmas stamps. It was some kind of holiday panic attack he didn't know he could have. When a week goes by, he tries to forget he did it, but he always remembers everything.
One day he comes in and Cordelia is chirping on the telephone. "Oh, guess who lives here now. You won't. Think LA convention of more demon-fighter types you don't like-- hang on." Before Angel can complain, she covers the phone and tells him, "Not gossiping, not company time. Xander left a message. This is good manners."
He says nothing and heads away. Before he walks out, she puts on the most falsely nonchalant tone she can manage. "Also, Buffy called. She actually left a message too."
He stops walking and doesn't turn around, only hearing the click and the tired words come scratching out of the machine. What the hell, Angel? (silence) Look, we can't keep -- I mean, just -- (silence) Call me.
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Lately, their phone conversations are even shorter than they used to be.
He says, "I won't send you anything else."
She says, "Angel..."
He says, "I'm sorry I'm not making this easier."
"I just don't know what you want."
He doesn't tell her what he wants. He says, "I need to not hear from you."
She says, "And a Happy New Year," before the click and the silence.
"So I have some questions for you," Cordelia practically sing-songs when she sees him again.
"I have some get-back-to-work for you," he says as he closes himself in his office.