F A N F I C T I O N > M I S C . F A N D O M S
Merry Fucking Christmas by Amberina
Angel sits on the couch in his richly furnished apartment and he does what he does best. He broods. Because it's Christmas, and really he's never been much for the holidays. So he broods.
He's not quite sure when he falls asleep, he's just sure that he must have fallen asleep (A Christmas Carol playing on the TV and he's not sure why he was watching it, and he's even less sure why it's influencing his dreams) because this is surely a dream.
Because Lilah can't be standing before him, wearing a green dress and red lipstick, looking so very much unfazed by months burning in hell.
"Well, merry fucking Christmas, boss," Lilah says, sitting down beside him and this is a dream, a nightmare, a fantasy, but it is not real.
She runs her hand along his thigh and he tries to figure out whether it's hot or cold or room temperature but it's hard to tell through all these layers of clothing he's wearing. And suddenly the fact that he's wearing anything at all seems wrong.
Lilah gives him that smile, that smirk, that look that says something along the lines of 'you're really pathetic, but I'm getting off on toying with you' before she tilts her head and says. "What, no holiday wishes?"
Angel can't speak as her hand moves slowly towards his crotch and his pants are suddenly far too. tight.
"How's Wolfram and Hart treating you?" Lilah asks as if she honestly cares, and her hand is still getting closer. and closer. and closer and he is acutely aware of this fact.
"It's good," he lies (grunts through gritted teeth) and her hand. He can't stop focusing on her hand. Running along the fabric of his pants, getting so goddamn close.
He gasps as her hand finally reaches its destination, but just barely. Lightly grazing. And she pulls away, that look on her face again and Angel doesn't know what to say.
He's not entirely sure he can say anything.
"Oh, hey, you know what?" Lilah asks him, her eyes lighting up as if she had the most brilliant idea in her mind, and he didn't doubt that she did. "I'm not Lilah."
Angel blinks.
And he breathes even though he doesn't have to, and he wills himself to calm down. And he wills himself to be able to think and not be so focused on Lilah's hand which is not on his thigh anymore, but very much should be.
"I'm the ghost of Christmas past, all wrapped up in a shiny Lilah package especially for you. Aren't you glad I'm not, say, Cordelia?"
Angel's eyes narrow by reflex at the utterance of Cordelia's name, but he doesn't say anything.
"Why so stoic, broody one?" Lilah says with a grin, and there are diamonds sparkling in her ears and this is a dream if there ever has been dreams (and there were dreams before, but the dreams weren't like this.)
If she's the ghost of Christmas past, where's the past, the future, the now - it surely doesn't exist, because does anything exist in dreams (which this is)?
And what does 'exist' really mean? Does he exist at all? What defines existence? And maybe, he thinks, that nothing has ever existed and it all took place in his head, in dreams, and he doesn't know what to say to Lilah, and he doesn't want to say anything but he says the one thing that he thinks he should say. "What are you going to show me?"
Lilah grins a teasing grin and says, her mouth forming words that are spoken in English yet make no sense to him. All he knows is she's grinning at him and he wants her and he wants to know what she wants, what she is, what's inside of her (he wants to be inside of her.)
"Angel?"
Her voice breaks through and Angel suddenly realizes that this might not be a dream after all.
"Come with me."
And suddenly they're standing and they're in Sunnydale. Angel recognizes this scene, he could never forget this scene, really. Buffy standing beside him, begging him and pleading with him to be strong, because strong, she said, was fighting.
And Angel gets that now, he gets that like he hasn't really gotten anything in his life. But then again, did any of this really happen at all? Or is it all part of his dream world? He doesn't quite remember.
"Look at you - man, if I could have reached you while you were in that state it would have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble," Lilah says, a small smile on her face.
"I thought you weren't Lilah?" Angel countered, his eyes glued to the scene before him, the scene of Buffy, him, and the impending sunrise. He bites his lip as snow begins to fall all around them - large, fluffy snow flakes falling from the sky. A freak occurrence, a miracle - whatever it was, Angel closes his eyes for a moment and he's back to that night, Buffy holding his hand, helping him to be strong. For a moment, he forgets Lilah's there.
Until she speaks, that is, her voice loud and harsh, dissolving his memory around him. "Well, isn't that special?"
Angel glares at Lilah and all she does is smile.
"Why did you show me this?" he asks, his voice coming out more cracked than he would like. What was the point of this? Of anything, really?
Lilah shrugs, as if she doesn't know, but her face says otherwise.
"What's next?" he asks just as the world fades around them, and they're in another place, another time. He's not sure when, but he recognizes the place. France, Paris - an outdoor cafe. He recognizes Buffy, but he does not recognize the guy she's kissing.
Angel cannot help the jealousy that rises in his chest, the bile that rises into his mouth. "Who is that?" he grunts to Lilah.
"Her new flame. Aren't they cute?" Lilah asks, and Angel's not entirely sure, but he thinks Lilah's hand is moving towards his rear end. "Guess she might be cookie dough," Lilah says with a snort, "and now Mr. Random French Guy gets to eat her. Isn't love grand?"
Angel turns away from the scene. He can't bear to watch this, to see this. To hear Lilah's running commentary. "I thought you were the ghost of Christmas past, not future."
"Oh, this is the Christmas present, honey. Shake it up, see what it is." Lilah's hands rest on his hips as she presses her body into his from behind. "Besides, Christmas Ghosts Incorporated down sized, it's just me now - good thing, too, because Christmas Future was a real bitch."
Angel doesn't have the strength to tell her to stop. He doesn't even notice when this world too fades, and they're back in his apartment which is unsurprisingly devoid of Christmas spirit. All he can think about is Lilah, and her hands - and eventually her mouth, all over him. Lilah - whatever she actually is - crashing down on him like . . . something that crashes. He hasn't given the metaphor much thought, really.
But metaphors, and dreams, and ghosts, and ugly French guys macking on his supposed one. true. love. cease to matter once he comes. And he comes, he does, and then it's just him in his apartment as the credits to A Christmas Carol roll on the TV, and he's not sure if it was a dream, or real, or a real dream, or anything.
He's not sure of anything.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he whispers under his breath as he heads towards his bedroom.