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Date Posted: 09:00:10 12/22/03 Mon
Author: Kuzibah
Author Host/IP: 12.175.117.195
Subject: New Holiday Fanfic (Part 2)

Christmas Cards 2003
by Kuzibah

If these are new to you, and you’d like to read previous years’ stories, they can be found at my website: The Muse’s Oubliette.

Disclaimer: Characters and situations particular to the TV shows “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Evil Fox, and various other entities. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. Happy Holidays, you bloodsucking lawyers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Secret Santa II: Wesley – Over the Hills and Ev’rywhere

Wesley hadn’t been expecting anything remarkable in the way of his “Secret Santa” gift. Something perfunctory, not especially generous; a gift from one colleague to another.

Which was why it was something of a shock to see the young woman costumed as an elf come skipping through his office door carrying a brightly-wrapped parcel and singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in a clear contralto.

Wesley opened the box and found a folder with a travel itinerary. A note typed on company letterhead informed him that arrangements had been made for him to fly to Utah, where he would stay in one of the country’s top ski resorts, all expenses paid.

Wesley was only barely aware of the “elf” leaving the room, curled-up boots jingling.

It was too much. Too generous. He couldn’t possibly accept. He reached across the desk to call Fred. Twenty minutes later she called him back to inform him that whoever had sent the gift wasn’t owning up, which was the whole point anyway, so he should just take advantage of it and enjoy himself. And furthermore, money wasn’t really an issue for any of them anymore, was it?

Beaten, Wesley sighed and began to re-arrange his schedule so he could take a half-day that Thursday and leave for a four-day weekend. Then, that evening, he stopped by the Timberland store for some new snow togs.

He touched down in Salt Lake City late Thursday night. The air was so clear and cold after Los Angeles that his first indrawn breath set off a small coughing fit. The second breath was better, though the sharp tingle of icy air was still a shock after four years of 75 degrees and mostly sunny.

He found the resort shuttle quickly and rode up into the mountains. Evergreens seemed to close in around them, but the sky above was extraordinarily bright with twinkling stars. When he stepped down in front of the resort’s main inn, snow crunched under his feet, and his breath hung in a mist before his face.

A fresh-faced young man took his baggage and invited him to relax in the club room while his things were unpacked, and did he have any special requests for the room?

Wes thanked him, told him he would let him know if he needed anything, and that he would be repairing to his suite when he’d had a glass of brandy.

The young man thanked him and withdrew with a polite nod.

Wes entered the cavernous club room, which was dark except for an enormous fireplace at one end, where a bonfire blazed, and a small bar where a bartender was watching “E.R.”

Around the fire a group of five people were talking and laughing in a language which sounded Scandinavian, but which Wesley didn’t know. It wasn’t immediately obvious which members of the group were men or women, as they were all tall and slim with long, blond hair, but as Wesley came closer he could see there were four men and one woman.

They all seemed to notice him at once, falling silent and turning to watch his progress to the bar. “Sorry to interrupt,” Wesley murmured as he took a seat and signaled to the bartender. He heard the conversation begin again behind him, more subdued, and a moment later one of the men came up beside him.

“Good evening,” the man said, his voice delicately accented. “Please let me apologize for making you uncomfortable. We had simply not expected anyone to join us so late. My friends and I have had the place to ourselves since we arrived yesterday, and it’s good to see a new face.”

Wesley looked at the man, who smiled warmly and extended one slim hand. “My name is Trygve,” he said.

Wesley took the offered hand and shook it. “Wesley Wyndham-Pryce,” he said. “You and your friends are…” He took a guess, “Finnish?”

“No, from Lapland,” Trygve said, “but you’re close. And you are English, yes?”

“Well, originally,” Wesley said. “I live in Los Angeles now.”

“Well met,” Trygve said. “But please, join us.”

“I don’t wish to impose…”

“No, come. We come on vacation to meet people.” Trygve led him to the fireplace. “We all of us work together, in a very isolated village. When we finally get a vacation each December, we want to go where the people are.” He put a hand on Wesley’s shoulder to present him to the group, then introduced him in his own language. The others nodded and smiled, and Trygve gave their names to Wesley: Erland, Sigvor, and Iver were the men, and Hela was the woman. Trygve, though, was the only one who spoke English.

“Do you ski, then?” Trygve asked.

“A bit of cross-country, though it’s been years,” Wesley said.

“But this is excellent,” Trygve said. “We are here for cross-country, as well. Biathlon, in fact. Have you ever done any shooting?”

A slow smile crept over Wesley’s face as he debated between humility and pride. “Actually,” he said, “I’m something of an amateur marksman.”

- - - - -

Wesley was up at dawn with the Laplanders the next morning for an enormous breakfast before hitting the biathlon course. Trygve turned out to be an excellent instructor, but even so, by lunchtime Wesley was grateful that his companions were there for recreation and inclined to take a leisurely approach, as their slow and easy was an endurance test for him. Still, they were impressed with his shooting and were more than willing to allow him to keep up.

For lunch, they ate jellied herring on a dense sour bread that Hela and Iver carried in their packs, and drank strong black tea from Sigvor’s thermos. Despite the unfamiliarity of the food, Wesley found it invigorating, and was able to continue on afterward with renewed strength.

He spent the rest of the day and all of the next skiing and shooting, and the evenings before the fireplace, listening to his new friends and trying to learn a bit of their language from Trygve’s translation.

He told them about his job as a researcher with a large law firm, carefully obscuring the details that included magic, demons, and a boss that was undead. In kind, Trygve tried to explain the small village collective-type business he and the others worked for, but when it came to the specifics his normally excellent English failed him.

Or that could have simply been the effects of Iver’s homebrew, which was dispensed from a milk-glass bottle into small carved-wood cups. It was clear and potent, with notes of moss and almonds. It only took a few swallows to blur the club room into a golden haze and wash the aches in his muscles away like they had never been.

- - - - -

The third day they left early again. They didn’t take their usual route on the biathlon courses, as even Wesley was no longer challenged by them, but instead went up into the hills, finding their own path through the forest. Hela led the way, using a long, slim dagger to blaze a trail through the trees, and Sigvor chose the targets: a tree stump here or an abandoned beer can there.

They ate their lunch in a clearing blanketed with virgin snow. Small forest animals came up to them without fear and took bits of bread from their fingers.

Later, as the winter sunset was painting the sky a brilliant orange and red, and they were on their way back to the lodge, Hela suddenly waved them to a stop. The rest fell silent at once, and Wesley followed suit. Hela released her boots and stepped out of them, and Wesley watched in astonishment as she ran lightly across the surface of the snow to peer over the rise.

“How…” Wesley began, before Trygve laid one hand on his lips with a warning glare.

Hela returned to the group and whispered to them furtively in their own language, which Wesley was beginning to suspect wasn’t Lappish. When she’d finished, Sigvor and Trygve exchanged more whispered words which Wesley could tell were about him. Trygve clearly won the terse argument, if Sigvor’s look of disgust was any indication, and then the others were undoing their skis, as well, and pulling more blades and lengths of rope from their packs.

“What’s going on?” Wesley whispered to Trygve.

“There is… something very bad coming this way,” Trygve told him. “It is…a large creature. Very dangerous. We are going to try to kill it.”

Wesley took a leap of faith. “Is it a demon?” he asked, and Trygve’s eyes widened in surprise.

“No,” he said. “A frost troll, we think.”

Wesley, conversely, showed no surprise, only squinted into the trees. “Probably hoping to pick off lost skiers,” he said, and Trygve nodded gravely. “Will the rifles work?”

“Yes,” Trygve said. “If you hit him where he is vulnerable.”

“And that would be?”

“In the mouth and the eyes.”

Wesley unshouldered his rifle. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Let’s go, then,” Trygve replied.

- - - - -

The battle was comically short. The frost troll burst from the cover of the trees, howling with rage, and six rifles sounded as one, wreathing the creature’s head in a spray of ichorous blood. Its cry abruptly ceased, and it fell to the ground in a heap.

Wesley’s later examination of the corpse revealed every bullet was true, the six exit wounds on the back of the troll’s head making a jagged, zig-zag line.

- - - - -

“So… what are you?” Wesley asked lamely as they again headed for the lodge.

Trygve laughed. “I thought you would have guessed,” he said, and he raised one hand to pull back his long, pale hair. His exposed ear arched gracefully to a delicate point. “We are elvish,” he said. “But what of you, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, who knows of demons and trolls?”

- - - - -

No longer encumbered by secrets, the little band’s revelry that night was most merry, indeed. The elves showed off their clothing and weapons, more finely made than any human type, and the drink flowed freely.

They only broke up near dawn when Wesley realized he had an airport shuttle to catch in two hours, and he still had bags to pack.

Later, he was slowly sobering up as he walked to the shuttle stop under a too-bright morning sky, only to find Trygve waiting for him. The elf was perched on the back of the bench, in his traditional clothes with his blond hair pulled back from his face.

“Good morning, vampire hunter,” he said loudly, and Wesley groaned.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting on a toadstool somewhere,” he muttered.

“I have a gift for you,” Trygve said. “To remember your adventure as a smiter of trolls.” He reached inside his clothes and drew out a small troll carved of ash-wood, no bigger than Wesley’s thumb.

“Did you carve this?” Wesley asked, as he took the tiny figure and examined the exquisite detail.

“Yes,” Trygve said. “I don’t have much call to carve these days. We don’t make as many of the toys ourselves now as we used to.”

Wesley blinked. “Toys..?” he repeated. “You mean..?”

Trygve laughed. “Have a Merry Christmas, vampire hunter,” he said, stepping down from the bench and heading for the lodge just as the shuttle pulled up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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Replies:

[> Re: New Holiday Fanfic (Part 3) -- Kuzibah, 09:01:26 12/22/03 Mon (12.175.117.195)

Secret Santa III: Angel – Fast Away the Old Year Passes

“When Angel awoke on Christmas Eve morning and saw that it was nearly 11 AM, his first thought was that something so terrible had happened that no one had been able to get upstairs and wake him before they had all been killed in some spectacularly violent way. A quick call to Harmony soon eased his panic as she explained (eventually) that everything was fine, nothing the "gang" couldn't handle, and they'd decided to let him sleep in.

Relieved and pleased, Angel repaired to his bath to find the tub already filled to the temperature he preferred and the water scented with an herbal soak he had once tried in France in the late 1800s, but had never seen in America. A copy of the L.A. Times and two mugs, one filled with coffee and one with blood, were within easy reach.

Suspicious of some new plot, but nonetheless unwilling to let such careful preparation go to waste, Angel sank down into the bath. The soak was as refreshing as he remembered.

Afterwards, he dressed and went down to his office, still slightly amazed that no one had summoned him in a panic. There was the usual office buzz going on, and Harmony greeted him with a smile. He went into his desk and waited for the storm to hit.

By 5 PM, things were still quiet. No questions or requests for help. No dire threats to the survival of the world. Even Eve hadn't found a lame excuse to pop in and be annoyingly condescending. And best of all... no Spike. Not even a glimpse of that infuriating blond head, which was all the more amazing considering he'd become an almost permanent fixture, whining non-stop about his lack of status, funds, and lodgings.

As the office emptied, even the most dyed-in-the-wool evil-doers quitting early to enjoy the holiday, Angel allowed himself a sigh of relief at having had the whole day to himself, and decided to quit early.

He returned to his apartment, fully prepared to put it in order for the now-traditional Christmas party with his friends, only to find everything had already been arranged. Tasteful greenery decorated the tabletops and doorways, and white tapers glowed in every window. An attractive spread of food and drink stood on the sideboard, and Angel could smell spiced beef and a rich Christmas raisin cake. Quiet instrumental music was playing on the stereo.

Angel stepped into the room, trying to sense who had done this. He crossed to the CD player and switched it off just in time to hear the clatter of a spoon against a bowl, followed by an angry hiss.

He reached the kitchen in a flash, only to find a desperate-looking Spike trying to find another way out of the room. Three strides and he had the blond vampire slammed up against the enormous stainless-steel fridge, his hands twisted in Spike's t-shirt.

Angel drew back one fist, only to realize Spike was giving him no struggle. "Just what the hell," he asked instead, "do you think you're doing?"

Spike shoved Angel back. "I'm trying to help you," he said. "For Fred's Secret Santa thing. Wanker," he added for good measure.

"The best present would have been to leave me alone," Angel said.

"What do you think I was trying to do? Not my fault you came home an hour earlier than usual."

Angel felt his anger dissolve. He stepped back and turned slightly away, and ran one hand through his hair. "Okay," he said finally. "Truce. At least through tomorrow night."

Spike could not completely hide his relief. "Truce," he repeated. "For the season's sake."

Angel gave a curt nod and returned to the living room. He started the CD player again, then poured himself a brandy and lowered himself into one of the club chairs.

Spike puttered in the kitchen a few more minutes, then joined Angel in the living room. He took some brandy for himself, then moved to the window to gaze into the street far below them. "Doesn't quite seem like Christmas," he said. "Not with it feeling like Summer. Don't you think?"

"I was never really one for Christmas anyway," Angel said. "So it doesn't matter to me."

Spike nodded. "Yeah, I remember," he said. After a moment he asked, "didn't you wonder who ran the bath this morning?"

"Of course," Angel said. "But I thought..." he trailed off, and Spike turned towards him, curious.

"What?"

"I have... a benefactor. Every Christmas I get these anonymous gifts. I thought he might be doing it."

Spike gave a small smile. "Neat," he said. "what did you get last year?"

Angel looked embarrassed. "He skipped last year. I got the impression he was annoyed with me. But every other Christmas since I came to L.A. I've gotten these... wonderful things."

“Maybe he’ll remember this year,” Spike said, and turned back to the window. He and Angel were silent for a long moment, then Spike said, “the snowflakes on the streetlights? Irony, you think, or did they just not think about it?”

“Probably irony,” Angel said. “After movies, it’s L.A.’s number one export.”

Spike grunted an agreement. “That’s another thing that doesn’t feel like Christmas,” he said.

“I remember this was your favorite time of year,” Angel said. “When we were all together, you looked forward to it for months.”

“Well, yeah,” Spike said, turning to face him, now. “It was the two or three days a year you weren’t a complete asshole. Why wouldn’t I look forward to that?”

Angel’s expression got hard. “Maybe if you weren’t such a brat,” he snarled.

Spike opened his mouth to reply, then shut it a moment later with a snap. He took a deliberate breath, then said quietly, “I’m sorry. Forgot the truce for a minute.”

Angel regarded Spike sternly for a moment, then leaned back. “Come sit down,” he said, and warily Spike sat in the chair opposite. “Let’s begin again,” Angel said. “Thank you for the preparations you’ve done for me tonight, Spike. I appreciate it, and I know the others will, too.”

Spike nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Just trying to make Fred happy, is all.”

“I think it will,” Angel said. “I’m glad you thought of it. I picked her name, and I couldn’t think what she’d like. I ended up getting her some jewelry. It’s not really her, she’s not all girly like that, but I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“I think she’ll like it,” Spike said sincerely. “I think it bothers her sometimes that you lot seem to forget she is a girl. A few sparklies’ll let her know you notice from time to time.”

Angel smiled. “I hope so,” he said. “So what did you get?”

Spike shrugged. “Spa thingie,” he murmured. “Sort of poncey, but nice.”

"Who do you think got it for you?" Angel asked.

"I found out," Spike said. "Receptionist let it slip. Was the Watcher."

Angel nodded.

"What time does the party start?" Spike asked after a moment.

Angel checked his watch. "They should be arriving soon," he said, then his look grew thoughtful. "You know," he said, "all things considered, the Christmases with the four of us were some pretty happy times. In their own way, I mean."

"I always thought so," Spike said, and he gave a small smile. "Do you remember the one year, when we were snowed in, and you..."

"Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!" Gunn shouted as he burst through the door. "Let the merriment begin!"

Angel and Spike both shot to their feet, startled by the sudden intrusion.

"Hi!" Fred called as she entered the apartment. "I brought cookies!"

"And I've brought the bubbly," Lorne added, holding up four bottles.

"Oh, is everyone here already?" Wesley said. "I only just got done downstairs."

"Nope, party's just getting started," Gunn said, taking one of the bottles from Lorne and popping the cork. Angel moved towards the bar to get out glasses, maneuvering around his guests as they began to load up their plates. By the time he had them situated, Spike had retreated to the window, once again staring out into the street.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


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[> Re: New Holiday Fanfic (Part 4) -- Kuzibah, 09:02:36 12/22/03 Mon (12.175.117.195)

Secret Santa: Epilogue – The Fire is Slowly Dying

The group took their seats, the humans balancing plates piled with food and tall glasses of champagne in their laps, and Fred smiled as she looked around the room. The Secret Santas had been revealed soon after they’d arrived at Angel’s apartment, and now the discussion of the various gifts was proceeding.

“That trip was far too extravagant,” Wes said to Gunn, his benefactor.

“I disagree,” Gunn countered. “You deserve it, I can afford it. What’s the problem?”

Spike, perched on the arm of Fred’s chair, brushed back her hair to admire her diamond earrings and pendant. “The poof has good taste,” he said. “They bring out the sparkle in your eyes.”

Fred blushed and lowered her gaze. “Thank you,” she said.

“A vintage, 1950’s cocktail set,” Lorne extolled to the room at large. “Once owned by the Dean-o himself! Who knew our little Winifred had such connections?”

“Speaking of connections,” Gunn said to Lorne, “that party you wangled an invite for me for? What a night! And I don’t care what anybody says. That J-Lo is a sweetheart!”

“Matt Damon might disagree with you, sugar pie,” Lorne said. “But tell me, what was Nicole wearing..?”

Angel caught up with Fred at the buffet table, as she was loading up her plate with seconds. “Wonderful idea,” he told her.

“I’m glad it worked out,” she said. “And thanks again for the jewelry.”

“My pleasure,” Angel said, surprised it was the truth.

- - - - -

The party had just broken up, and Angel had called for cars to return his humans to their respective homes. He and Spike, still in the midst of their Christmas truce, were cleaning out the living room. Angel swept food and empty bottles into a large trash bag while Spike loaded glasses and dishes into the dishwasher.

“It was a good party,” Angel said, and Spike grunted assent.

“You’ve good people,” Spike said. “Though I’ll deny that come Friday.”

Angel chuckled. “Of course,” he said.

Spike shut the dishwasher and started it just as Angel dropped the last bag down the trash chute.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Angel asked, as Spike gathered his things and headed for the door.

“Don’t know,” was the reply. “Probably nothing. Why do you ask?”

Angel shrugged. “I thought maybe we could…” Spike raised an eyebrow, and the older vampire trailed off.

“You don’t mean it,” Spike said, an edge of laughter in his voice, and Angel grinned.

“No, I probably don’t,” he agreed.

“See you Friday, then,” Spike said. “Or maybe after the weekend.” And then he was out the door.

Angel shut off the lights and entered his bedroom. On the bed was a large, red envelope. He immediately went and opened it.

Inside was a sheet of cream-colored paper, bordered in holly and poinsettias, with a letter typed in dark green ink.

“Happy Holidays to Our Friends and Family,” read the salutation, and Angel’s brow furrowed in confusion. He continued reading.

“It’s been quite a year for all of us,” the letter continued, “and we only hope that all of you have had as happy and prosperous a year as we have here on Pinewood Crescent.”

Angel felt his heart lurch, suddenly realizing the significance of this letter. He scanned down the page, reading certain sentences. “Our son… competed at state’s in cross-country and track… Gold in the 400 m relay, silver in the 1000 m… Graduated 19th in his class from Sanger High School… Started University in Sept… still undeclared but doing very well.”

Angel re-read those lines again, then read the whole letter, consoled by the portrait of a close, loving family. When he reached for the envelope to put the letter away, he saw a gold-wrapped package where there had been none before. He jumped, and looked around the room.

“Are you there?” he said softly, but there was no answer.

He reached for the package and tore off the wrapping. Inside was a small, cheap photo album, the kind one might buy in a drugstore, that would only hold a dozen or so snapshots. Angel knew what they were before he opened it, and he turned back the cover with reverence.

The first picture was a hospital baby portrait: Connor, newborn and freshly washed, dressed in a light-blue snuggly and cap. From the very first moment he was better off, Angel thought.

He paged slowly through the rest of the photos. There was Connor as a toddler, sitting in a high chair with Cheerios stuck in his hair. A birthday party, where he looked about four. His first day of school, little denim backpack at his feet. A formal portrait with his sisters. As a boy of ten, sitting in a rowboat holding a silvery fish on a line. A track meet, prom, high-school graduation.

Finally, another Christmas, with Connor looking more a man than ever, on a fireplace hearth with a decorated tree in the background. The shot was candid, as the boy wasn’t even looking up, instead engrossed in a sketch he was working on. Angel got the strong feeling that this picture had been taken a moment before the album had appeared on the bed.

Angel could feel the tears coming, and he clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut until he once again had control.


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[> I loved each of these. -- wwolfe, 12:53:29 12/22/03 Mon (161.149.63.110)

Especially the way they ended.

The droll humor of the first, including the sly nod to a Tolkien crossover (as well as the secret to Santa's success all these years) was fun. The truce between Angel and Spike, and the underlying melancholy emotions on both character's parts that led to it, was a nice rendition of the flipside of holiday cheer that is a recurring counterbalance to the official story (especially in songs: "I'll Be Home For Christmas," "Every Day Will Be a Holiday," the original lyrics of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"). You even managed the difficult feat of making Gunn and Fred unannoying (plus, a gleefully gratuitous barb at Eve - well done). And the little Christmas miracle of the photobook, particularly the details of each shot, was the perfect capper.

Thanks for continuing this tradition. Just seeing the titles of tyhe individual stories puts me in the Christmas spirit.


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[> [> Thank you -- Kuzibah, 08:45:13 12/23/03 Tue (12.175.117.195)

Maybe it's a personal thing, or maybe it's just not as interesting dramatically, but these stories do have this underlying melancholy, and I'm really noticing it myself this year. But I'm glad people are responding to that. Maybe it's more widespread than the pop-culture would lead one to believe.


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[> So great -- Pouncer, 14:19:49 12/22/03 Mon (198.26.74.99)

I especially loved that Angel's surprise gift was a report on Connor's life.

I'm dying over the elves. Dying.


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[> [> Thanks -- Kuzibah, 08:56:53 12/23/03 Tue (12.175.117.195)

And that story ended up going a completely different place than when it was first conceived. Which is good, because the original idea would have been fairly bland. But the thought of Legolas and Haldir carving little dolls and trucks tickled me, too.


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[> outstanding... -- shk24, 16:00:35 12/22/03 Mon (208.17.34.25)

i always look forward to your holiday stories...

they were all very well done. i also liked the ambiguity of the ending of spike's christmas although if i had to decide one way or another, my guess is that wesley thought it through carefully and came up with the gift himself. if for no other reason than to honor fred's wishes of taking the secret santa seriously.

as for angel's christmas, i figured there would be something to do with connor and the photo album was a great choice. although, i did think for a moment that you might have included something from angel's other "kids" from one of your earlier fanfics...


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[> [> Re: Wesley... I remain mum -- Kuzibah, 08:59:01 12/23/03 Tue (12.175.117.195)

Mostly because I'm not sure myself.

And I did consider the kids from this summer, but I didn't want to get too far away from canon.

I do think we'll see them again, however. Maybe around St. Valentine's day.


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