RATING: pretty tame; i'd go with PG
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from "Buffy the vampire slayer", they are the property of joss whedon, an evil genius who tortures us all. the idea for the story is mine, but if joss wants to use it, he's more than welcome!! (might fix a few, ahem "mistakes" as it were... ;)
DISTRIBUTION: please let me know where you are taking my story, but I'm, flattered if you're interested.
SPOILERS: none that I know of
SUMMARY: Buffy has a melancholy holiday; some angst, some woe, but fluff will prevail
FEEDBACK: it would be most greatly appreciated; I am addicted, and you don't want to see me when my supply is interrupted ;) please send comments to:
DEDICATION: to shirlz, who's been coaxing me to write more, and who provided a SINFULLY delicious "do it yourself" kit as incentive... I'll send it back as soon as they recover enough to survive the journey *eg*

ONE

God rest ye merry gentlemen
let nothing you dismay.
Remember Christ our Savior
was born on Christmas day,
to save us all from Satan's pow'r
when we had gone astray.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,
comfort and joy,
Oh tidings of comfort.

Comfort and joy, things of wonder, indeed, mused Buffy Summers as she made her way down Main Street. Passing the shops that lined Sunnydale's main thoroughfare, she gazed listlessly at the window displays, decked with gaudy tinsel and bright bows, festive colors drawing the attention of greedy holiday shoppers to their wares, framed amidst glittering lights and twinkling icicles. Everywhere about her was the press of humanity, rushing to finish last minute shopping in the three days before Christmas Eve. If she listened carefully, blocked out the turmoil within, she could hear snippets of the individual conversations around her, her Slayer senses stealing tiny pieces of paradise, small windows into the life she had been denied. A small smile curved her lips, belying the sadness in her heart, to hear a little girl begging prettily for the beautiful porcelain doll in the toy store across the street. Turning her head slightly, she listened with amusement as a mother and her grown daughter discussed what to buy for the husband and father who had "everything" and refused to share his wishes. Close behind came the excited scheme of two young boys who felt that giving their mother the video game they had been wanting would be a perfect solution to their gift-giving quandaries. Surrounded by the hum of life, immersed in the mass of shoppers, it was almost possible to forget her loneliness, and isolation forged from the steel of a sacred calling and tempered in the flame of sacrifice and fate, and untouched by the companionship of friends. Here, amongst these people, surrounded by laughter and conversation, she could almost ignore the aching pain in her heart, the need that neither time nor distance had eased. Another couple caught her attention, their low, intimate voices the tone of familiar lovers. Glancing behind her, she saw a man and a woman in their early thirties, clasping hands and smiling into each other's eyes as they planned their family holiday. and what they would do when the "family" went home. Watching the man's eyebrows lift in an ever-so-subtle promise, and hearing the woman's voice become husky with desire, and anticipation, the sorrow that was Buffy's faithful comrade swelled, and burst its bounds, and the Chosen One walked on alone, a solitary tear tracing its way down one cheek.

TWO

Willow made her way to the house on Ravello Drive, a giddy spring in her step that belied her age. At 39, she still had the slender figure and red hair of her youth, but the promise of unconventional beauty that had been present in the 17 year old waif had been transformed into the arresting, almost exotic creature who commanded the attention of the students in her history and occult mythology classes with a single look. Though she still lamented the over-commercialization of the Christmas season, wasting no opportunity to remind her friends that "not everyone worships Santa", the holiday had become an important tradition for her "family" over the years. It was special to Buffy, therefore it was special to them. Each year for the past 15, the gang would gather at the Summers' home on December 24th, share an evening of food and fun, and then open their gifts to one another. It was usually the one time during the year when everyone was together-Willow and Oz, married for 12 years with 2 children, Xander and Anya, engaged for the past 3, Wesley and Cordelia and their son, and Angel-and had come to be, more than anything else, a "Reunion" of the Scooby Gang. In years past, the night had ended with the parents scooping their sleeping children from the floor, and going home to prepare for the next day's frenetic "play-a-thons", as Xander liked to call them. However, now that the children were older, Willow and Oz's youngest was 10 and Cordelia and Wesley's boy was 9, the adults could look forward to a leisurely trip down memory lane, while the kids played with the arcade system Buffy had installed the year prior for just such a purpose. Willow had wondered at such an expense, because she knew Buffy didn't play and couldn't imagine that Giles, who divided his time between Sunnydale and England since Joyce's death 5 years ago, would ever make use of the system, but Buffy had just given her a small smile, saying that no expense was too great for "family", and that was the end of the discussion. Now, Willow was on her way to the house, to help Buffy begin the yearly decorating that heralded the approach of the annual festivities. Turning the knob on the door, she walked inside, a cheery smile on her face.

"Buffy! I'm here. So, are you to get started on the." Willow froze, her heart pounding within her chest. Instead of the organized chaos she expected, the ornaments and holly tossed haphazardly about the den, the naked tree leaning in the corner, she saw only the ordered neatness of a house barely inhabited. No dust clutter marred the pristine order, no pine needles littered the immaculate floor. but most disturbing of all was the sight of Buffy seated at the kitchen table, a card held in her trembling hand, silent tears tracking down her stricken face.

"It's over, Will", she said on a shaky breath, "it's all over."

THREE

Rushing to her friend's side, Willow enveloped her in a comforting embrace. Although she said nothing else for long moments, pain and sorrow radiated from Buffy's slight form, a grief made all the more potent by its nearly silent expression. No sobs passed her lips, no moans of anguish; just a steady river of tears, falling from eyes which held no life. After long moments, Buffy pulled away, a wooden figure muted by woe.

"Buffy, what is it? What's happened? Is it. it's not Angel, is it?"

"No, Will, it's not Angel, it's me. The me that I was. it's gone. I'm gone."

"You're not making any sense. What do you mean 'you're gone'? You're right here!! You're. oh my God! You're not. are you sick, Buffy?" Willow asked frantically, suddenly terrified that the missive in her friend's hand heralded some dread disease. "Even if you are, there's no need to be so defeatist!! You're still young, and medical breakthroughs happen every day, and-"

"No, Willow, I'm not sick. at least, not in any way that a doctor could help. Tell me, what kind of medicine can you take when it's your identity that's sick, you're purpose that's dying?" Buffy's voice trailed away, it's tear-roughened tones giving way to silence. "So tell me, Will, what do I do if I'm not the Slayer? Who am I if I'm not the 'Chosen one'?", she whispered.

"Not the-Buffy, what are you talking about? 'Sacred destiny, the one girl in all the world, chosen from your generation'; ringing any bells, here? How can you suddenly "not" be the Slayer? I know this has been a hard life for you, and I know that you must have wished a million times that this duty could have passed to someone else, but it didn't and-"

"It did."

"-you'll just have to. What?"

"It did; it passed to someone else. I'm not the Slayer anymore."

"How did that happen? There must be some mistake! Why would you think."

"Here, Willow, this says it all. 'comfort and joy' indeed. Helluva way to celebrate Christmas, isn't it?" Handing Willow the card, Buffy rose from the table, her movements slow and tired. "I think I'm gonna step outside for a minute, if you don't mind." Giving Willow no time to respond, Buffy walked out the door, her gait the careful, deliberate pace of someone who feared to collapse with an unwary move. It was the stride of an old, frail creature, not the vibrant woman the world was used to. Watching her exit, Willow was struck by the fact that, for the first time she could remember, Buffy looked every one of her 40 years, and then some. Torn between worry and concern for her friend, and curiosity as to the letter in her hand, she finally tore her gaze away from the solitary figure standing just outside the door, and focused on the message at hand. What she read there shocked her beyond words:

To Buffy Anne Summers, in this her 40th year:

We wish to thank you for all your years of service. Although you did not function as an official tool of the Council, you nonetheless upheld your sacred duty with the greatest of aplomb and dedication. We are well aware that on numerous occasions you acted to avert disasters of a cosmic scale, often at great personal cost. For this, and for your truly remarkable example, we applaud you; mere words can never express our gratitude, but they are the only laurels we can offer. Your ingenuity, and dedication will long be lauded as the stuff of legend. However, for all legends there comes a time of quiet, of solitude, of well-earned rest, and that time has come for you. You cannot have been unaware of your waning strength, your slowing reflexes, over the past five years; these are but the signs of a Slayer no longer endowed with the preturnatural skills of her Sisterhood. Indeed, had you been anyone other than who you are, a less-talented, less trained warrior, you would have surely met your end sometime this past decade. Because you WERE who you are, and because, despite your lessening powers, you held firm as this world's bulwark, its protector, the balance was believed safe. Now, however, we can no longer ignore the danger implicit in your continuance as Slayer, and if you are honest with yourself, you will see we are correct in this matter. We entreat you to continue the fight, and welcome your counsel and aid, but we must pass the mantel of your calling to another; a new generation has come of age, and with it, a Chosen One. Do not feel your efforts were in vain, for your tenure as Slayer has fulfilled a task we thought impossible, and closed your Hellmouth forever. Now, however, there are new portals to close, and new peoples to protect, and the vanguard of guardianship is no longer you burden to bear. Be at peace, Buffy Summers, and know that you have served well.

Eternal Thanks,
Richard Westinghouse, Council Prefect

Shaken, Willow looked outside, the letter clutched in her trembling hand. Her gaze fell upon the haunted figure of the friend she loved like a sister, defeat written in every line of her body.

"Oh, Buffy", she whispered, her eyes misted with tears, "what will you do now?"

FOUR

The next day, Buffy set about decorating her house for the holidays. After a long talk, a night spent in tearful reflection of all that had passed over the past 24 years, she had said goodnight to Willow, swearing her to secrecy.

The night brought with it a strange sense of clarity, and, if not contentment, at least peace. There was a comfort to be found in resignation, albeit small consolation for such a deep blow. Placing the finishing touch on the large cedar purchased from the Sunnydale High 4-H club, a warrior angel, armed with a crossbow and adorned with flowing robes of scarlet, she stepped back to admire her creation. As always, the tree held a chaotic swirl of color: mismatched ornaments brimming with sentimental memories, twinkling lights in every hue, each strand tapping its own rhythm, competing and combining with its neighbor to create a dizzying kaleidoscope. But what drew her gaze, softened her eyes in wistful recollection and brought a melancholy tear to their hazel orbs, was the angel itself. To an unfamiliar visitor, the choice of decoration might seems incongruous, Christmas being a celebration of love, a season dominated by soft, wispy cherubs, but to her, the guardian atop her tree was love personified; it was her Angel. Turning from her memories, she walked to the sofa to retrieve the gifts, she placed them under the tree. The sweater she had purchased for Xander, a gaudy creation in orange and lime, was placed next to the small bag containing the designer incense for Willow. To the left was Anya's necklace, and the crystal decanter with Cordelia's name emblazoned on the gift card. The vintage "Dead" collection for Oz sat next to the software that his eldest son, Daniel, had been wanting for months, and slightly in front of the earrings Anne, Willow's daughter, had admired weeks before. For Wesley there was an original copy of "A Christmas Carol", complete with hand drawn color plates, and for Robert, his son, a comprehensive guide to American aircraft, to fuel his latest obsession. She had no gift bearing Giles' name, having mailed the vintage bourbon to his London address some days ago, and that left only one package not yet in place: the one with Angel's name. Reaching a trembling hand to touch the small box, wrapped gaily in gilt paper with curling ribbons trailing down its sides, she carefully placed it beside the other packages, shielding it fragile contents from unwary footsteps. Taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet, absently smoothing her dark green blouse as she rose. Glancing at the clock, she realized that they would all be there in less than two hours. With one last look at the gift lately placed beneath the evergreen boughs, she turned and made her way upstairs. When she returned, and hour and a half had passed, and she was dressed for the occasion, her frame draped in a deep burgundy knit dress, hair loosely pulled back, and artful cosmetics applied to her arresting face. Only the most perceptive person would have noted the pallor of her face beneath the blush, and only someone even more attentive could have seen the thinly veiled despair in her eyes, hidden behind a mask of false cheer.

FIVE

The gang gathered around the Christmas tree, wrapping paper and bows littering the floor like so much confetti on the floor. Amidst the laughter, and jokes, and thank you's, a quiet sense of family drifted through the gathering. Still, something was missing, for Angel was not there. Cordelia and Wesley had arrived with Robert in tow, and a hastily penned note from Angel, stating that he would not be arriving until Christmas day.

Frantically holding on to her self-control, Buffy fought not to break down in front of the others; the one thing she had counted on was Angel's support, even if he offered only the concern of a friend and not the love her heart craved, and now that, too, seemed beyond her grasp. Watching the clock with quiet desperation, Buffy waited for the night to end, so that she could cry alone, and wait for Angel. Meanwhile, she mused with bitter irony, life goes on.

"So, Buff, what's with the long face? Thought you were 'Happy Holiday' girl? Were our presents that bad?"

Shaken out of her reverie by Xander's teasing words, Buffy blinked, pasting a smile on her face.

"Of course they were, Xander; how many times do I have to tell you, I don't cook?" she teased weakly, eliciting chortles from everyone in the room as the ongoing joke was revived; every year, in addition to her "real" present, Xander gave her the same cookbook, containing 242 truly horrible recipes. Every year as "punishment" she would make a new dish, and serve it for New Year's, and evreyone would take one bite, and rate Buffy's "cooking". It was a silly tradition, but sometimes it's the little things that make a circle of friends into a family.

"Well, you'd think I'd learn after that 'Eggs Benedict a L'orange' you subjected us to last year, but I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment," Xander retorted.

"Or, maybe you're just a glutton," Cordelia fired back, with a good natured sneer directed at the box of chocolates her former lover was munching.

"Cordy, you're just angry 'cause I ate the last pecan praline."

"No, Xander, I'm the one who's angry about the praline; Cordy wanted the caramel cream," Willow chimed in.

"Actually, Willow, I wanted the dark chocolate truffle; Wes wanted the caramel cream." Cordelia replied.

Soon a good natured "argument" was under way, each person demanding a particular piece of candy, all of which had already been consumed by one Alexander Harris. It was just like old times, eerily familiar to their days together in high school, but with one glaring difference; when they said goodbye, they would not be going home alone, would not be returning to their solitary rooms. No, they would leave with the one they loved, headed for another year filled with affection and companionship. All except Buffy; for Buffy, there was no future filled with love, no lifetime of devotion, only the cold, bleak existence of a "friend". Forever among friends, forever without love, forever alone. Quietly withdrawing from the room, she made her way upstairs. Slipping the dress from her shoulders, she donned a long flannel nightgown before opening her window to sit in its sill as she had done so very many times before. Leaning her head against the window frame, staring numbly at the gentle sway of the leaves on the tree directly outside her window, she closed her eyes, reflecting on all that was lost, as a silver river of constant sorrow trailed down her cheeks, glistening in the moonlight.

SIX

Angel arrived at her house shortly after three in the morning, finding the residence dark and quiet, everyone save Buffy having left hours ago. Although he suspected Buffy would not look for him to arrive until that evening, he found he could no longer stay away, which is why, minutes after wrapping up his case, he had jumped into his car and started towards Sunnydale, towards. her. The fact that she wanted only his friendship had not dimmed his feelings for her; if anything, his love for her had grown over the years, developed into a deep and abiding passion that would never fade. His utter devotion swelled his heart, making it difficult to affect the mask of comraderie that she demanded, but making it equally impossible to stay away. She was the flame to his moth, beckoning him closer and closer to her warmth, enticing him to throw himself willingly on the altar of her adoration.

As he pulled into the driveway, a small grin lifted the corner of his mouth; from his vantage point below, he could see the gentle sway of her bedroom curtains, blowing gently in the chill breeze. Shaking his head at the thought that, no matter how many years passed some things never changed, he bypassed the front door of the darkened house in favor of the oak tree that had often served as the trellis to his lady's bower. Reaching it's trunk, he began to climb effortlessly, wondering with some amusement if Buffy had left the window open just for him. At her window, ready to tease her about the safety of leaving an entry way open for any passing stranger to enter unannounced, he paused, shocked by the site before him. Buffy sat against the window frame, her breathing the shallow rhythm of distress, tears marking her cheeks. All amusement fled, he moved swiftly to sit beside her, one hand cupping her cheek as he called her name.

"Buffy, what's wrong?"

Not opening her eyes, she sighed softly and replied, "Nothing. everything. Life, destiny. " Her voice cracked, and the tears flowed more swiftly.

More concerned than ever, he reached forward, drawing her gently into his arms as sobs wracked her frame.

"Shhhhhh, it's okay. Whatever it is, we can get through this. Just tell me, tell me what's wrong. Easy love, shhhhh, hush now-" Over and over he crooned reassurances, stroking her back softly with each phrase, until finally words faded away, replaced by soft murmurs, wordless sounds of comfort that mingled with her muffled weeping until her tears stopped, drained by exhaustion. Noticing her slight shiver in the aftermath, Angel stepped fully into her room and gathered her gently in his arms, carrying her over to the bed. His back against the headboard, he cradled her in his lap, turning her face up to meet his gaze. His eyes adapting easily to the shadows, he scanned her face urgently, distressed by the grief he saw written there.

"Open your eyes, love. Look at me. What's wrong? Please tell me, tell me what I can do. Please, Buffy?" he entreated, unconsciously tightening his embrace as she obeyed, and he saw for the first time the emptiness in her eyes.

"Can you turn back time, Angel? Can you change fate?" she asked hoarsely. "No, didn't think so. There's nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Nothing I can do. it's all done, and said, and written in stone." She laughed mirthlessly.

"I still don't underst-"

"Here, read for yourself. The Council says it much better than I could; they wrap it up in nice little words like 'peace' and 'quiet' and 'rest', but the results still the same. I'm nothing, have nothing, and everything that made me who I am is. gone. Just gone, faded." Handing Angel the letter, she moved to stand in front of the open window, gazing blankly at the stars above.

Stunned, Angel read the words before him. Anger and disbelief at the callousness of the Council in giving her such news at Christmas, in a cold letter, warred with a wild joy; now, his Slayer could rest, now she no longer need face death every night. Now, at last, she was free. Walking to stand behind her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Buffy, I know this is unexpected, and shocking, but just think of what this means. You're free, now, free to do whatever you want to do, be whatever you want to be. You can visit places you've never seen, experience things you never had the chance to. Explore-"

"What's the point if I'm alone?"

"-the possibilities. What? What do you mean "alone"?"

"I mean just that, "alone": as in, I have no-one to share this new 'freedom' with, no-one to 'explore the possibilities' with. I'm alone; I have been for a very long time, but at least I had some direction, some reason for my solitude, some greater purpose to hold as a talisman against all the things I had foregone. Now, even that is gone, and I'm nothing. Just a tired, lonely woman, with more emptiness to fill my nights."

"But you're not alone! You have your friends, Willow and Xander, and even Cordelia and Oz. Don't forget Anya and Wesley, and there's me, and-"

"They're not going to fill this hole in my heart, this ache in my soul. At the end of the day, they have each other, and I'm the fifth wheel, the square peg standing on the outside, looking into their little worlds with longing. That's the way it's always been, the way it always will be. Buffy Summers is alone, and she'll always be lonely."

"Buffy, you have me. I'll always be here for you, always be your friend-" Angel stopped, his words halted by the gentle hand placed over his mouth.

"Friends." she whispered, "such a cruel, cruel word."

Struck by the pain in her eyes, his unneeded breath stolen by the unspoken longing in her gaze, Angel dared to hope that he had not misunderstood the message in her last words.

"It's the word you chose, the relationship you wanted for us."

Buffy's eyes widened, and she laughed incredulously. "What I chose?! Angel, you were the one who wanted to be friends, who didn't want to get back together after we found out the curse was permanent! You said you wanted to be my 'friend'-"

"Because you were with Riley, and I thought you were happy!"

"Didn't it occur to you that the fact that I broke up with Riley less than a month after you dropped your little bombshell might indicate I wanted more than 'friendship?"

"But you were so happy-"

"Because I thought I was finally going to be with you! But you never said anything, you didn't seem to want what we once had-"

"Because I thought that's what YOU wanted! You never said anything to me, and you seemed content with our relationship, and I didn't want to make you feel guilty about not wanting to be with me, and-"

"Not want to be with you? Angel, that's the only thing I've ever wanted. The only thing." her voice broke, and she found herself once again clutched in the strength of his embrace, both of them shaken to the core to realize how foolish they had been, how much time they had wasted. After long minutes, Angel raised his face from her shoulder, tipping her gaze to meet his.

"Why, Buffy? Why, after all that happened, would you want me?" he asked achingly, crimson tears trailing from his eyes.

Smiling softly, Buffy turned away to retrieve a small package from the dresser, handing it to him wordlessly. With a questioning look, Angel began to unwrap the gift, which bore his name on the tag. Pulling aside the layers of tissue paper, he found an exquisite hand blown paperweight, colored with every hue of the sunrise. Near the bottom were almost indiscernible figures which, when viewed up close, resembled the entwined forms of a man and a woman, standing beside an ocean painted orange by the sun's glow. Beneath the glass orb was a note:

Dearest Angel,

When I saw this, I knew I had to get it for you. Not to offer you a glimpse of what you can never see for yourself, and not as a reminder of what you are not, but rather to convey to you what you mean to me. You had it wrong all those years ago when you said I was your light, your sunshine. The truth is, you are MY light, my salvation, and the most wonderful part of my life. Thank you for giving me the privilege of knowing you, and the honor of loving you. You truly bring joy to my soul.

Forever,
Buffy

"Oh, Buffy" he whispered, "You leave me speechless. I don't know what to say. I-"

"Just say 'yes'. Yes, you love me. Yes, we can start again. Yes, you want to be with me for the rest of my life. Yes-"

" 'Yes' to all of it and more. 'Yes', I want to make love to you every night. 'Yes', I want to wake up with you every morning. 'Yes' I want to laugh with you, and hold you when you cry, and share every amazing moment with you. 'Yes', I want to be your friend, and I want to love you forever." Each vow was made with a passionate kiss, filled with fierce tenderness and love. Dropping to his knees before her, Angel took her hands in his, and gazed up solemnly.

"Buffy Anne Summers, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" she replied breathlessly, laughing and crying at once.

Standing to clasp her in a tight embrace, Angel kissed her passionately, pouring his love, and relief, and joy into her being. Drawing away after long minutes, Angel tenderly stroked her face.

"My miracle," he whispered softly, "my love-"

"My joy, " she answered, "my soul-"

Entwined together, they affirmed their love in the morning hours. Outside, the faint sound of carolers could be heard, and Buffy smiled, content. Indeed, this WAS a season of 'comfort and joy'.

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