Rating: NC-17 overall (some entries as mild as a G)
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most who post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Summary: It's the year 2047 and Aishling Rosenberg has recently discovered that her grandmother left behind a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living.
Feedback: Beggars can't be choosey, and I'm begging, so. . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
30 January 2001
Well, Will, this is pretty much how I spent the remainder of my time on that fateful Thanksgiving Day. Was it really only two months ago? It's so odd. Some of the memories are crystal clear. I can actually still feel certain physical sensations and many of the emotions I felt coming flooding back and threaten to overwhelm me. And yet, other aspects of that entire weekend, like the memory of our night together, seem to have faded a bit and are surrounded by a warm, rosy glow. These memories comfort me, calm and soothe me when I am most agitated or at my wits end. Ah, but that was one of the reasons behind your sharing yourself with me, wasn't it? To give a memory that I could cherish always. The memory of a woman who loves me selflessly; a woman, who not only restored my soul, but helped set it free to love again. (Of course, I know one or two of your other reasons, as well, but we'll keep those just between us for the time being!) Aoífe has informed me that the two of you have planned a big celebration for Candlemas (or Imbolc, as you traditionalists like to call it). She has insisted that I am to come up to San Francisco and celebrate with you. I suppose I shall have to get used to practicing some of the old ways again if I wish to keep you both pleased. Until then, I am forever yours. Angelus
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Well, now there was no point in continuing to search for her, or even to turn around for that matter. She was gone. An instant after she'd finished calling my bluff, she'd fled the cathedral.
She called me a liar!
I had no idea why, but the void left by her rapid departure was almost devastating. I was reluctant to leave the space we had occupied *together*. I reached up to touch the ear she had just caressed with her mouth, hoping to find some of her moisture still there. My fingers came away with just the slightest bit of her spittle. I quickly took in the scent of it before the last trace of her body fluid had a chance to evaporate. Then I shocked even myself by putting my fingers into my mouth. I had been overwhelmed by the need to capture the taste of her, as well.
I tell you, it was good detective work, pure and simple. The fact that I was suffering from a raging hard-on was irrelevant. There was nothing of a sexual nature involved in my actions. [Yeah, right.] I was just gathering what evidence I could, using it to catalogue her smell and taste, so that I might use that information if I encountered her again. My methods may seem a bit crude. They're just another aspect of my bestial nature, one that often disturbs those who have watched me at work. But, it would be remiss of me not to use my vampiric senses to their full capabilities, regardless of how unconventional my methods may appear.
And yes, my state of arousal really was beside the point. Let's face it, it had been a long time since anyone had touched me that way, physically touched me with a sexual intent. The last time I'd made love to a woman was over two years ago and the events which followed that encounter have left me, shall we say, gun shy. And hungry. Before that night there had been an even longer period of celibacy. *Much* longer. So, the fact that my body responded to her scent, her warmth, her touch really was not surprising and of very little consequence.
Of very little consequence? Just who the hell was I kidding? At that moment I would have done almost anything to have her put her mouth to my body again. I would have willing given up almost everything I held dear if she would just come back and stand beside me once more.
What had me frozen to that spot was the way I felt on the inside, not how I felt on the outside. Does that make sense?
There was an emptiness, a vacant place inside me now, a place she had occupied for just a few minutes and now I was longing for her return. Do you know the feeling you get when you know that something is missing, but you don't know what that something is? Your stomach's in a knot, your chest feels like there's a fifty-pound weight on it, your heart aches (even if it doesn't beat). It's this horrible sense of anxiety, an almost paralyzing fear that you may never find that elusive something and will always feel this hollow, this incomplete.
Why did I feel like she'd touched my soul, not just my body? Who the hell was this witch?
A witch? Now that was a very distinct possibility.
I was positive she'd worked some kind of magic. Over me? Over herself? I honestly couldn't say which. She had quite literally hidden in plain sight and that had to have required the use of magic.
Still, I was so sure that the boy had been fed upon. Judging by the fact that he was obviously stoned, the vampire had probably been after a hit of the drug in his system. We don’t usually feed on blood that’s contaminated, unless it’s been tainted with a substance we want. Like cocaine. But I'd already checked the most common feeding sites, so short of stripping the poor boy right there in the church, no way was I going to get the proof I needed.
Oh, and speaking of the church. . .Why was I still standing in there anyway? I had no intentions of entering in the first place and the next thing I knew I was standing around just waiting to get caught by the authorities. I knew that they would be arriving soon, now that she'd left. Until that point, I didn't even think about the fact that the cathedral had a security system, or why it hadn't alerted the police long ago. I'm sure that was her handiwork, as well.
And there was that living example of her handiwork who was still passed out in the back of the church. So she probably wasn't a vampire. He was, after all, still alive. Maybe the boy had just done too much coke. Or maybe I'd nearly scared him to death with my overzealous display of machismo. Whatever the reason for his incapacitated state, I couldn't just leave him. If he was found there in the church, he'd have hell to pay. And it wasn't his fault. Hers, mine, but not his. He was just a pawn in her little game.
I couldn't help but glance down at the picture I still held in my hand. Yet another handiwork. And another game?
I was wasting too much time standing there. I gathered up the boy and slipped out of the cathedral before we were discovered. I had planned on going a few blocks, calling the hotel for a limo and then leaving the boy in the care of the driver. (Discretion can be bought.) Ah, but I quickly discovered that she'd already made other arrangements. There was a car and driver waiting for us at the curb in front of the church.
"Beg your pardon, sir," the old man said. He spoke with the smooth brogue of a well educated Irishman. It's an accent that still pulls at my heartstrings and its sound instantly made me remember and long for days past, time spent listening to my father tell tall tales or to my mother reading aloud.
"Sir," the driver said softly, gently pulling me back to the here and now. "If you'd be so kind as to deposit Master Daniel into the car, I'll see to it that he gets home safely."
"So, she sent for you?" It was really more a statement than a question.
"Aye, 'twas my mistress' wish that I be of assistance. But, sir, I fear we must hurry. You were a long time in exiting the church and sure enough the paddies will be here any minute now."
I had little choice but to heed his warning. I put the still unconscious boy into the back seat of the car and then turned to leave.
"M'lady said I was also to take you wherever you wish to go," her faithful servant called after me.
"Can you take me to her?"
"No sir."
"Well then, you really can't take me where I want to go. Ask her, who's the liar now?"
And with that said, I strode away. There was little point in harassing the old man. He was just doing his duty. And by that time, I really had no desire to keep playing this little game of cat and mouse or whatever it was.
I wanted
to get back to the hotel and confront Whistler. I was certain he had the
answers to a great many of my questions. I just hoped I wouldn't have to
beat them out of him. Then again, just because I no longer relished the
thought of being on the receiving end of a torture session, occasionally
being on the giving end could be enjoyable. And I really wouldn't hurt
him - much.
Whistler was seated at a booth in the back of the hotel bar, his standard flamboyant outfit making him easy to spot even in the darkest corner of the room. There was an empty shot glass and a mug of beer before him. He was staring into the amber liquid, apparently lost in thought because he didn't acknowledge my presence even after I slid into the booth, taking a seat on the bench opposite him. I cleared my throat, loudly, and his head shot up.
"Angel, buddy, I was starting to worry about you."
I simply glared at him, arching a quizzical eyebrow in response to his statement of concern.
"Well, it's been like, what, almost two years since I saw you last. Although you didn't see me than did you? But, hey, how's Doyle working out? You got him towing the line yet?"
I felt my chest start to rumble, growling just enough to let Whistler know that I was in no mood for word games.
"Hey, Angel, okay, enough with the vocalization. You'll have the waitress looking for a loose dog in here. It's just that it's almost 12:30. You're usually waiting for me. What gives?"
I slapped the large white paper down on the table. The Rose window seemed to blaze with color despite the very dim lighting in the bar. Even the small teardrop of blood seemed to glow with a scarlet radiance it hadn't possessed earlier, making it all the more visible to anyone gazing upon the drawing. I was somewhat embarrassed, letting Whistler see me caught in a moment of personal weakness. But then he's the one who came to me when I was filthy and starving and living on the streets. And if he ever saw some of the earlier pictures, he'd see me in much more compromising positions than the one depicted here.
"One of yours?" he asked, feigning innocence.
"It is now," I growled, low and menacing. Whistler knew that it was not a drawing I'd done myself. My own works are always on display in my home and now my office. He'd seen them often enough to know this was not my style. Nor did I ever draw myself. I find it impossible to draw that which I can not see. I just continued to glare at him and to growl softly.
"Yeah, you're right, that was pretty lame of me." The little demon actually had the nerve to snicker at me as he pulled the drawing closer.
"Hell, this puts most of your scribbling to shame. It's good."
"I know that!" I was having a very hard time staying in control. "What I don't know is who's doing them and why. But, I'm pretty sure you can help me with that, *buddy*."
Now it was Whistler's turn to cock an eyebrow and to ask, without actually speaking the words, just why I would think that.
"Because you got me here under false pretenses," I replied. "There's no big evil brewing. As a matter of fact, during my wanderings this evening, I got the distinct impression that someone or something has been hard at work keeping the nasties of New York down. Not a slayer, obviously, but there's a lot of magic at work out there."
"Angel, that may be so, but the forces of good are still in need of your help. Trust me when I tell you that there are some big changes coming. The balance of good and evil is at this time only level. It wouldn't take much to tip the scale one way or the other. Your job is to try to tip it in favor of the good side."
"That may be true. . . What has it got to do with these damn pictures? I've been given two since I arrived here."
"Two more, huh? How many does that make now? Ten? Twelve?"
Sonofabitch! I knew he had information I wanted.
I also just had my earlier suspicions confirmed. All of my so-called friends had conspired against me. But, in their defense, I must say that if they backed Whistler so willingly, whatever he had told them must have been pretty convincing. They've all dealt with enough demons to know that we're consummate liars. So Whistler must have told them the truth - or was careful enough with his half-truths that they went unquestioned. Now if I only knew what that "truth" was.
I have learned over the years, that if it is the truth you seek, then honesty on your own part, is the best policy. That and torture.
"No, fourteen," I answered calmly. "Fourteen pictures delivered to me over the last 240-odd years."
"Gee, not that many if you think about it. I mean about the fact that it's been almost two and a half centuries and what with all the events that you have par-"
"More than enough for me," I ground out, cutting him off abruptly. I shuddered inwardly at the thought of someone else having recorded all of the events in which I participated. I took a much unneeded deep breath. Just going through the motions, having to concentrate on each step involved in performing what was once an involuntary action, has always had a very calming effect on me.
"So, my friend," I drawled, sarcasm dripping. "How is it that you know about the pictures, anyway? I've never mentioned them to anyone - ever."
"The powers that be see to it than I'm not always in the dark," Whistler said, rather casually, all things considered. "I am supposed to help you out, at least once in awhile. Look, I know you really think I screwed the pooch with the whole Slayer/Angelus/Acathla thing, but it shit happens. You know that interpreting prophecies is at best a lot of lucky guessing. You and the Slayer were supposed to stop Acathla from reawakening, that much was clear. But I never expected you two to do it the way you did. By the time I found out how the tides had turned it was too late to change anything. Besides, I can't make decisions for you. It has something to do with the whole free-will thing. That and I think you're old enough to make your own choices, right or wrong, good or bad."
I really didn't need Whistler to go on about the choices that I'd made in my life. I'm well aware of the fact that some of the paths I've chosen have not been well paved.
"So, who's giving me the pictures?" I was sure that question and the next would make it clear to Whistler that I wanted to know everything he knew. "Who is she?"
"*SHE*?" He tried to sound incredulous but I heard his voice jump and squeak just as mine had earlier when I'd spoken the same word out in front of Saint Pat's.
Whistler got lucky. He was treated to a short reprieve when a waitress approached our booth to see if he needed a refresher. Poor woman, she hadn't seen me enter and spent too long apologizing profusely for having kept me waiting.
"What's your poison?" I asked Whistler, nodding toward his empty shot glass.
"Wild Turkey, of course, in honor of the holiday."
"Of course." Both my tone of voice and my facial expression let him know just how droll I found that gesture to be.
"We'll take a fresh bottle, then, and two glasses," I told the waitress and she scurried off to fill the order.
"Angel, you're joining me? Now this is a first."
"After the night I've had, on top of the year that I've had, what I really want is a nice vile kill. But since that's currently off the menu, I'll have to settle for a few stiff drinks." I'd shocked him. I enjoyed doing it and couldn't help but let my lips curl up into an arrogant smirk, a look Buffy would have immediately associated with "Angelus".
"All-right-tee then." It was all Whistler could muster-up.
Silence ensued. Whiskey arrived. Whiskey was poured. Whiskey was consumed. (A damn fine bourbon!) Glasses were re-filled. Enough with the silence.
"So, who is she, Whistler?"
"When did you finally figure that out . . . that she's, well, that she's a she?"
"Tonight."
"How?"
"She was still inside Saint Pat's when her delivery boy passed out on me."
"She came out for him?"
"No."
"You went *inside* Saint Patrick's Cathedral?" Whistler gasped, then he couldn't help but toss back another shot of the bourbon.
I'd shocked him once again. But, this time I was surprised as well because Whistler knew about my reluctance to enter churches. Just how long had he been watching me, here on the streets of New York, before he approached me? Long enough, I guess, to have learned at least some of my idiosyncrasies.
"So, then what happened, after you went in?" he finally asked.
"She made like she was an umbra, we exchanged a few words, then she left."
Whistler wore a puzzled look, not understanding my choice of words.
"An umbra, a shadow. She hid in the shadows. Or she was a shadow. I'm not sure which. All I know is that I never saw her. I could only hear her and smell her."
You know, I thought that on my walk back to the hotel I'd managed to squelch the feelings I'd had earlier. But now, as I talked about my mystery woman, that same sense of loss, that feeling of no longer being whole, came right back at me. Only it was even worse; the passage of time seemed to have buried the feelings deeper instead of washing them away.
It was my turn to have some more whiskey. Only I sipped this helping slowly, nursing it, savoring the forgotten flavor and enjoying the warmth that the alcohol produced as it moved through my body. Of course, it’s an artificial heat, and temporary, like the superficial warmth a scalding shower gives to my skin. I can no longer generate any warmth of my own.
Ah,
but events earlier this evening made me question the validity of that last
statement.
I couldn't help but shake my head and let a rueful smile play with my lips as I thought back on just how near to her I'd been, how very close she had gotten to me without my ever being able to see even her profile in the darkness.
I closed my eyes and I could still feel the warmth of her body, enveloping me without ever touching me. The trail of fire that she set along the side of my neck when she let the hot air from her lungs escape there as she moved her mouth up toward my ear. Then just the tip of her tongue searing the edge of my ear. And when she'd finally put her full mouth on me, lips and teeth and tongue nibbling on my flesh. . .well the term "spontaneous combustion" jumps to mind. The experience had most definitely been hot. I had been hot. I had felt hot, like she had ignited something in me that had not burned in a long time. I swear now, that my skin was actually flushed by the time she pulled away.
"Angel, you okay?" Whistler asked quietly, real concern in his voice. I opened my eyes slowly, not wanting to give up the "heat". Still, I shook- off the memories and turned back to the conversation at hand.
"Whistler, I've got to say that I've always prided myself on my ability to skulk, but this lady has got me beat, hands down. It was really like she was one of the shadows. or was at one with them. It had to be magic. But it was so well cast that I couldn't even feel it. She must be one hell of a witch."
"A witch," he chortled. "Well, gee, I'm pretty sure that, yup, that's a title she's been labeled with before." He let out a little derisive laugh, then mumbling, he added, "Among others."
"You've seen her, met her? You actually know her?" Geez, I was starting to sound more and more like an infatuated school boy.
Whistler took two more shots before answering my questions. It was a dead give-away. He wasn't going to lie to me but neither was he going to tell me everything that he knew.
"Our paths have crossed on a few occasions," he offered softly.
It took a great deal of self-control not to bombard him with more questions. Lots and lots of stupid, mundane and impetuous questions. What's she like? What's her name? What does she look like? Why was she drawing these pictures? Did she know who'd done the earlier ones? Had she done them? [Wow, not so sure I want to know that. . . ]
"Look," Whistler exhaled the word along with the fumes from his latest shot. Somewhere along the line my glass had been filled for the third time, and the bottle was almost empty. All it meant was that I had not been paying much attention to what Whistler was doing. I was more concerned with what he had been saying.
"I know you have a lot of questions," percepto boy continued. "But I think it'd be best if you just ask her yourself. There's going to be an exhibit featuring some of her work. It's opening tomorrow night at The Cloisters. You are, of course, invited to attend." And with that, he pulled a small cream colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He casually tossed it down on top of the drawing that still laid on the table between us.
My name was on the front of the envelope, handwritten in beautiful old- fashioned penmanship. I was startled to see it was my given name there. Angelus. No one called me that anymore, at least not anyone I considered a friend. They all call me Angel. To them, Angelus was who I became when my soul was banished. It's how I'm referred to in the Watcher's Diaries and various other works Giles has in his library. And I guess it just makes it easier for them to forgive and forget if Angel and Angelus are two separate "people". Of course, by now you all know that's a crock of shit. [I suspect most of them really do, too.]
As I picked-up the envelope and began to extract the card held within, the smell of the same fragrance she'd worn tonight came drifting up off the paper. God, it really was a beautiful scent. It was sweet but not cloying and subtle, not heavy. The smell was crisp and clean but still retained it's femininity. Definitely not one of those cross-gender fragrances that are so popular today and that I hate. Men should smell like men and women should smell, well, like women. And it was very different from the warm vanilla based scents that Buffy favors.
It really didn't surprise me at all to see that even the invitation card had been hand written. After all, one thing I knew for sure about this woman was that she had an eye for detail. She knew that even the little things count.
STAIR The Cloisters Friday, 24 November 2000 8:00pm
Stair. Gaelic word. It means “history.” How interesting. She's Irish?
Well, it looked as though I'd finally get to meet the person who was currently charged with the task of adding to the pictorial documentation of my life. I'd finally get to see her.
And even if my questions still went unanswered, at least I'd get the chance to see The Cloisters again before I left New York. It's always been difficult for me to get there, it has such limited visiting hours. But I've always enjoyed seeing even just the permanent displays. I'm especially fond of the Unicorn tapestries. Have you ever seen them? They're a very unique depiction of the four seasons.
Yeah, right, like at that point in time I could really give a shit about a set of dusty old tapestries!
"And when did you get this?" I asked, waving the card in front of Whistler's face for effect. And to send that divine scent swirling about.
"About a month ago. It took a while to work up enough guts to ask you to come here."
"You mean 'to trick me into coming here,' don't you?"
"Hey, I never lied to you," he said defensively.
"No, but you didn't exactly tell me the truth, either. And you used my friends to help you. How did you manage that?"
"Let's just say that Buffy and I have had to share info before and once I told her that your coming to New York was in your best interest, well she had little trouble convincing everyone else. Say, what gives, anyway? Don't you trust your friends? They'd never hurt you or let anyone else do it, for that matter. Relax man. Just go with the flow. Attend the opening tomorrow night. Go see her. It'll be okay, you'll see. Oh, wow, that's actually tonight, now. Man, I'm beat. And drunk. Let's go crash."
"Why Whistler?" And I didn't mean why go crash. "Why now? I was relatively happy with my current state of affairs. The damn pictures have been coming for centuries. Why change things now?"
"You know the drill, Angel. Prophecies and destinies. You're bound by them. You freely accepted your unearthly existence and have tenaciously held on to it despite everything that's been thrown at you so far. You know, better than most, that there are things outside this dimension that still exert their influence here, forces that would change this world for better or for worse. And at times, because we are not really of this world either, those forces are our masters and we are their slaves. Look, Angel, you just got to trust me on this one. And more importantly, trust her."
That said, Whistler moved out of the booth, grabbed the near empty bottle of bourbon off the table and started to stumble his way out of the bar. I was forced to quickly gather up the invitation, it's envelope and my picture then rush to Whistler's side and catch him before he fell into table full of other hotel guests.
Well, I really wasn't feeling any less apprehensive about the pictures or their creators, but at least I'd managed to get Whistler drunk and would enjoy tormenting him later when he was suffering with a hang-over.
It wasn't until after I'd settled Whistler into one of the other bedrooms in the penthouse that I discovered the note.
I was putting away my invitation when I found the folded piece of pale green paper that was still tucked inside the envelope. I withdrew it carefully and the room was suddenly full of her fragrance - both her perfume and her personal scent. Magic at work again? I didn't care. I wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by that smell. Well, I did want more, but . . .
I really
don't know what to say here . . . usually I just create the invitation
cards and my publicist takes care of the addressing and mailing details.
I've never added a personal note before and your invitation is the first
one that I've had hand delivered. I can only hope that stupid little demon
has enough nerve to tell you about the exhibit. I've never really cared
who came or didn't come to my shows. I never cared who saw my work. Oh,
except for you, that is. I've always wondered what you thought of my drawings.
Maybe I should say that I'm sorry. But an apology offered by a stranger
who's been rattling you cage for years probably doesn't mean much. And
to be honest, it's not that sincere an apology, anyway. I have, at times,
taken pleasure in ruffling your feathers. Have you ever noticed the way
the tips of a raven's feathers catch the light of the moon? The edges of
their oily black plumes take on a beautiful deep blue color. But when the
bird is disturbed, the raven's feathers are ruffled and they offer up more
surface area to the moonlight. Suddenly his entire body seems to glow in
the dark, like blue neon gas that has been charged. And so, my midnight
raven, while I am in many ways sorry for having disturbed you, I must admit
that I have at times, reveled in your discomfort. Well, even if I'm not
truly repentant, at least I'm honest. And I promise you now that I will
endeavor to be honest with you from the moment we meet until such time
as you no longer wish for me to be a part of you life. Now you even have
my written word as proof. Please forgive me for the conditions I have set
to the terms of my promise, but until such time as I formally introduce
myself to you I can not be certain what I will be driven to do. I am a
bit obsessive at the moment and I will warn you now that I have a proclivity
for tempting the fates. Sometimes it's just little things. Like, did you
know that I put some of my work in that little gallery in Sunnydale, the
one the Slayer's mother runs? I'd hoped that perhaps you might see the
pieces I sent. But you didn't. The Slayer did though and she so liked one
drawing that she traded in almost an entire years worth of "shopping-spree
credits" in order to obtain it. Have no fear. It wasn't anything that anyone
other than the Slayer would have associated with you. Oh, you would have
recognized the scene, but that sort of goes without saying. It was just
a dirty alley in Sunnydale. I think you know the one; someone once knocked
you on your ass there. Buffy sent me a lovely note after she took possession
of that drawing. She was kind enough to compliment my work before asking
the questions that were plaguing her. Why did I draw an alley, an alley
in Sunnydale, of all places? Did I know what significance that scene held
for her? I couldn't very well answer her questions, at least not then.
But I'm sure I will have much to tell her, someday. So see, it would have
been quite easy for me to explain away the alley scene, but I went and
sent her two more drawings for her last birthday. Those I can not simply
dismiss as coincidence. And again, fear not. Just ask her . . . I'm sure
she'll show them to you now. See, always tempting. At times it gets me
into some tight spots. But I know you've been in a few of those yourself.
One can not swim against the current and not expect to meet with some resistance.
I'm starting to want to ramble on now, and I'll probably scare you if I
do. I've already spooked you, haven't I?. I hope not. I don't mean to.
There's just so much I want to share with you, stories I want to tell you,
questions I want to ask and to have you answer. Please, please come. Even
if it's only to tell me to never disturb you again. At least I'll be able
to leave you, my midnight raven, having know the joy of seeing you again
with my true eyes, not my mind's eye, to see you feathers ruffled one last
time before I take my leave. A.
I still did not know her name! She had signed her letter the same way she signed her work, with nothing more than the letter "A". And, okay, maybe my feathers were ruffled. I didn't particularly care for being compared to a bird, but I liked her use of prose. I liked the way she spoke, or well, wrote anyway. It was at once both disturbing and comforting. And yes, I was a little bit spooked, wouldn't you be? Oh God, Buffy's got pictures of me! But something inside was telling me it was okay. Who ever this woman was and no matter what she made me see and feel, she'd never hurt the people I loved. They were good and kind and caring and she knew that. Because she was, too.
Oh, I'd be going to that exhibit. There would be no stopping me now. But I really didn't want to go alone. I didn't know what I was going to see once I got there, or what my first encounter with my mystery woman would be like. I wanted to have someone with me, some I could talk to afterwards. And there was only one person in my like at that point who I trusted enough to share my feelings with.
It was 3:30am here, but only 12:30 on the west coast. I knew they'd all still be awake. Thanksgiving was one of the three days a year that they all promised to spend together. It was a new tradition, only two years old, but one I knew they'd honor always.
So I mustered up my courage, went over to the phone and dialed the new number that I had committed to memory but which I had never used before. I'd only had a phone installed in the Crawford Street mansion six months ago, in anticipation of their future use of the place. It rang only three times before being answered.
"Yellow!" the boisterous male voice resounded at the other end of the connection.
"Xander."
"Dead Boy! Happy Turkey Day!"
I bit back the urge to admonish him for using his favorite nickname for me. I hate it, truly despise it, but trying to chastise him now would have been a waste of breath - well a waste of time, anyway. He was obviously feeling no pain. He'd been calling me "Dead Boy" for years, but mostly behind my back, so I was pretty sure he'd been drinking tonight. If Xander called me "Dead Boy" to my face without being mad at me, it was the alcohol talking. And there was the fact that a phone and some 3000 miles were between us! I couldn't help but laugh.
"Happy Thanksgiving. How are you?"
"Just swell, man. Good food, cold beer, great company."
"Sounds nice."
"Hey, we miss you, too."
"Really?" I was surprised. While Xander and I had finally managed to bury the hatchet (or the stake, as he liked to tell it) and had become friends, we still were not given to honest verbal expressions of our feelings. At least not to each other. I chalked it up to the "cold beer" and the spirit of the holiday.
"Yeah, well, ya know the Scooby Gang's not complete without you."
"Thank you." I barely managed to croak out the words, I was so choked up but the emotions those few words aroused in me.
Xander quickly spoke up again, covering for both of us.
"Sure, Angel. So, anyway, how's the Big Apple?"
"Rotten."
"Now, now, no brooding. Get out, see the sights, try the nightlife, it's supposed to be great there. Then again, night life is your only life these days, so . . ."
Somehow Xander's banter never failed to amuse me, even when at times it was inappropriate. The demon in me appreciates his quick wit and somewhat warped sense of humor.
"Yeah, well New York is different from Sunnydale. And LA. I'll give it that much."
"So, you wanna talk to Buffy?"
"Yes, well, no. Actually, I'd like to speak with Willow first, please."
"Willow? Well, sure, the little witch is right here. Hang on."
"Angel, what's wrong?" Poor Willow, her pretty voice was marred by anxiety.
"Am I that obvious?" I replied with a chuckle, trying to alleviate some of her fear.
"Well, you wait until some ungodly hour before you call to say 'Happy Thanksgiving' [she was laying on the guilt] and you asked for me, not Buffy [perceptive witch]. So what gives?"
"Can you come to New York?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No questions. Just yes.
I was amazed. And deeply appreciative of the trust and love her immediate response implied.
"I'd just like for you to accompany me to an art exhibit."
"That's all? Really?" Okay, so the tone of Willow's voice now let me know that she had some knowledge of what was going on here and that she also knew my invitation was not really a casual one.
"Have you seen Buffy's pictures?"
"Yes." Again, short and sweet, right to the point.
"The woman who drew them is the same one showing her work tonight."
"I know. Buffy told me. And I saw her stuff in Mrs. Summer's gallery. I'm the one who dragged Buffy to see them. They were wonderful. Some were almost, I don't know, magical."
"Yeah, I'd believe that," I snorted.
"How so?" Willow, true Slayerette, research mode, gather facts, document data. Damn, she should be a Watcher! "Do you think she actually uses magic?"
"She and I had a brief encounter this evening. She worked some magic then. Nothing sinister. Simple acts but they were almost imperceptible. If I weren't . . ."
I paused then, noticeably. Why did I still have such a hard time saying it out loud?
Vampire. VAM-PIRE. I'm a vampire. See, it's easy. . . I'm a whimp.
"If I were human, " I continued, "I would never have known she was there. She was using magic to hide from me, but her spell was so well cast that I couldn't tell if she'd worked it on me, on herself, or on the elements."
"So, she's good?" Willow has this way of saying things so that you know just what she means. It's this thing she does with inflection. Here good meant practiced, skillful, a seasoned witch.
"Oh, you could definitely say that."
"And you think she's good?" Now good was white magic vs. black, wicca vs. sorceress.
"Yes, she is." How was it that I was so certain about that fact?
"Okey, dokey, then, " Willow chimed. The cheery, whimsical tone I love was back in her voice. "So, I'm coming to New York to look at pictures and feel for magic. Sounds like fun to me!"
"Great. Thanks, Will. The invitation says 8pm but I was planning on arriving closer to nine. I'll send a car for you at 10am and I'll have a jet waiting. That should get you here by about 4pm. You'll have some time to settle in. I thought we could have dinner before we head to the museum. Does 7:30 sound okay?"
"Sure, sounds great."
"Are you really okay with this?" I didn't want her to feel like she had to come just to because I'd asked.
"Angel, of course I am. I would never go anywhere I didn't want to go, well not unless I was forced to, you know, like when we were snatched for the Master's revivification ritual or that time Spike kidnapped me and Xander and I'll shut-up now. Yes, I'm really okay with this. Besides, not much going on here anyway. Oz leaves in the morning for a gig in LA and Xander and Buffy have plans for most of the weekend. My parents are away, as usual. So, there's really nothing keeping me here."
"I just wanted to be sure . . ."
"Hey, silly, you're my friend. You can always be sure, even without asking. Say, what should I pack to wear to this shindig? Is it formal?" Willow had made me so happy by agreeing to come to New York that I suddenly wanted to do something special for her. I was going out on a limb here, but what the hell. I knew that Willow, of all people, would indulge me. Besides, I'd already been brave enough to ask her to come to New York and to hold my hand, figuratively (and, well maybe literally) while I attended an art exhibit. What was one more little favor? And I really needed to do a "comfort ritual" as Cordie liked to call some of my not-so-secret (anymore) pass-times.
"Can I pick out something for you?" I asked, shyly. "I'll have it sent to your room."
Willow giggled softly. It's this tinkling sound, like a little bell. She was pleased. I knew her light laughter was her affirmative answer.
You see, Willow more than anyone else suspected long ago that I was a "closet" clothes-horse. And I love to pick out clothes for other people, too. Women, okay. I like to buy clothes for my women. Darla taught me how to shop for clothes, mine and hers. I used to dress-up Dru like a doll. And I'd have loved to dress Buffy, but her fashion sense is well, shall we say "unique:. So while I've given her bits and pieces, a single article of clothing or an accessory, I was never daring enough to select an entire outfit for her. But Willow . . . now this would be fun! And she was one of my women, in her own way.
"Thanks, Will. I'll see you tonight. 7:15, your room?"
"It's a date!" she gushed. "Oh, well, no not a ‘date’ date but well . . ."
"Will, I got it. Is Buffy near by? I'd like to say hi."
"Uhm, well, actually, no. She and Ian left just before you called. They're out doing a quick patrol."
Ian, my mind screamed. Jealousy flared up. She brought Ian to my mansion! I calmed myself. Well, that's okay. Yes, it's allowed. No, better than that, it's a good thing. Yeah, a good thing. Buffy had first met Ian when he and his brothers came to Sunnydale and helped her battle some sort of chaos. He's supposedly a Druid and, based on what I've been told, he's a very noble warrior. We aren't together anymore and Ian's been good to Buffy. No, Ian's good for Buffy. So why did it hurt so much to know she was with him? Maybe because I still loved her. Maybe just because I felt so alone.
The sweet sound of Willow's voice, full of unspoken apology and concern for my feelings, interrupted my thoughts. "Do you want her to call you? Or you could call back in about an hour?"
"No, that's not necessary. Just tell her and everyone else that I said Happy Thanksgiving. And I'll see them all at Christmas."
"Sure, Angel. And relax. It'll be okay. The exhibit, I mean. And the drawings we've seen. And Buffy and Ian. And, well . . ."
"I know, Will," I cut her off gently. She'd have gone on like that for a long time if I let her. "And thank you."
"Enough with the thanks already. I'll see you real soon!"
"That's true. Goodnight." I never say good-bye to my friends.
"Goodnight, Angel." Neither does Willow.
End
Entry Sixteen