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Today I have been leisurely clearing off my hard drive. Lo! I have found some interesting fragments of things. This one is from 2012 and I don't even remember where it was going or what it was supposed to do. Somehow, I got it into my head to write holiday fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kita0610. I have no clue what this was supposed to be about. It was intended for Kita, so I imagine there was going to slash and incest and angst. Angel would be broody and Connor would be pretty and have a very red mouth. I don't know. Who can guess at this point. Make of it what you will. Here it is, annexed, with all of its hoary errors, for your pleasure.
I have no clue ...
From a file labelled kita's xmas fic (yes, I am very aware that she is Jewish).
AtS. Angel/Connor (that never made it).
You remember your past in the color of calm, summer skies until he blinks and you remember he isn't a baby anymore. He is hell born or close enough that a few weeks of Cordelia singing off-key lullabies beneath her breath can't make a difference. There is rage lurking in the tight pout of his red mouth.
Pucker up for daddy, boy. In your own way, you too, are hell born.
*
"We had fairies that looked like that where I grew up." Connor slouches on the fringes of the haphazard circle created by boxes of cheap, multi-colored Christmas ornaments, velveteen bows, strings of lights, and plastic pine boughs. "Bright, tiny, and mean," he says as Angel drapes a garland of the small, white lights across the lowest branches of the fir tree.
"Ignis Fatuus. Will-o-the-wisps." Angel grunts, remembering. Plenty of food for the scavenging in those first days. After Romania, when he went home seeking refuge or solace, somewhere to hide from the voices and the memories. There were plenty of wayward travelers lead astray by the laughing balls of fluttering light. "They used to be all over the bogs of Ireland."
Fred kneels beside a dusty box Gunn had found in the basement earlier. "These are just lights," she says, smiling up at Connor.
Connor snorts gently in wary disbelief.
"You wanna help decorate?" Fred pulls folded paper from the box and unwraps a figure. "Here." She holds out a ceramic angel. It's colors are somewhat faded and a chip mars one extended wing. "You just hang it by the ribbon on one of the tree limbs."
He is suspicious of the tree despite the comfort of the piney smell. It's unexpected. Twinkling with lights that are not fairies and growing up from the floor in the center of the lobby. When they brought the tree in, Fred had showed him the amputated trunk anchored to a red, plastic bowl and a wooden saltire.
"It's more commonly known as a St. Andrew's cross," she had told him. "Although, I'm sure they probably weren't thinking that when they nailed it to the tree. I mean, I suppose, it's one of the best figures for stabilization. It could be a plus sign as well as anything else." Except for the nights when she wakes from nightmares of Plrtz Glrb, Fred thinks in patterned logic; shapes are only geometry.
Connor examined the set-up. "Barbaric," he snarled.
He moves closer to the tree and takes the delicate angel Fred holds out. He kneels beside the tree and inhales deeply. He's folded onto the floor with Fred examining the needles and describing the vicious fairies that mimicked the light.
"And we can plug it in," Fred says later, after they've strung the lights and hung all the ornaments. The tree is heavy with decorative Christmas debris.
Angel smiles.
"Yeah," he says. "Plug it in."
Cordelia plugs the tree in and Wesley kills the light. The tree is bright and warm and colorful, a hodge-podge of love and time and tradition.
"It's beautiful," Fred says. She curls an arm around Gunn's. Cordelia smiles and hangs onto Angel's arm.
Connor doesn't smile, just stares at the tree and everyone gathered around it.
***
"Why did you let him take me?"
Angel isn't asleep, just lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. "I didn't LET him do anything. I would have fought for you. You were taken. Stolen. I almost killed Wesley because of it."
Connor creeps forward until he is standing at the foot of the bed. "This is my first Christmas. I never had one." He pauses, staring at Angel who hasn't moved. "My father never ..."
"I'm your Father," Angel says. "And I would have. If I could, I would have."
It's dark in the room and neither of them can really see. Connor is back by the door, one hand on the knob when Angel calls out: "Merry Christmas."
kita0610. I have no clue what this was supposed to be about. It was intended for Kita, so I imagine there was going to slash and incest and angst. Angel would be broody and Connor would be pretty and have a very red mouth. I don't know. Who can guess at this point. Make of it what you will. Here it is, annexed, with all of its hoary errors, for your pleasure.I have no clue ...
From a file labelled kita's xmas fic (yes, I am very aware that she is Jewish).
AtS. Angel/Connor (that never made it).
You remember your past in the color of calm, summer skies until he blinks and you remember he isn't a baby anymore. He is hell born or close enough that a few weeks of Cordelia singing off-key lullabies beneath her breath can't make a difference. There is rage lurking in the tight pout of his red mouth.
Pucker up for daddy, boy. In your own way, you too, are hell born.
*
"We had fairies that looked like that where I grew up." Connor slouches on the fringes of the haphazard circle created by boxes of cheap, multi-colored Christmas ornaments, velveteen bows, strings of lights, and plastic pine boughs. "Bright, tiny, and mean," he says as Angel drapes a garland of the small, white lights across the lowest branches of the fir tree.
"Ignis Fatuus. Will-o-the-wisps." Angel grunts, remembering. Plenty of food for the scavenging in those first days. After Romania, when he went home seeking refuge or solace, somewhere to hide from the voices and the memories. There were plenty of wayward travelers lead astray by the laughing balls of fluttering light. "They used to be all over the bogs of Ireland."
Fred kneels beside a dusty box Gunn had found in the basement earlier. "These are just lights," she says, smiling up at Connor.
Connor snorts gently in wary disbelief.
"You wanna help decorate?" Fred pulls folded paper from the box and unwraps a figure. "Here." She holds out a ceramic angel. It's colors are somewhat faded and a chip mars one extended wing. "You just hang it by the ribbon on one of the tree limbs."
He is suspicious of the tree despite the comfort of the piney smell. It's unexpected. Twinkling with lights that are not fairies and growing up from the floor in the center of the lobby. When they brought the tree in, Fred had showed him the amputated trunk anchored to a red, plastic bowl and a wooden saltire.
"It's more commonly known as a St. Andrew's cross," she had told him. "Although, I'm sure they probably weren't thinking that when they nailed it to the tree. I mean, I suppose, it's one of the best figures for stabilization. It could be a plus sign as well as anything else." Except for the nights when she wakes from nightmares of Plrtz Glrb, Fred thinks in patterned logic; shapes are only geometry.
Connor examined the set-up. "Barbaric," he snarled.
He moves closer to the tree and takes the delicate angel Fred holds out. He kneels beside the tree and inhales deeply. He's folded onto the floor with Fred examining the needles and describing the vicious fairies that mimicked the light.
"And we can plug it in," Fred says later, after they've strung the lights and hung all the ornaments. The tree is heavy with decorative Christmas debris.
Angel smiles.
"Yeah," he says. "Plug it in."
Cordelia plugs the tree in and Wesley kills the light. The tree is bright and warm and colorful, a hodge-podge of love and time and tradition.
"It's beautiful," Fred says. She curls an arm around Gunn's. Cordelia smiles and hangs onto Angel's arm.
Connor doesn't smile, just stares at the tree and everyone gathered around it.
"Why did you let him take me?"
Angel isn't asleep, just lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. "I didn't LET him do anything. I would have fought for you. You were taken. Stolen. I almost killed Wesley because of it."
Connor creeps forward until he is standing at the foot of the bed. "This is my first Christmas. I never had one." He pauses, staring at Angel who hasn't moved. "My father never ..."
"I'm your Father," Angel says. "And I would have. If I could, I would have."
It's dark in the room and neither of them can really see. Connor is back by the door, one hand on the knob when Angel calls out: "Merry Christmas."
