AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS
by Yseult deBreton

RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Everything up to "Destiny" (Angel 5.8)
SUMMARY: It's Christmas Eve in Cordelia's hospital room.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A Cordelia POV because the damn woman would not shut up and leave me alone. Warning: it's just a little on the sweet fluffy side.
DATE OF COMPLETION: 16 December 2003
DISTRIBUTION: Yseult's Passion (http://yseultspassion.com) and my permission.
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Joss et al.
FEEDBACK: God. Yes. Send it to yseultdb@yahoo.com

Okay. Can we stop with the John Lennon now? The guy is way old and way dead and I am most definitely not. And while we're at it, could somebody tell Fred to quit turning on the dancing Santa? God, I swear that woman has no taste.

Sooooo. Here we are. Christmas Eve and I get to spend it with what used to be my friends: Wesley, Gunn, Fred, Lorne, and Angel. Who isn't here yet. Any minute now he's gonna boldy stride through that door with his "I'm brooding about something serious" look and more guilt than even the Catholic church is allowed to handle. Besides which the man doesn't talk. He just stares. At me. With this look of pity and sorrow. Which I guess means it's sorrowful pity. I already know I'm having a bad hair day. Month. Year. Whatever. He just needs to say something besides "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry too. I'm sorry about Connor. I'm sorry that Angel's son turned into a mindless machine. I'm sorry that Wesley's oh so screwed up translated prophecy was real. I'm sorry ... I'm sorry for my own sorry part in this whole sorry mess. I could say that I didn't know or it wasn't my fault. But part of me knew. At least in the beginning. Part of me loved Connor and part of me loved Angel. Really loved Angel. Loved him enough to think that maybe we could've... I dunno. He's a dead guy who can't be happy. Where's the future in that?

Wow. I don't know who Gunn's tailor is but he's good. And, mister, you better not be leaving me any wrapped presents that I can't open. Do you see any conscious movement here? Ooooo. Perfume. Expensive perfume.

What is it with people who visit people in comas? Why does everyone feel this need to be reeeeeally happy or not talk at all? Angel says nothing; Gunn never stops. It's like a contest between him and Fred. Well, guess what? My perfect hearing is being ruined by your ongoing idiotness. The shiny happy people thing is officially over.

Great. Now Wesley's doing his patting routine. He sits on my bed and pats my arm like I'm somebody's dying grandmother. Hello! Still only twentysomething. And I'm not dying. I'm just "in stasis." Permanently. Except I'm the only one that knows that I'm never going to wake up. I'm never going shopping. I'm never going to tell Lorne to quit singing "Frosty the Snowman" and "Rudolph's Blinking Nose". I like "White Christmas" and "Roasting Chestnuts." You know, the good stuff by Bing and Frankie and Dean.

Thank you, God. They're leaving. I wonder why Angel didn't come. It's not like him to not be here. I mean I know he doesn't do Christmas, but still. Where is he?

He's late is where he is. Geez. Typical man. He put off Christmas shopping until the last minute. What's he hiding behind his back? How nice. A BIG red poinsettia. Angel, what in hell am I gonna do with that? And can I say I have a few suggestions of my own?

Wait a minute. There's something else. Oh god. Connor's baby blanket.

"Merry Christmas, Cordelia."