Title: Baby Doll
Author Restive Nature
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. They belong to the almighty Joss and I just play with them for my own amusement before putting them away neatly.
Spoilers: Buffy Season Three "Amends"
Chapter Twenty-four
Merry Christmas Again
December 24th, 2003
Angel sat in the quiet of his apartment. He’d been distracted all day. After his talk with Spike and opening the package that Harmony had kept for him, he’d found it difficult not to think over the past. A sense of whimsy overtook him and he had decided not to open the present that Dylan had sent him until the time was right. It was a Christmas gift and he meant to open it on the appropriate day. In a moment of charity, he’d invited Spike to come see what Dylan had sent him. And Spike had quietly agreed. For that day, the two were bonded by the memory of one strange girl who outlasted a trio of Master Vampires set on destroying the world.
As soon as he could slip away, Angel had returned to his apartment and dug out from his belongings, the portrait that Dylan had painted for him. He laid it on the table, staring at it for a long time. It made him sad that she had died o young and he wondered what would happen to her child. And of course, that made him think of his own son, Connor. At least he had the knowledge that Connor was safe and happy. Dylan would never know that for sure. And he also found himself wondering if she’d made her way to the Heaven that she believed in. It was a sweet thought, to know that there was no more pain and hardship in her life. Or death. She had way too much of it in her life.
He had finally accepted some of the things she’d said. It wasn’t his fault that her life was linked to his through her dreams. No more than it was hers. It was a strange turn of fate. He wondered if it had all been preparation just for that one brief moment when he was able to say that it was okay and be able to put part of his past to rest. Never to be forgotten, but not to hold the power over him that it once did. If anything, Angel vowed to let a little more of the guilt go, as a tribute to the young woman who tried to live her life to the best of her ability. He realized that that was one of the reasons he was fighting the good fight. Not just for his redemption, but so innocent people, like Dylan, would never have to suffer.
Close to midnight, Spike finally showed up. They said nothing until Spike discovered the portrait on the table. He swallowed the lump in his throat that appeared the moment he saw that it was partly of Buffy. She looked almost ethereal in the picture. And Angel looked blissful. It wasn’t a familiar sight.
"Always said you were one hell of an artist," Spike mumbled the compliment.
"I didn’t do this," Angel shook his head. He gestured to the picture. Spike cocked his head to the side to read the signature.
"Dylan did this?" he asked, surprised. He shouldn’t have been, after the newspaper article. But it was one thing to know it intellectually, anther to be confronted by the proof of it. "She was damn good." He smiled sadly. "She was always artistic," he remembered fondly. "I remember this one picture she took at the mansion. Just a candle, but the room looked so empty and forlorn with just one little light to keep the darkness at bay." He glanced away. "I always thought that she was that candle."
Angel smiled at Spike’s admission. He didn’t get maudlin often and usually was drunk first. But in this instance, he just seemed to get introspective. "She was." There was silence as they heard the clock finally strike the midnight hour. Angel led Spike over to the sofa, where he’d laid the present on the coffee table.
He could remember doing something so similar those few years ago. Spike took a seat and Angel knelt by the table. He slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out the card. For Spike’s benefit, he read aloud the letter included. "Dear Angel," it began. "Once again, I find myself sending you a gift that you may or may not like. And once again, it doesn’t really matter. But since I know that this will be the last time you hear from me, I thought I better make it good. I don’t know really how to say this, so I’ll write it here. I’m dying. Shortly after my daughter’s birth, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was too advanced and I haven’t responded well to treatment. I have finally accepted that this is the end. I know that this is going to get really sappy if I continue, so I’m moving on to something else." Angel paused a moment to gauge Spike’s reaction, but he was sitting quietly.
"My daughter was born, as it turns out, on Christmas day. What a surprise. I know you’ll probably cringe when you hear it, but I named her Angela. It really suits her. And I thank God every day for having her in my life. I also bless the close friends I made who were willing to take us in when I was too weak to care for her. They have adopted her, as they can not have children of their own. I watch them together, knowing that they see her for the miracle she is. Knowing that she was cared for was what enabled me to be able to finish your gift. I hope you like it. Dylan." He quickly wiped a tear from his eye. "P.S.," he continued. "If you ever run into Spike or Dru, can you let them know that I think of them?" So many emotions were rolling through him. And he noticed that Spike was affected as well.
There was pride and a little embarrassment that she had named her daughter for him. Sadness that she had died so tragically. Pain that he’d never told her about Dru when she asked. Finally, he pushed away the thoughts. His hands centered the card on the middle of the coffee table, as he’d done the first time. It looked just as forlorn as the first one had. But he knew this time that it wasn’t pity that prompted the gift.
He pulled the gift towards himself. He unwrapped it with trembling hands. And wasn’t surprised to find another portrait. But this time, a soft smile formed on his face. Dylan had sent him a picture of her daughter. But it was more than that. The beautiful little blonde girl was sitting in a straight-backed chair in a patch of sunlight. Her head was thrown back, as if she were laughing at the dust motes in the air. In her chubby little arms was a dark haired doll. Angel heard Spike stifle a sigh as he read the caption underneath. ‘Angela and Miss Edith.’ It was a fine tribute to love.
"Why the hell do the good die young?" Spike mumbled, averting his face.
Angel carefully set the portrait on the table, running one finger down the little girl’s face. The promise of the future was captured in her blue eyes and Angel felt his heart ache for the little girl he would never meet. "I don’t know Spike. I just don’t know."
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