FATHER CHRISTMAS
1stRab-id



A Secret Spike Gift

For Bree

EMAIL RABID
BY-Bree's Secret Spike

STORY - For and somewhat about Bree

RATING- G, PG, R, NC-17

COUPLE - B/S but lots of S/D too though not shipperishly

REQUEST - A Dramedy

SPOILERS - Up to WRECKED

MY BETAS - The AIGTeers, Carrie, Sabrina, Nauti, Rilla and also MKStatz

CANON COMMENT: Re: Spike and siring (with Ford or Sheila). Nauti caught me out on this already, but I didn't miss anything there (Ford was with dozens of other vamps and Sheila was with Dru). I could easily be wrong, but this is my take on Siring for this fic. And I would challenge you to prove something different but remember just because something was insinuated doesn't mean it ACTUALLY happened.

DISCLAIMER - Suddenly I own it all...no just kidding...still Joss and Co. and UPN and Fox TV and Mutant Enemy, et al...definately NOT ME!
 

Father Christmas


"Just pick something!'

"I can't decide!"

"Now there's a surprise."

"Tell me which one you like best."

"Okay...the blue."

"I was thinking the pink...or maybe green...she already has like twenty in blue. And is a sweater even the right thing?"

"Niblet," Spike growled warningly, "I'm only here to keep you from getting eaten on the way to and from the mall. I can't pick out Buffy's gift for you, too."

"Sure you can," Dawn said nudging him in camaraderie, "You know what she likes."

"Yeah," Spike said, momentarily distracted by the thought of exactly what Buffy really liked and how much he wanted to give it to her.

The vampire's eyes were drawn inexorably to the lingerie department on the far side of the store. There was a luscious cream negligee with a sheer golden leaf pattern on display. It was more like a party favor than a piece of clothing. Spike toyed with the idea of suggesting that Dawn purchase it for her sister. The colors would suit the Slayer's radiant skin and her pert nipples would look positively exquisite just visible behind the gauzy veil of...

"Spike?"

"Hummmh?"

"Hello?" Dawn said, waving a hand in front of her friend's face.

"Stop that," Spike commanded, coming back into focus. "It's rude!"

"So is not listening," Dawn commented. "I asked you: What are YOU getting Buffy for Christmas?"

"Nothing," Spike shrugged, putting the idea of naughty nightwear out of his mind.

"But I thought you two were getting along, since she came back...did you have a fight or something?"

"Something," Spike thought. But all he said was, "Demons don't do Christmas, Bit."

"Sure they do," Dawn poohed, waving her hand at him again. "Who do you think is responsible for all of those 'VERY SPECIAL' Holiday Specials on TV?"

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him, "And the invention of those dancing, singing Christmas trees?"

"Okay," Spike said, undone by her logic, "Then I don't do Christmas. Never have. Well, not since...."

"Are you Jewish? Like Willow?"

"No," Spike mumbled as he sidled toward a cash register counter. "Look the pink is fine. We need to get you back home before Buffy calls out the National Guard."

"Are you a Pagan?" Dawn asked, ignoring Spike's prodding as she flipped through every sweater on the rack. "Like Tara? Cause there's always Solstice. Or are you a Jehovah's Witness? My friend Katy is a Jehovah's Witness and they don't do any holidays...even Birthdays."

"Yeah, that's right," Spike smirked. "I'm a Jehovah's Witness. Explains why people are so reluctant to invite me into their homes."

"You know, maybe I should get Buffy a CD instead," the young woman said, pursing her lips. "She already has more clothes than one person could possibly wear in..."

"SNACK-SIZE!" Spike barked, making both Dawn and the salesclerk, who was desperately trying to help them, jump into the air like a synchronized swim team.

"We have been at this friggin' mall for three and a half hours," he growled between tightly clenched teeth. "We've hit every store and the soddin' food court twice over. In twenty minutes, they are going to lock us in. Just pick out a bloody present for your Sister and be done with it."

"Fine," Dawn sniffed, obviously put out. She unhooked a lovely emerald green sweater with a glittering seasonal decoration on the front and handed it over to the clerk, "We'll take the green one. Gift wrapped, please."

As they waited for the clerk to box up the sweater, Spike leaned on the counter and tried to block out the tinny sound of Christmas Carols. The annoying drone was being piped into every store. It seemed to the exhausted vampire that his chip was amplifying the cheerful ditties and force-feeding the melodies straight into his brain. Spike was certain that if he heard Silent Night one more time, he was going to kill someone. Possibly himself.

Dawn was fumbling with the closure on her purse. She seemed to be having trouble latching it using only one hand. Spike reached out to help her but she turned quickly away from him.

"Independent little twig," Spike thought, "just like big Sis."

"Deck the halls with balls of barley, fuddle, doodle, diddly-daddle, Shamus a gnu," Dawn sang, under her breath as she worried at the stubborn locking mechanism.

The clerk came back with a beautifully wrapped present and proceeded to ring up the purchase. Dawn handed the woman a fistful of crumpled bills. The teenager was holding her still open purse against her body with her broken arm.

"So," Dawn asked Spike as the clerk bagged the gift, "If you WERE going to get Buffy a Christmas present what would it be?"

Spike ignored her. In deference to the teenager's injury, the clerk came around the counter to slide the store's signature carryall bag over Dawn's wrist.

"Thank you for shopping at MAUDE ADDAMS' and have a Merry Chri..." The saleslady broke off gasping, as Dawn's handbag fell to the floor and burst open like a piñata.

An assortment of stolen lipsticks, combs, brooches, and earrings spilled from Dawn's purse and scattered across the tile. A single pair of panties with tiny bears on them slid to a halt just short of the salesclerk's sensible shoes. Most of the items were still tagged; two of them were obviously lifted from a display on the counter top. Spike felt a momentary rush of pride in his little girl.

"I didn't see you nick any of that, Sweet Bit," Spike said, without thinking. "And you with only one good arm. That's natural talent, that is!"

"Spike!" Dawn yelped, in frustration.

The vampire followed her glance and noted that several Mall guards were converging on their location. No doubt in response to the saleslady's strident and ongoing cries of alarm.

"Oh, right," Spike muttered, "Uhm...RUN!"

Dawn reached down to retrieve her purse but Spike caught at her shoulder and spun her out into the aisle.

"Now," he ordered. "Get moving."

The Slayer's little sister performed a graceful pirouette to avoid the lead guard. Spike darted left and drew off a second officer. However, a third man moved to block Dawn's exit at the store's entrance into the mall. Leaping over a table filled with folded stacks of colorful jeans, the vampire charged the guard. Just as the man made a grab for the teenager, Spike smacked into him and sent him flying, giving Dawn a clear path for her get away.

"OW! Bloody Hell!" Spike gasped, holding his head. "I didn't hit him that hard you soddin' indiscriminate piece of..."

"Grab her," cried several voices, coming from within the mall and from other departments of MAUDE ADDAMS. Spike realized that he didn't have the luxury of being one with the pain, at the moment.

"Spike?" Dawn called as she hesitated at the top of an escalator, "Come on!"

"Down, go down," the vampire commanded, racing to her side.

He herded the girl ahead of him and they plunged recklessly to the first floor of the mall. Hitting the ground floor at a dead run, Spike yanked Dawn along behind him as he zigzagged past potted plants. They danced around kiosks selling incense burners and t-shirts and cell phones. The teenager's shopping bag thudded into both of them as they ran. They slid to a halt next to a 'You Are HERE' sign at the proverbial and literal crossroads.

Spike looked in all four directions assessing their odds for escape. There were pursuers behind and in front of them. To the left the mall dead ended into a series of blank wooden walls emblazoned with 'Coming SOON' notices. To the right there was a traffic jam of automatonic reindeer, faux elves and children up way past their bedtime. Belligerent, over-taxed parents were arguing heatedly with equally harried workers who were trying to close up Santa's shop for the night.

"Looks like the jig is up, Niblet," Spike said.

Dawn tugged at him in a panic. She made small dashing semi-circles around him, rather like a rabbit in a snare. Her eyes darted about and then, quite suddenly, lit up in relief. She sighed and began pulling Spike purposefully in the direction of Santa's Sanctuary.

"We aren't caught, yet," she informed him.

They ducked under velvet ropes and pushed rudely through the throng of parents and kiddies, with Dawn dragging Spike in her wake. There was a grumble of weary protest but it quickly subsided when it became apparent that the strange pair was NOT cutting into line. They seemed to be heading directly for the throne where Father Christmas was holding court. The jolly old Symbol of the Season was surrounded by extra tall elves and was jostling a whiny child on his padded knee.

"Bree!" Buffy's sister yelled, suddenly. She released Spike's hand so that she could wave frantically at one of the elves, "Bree! Over here!"

"Dawn?" the elf called and broke formation handing off her assigned brat to another one of Santa's helpers.

Spike eyed the diminutive creature as she headed in their direction. She was an attractive little thing with her wavy reddish brown hair and twinkling eyes. Extra bite-able! Looking down he noticed that unlike her fellow elves she was bare-footed. Spike wondered briefly if that violated some health code then he shrugged dismissively. He decided to go with the flow of juvenile delinquency.

"Hey," Dawn greeted the newcomer. "I heard that you got the Elf-gig?"

"Yeah," Bree shrugged. "Beats working at the food court again. But the little monsters are driving me crazy."

"I don't know if I could take it," Dawn sympathized. "I had a babysitting business for all of two weeks and it nearly made me..."

Not to interrupt the reunion, Platelet," Spike growled, as he glanced over his shoulder and spotted a uniform, "but we are in a bit of a hurry here."

"Oh, right," Dawn said, as if her imminent arrest had slipped her mind. "We need to get out of the mall the back way, Bree. It's kind of an emergency. Can you let us into the inner sanctum?"

Bree looked over at the shortening line of kids and then glanced at her watch.

"Sure, the mall's closing anyway," she shrugged. "I guess I can knock off early."

Spike, Dawn and Bree slipped to the side of Santa's workshop. The elf-girl pushed back a drapery of fake snow to reveal a door. She turned the knob and motioned them inside. They were in a seemingly endless access tunnel that ran the entire length of the mall. Doors opened off of both sides of the corridor and several signs announced that this area was for 'STAFF ONLY.'

"This way," Bree said with confidence and headed off down the hallway. Spike and Dawn trotted obediently along behind her. After a moment the elf-girl asked the inevitable question, "So, why do you need to get out of the mall the back way? Did you steal something?"

"No WAY!" Dawn announced, with an indignant bristle. "There are just some guys after Spike and he didn't want any trouble while I was with him. It's kind of a gang thing."

Spike admired how the lies simply poured off of her tongue. He was reminded, yet again, why he loved the Summers' women. All of that beauty and wit and ferocity was coupled with the ability to invest total confidence in their own bullshit. How many times, Spike wondered had Buffy looked him square in the eye and denied she felt anything for him at all?

Then, three weeks ago, in the wreckage of an abandoned building, she couldn't seem to get close enough to him. Spike let his mind wander a bit as he replayed the highlights of that night in his mind: Buffy's lithe naked body, Buffy's mewling cries of delight, Buffy's savagely intense technique when she....

"...all here for the party tonight," Bree was saying when Spike tuned back in. "Usually we close early on Sunday but with tomorrow being Christmas Eve they thought we would stay open late tonight, do the party thing and then everyone can go home early tomorrow, 'cause the mall is closing at six."

Spike was about to ask what the two of them were on about when one of the doors up ahead opened and several red-suited fellows with white beards and bells on poured into the hallway.

"Bloody Hell," the vampire exclaimed. "It's a soddin' Father Christmas Convention."

"Weren't you listening?" Dawn sighed, her attention split between Spike and the view of the parking lot the incoming crowd offered her. There were several police vehicles parked outside the back door. "Bree just said the annual Mall Santa Party is being held here tonight. All we have to do is mingle with the other Santas and sneak out."

"Mingle?" Spike's voice hit a rather high note. "What do you mean...'mingle?' Never say you expect me to dress up in a poofy suit and prance around like.... Okay, no worries 'cause we don't have a Santa suit do we? So...we think of another plan. Maybe we can get out onto the roof and then..."

"Bree is taking us to the changing room," Dawn replied, cutting him off. "The mall has a spare Santa suit and she's going to lend me her elf outfit."

"Here we go," Bree said, pushing open a 'Mall Employees Only' door to reveal a bank of lockers and a series of curtained changing rooms. A limp red outfit and several green ones dangled from pegs on the wall. "You guys can change in the cubicles," Bree informed, "but you better hurry cause the mall is closed and the other elves will be here any minute."

"Thanks Bree," Dawn said, hugging the other girl. "You're the best. Are you sure you don't mind missing the party? I could always wear one of these other outfits."

"Nah," Bree said, keying open her locker and fishing out sweat pants and a flannel top. "There won't be too many elves there. And I don't want you getting in any MORE trouble. It's bad enough we are borrowing the Santa Suit. You can bring both costumes by my house tomorrow morning. I was thinking of calling in sick tomorrow anyway. Now, I have a good reason."

"Look," Spike said, "I'm all atingle that you girls had this special moment but I am not dressing up in that soddin' costume even to save you Niblet. And besides what would I do with my duster?"

"I can tuck it into my bag...no, we better leave that here," Dawn mused, mentally considering and discarding options. "Oh, I know, Bree can keep your duster until tomorrow. I can pick it up when I drop off the suits."

"Sure," Bree said, with a shyly suggestive smile. She was eyeing the soft black leather and the hot body it was currently wrapped around as she made for a curtained cubicle. "I'd be happy to look after your coat for you."

"There you go," Dawn said, perkily. "Now, let's get changed."

"What if someone sees me?"

"They won't recognize you. That's the whole point of being in disguise."

Spike poked the padding on the suit front. He fluffed the beard. He grimaced.

"Nope, I won't do it. Sorry, Bit!"

"Spike," Dawn sighed and then inspiration hit. "Well, okay! If you don't think you are demon enough to pass for Santa I understand. I mean Anya says he is one of the most evil creatures ever to prowl the night...so...if you just can't make yourself impersonate him...well..."

"Evil...Riiiight!" Spike snorted.

"No, really," Dawn assured him. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and added, "Anya says he eats little children."

"EWWW!" Bree inserted from behind one of the dressing room curtains and Dawn looked over at her stall before leaning in very close to Spike.

"How else are we going to get out of here?" She mouthed, into his ear. "The place is surrounded by cops."

"You Summers' women are going to be the death of me," Spike groused, as he ripped the suit off its peg and stalked toward a changing room.

"A nice clean staking is that too much to ask?" he continued grumbling, as he pulled off his duster, pillaged the pockets and then tossed it over the divider wall to Bree. He stepped into the Santa Pants still muttering, "Used to be you could count on the Slayer to lop off your head. Now she rips out my heart every Tuesday. And instead of snapping her beautiful neck like I should, whadda I do? I let her kelptomanical sister dress me up like a bleedin' Ken doll and parade me around town in a fat suit and fake whiskers. What's next?"

They escaped from the mall without incident. Dawn tucked her long hair up under a jingly elf hat and Spike covered his signature black with Seasonal red. The Slayer's sister had pulled the elfsuit on over her cast so there was no evidence of her injury. Buffy's gift was wedged into the crook of her broken arm so it looked as if she was simply holding it tight.

The cops were looking for a bleached blond man in black and a longhaired girl with a broken arm carrying a MAUDE ADDAMS shopping bag and wearing a red dress. The threesome that came out of the Employees Only area didn't fit the description the police had been given. Bree stopped to chat with one of Sunnydale's finest and show off her 'new' coat as Spike and Dawn made their getaway.

"See how easy that was?" Dawn said, cheerfully, as she hustled Spike across the dark, deserted parking lot. "And fun too. You know, we should go shopping together more often."

"We get you home safe and I am going to kill you nice and slow," the vampire growled.

Dawn shot him an apprehensive glance. She was pretty sure Spike was kidding but, with the fake whiskers, she couldn't tell if he was smiling or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Will you hurry up?" Dawn asked shifting from one foot to the other, "I'm freezing and I have to use the bathroom."

"The soddin" zipper is stuck," Spike grumbled. "Look! Give us a hand."

"I can't touch your zipper," Dawn hissed, appalled. "I'm only 15."

"Oh, for pity's sake, I'm wearing my jeans underneath and I'm old enough to be..."

"One of my long dead ancestor?"

"Your Father!"

"Yeah, right," Dawn said, rolling her eyes. "Bet you're not old enough to be BUFFY's father."

"This is crazy, Bit," Spike said. "Just let me rip it and we can say it was an accident."

"No! Bree will get in trouble," Dawn chided, "and she helped us. I could go get Buffy but she's gonna ask questions."

"Yeah, like where have we been all night and what the hell I am doing in this ridiculous outfit?"

"Or..." Buffy said, conversationally from behind them, "what do you think the police were doing here for nearly an hour tonight?"

Spike and Dawn whipped around. The Slayer was standing just outside the back door. She tilted her head to one side and held up a handbag. The one that Dawn had dropped on the floor of MAUDE ADDAMS department store. The one with the teenager's name, photo and home address emblazoned on all the ID inside.

"Hey, Buffy," Dawn squeaked, twiddling her fingers.

"Slayer!"

"Bonnie...Clyde," the blond woman returned, nodding at them in turn.

"I can explain everythi..." Dawn began but her Sister cut her off.

"I'm sure you can," Buffy sighed, stepping away from the door and out onto the porch, "and I look forward to hearing it but right now I want to talk to Spike. Alone! You go on upstairs and get ready for bed."

She tossed the teenager her telltale handbag as she passed her.

"But Buffy," Dawn whined, as she awkwardly caught at the purse. "It wasn't Spike's fault. If you would just listen for a minute."

The Slayer's hand closed like a vise on her sister's good arm. She gave the unfortunate girl a small pointed shake.

"You don't want to do this right now," Buffy growled, throatily.

"Uhm...okay," Dawn capitulated, with a sickly little smile. She shot her vampire cohort a sympathetic look as Buffy released her. "G'night, Spike. Thanks, for looking out for me."

"Sleep tight, Bit," Spike said.

Vampire and Slayer stood silently side-by-side, waiting until Dawn entered the house and trudged wearily upstairs. Buffy was rubbing her neck trying to work out the tension that had settled there. Spike reached out a hand to assist her and she slapped him away.

"So," she said, opening the conversation. "You're teaching her to shoplift, now? What's next? Gambling? Drinking? An under-age prostitution ring?"

"Hey! Watch your mouth, Slayer."

Buffy slammed him against the wall of the house with a one-armed shove. A tingle of purely sensual memory raced through Spike's body. He let his mouth fall open in his signature grin. He gripped the Slayer's shoulders but made no effort to break away from her. They held their respective positions a few beats too long. They were both lost in identical recollections. Spike broke the silence.

"You wanna get that zipper, Luv?"

"What?" Buffy gasped, sotto voce. She let him go and shot a quick guilty glance at the open kitchen door.

"It's stuck," Spike sighed, doing his best to come over all innocent. "And since I don't fancy spending the rest of my life in these poofy pants. I thought you might be able to help me out."

The Slayer glanced down at the fur trimmed red velvet garment the vampire was currently wearing. She stepped away from him and turned to pick up the neatly folded upper part of the Santa outfit.

"And why are you running around town in St. Nick's underoos?"

"Just getting Dawn home safe from her little 'buy Buffy a present' mall trip," Spike shrugged. "Amazing what comes with the job. I was planning to tell you about this later," he assured. "Didn't think you'd want to deal with the girl's five-finger discounting right at the Holiday is all." He hesitate his voice and eyes softening as he added, "Seems like you had to deal anyway."

Buffy groaned, sinking back against the porch railing, "She really stole all of those things? Panties and lipstick and earrings?"

Spike nodded his confirmation and Buffy shook her head in disbelief.

"Why?" she asked.

"Cry for help maybe," Spike guessed, stepping closer to the Slayer. "Lot's happened to her in the last year. Finding out about her origins, your Mom dying and then you, getting chased and kidnapped and such. This thing with Willow. All too much for her, I expect."

Buffy dropped her head into her hands as if it was all too much for her, too. Spike hesitated briefly and then hooked his arms around her waist. He pulled her forward, cuddling her close. After a moment, Buffy let herself relax into the vampire's body. She breathed in the cool comforting scent of him.

"I hate Christmas," the Slayer murmured.

"Me, too," Spike commented, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head.

"Well, not exactly the demon season?" Buffy chuckled, nuzzling her nose into the curve of his throat.

"Suppose not," Spike agreed, with a small smile of his own, "But that's not why I hate it. It's 'cause..."

The vampire paused, not sure how much he wanted to say, then he sighed and added, "My Mother died...this time of year...1880...on Christmas Eve."

Buffy's breath caught in her throat. She tensed and pulled away from him. She turned her head away but Spike saw the disgust in her eyes. He bristled angrily.

"I didn't kill her, if that's what you're thinking," he snarled, his own eyes glittering with sudden moisture.

"It was the White Plague...Tuberculosis," he continued. "You know, Summers, hard as it is for you to believe, we don't ALL murder our families. Some of us actually take care of our loved ones. Look after them. Keep their little Sis safe after they go and leap off of a ruddy tower and..."

Spike's voice broke and he made a savage motion with one hand, "Bugger it! Don't know why I bother!"

He shoved past the Slayer and bound down the steps. Buffy called after him. Her tone was contrite, almost pleading, but he was too angry to hear her. Within seconds, Spike was swallowed up by the night. Buffy looked down at the Santa coat, hat and whiskers. She gathered up the costume and for the first time noted the festively wrapped present lying underneath. To her surprise, tears started falling from the Slayer's eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike stalked through the cemetery cursing Buffy Summers and the next twenty generations of her family.

"Black-hearted, cold-blooded, two-faced, tight-assed little BITCH!" he said, kicking in the door to his crypt with one booted foot.

The metal door clanged satisfactorily against the marble wall and then bounced back so he could kick it again. He did. Swinging his foot back for a third kick, Spike noticed the unmistakable sound of running water coming from the opening in the floor of his crypt. With a loud oath, he raced to the stairwell. He glanced down. The subterranean level was knee deep in water. Worse yet, there was a steady torrent pouring out of the far wall. An irrigation pipe had burst. It must have been gushing for hours.

Spike stormed up to the cemetery's security vehicle. He pounded on the side window of the station wagon until Larry, the caretaker, woke up.

Larry was a wizened, twitchy, gnome of a man. His sole qualification for the caretaker's job was his highly honed instinct for survival. He couldn't read or write. He had a fondness for cheap whiskey and was often found passed out in the car by the day crew. But Larry had stayed alive longer than anyone else in his high mortality field. He and Spike had an arrangement that kept Larry off the menu and allowed the vampire to have all the comforts of home in his crypt.

"Spike?" Larry muttered sleepily as he rolled down the window. "Hey...Merry Christmas! Why you wearing Santa Pants?"

"Stick it up your ass, Larry," Spike growled. "I need you to turn off the bloody sprinklers."

"No can do, Spike," Larry yawned, snuggling back down in the driver's seat. "They're on a timer."

"My crypt is under three feet of water," the vampire said, opening the car door and dragging the man out bodily. "And the tide is still coming in, so you either show me where the timer is or..."

"There's a leak?" the caretaker asked, perking up slightly. "Well, I suppose we could take a look. You're good at figuring things out, right?"

But the timer mechanism proved stubborn. The vampire and the little man tried every way they could think of to disconnect the mechanism all to no avail. When Spike picked up a shovel to pummel it into submission, Larry managed to override his reflex for self-preservation and voice a protest.

"Hey," the small man yelped, waving his hands for the vampire's attention, "if you break that the home office will have to send someone out and fix it."

"Good," Spike said, swinging his makeshift weapon back for the deathblow.

"What if they start poking around?" Larry reasoned, in a wheedling tone. "We don't want people poking around. Do we Spike?"

Spike glared at the man, but after a moment or two he threw the shovel to the ground in defeat.

"That's right, Spike," Larry soothed. "We got a sweet set up here. We don't need those home office pricks sticking their noses into our deal."

After a bit of thought the little man snapped his fingers and added, "Hey, I bet I know someone who can fix that leak for you. My buddy Karl. You remember Karl, the one I got to rig up that shower head for you?"

"Probably the soddin' shower head that's started this," Spike grumbled. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to fend off his non-chip headache, before capitulating, "Okay, let's find a phone. You can call this dodgy geezer and get him over here."

"It's pushing Midnight," Larry squeaked, in protest, "and Karl's an early riser."

"Like I care?"

"Well, Spike," Larry started in with the reasoning again, "thing is...it's the Holiday and Karl he likes a dip in the nog if you catch my drift."

"He's a sot."

"Well, I wouldn't have put it like that. Him being a pal and all. But you might get a better job out of him tomorrow or after Christmas is over even."

"And what do I do until then?" Spike asked gesturing toward his crypt with one hand. "You want me to sleep in that fishbowl?"

"Little water shouldn't bother you, Spike. Not like you need to breathe."

Spike bristled and stepped in menacingly and Larry hastily backpedaled.

"But I can see that you are a vamp of a certain standing and all," Larry immediately submitted, "so...uhm...HEY! Why don't you stay in the Roosevelt Crypt? Nice and dry in there...and they have that naked statue, too."

"That's a plaster rendition of the Bottocelli Venus, you idiot."

"Still a looker. Kinda reminds me of your new girlfriend," Larry remarked and then quickly held up both hands to show that he meant no offense. "And I mean that in the nicest way, Spike. 'Cause I would never even dream of saying that your girlfriend had posed for something like that. And I wouldn't want you to think that I would even look at her in that way or...you know...God forbid! That I ever saw her naked because..."

The little man whimpered as Spike grabbed him by the shirt front, lifted him bodily off the ground and gave him a good shake.

"Best if you never do," Spike snarled really close to Larry's face. "'Cause you know how they say you could go blind?" The vampire paused meaningfully before adding, "You would!"

"Uhm...yeah," Larry gurgled his eyes darting about in panic, "I hear ya, Spike! Man's woman is like...holy...I know that for sure."

Mindful of the tiny tingle from the chip in his head, Spike sat the little man down with a bump. Larry gasped and fussed with his collar for a few minutes while Spike contemplated a move to the Roosevelt crypt for the rest of the week.

"Say, here's an idea," Larry chirped, suddenly desperate to be helpful. "Why don't you just stay at HER place?"

"Stay at Buffy's?" Spike snorted out a laugh.

"Sure, why not?" Larry asked and then he narrowed his eyes at the vampire. "Say...she ain't a married woman is she, Spike? 'Cause nothing good ever comes of that! They never leave the old man and iffin' they do then he hunts you down and carves you up and then the woman you get is a no good cheat and liar anyways."

Spike looked appalled by this speech. Larry was the moral fiber equivalent of a Danish and coffee. To take such an evangelical stand he must be speaking from personal experience. The vampire was slightly curious but not enough to pursue the subject. He stared into the middle distance and thought about the possibility of moving into the Summer's House for a few days. They had a guest room. He could spend the daylight hours in the basement. Spike was under no illusions about Buffy's bed. He knew he would not be welcome there. But once he was under the same roof there was no limit to the number of times he could make the suggestion.

"You know, Larry," Spike said, at last, giving the gnome-like caretaker a friendly pat. "Now that I think about it, moving in with my lady is a wonderful idea."
 
Spike moved in stealthily, under the cover of darkness, as the Slayer slept. It had taken him a couple of hours to open a drain so his flooded crypt could run-off into the sewers. Then he had packed a soggy duffle with equally soggy necessities and headed for Chez Summers. He didn't have to break in these days. Dawn had given him a key when Buffy died. So far, the Slayer had neglected to demand the key's return. Luckily, it had been in his inside duster pocket. During the evening's cultural exchange, Spike had transferred the key, his smokes and his lighter to the Santa Pants.

After entering the house, he tucked two packets of blood in the refrigerator veggie crisper. Gripping another packet in his teeth he made his way from the kitchen to the basement. Up ending his duffle over the washer, Spike started a load going. He tossed the bag of blood on top of the dryer. Then he began searching the high shelves for the family camping gear. Locating the folding cot he had used off and on over the summer he dragged it down and set it up. He ate his meal, smoked a cigarette, transferred his clothes to the drier and flopped down on the cot to wait out the laundry. Within a couple of minutes he was fast asleep.

Spike was awakened 12 hours later by a steady ringing sound punctuated by rhythm-free pounding. Groggily he made his way upstairs. The sun was lowering in the west. He glanced up the stairs.

"Slayer?" he bellowed. "Dawn? Auntie Serena? Anybody home?"

"Hey! Hello!" the persistent twonk at the door yelped and redoubled his doorbell ringing efforts.

No one answered Spike's summons, and after a few more minutes of external shouting and pounding, Spike opened the door a crack. A sandy haired man of about 45 and a teased-up, well-stacked red-head of about 25, pushed their way inside using their luggage to batter open the door.

"About time," the man said. "We've been standing out there for thirty minutes. I swear it was like trying to wake the dead."

"We work nights," Spike said, rubbing his eyes and wondering why he was explaining himself at all. "And who the HELL are you, then?"

"Hank Summers," the man announced, holding out his hand. "They must have a ton of pictures around here? Me and the girls?"

He glanced around the foyer as if he expected to see the walls covered in his likeness. Spike stepped back and leaned over to look at the one small photo of Buffy's dad in the family display. The Slayer had pigtails and braces in the picture and Dawn was about five. But the man in the shot looked much the same as the one standing in front of Spike. The in-person version had a little less hair and a touch more gut but the same used-car salesman patina.

"See, the genuine article," Hank Summers assured, with boyish enthusiasm. He inclined his head to indicate his girlfriend, "This here is Annette. And you must be the boyfriend...the Soldier...now don't tell me the name...it's on the tip of my brain...I know it's...Scottish or...Irish, maybe...Bailey? No, that's not it...Flynn?...O'Brien?"

"He sounds English to me, Honey," the bimbette Annette said, snuggling into Hank's shoulder. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper adding, "And I don't think they let albinos into the army."

Spike stared at them for a long beat as he contemplated the genetic accident that had let this man father the Slayer. He wondered if Joyce slept around. He wondered if he was doing her a disservice to hope that she had. Finally, he decided to set the twit straight.

"Yeah," Spike drawled, "that's right! I'm Buffy's English Albino Boyfriend but I'm NOT in the Army because the IRISH name you can't seem to tease out of the fog in your soddin' head is...RILEY! And he's the EX-boyfriend. A full year EX, mate!"

"That's it," Hank Summers said with a snap of his fingers. He was apparently immune to insult and insinuation, "Riley! I knew it was Irish!"

"So," the redhead asked, popping her chewing gum. "What's your name and why are you wearing Santa Pants?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Two Hundred Dollars!" Buffy was saying as she turned the car into Revello drive just at sunset. "Two HUNDRED Dollars! Right at Christmas! Do you know what that means? A three-week diet of tuna fish sandwiches for supper, that's what it means."

"It's not my fault you didn't want to see Spike," Dawn pouted. "All we had to do was go by his crypt and get the pants back. But, oh, no! You wouldn't hear of it. So don't blame me because we had to pay for the costume."

"That's not the issue here Dawn. The issue is..." Buffy began and then her voice trailed off as she spotted the silver All-Terrain Vehicle parked in their driveway. "There's a huge jeep thingee at our house. Do we know anyone with a huge whatever that is?"

"I don't think so," Dawn said, looking over the vehicle as Buffy pulled the sedan up behind it.

Large road hogging ATVs were the bane of the Slayer's tenuous existence as a licensed driver. They were constantly cutting her off and blocking her view. She had been involved in two accidents with them in her short and jaded career. For something so obvious they always seemed to be coming at her out of nowhere. This one was no exception. It had a vanity plate that said 'MTSTUD.'. Buffy read it as she got out of the car and hardily hoped that it stood for Montana Student. Somehow she doubted that it did.

Spike heard the Slayer drive up but didn't move fast enough to out flank Hank Summers. Buffy's father met her at the door and swept her into a bear hug. The plastic shopping bags she was carrying slipped to the floor.

"Binkybuff!" he exclaimed, swinging her into the air.

"Daddy?" Buffy gagged.

"Spike?" Dawn mouthed, shifting a brown paper grocery bag on her hip as she noticed the vampire come out of the kitchen. Buffy felt herself go cold as her gaze followed her Sister's.

"Hey, Niblet," Spike said, casually, never breaking eye contact with the Slayer. "Glad to have you both home. Wasn't expecting your Dad? He just popped in on me."

Spike leaned in to kiss Buffy's cheek before adding, "But I told him WE could always make room for family."

Looking at the vampire over her father's shoulder, Buffy's face went through a range of emotions: shock, anger, fear and finally a sulky acceptance. She pulled back to look at Hank Summers as he put her feet back on the floor. She managed a sickly smile.

"We can put you in the guest room," she said, with forced cheerfulness.

"Bill got us settled in there already, Sweetie," Hank informed her.

Buffy caught herself just in time...Bill...William...okay...so, not SPIKE! Not one of the Evil Undead. Just an ordinary man. Someone who belonged in the two-story house on Revello Drive. Someone who greeted her with a kiss on the cheek when she came home. Someone who even now was divesting her Sister of her paper bag burden and heading for the kitchen.

"Uhm...Us?" the Slayer inquired.

"Me and my main squeeze, Annette," her father explained, gesturing behind him. For the first time Buffy took in the well-endowed bimbette coming down the stairs. She barely heard her Father continue, "We're on our way out to Colorado for the New Year but I thought I would stop in and see my girls. Can't stay too long, Honey, but at least we can spend Christmas Eve together."

"I'm happy your here, Daddy," Buffy reassured her Father, finally managing to tear her eyes away from his 'main squeeze.' "Why don't you...both...go into the living room and relax?"

She gave Hank a shove in the right direction, "I just need to put a few things away and then we can talk. You know, catch up. Dawn, I need you to give...Bill...and I a hand in the kitchen?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dawn, put the groceries away," Buffy said, as soon as they hit the other room. She grabbed Spike by the front of his t-shirt and headed for the basement door, "You come with me."

"What if Daddy comes in here?" Dawn whispered back, in desperation.

"Stall," Buffy returned, still hustling the vampire toward the cellar stairs. Spike wrenched free and turned back to Dawn.

"I'm your Sister's Fiancé," Spike informed the teenager. "My name is Bill. I teach at your school. Music. And I have a band, keeps me up late. I sing and play the guitar. That's really all they know about me, Nip."

He started to follow Buffy down the stairs then suddenly stuck his head back out, "Oh, except that I live outside Sunnydale, my place got flooded so I'm puttin' up here for the week."

"What?" Buffy screeched and Spike yanked the basement door closed to stifle the sound. He took a deep unnecessary but stabilizing breath.

"My place is flooded," he repeated, "and I need to stay here for the week."

"Flooded like this basement was flooded?" Buffy said, in astonishment.

"Well, irrigation pipe in my case," Spike shrugged. "But, yeah, same result. Maybe this is a Hellmouth thing. Or could be that frost monster...p'haps he thaws out, cause that could increase the water pressure and..."

"There is NO such thing as a frost monster," Buffy snapped, "and even if your crypt IS flooded," she continued, making it sound like she doubted the truth of the statement, "I don't see why you would have to move in HERE."

"Everyone else does," Spike grinned, showing a slip of pink tongue. "Why not me, then?"

"And just how did we end up engaged?"

"Usual way I expect. Me working up my courage to ask. You coyly letting me wait for your answer 'til I nearly go mad. Then the shy tilt of your head and the soft acceptance before we seal it all up with a kis..."

"SPIKE!"

"Didn't know how else to explain," Spike said, hastily. "Me answering the door and nobody else home."

"Never dawned on you to just NOT answer the door? Or maybe to say you rented out the spare room from us?"

"Nope," Spike admitted. "Never did!"

"That figures," Buffy snorted. She glanced down and asked, "Why are you still wearing those ridiculous pants?"

"Like I already told you," he sighed, "the zipper is stuck and...HEY!!"

Buffy had interrupted him by rudely tearing the Santawear from his body with one Slayer strength yank. Spike clenched his jaw, balled up his fists and rolled his eyes in frustration.

"AND," he continued, pointedly, "I promised Dawn that I WOULDN?T rip them."

"Yeah," Buffy replied, before ripping the cloth one more time. "Well, I paid nearly two hundred dollars for these things and I'll do whatever I PLEASE with them."

She folded the red velvet material into a bundle and with a small flex of her muscles tore it again. Spike grabbed at her, turned on by the violence and her undeniable power. She twisted away but he shifted his grip and pulled her in for a brutal kiss. His mouth was hard on hers, bruising and demanding.

Buffy dropped the torn cloth and let her arms snake around his neck. She backed Spike up into the dryer pressing her body into his, once again aware of the deep hunger that seemed to always be burning in her belly. The Slayer clawed her hands down his chest and then slid them up under his shirt. Panting, Spike broke free of her lips, his own hands tugging at her clothing.

"Slayer," he growled into the soft curve of her neck. "It's been three long weeks. I don't wanna fight, Baby. Jus' let me give you what you need."

There was a sudden chorus of 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' from right over their heads. Hank Summers had flipped on the CD player. Spike muttered a curse as Buffy went suddenly stiff and cold in his arms. She shoved him away with both hands.

"Stop it!" she commanded, still holding her hands up between them. "I told you that will never happen again. It's over."

"And I told you," Spike added, in the same seriously dangerous tone, "not to say that... EVER!"

"Dawn is right upstairs," Buffy trumped him. "And my Father is here. He doesn't even know I'm the Slayer. Let alone that I died and came back all sick and twisted. Or that vampires are real and there's one in the house right now. So, can we just NOT do this?"

"Fine," Spike sighed, knowing she had beaten him this time. "You want the nice normal family Christmas with the dead-beat dad. So I'll stay away from the mirrors and you stay away from my hot, tight little body and somehow we will get through this bloody charade."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So...how did you two meet?" Hank Summers asked, as Spike handed him the mashed potatoes.

The entire family was gathered at the dinner table. Hank and Annette were asking all the wrong questions. Dawn was trying not to look anyone in the eye. Buffy was fidgeting as Spike helped himself to more take-out chicken. He was enjoying the role of doting husband-to-be, just a little too much for Buffy's peace of mind.

"Work!" Buffy said, happy that it wasn't a lie.

"Work?" Hank puzzled over this. "Bill said he was a teacher but NOT while you were in High School so how did you..."

"Buffy means her work," Spike said, quickly, and then realized he had nowhere to go with the story. He mentally kicked himself for not going with the obvious, "Parent/Teacher Night."

"At the Bronze," Buffy picked up the ball and returned it to the playing field of truth. "It's a local hang out. I worked there as a...a waitress. And...that's where we met."

The vampire was studying her with predatory intensity. He was remembering their first meeting. And just before it, how he had watched Buffy dance. Inside the club and outside in the alleyway, he watched her, knowing she was meant to dance with him. He had envisioned it then as a quick pas de deux. Blooming bright and burning out. He had had no idea. Spike couldn't help asking himself if he would have set foot in the Bronze that night if he had known how their dance would end.

"Spike's band was playing there," Dawn supplied, startling the vampire out of his reverie.

"Why do you call him Spike?" Annette drawled, giving the vampire a suggestive look.

"Stage name," Buffy covered, taking the potatoes from her father, "from the band. We kind of call him that around here...like a pet name."

"Oh, I have a stage name too," Annette said, brightly. " used to do an act at one of the clubs outside Paris. They called me Le Rouge. Or they did until Hank came and stole me away from my professional career. He said I wasn't going to take off my clothes for anyone but him from now on. It was so romantic."

"You're a STRIPPER?" Buffy yelped.

"I prefer the term Entertainer de Dishabille," Annette said, primly, as she adjusted her cleavage.

Buffy couldn't help noticing that Spike was giving the bimbette an especially warm smile even as Hank continued the conversation along different lines. The Slayer barely listened to her father. She ran a critical eye over the redhead's lushly formed and unabashedly displayed figure.

"And soon my little girl will be Mrs. William 'Spike'...uhm...Hey, Bill...Did you tell me your last name?"

There was an overlong pause as the impromptu players exchanged panicked glances.

Buffy was about to spill the gravy as a distraction when Spike said, "Don't rightly remember if I told you or not?"

"Hunter," Dawn blurted out and then laughed nervously. Everyone was looking at her so she looked down at her plate and mumbled, "His last name is Hunter...Mr. William Hunter."

"So that will make you a Hunter," Hank smiled, at his elder daughter.

"Suits her," Spike said, giving Dawn's foot a nudge under the table. The teenager shot him a grateful glance.

"Pie," Buffy said, standing up, suddenly. "I need to start the pie for tomorrow."

"But you haven't eaten your dinner," Hank commented.

"Not hungry," Buffy said, picking up her barely touched plate of chicken and salad. "Too much to do for tomorrow."

"Willow left a message on the machine," Dawn said, getting up too. "She said she wouldn't be back until after New Years. Are Xander and Anya still coming?"

"I think they were planning on coming over for Christmas dinner." Buffy gave Spike a worried look.

"You should call Harris and let him know that your Father is here, Luv," Spike suggested.

"Tara, too," Dawn said. "I can call if you want."

Buffy nodded. She edged her way into the kitchen, wondering how things had gotten so far out of hand. Her father wasn't the warm, funny man she remembered from so many years ago. He was a self-centered buffoon with a stripper girlfriend who looked young enough to be...well...Buffy. The Slayer had nearly died for the third time when she first saw Annette vavooming down the stairs in a skintight skirt and sheer red blouse. Buffy couldn't believe the nerve of her father introducing the bimbo as his 'main squeeze.'

But at least Hank Summers wasn't lying. The Slayer's life was a tangle of half-truths. She was exhausted from the constant covering and the insincere smiling. And she was shocked to discover that she didn't particularly like her own father. She had clung to her child's eyes image of him for so long. Even when it became apparent that he had forgotten about his responsibilities. The only saving grace of the night was that Spike was for the most part behaving himself. She looked up as the vampire entered the room.

"Speak of the devil," Buffy muttered, under her breath.

"Turning into a French farce out there," he grinned, "a festive web of lies. Strippers and long lost relatives revealed and now the lovers meeting in secret. How you holding up, Pet?"

"I'm fine," she said, tipping her plate up to empty it into the trash. "And we're not lovers."

Unruffled by her correction, Spike caught her hand and turned the plate upright before the food slid into the garbage.

"You may want something later," he advised, as he took the dish from her suddenly nerveless fingers. He sat it on the countertop and covered it with foil before sticking it into the fridge. Buffy was staring at Spike as if she had never seen him before.

"Look, no one is watching us now," she reminded him, "so you can cut the act."

"'s not an act," Spike mumbled. "You should eat. Need some meat on your bones."

"I like my bones the way they are," Buffy whispered, harshly, "and I didn't hear you complaining about anything a few weeks ago when we..."

Buffy stopped mid-sentence. She was appalled. She had forgotten herself in the heat of the moment and broached the forbidden subject of their liaison. Spike's unfortunate choice of words had caused an immediate picture of the voluptuous Annette to spring to the Slayer's mind. She and the redhead were roughly the same age but the stripper was dating Buffy's father. Sleeping with her Father, she mentally corrected. And now even Spike was making Buffy feel like a gangly child.

'How dare he smile at the overblown tart and then come in here and tell me I should eat more," she thought, angrily.

"I'm not complaining, Luv," Spike said, stepping close to nuzzle her cheek. "?I just want you to keep your strength up."

He pulled back to give her a suggestive grin before adding, "Need you in fighting trim don't I? Never know when I might want to go a few rounds."

"Get away from me," Buffy ordered, pushing at him then she froze, listening. There was a furtive sound just outside the door to the dining room. Exchanging a quick glance she and the vampire went to investigate.

"Mistletoe," Annette sang out, holding a sprig up over Buffy's head as she came through the doorway.

It took every ounce of meditative calm she possessed, but Buffy kept herself from decking the Bimbette. It was a close call. Coming up behind the Slayer, Spike wrapped her in a tight embrace. He was aware of the hostile tension in her body but he wasn't about to let the such a prime opportunity pass unseized.

"Can't argue with tradition," he murmured, in her ear, and stepping to one side he turned his head so that their lips met.

Annette gave a little sigh of appreciation as the kiss lingered and deepened. It was the slow, sweet kiss of new love. Dawn was back at the dinner table with the cellphone pressed to her ear. The teenager couldn't believe her eyes. She gave a gurgle of surprise and hung up on Xander. Spike was kissing Buffy. He was holding her in his arms under the mistletoe in the Summers family dining room and kissing her like Riley always meant to but never quite did.

"Hey, now," Hank Summers said, as he entered the room with a cup of Eggnog in each hand, "save that for the Honeymoon."

The Slayer gave a guilty start. A wave of crimson heat washed over her skin. Spike's non-existent breath caught in his throat. He felt the sanguinary desire rise up in his gullet and threaten to swamp his reason. His hold on his beloved shifted and tightened. Buffy's nails bit into his arm. The sudden sharp pain brought him back to the glittering reality of their situation.

Spike became aware of the Father, the Bimbo and Niblet at the table looking on for this private moment like the bloody Wisemen gawking at the Holy Birth. Four years ago he would have killed every one of them and taken what was his. Now, there was something else he craved far more than blood or sex or power. Now there was Buffy's love. Spike released his hold on the Slayer but he let her see the possessive fire in his eyes and savored the answering spark in her own.

"Who's up for the decorating of that soddin' tree, then?" he asked, turning away from temptation to address the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy laid her head against the coolness of the refrigerator and listened to the happy sounds of Holiday Halls being decked. She knew it was all false, a lie, a Hallmark commercial being filmed with actors pretending to be family. But when Dawn's laugh rang out over the deeper masculine tones of Spike and Hank, the Slayer found she was smiling in spite of herself. She wanted to give Dawn this moment, this semblance of a normal life. It was the best she could offer her sister in this mixed up Hellish world where a bleached blond vampire was the only man both Buffy's father and mother found charming.

Sighing, the Slayer cracked eggs into the mixture of flour and sugar in a large bowl on the counter. She set the electric beater to cream and began turning the bowl, watching as the batter turned golden. The swirling pattern mesmerized her, sucking her into the past.

The smell of pumpkin pie cooling on the rack and chocolate melting on the stove and the sound of her father's voice in the other room took Buffy back to the last Christmas when they were all together. Her father, her sister, herself...and her mother. It was Joyce at the counter then making her famous Chocolate Gingerbread Men and the only thing to fear in the night was the sound of her parents arguing. The only monster was the dreaded word spoken: Divorce.

"BUFFY!" Spike's voice screamed from somewhere far away. He sounded frightened, desperate. A sound like angry bees snapped the Slayer back into focus.

The pan with the chocolate was burning and the apron she had tossed too close to the stove was on fire. The smoke alarm blared its warning as Spike rushed into the room. He reached out his hand, unthinking. Buffy watched it all happen in slow motion, seconds seemed to take forever to pass. The burning cloth and the melted pot of chocolate dumped into the sink. The smell of searing flesh as Spike's hand closed on molten metal. Water rushing and then all of her focus narrowing down to the tiny flame licking at his t-shirt, spreading upward.

"FIRE!" The word registered in Buffy's brain as quick bright death and ashes.

She hit Spike hard, sending him to the floor. Rolling over with him to smother the flame, feeling it sting her skin. The vampire took a moment to register the danger and then he began tearing at his shirt. Buffy's ruffled blouse caught fire and the words he had spoken to her nearly two years ago came unbidden into her mind. 'We'll both burn.'. She tried to scramble away from him but she was caught in something. She struggled frantically, trying to break free before she killed them both.

Dawn had dashed into the kitchen in Spike's wake. Assessing the situation, she picked up the fire extinguisher and with a flick of her wrist shot a foamy spray at the still smoldering apron. When Buffy took Spike down, Dawn stepped over them to the sink. She turned the taps on full. Grasping the sprayer, she pointed it at the pair on the floor and pulled the trigger. After a liberal drenching, the Slayer and the vampire sat up sputtering and singed but otherwise unharmed.

"Geez, talk about childhood trauma!' Dawn lamented. "You two are like an Erwin Allen movie."

The teenager sighed and reholstered her water pistol on the back of the sink, "Is this some kind of transference thing? 'Cause...you know," she made a two handed gesture as if she was shoving them together, "DEAL! Before you bring the whole house down on top of us."

Buffy exchanged a loaded glance with Spike. He was festooned in a strand of Christmas lights. They were looped around his body and Buffy had become entangled in them when they did the drop and roll. Calmer now, she freed herself, ducking her head to avoid the storm brewing in his blue eyes.

The emergency shower had tousled Spike's hair into sexy disarray and molded Buffy's clothing to her body. She tried, she really did...but she couldn't help thinking about bringing down the house. Lifting up the Slayer's chin with two fingers the vampire grinned at her and without a moment's hesitation she punched him in the nose.

"Buffy Anne SUMMERS!" her father's voice spoke in sharp rebuke from the doorway, "I think we need to have a word, young lady."

Mumbling something about needing to change, Buffy scrambled to her feet. Her heel caught on Spike's decorative flashers and she stumbled forward. Recovering, she tried to make a break for the stairs but Hank Summers caught at her elbow and marched along with her all the way up to her room.
 



FATHER CHRISTMAS

A Secret Spike Gift

For Bree

BY-Bree's Secret Spike 1stRab-id

STORY - For and somewhat about Bree

RATING- G, PG, R, NC-17

COUPLE - B/S but lots of S/D too though not shipperishly

REQUEST - A Dramedy

SPOILERS - Up to WRECKED

MY BETAS - The AIGTeers, Carrie, Sabrina, Nauti, Rilla and also MKStatz

CANON COMMENT: Re: Spike and siring (with Ford or Sheila). Nauti caught me out on this already...but I didn't miss anything there (Ford was with dozens of other vamps and Sheila was with Dru). I could easily be wrong, but this is my take on Siring for this fic. And I would challenge you to prove something different but remember...because something was insinuated doesn't mean it ACTUALLY happened.

DISCLAIMER - Suddenly I own it all...no just kidding...still Joss and Co. and UPN and Fox TV and Mutant Enemy, et al....definately NOT ME!

PART THREE

"Obviously, you two can't get married," Hank Summers said, as soon as the door to Buffy's room closed behind them.

"Obviously?" Buffy returned indignantly, forgetting for a moment that on any other day she would hold the same opinion. She motioned for her father to turn his back as she continued, "Why? What's wrong with Spike?"

"Bill," her father stressed the name, "seems like a decent and caring man but this isn't the first time you've hit him is it?"

"Daddy," Buffy sighed, her voice muffled as she pulled off her blouse, "It's not what you think?"

"Then what is it?" Hank asked over his shoulder.

"Well," the Slayer began and then wondered what she was going to say next. She took a moment to slip a sweater over her head and then lowered her voice and leaned toward him to confide, "It's not like I'm one of those people."

"Those people?"

"You can turn around now," Buffy stalled thinking how she might delicately open the topic of sexual abberation with her absentee father. She had no idea how to explain to him about Spike and pain and pleasure and that sweet brutal trip to third base. She couldn't even explain it to herself, "Someone who...you know...uhm..."

"Batters their spouse?" Hank finished for her.

"WHAT?" Buffy gaped at him as he turned to confront her, "And...and...WHAT?"

"Your Mother wrote to me about your violent tendencies, Buffy," Hank Summers continued starting to pace back and forth, "but I didn't believe her. She told me about that man you dated. What was his name? Angel? No, that wasn't it. Anyway...Joyce told me about the two of you. The fights you had and how she was afraid that you were turning out wrong inside. That you would never be able to truly love someone. To have a home and a family."

"Mom said that...that...I couldn't love," Buffy's voice broke and she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

She felt like a witness to a train wreck. Her mind was having trouble processing things. So many painful emotions were crowding on top of each other in her heart: betrayal, abandonment, and the fear that she really was 'wrong' inside. Anger at her mother for telling this stranger about her failures. Shame over Riley leaving her because she couldn't reach out to him. And fear...fear because Spike, was able to touch her so intimately.

"Maybe I do need help," Buffy whispered feeling the aching emptiness that had followed her out of the grave swell up inside her chest, "Maybe I really do."

"Honey, there are places that can help?" her Father soothed. "I've seen the commercials. But they always say the first step is admitting that you have a problem."

Buffy looked up at him through tear blurred eyes. He reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

"Now, the last I heard," Hank continued, "You were dating this Soldier from Idaho or somewhere out West. Your Mother was so happy that you were doing well. You were in college and settling down. Now that man is gone and you're with Bill. Tell me what happened with the Soldier, Buffy? Did you hit him?"

"No," Buffy said, numbly. "I didn't want to hit him."

She remembered Riley taunting her, begging her to lash out at him. And hard on the heels of that memory was one of sending Spike into a wall with a backhanded blow. She could still feel it in her body, the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh, the sharp red bloom of his returning strike. And the sex, the glorious, deep, violent, desperately profound fulfillment of the sex.

"But you hit Bill? Why?" Hank returned, squatting down to face his daughter. "Anyone can see that he loves you and adores Dawn. Is that why you do it? Because you can hit him and he won't leave?"

"No! It's not like that between us," Buffy said, shaking her head. "It's not like that at all."

"Are you sure you aren't testing him? Trying to drive him away?"

"Maybe I am testing Spike," the Slayer thought, suddenly, the question ringing true for her. She felt a stab of guilt and a tiny swirl of some other feeling and then she mentally snorted at the very idea.

"Of course I am trying to drive him away," she reminded herself, silently. "Hello, vampire?...Evil killing machine?...Driving away equals good and right...he chains me up and...kisses and...WAIT...NO...eats people...and takes care of Dawn and...bruises me with his hard fists and harder words and passionate...well....bruises me anyway and...saves and protects and cherishes and loves and gives himself completely to me...and...okay....maybe I could treat him a little bit better but...HELLO? Vampire? and...well...third base...NO, what I mean is....you know...he's a very wrong, very bad DEMON....sort of...person!...

"I blame myself for this," Hank was saying. "If I had stayed closer, given you more direction; a strong male role model. I shouldn't have left all of this to your mother she never was good with discipline."

"Mom did just fine," Buffy bristled. "Mom did BETTER than fine. Mom did GREAT. And you know...this isn't even about me is it? This is about YOU trying to come here and be my father and make up for lost time. How dare you criticize Mom? Or me? Or try to understand my life? You think that you can just drop in and play amateur psychologist whenever you happen to be in the neighborhood? And I'm suppose to explain my feelings and choices to..."

"How's it going in here?" Spike said, popping in the door even as he knocked on it.

Buffy and her father turned to look at the vampire. Dawn had bandaged his hand and he had changed clothes. He was wearing a dry but otherwise identical pair of black jeans and a purple shirt. Buffy tried not to think about the shirt.

"It's...that is...we were just," Buffy began and then faltered unsure of him, of her father, of herself.

"Did you explain about the thing with the nose, Honey?" the vampire inquired, with wide innocent eyes.

"I...uh...I didn't really get a chance," Buffy said, hesitantly.

"You see, Hank, the thing is," Spike said, casually dropping an arm around the man's shoulders, "it's a little game we play. Imagine it seems odd to an outsider."

"A game?" Hank frowned and Buffy groaned inwardly at the direction the conversation was taking. The only thing worse than her father thinking she was a spouse abuser in the making would be her father knowing for sure that she was as kinky as they come.

"That's right Daddy," Buffy thought, sarcastically, "your little girl likes a bit of the rough and tumble. But it's okay 'cause Spike can take it. See he's dead. Worse than dead actually, more of a blood sucking creature of the night who likes to chain me up and fuck me senseless and well...let me pour you a little more of that Eggnog while you adjust to the new world view."

"Yeah," Spike said, brightly, "she pokes me in the nose 'cause I don't have any feeling in it. Sort of playful like...kind of a family joke."

"You don't...have any," Hank began in confusion. He glanced at Buffy who pulled herself together and tried to look like this really wasn't news to her. Her father looked back at Spike for confirmation, "No feeling at all?"

"Nope, not a bit of it," Spike assured him. The vampire gestured at his schnozz, "Wanna give it a try? Take your best shot."

Hank shook his head but after a bit more encouragement he drew back and took a swing at the vampire's nose. Buffy winced but there was no need. Her father pulled his punch and even at full strength he wouldn't have done any damage. Compared to the Slayer's hard right, Hank's blow was a feather light caress. Spike didn't even blink.

"That's amazing," Hank said, rubbing his sore knuckles and peering at the vampire's nose.

"Motorcycle accident," Spike shrugged. "Nerve damage. Figure I got off easy."

"Oh, Well...uhm," Hank gave his daughter a sheepish look, "Guess I stuck my foot in the middle of things."

"Guess you did," Buffy said, with some bitterness, still not over her mad.

"So, Bill," Hank said, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, "I notice you still ride a motorcycle, though. I was hoping to take a closer look at it tomorrow."

"No time like the present," Spike said, waving the man toward the staircase.

As her father passed him, the vampire gave Buffy a small wink and flashed the pink of his tongue against his teeth. Then he followed Hank Summers out into the hall. The Slayer sank down on her bed again and listened in awe as the two men went downstairs chatting all the while about Harleys and Rice Burners and the soddin' National Speed Limit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next few hours, Spike tried everything he could think of to shake off Hank Summers but the man just couldn't seem to take a hint. Buffy cleaned up the kitchen. Hank admired Spike's bike. Dawn disappeared for half an hour but then popped up again to help finish trimming the tree. Hank showed off his monstrous ATV. The Slayer explained that she and Spike were not exchanging gifts so they could save for their wedding. Hank broke out his digital camera and the diskettes of his last trip to Europe. Annette went off to bed, then Dawn and finally Buffy but Hank stayed up.

Spike commented on the time. He yawned. He stretched. Hank Summers kept on yammering. He followed the vampire down to the basement and then back up to the kitchen again and then all the way up the stairs to the Slayer's bedroom door. He stood watching as Spike, turned the knob to enter. The vampire offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. His beloved hadn't locked him out. Then he nodded another goodnight to Buffy's pesky father figure and shut the door in his face.

"Good God, Joyce," Spike whispered, leaning his forehead into the door. "How the bloody hell did you keep from taking the ax to him?"

"What are you doing here?" Buffy challenged out of the darkness making Spike start and spin around.

She was standing by the window. The room lights were out but the night was bright enough for Spike's dark-adapted eye to see her clearly. She was bare-footed and wearing lavender pajama pants with prancing white sheep on them. Despite the cold, she had a thin satin-strapped tank top on rather than sensible flannel. Her face was free of makeup and her hair spilled raggedly around her shoulders. Spike couldn't imagine that a sheer negligee would make her look any sexier. She padded closer to him and repeated her question.

"What the hell are you doing creeping into my bedroom?"

"Not creeping," Spike corrected, indignantly. "Cowering. Your Bugger of a Father is lurking about, following my every move. Couldn't shake him so I'm hiding out."

"Well, you can't stay in here."

"I'm not staying," Spike soothed, while listening at the door. "Jus' waiting. Soon as he pops off to dreamland, I'll toddle down to the basement."

He glanced back at the Slayer, "Why aren't you sleeping? You came up here an hour ago."

"I can't sleep! I can't believe we are doing this," Buffy grumbled, as she plopped down on the edge of her bed and pulled her feet up. "It;s ridiculous. I should just go out there and tell him that he and his Stripper girlfriend aren't welcome here. He didn't even come to Mom's funeral. He sent a card."

She gave an exaggerated sigh and continued in genuine puzzlement, "What's wrong with me? Why am I acting like a child? I'm the Chosen One, the Slayer, the almighty Warrior of the People, back from the dead to kick the demonic ne'er-do-wells in their delicate parts. So why can't I just tell the one man I SHOULD to get lost and stay that way?"

"He's the only real family you and Bit have left," Spike said, with a small shrug. "Your only link to the past. Be hard to let that go."

"We have each other. Maybe we don't need anyone else."

"Maybe," Spike agreed, as he sank down to sit with his back to the door, "but blood ties are strong, Buffy. It's hard to break with your parents even when you don't need them anymore. Even when you know they won't understand what you've become."

"Spike?" Buffy said, softly.

"Yeah?" he prompted, when she didn't continue.

"Tell me about your Mother."

"It's a long, mostly boring story," he said, dismissively, not looking at her. He toyed with the bandage on his hand.

There was a piercing giggle from the guest room and a series of groans and squeaks as the bed got a workout.

"We seem to have some time," Buffy grimaced. She waved to indicate the noise, "And really, I would rather listen to you than to that."

When the vampire failed to respond the Slayer slipped from the bed and panther crawled toward him. Spike's eyes followed her. She knew just how to hold his attention. When she reached him, Buffy turned slightly aside. She dropped her hip so that she was sitting next to him with her back to the wall. She drew up her knees, hugging them with both arms and leaned into his shoulder.

"Please?" she cajoled. "I promise I'll be a good listener this time."

Spike sighed. He closed his eyes and savored the warmth of her body where they touched. He let his mind drift back to a time when he was newly made into a cold inhuman thing. Then further back to a time when he was still young and innocent and alive.

"She loved Christmas," he began, his voice soft and low. "We didn't have much money. But we were better off than most. And every year, at this time, she would hold an open house for all the neighbors. Everyone would come. My father was a younger son and when he married her he was cut off from his own circle. He never seemed to mind. She was far beneath him socially but they had a love match. We were happy."

"What was her name?"

"Emmaline Rose," Spike replied, rolling the syllables on his tongue, tasting them. "And my father's name was Augustine. He always called her Emma Rose. Used to say she was as 'rare as a bloom in mid-winter'."

"Why weren't you named after your father?"

"I was," Spike smiled. "My father and my mother's twin. My maternal uncle, William, died a few months before I was born. Mother took the loss hard. Nearly miscarried. So they named me William Augustine Gilford after my father and my mother's brother."

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing!" Spike laughed. "Nothing happened. We had a simple life in the dower house on the estate of my father's cousin, Lord Gilford. It was a pastoral and poetic life. I had two younger sisters, Clarissa and Charlotte."

"You had sisters?"

"Yeah," Spike nodded, and then he glared at her, "and a dog named Randolph. Look, are you going to keep interrupting?"

"Sorry, I just never thought about..." Buffy decided to stop talking before she said something else to upset him. "Sorry!" she repeated and pantomimed the sealing of her lips.

"Anyway," he continued, after a moment, "age twelve or so, I went away to public school and only came back for the Holidays. But in 1879 there was a hard winter and I didn't make it home. The Influenza took my father and sisters before spring. Only my mother was spared. But...by the time I returned home...she was so weak. I went to Lord Gilford and offered him my services as a tutor in return for allowing us to stay on at the dower house. He paid me a small stipend for medicine. I thought she would recover but she only got worse. So, when Lord Gilford went to town for the Season, I begged him to take us along, in hopes that the London doctors could help her. In the warm spring, under the care of a physician, she seemed to be improving. She was improving."

Spike stopped speaking. Buffy leaned in to look at him.

"But she died?" the Slayer guessed.

"No," he said so quietly she could hardly hear him, "I died."

Spike didn't move or speak. His eyes glinted as he looked through the far wall of Buffy's room and into the distant past. After a long while, Buffy shifted her position so she was kneeling in front of him.

"Then what?" she asked, looking into his face.

Spike shifted his gaze and focused on his beloved Slayer. She was so beautiful. As radiant and vital as his Mother had once been. It was Buffy that he had died for all those years ago. The part of him that had always been missing. And she was finally his or, he ammended mentally, almost his anyway. Spike took in a deep breath and choked.

"Is that garlic?" he asked, with a sudden suspicion.

His eyes darted around the room but there was no sign of the offending root. Buffy had disposed of her external defenses over a week ago when it finally dawned on her that Spike was more than willing to wait out her siege. Apparently, he had no intention of assaulting her in the night. Only the faintest trace of odor remained not enough to harm a vampire.

"What happened?" Buffy insisted, determined not to let him break the mood.

"I died," he repeated, at last. "In a London alleyway. But my Mother never knew that. Dru stole my purse and my papers and they buried me in pauper's field. Everyone I knew thought I simply disappeared that night. Run off by ridicule and rejection." He flashed a toothy and wicked smile as he added, "Everyone that didn't meet me later, that is."

Buffy felt a prickly chill along her spine as she processed the implications of his statement. She could envision the newly risen vampire stalking and killing his former associates. With no Slayer to defend them, all of those innocent people would have been helpless against him. Spike would have fallen on them like a lion among lambs.

"At first I didn't care about anything but the hunt," he continued. "But then I heard that Mother had taken a turn for the worse. She had returned home to Yorkshire. The loss of everything she loved was too much for her. Darla and Angel wanted to stay in London but I persuaded them that there was prime feeding in the country. I stirred up a bit of trouble and while everyone was distracted I slipped off to see Mother."

"And did you? See her?"

"Yes, she invited me in, forgave me for my absence and I settled down to take care of her. It was like it had always been, as if I hadn't changed at all. I slept in the root cellar. Mother thought I was working. I would feed and then come home to her. I told her not to invite anyone else into the house. But only Dru came. Drusilla was very angry with me for not getting her inside. She couldn't understand it."

He looked into Buffy's eyes, needing her to understand, "I didn't want to turn Emma Rose; I wanted her to be with my father and little Clarissa and Charlotte. So, I waited for her to die. But she didn't. She seemed to be growing stronger, more animated. The closer we got to Christmas, the happier she seemed. And then Angel came in his priest garb and told her what I was. I don't know why he told her...at the time, or looking back...why he didn't kill her...if he thought she was a danger to us...or...."

Spike shook his head, "I don't know why he told her. But...the way she looked at me...I will never forget how sad her eyes were...how disappointed she was in me."

"So you had to leave?"

"No," he corrected. "She was too weak for me to leave her. I stayed with her until she died. It didn't take long...a few more days..."

"Christmas Eve," Buffy whispered, remembering what he'd told her on the porch.

"She wouldn't look at me, even at the end. I wasn't her son, anymore. I was just the monster that changed her and bathed her and brought her meals. Right to the last, Dru kept telling me to turn her, to save her, but I knew she wouldn't want that. My Mother was so full of life. She wouldn't have wanted to be...like me."

Spike's voice faded away and Buffy brushed her hand lightly over his cheek. She trailed her fingers down letting them linger on his lips before hooking them under his jaw. She lifted his chin so that she could look into his eyes.

"Spike, I..." the Slayer began and was shocked into silence by a loud 'YEE-HAW, COWGIRL' from the guest bedroom.

There was a loud oath from the room next door followed by the sound of Dawn's feet hitting the floor. The Slayer's little sister stomped across the room. There was a flare of static and then music began blaring from the teenager's stereo. The solid heavy metal sounds of Creed's 'Bullets' vibrated the walls. Buffy and Spike collapsed into each other, laughing hysterically.

"That's my Sweet Bit," the vampire yelled, over the noise. "Got to love you Summers' women. All straight to the point and business like."

"Spike," Buffy chuckled, close to his ear.

"Bill," he chided, holding her tight and melting into her warmth.

She pulled back to look into his eyes and mouthed, "William Augustine."

Their lips met in a sweet, slow, all too human kiss.
 

It was the bed, Spike thought, or the mattress. Or the soft cotton sheets with their fabric-softener scent and pink rosebud pattern. So different from the hard wood and harder stone that served them last time. It was the bed, the yielding warmth of it that made his fingers fumble with an almost virginal awkwardness.

This time there was music. Surrounding them as they kissed and petted. Throbbing in him like a heartbeat, speaking for him.

"I cried out 'Heaven save me' but

I'm down to one last breath,

and with it let me say, let me say...

Hold me now; I'm six feet from the edge

and I'm thinkin' maybe six feet ain't so far down."

Buffy shifted away from him and Spike whimpered at the loss of her warmth. He was so cold without her. Cold as the grave. Rock hard, blue-balled cold. The Slayer pulled her shirt over her head and pushed free of her pajama bottoms. She returned to him, her silken skin like a balm to his feverish need. Never mind that an icy fever was a contradiction. He burned for her and he shivered.

They worked together, unzipping, unlacing, and tugging at his clothing, until they were both naked. They teased each other's flesh with nips and nails and puffs of breath. Buffy traveled Spike's body, mapping and memorizing it. Side-by-side, they lay in opposition to each other and she opened herself to him, pushing her way between his legs even as she raised her own knee for the Soixante-neuf. Spike pillowed his head on the Slayer's inner thigh and breathed in her need. He stroked his tongue over her twice. Then she took him into her mouth and he thought that his flesh would melt in her moist heat.

"Luv," he gasped, falling back, floundering for a grip on her. "Oh, GAH..."

She released him, rolling instantly away.

"Don't," she said, low and harsh. "Don't make a sound." Her tone was commanding, uncompromising, "No one can know. Not a sound or it's over."

Leaning on one elbow, Buffy was splayed before him in all her savage, domineering glory. Spike swallowed his protest. He nodded in quick submission. There was no question of stopping this now. Three weeks was too long to spend without her, an eternity of merciless cold. He needed to feel alive again. Buffy knew it. If silence was the price then Spike would pay it. And she knew that too. Her turn to pay would come later.

He put his lips to her again, sipping up the sweet cordial liquid of her desire. Like blood or sweat or tears, it was a vital fluid and energizing to him. He dipped his tongue into her, twisting it as he went to catch every drop of her succulent lubrication. Satisfied with his obedience, Buffy bit gently at the curve of his nether cheek and then ran her tongue down over the loose skin of his scrotum. Catching at his balls with her teeth she sucked in first one and then the other, rolling them in her mouth. It was all Spike could do not to scream as she simultaneously slipped a middle finger up inside of him.

Golden droplets of pre-cum streamed down his shaft and fell onto her breast. But Buffy knew better than to drink from him now. She knew about the thrall that was carried in his seed. When she was ready she used her right hand on his cock while she continued to tongue and bite and stroke him everywhere else. Finally, pushed too far, Spike retaliated. Gripping her hard nub in his teeth, he purred against it, vibrating his tongue until she released him. Buffy cried out in ecstasy. Luckily, Dawn's music swelled to a crescendo at that precise moment. Unfortunately, the CD was nearly over. The Slayer prayed that it was set to loop, as Spike put his fingers to work.

The vampire reached into his beloved's core. He slid two fingers along her rippling walls until he touched the ring of her returning maidenhead. Spike smiled, at the catch in Buffy's breath and at the wonder of what he was caressing. It hadn't finished growing back. She wasn't sealed against him...yet. So three weeks, it seemed, wasn't long enough for the Slayer healing power to work it's magic.

He had, of course, heard all the stories about the Slayer. Every vampire heard the stories. There were legends told around the campfire about her strength, her speed, her deadly skill with a stake and her perpetual purity. Three weeks ago, Spike had learned the truth about the Slayer's eternal virginity. If he hadn't been so stunned by the fact that she had taken him inside in the first place, feeling her break before him would have definitely finished Spike off. It had been unbelievably erotic, knowing she felt a twinge of pain as he entered her. Knowing he had stretched her to fit his need; molded her to his own measure.

Spike wondered how long it would take before they could experience that again. Longer than three weeks, he reminded himself and acknowledged that, given a choice, he would never be out of Buffy's bed that long again. But it was nice to think about. Nice, also, to know that he was the one keeping her open and ready.

"Fuck," he thought. "I love Slayers!"

The Chosen One took his shaft into her mouth, tonguing the length of it and slurping up the juice of his arousal. Spike immediately amended his thought, "Buffy, love Buffy!"

"Love you, Baby," he whispered, desperately, needing to say it.

The words choked him on the way out. Like they always did. Ever since that first night, when he awoke from the dream of telling her. His dirty little secret caught in his throat. And no matter how hard he tried to swallow it down, every single time, it struggled free and burst out of him. Spike knew he was perverted, and not in that good way. He loved the Slayer. He was a sick, twisted, creature of the night. And again...not in that good way.

Buffy played him like a two thousand dollar fellatrice. Seemingly heedless of the danger, she sucked him off. Flicking her tongue over the oozing head of his cock, she swirled her saliva along the ridges of it. Spike could feel his balls tightening as she worked him over. He pressed his own mouth into her thigh to stifle any sound. He had given up on pleasuring her for the moment, knowing he couldn't match her in this drive toward the finish line. She had him. The things she could do with her lips alone, made him want to spate all over himself. All over her, he corrected, or into her. Oh, God, YES. Into her filthy, wet, wondrously hot mouth.

"ahhh,gghhaaee, fucking....mmmmhhahhhgghhaah," Spike said, muffled against her, as he let go.

His cold creamy milk slid right down the Slayer's throat. He felt her swallow. Not tiny sips like last time, but a full shot. Spike was shocked to his foundation. Buffy was in thrall to him again. She had placed herself in his power, of her own accord. Willingly, knowingly, with the full awareness of what it meant, Buffy Summers had taken his seed. He could do anything to her in such a vulnerable state. The possibilities were staggering. It was enough to make a vampire giddy.

Buffy rolled onto her back. The effect was immediate, this time. The numbing tingle, the spreading warmth, the honeyed images flickering on the inside of her eyelids. Once experienced the sensation was unmistakable. It was a blood thrall, one half of the Sire bond completed. Buffy knew it was wrong. She knew that she shouldn't have swallowed Spike down. It made her a bad person, it made her depraved and perverse but she didn't care. She needed Spike and she needed the thrall to help her.

"Help," she said, drunkenly. "Shhhhushh!" And then she giggled.

"Too late to help you now, Pet."

"Can't scream," Buffy pouted, attempting to explain herself in an inebriated slur. "No more music...mustn't be loud."

Spike sat up. He swiveled around on his hip until he was facing the Slayer. He looked long and hard into her beautiful, unfocused eyes.

"You don't want to scream?" he encouraged, hoping he had her meaning right. "That's why you did it?"

"'S Right!" Buffy nodded and then put a hand to her head as the room spun around her. "Oh...dizzy...Spike, you...you tell me...NO...okay?"

Spike grinned in truly wicked fashion.

"Alright, my dove," he agreed, breathing in the soft scent of her hair where it curled against her neck. "You won't scream."

He fondled her breast as he moved his lips along her jugular and then paused near her ear to add, "You'll be as quite as a mouse, never speak above a whisper, just as long as you tell me exactly what you're thinking."

"Wha-what?" Buffy stuttered, her head clearing, slightly. "NO!"

"Oh, yes," Spike purred. "I want to know everything. Every thought. Every feeling. Everything that passes through that pretty little head of yours."

"Won't," she ground out, shaking her head violently and then she cried out in pleasure as Spike's thumb circled over the hard button between her legs.

"Then you'll scream," Spike warned. "Rattle the windows; wake up Daddy and Lil' Sis. Makes no never mind to me if they come dashing in here."

"I hate you," she whispered, vehemently.

"See," Spike chuckled, "the truth's not so bad."

"I hate everything about you."

"Everything?"

"Yes!"

"You hate my duster?" he teased, kissing his way up the slope of her cleavage toward one rosy peak.

"Y-ye-yes," Buffy panted, "I h-hate it."

Spike licked her nipple into a tight knot and then asked, "Do you hate my tongue?"

"Yes," Buffy said, soft and low. "I hate your nasty, wicked, undead...tongue."

"Aww," Spike pouted, "and it's been so good to you!"

He ran the offending muscle down her body in a single wet stroke. Licking back up again, he positioned himself between her thighs. The velvety tip of his penis brushed lightly over her throbbing clit. Buffy lifted her hips trying to take him inside but he shied away.

"Do you hate my cock?"

"YES!" she said, far too loudly.

"No lying," Spike warned, making a small 'tsk' noise. He lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured, "Do you hate my cock when I slide it deep into your dripping hot pussy?"

"No," Buffy whispered back. "No...I li-li-lov...I...no."

"I didn't think you hated everything," Spike grinned and then he shafted into her eliciting an ecstatic groan. For several long moments, he lost all track of their game as her tight walls parted and folded back around him like a second skin. He didn't see how it was possible for it to be any better than the last time, but every time it was better.

"oh...yes, that...I like that," Buffy said, with perfect soft-spoken obedience. "Love that...makes me go all...all...mushy inside...mushy and crampy and clenched tight at the same time...."

"Makes you wet, too.?"

"...yes, wet...always wet for you..."

"Yeah," Spike agreed, with a small sigh. "Tell me what I feel like inside you."

"...feels so good, like Spike...so cool and hard..."

"Angel's like that, too," Spike reminded her. "Isn't he...cold, hard?"

"No...no," she denied. "Not sweet like Angel...like Spike...wicked loving...fits...so perfect...like you."

"Perfect?" Spike blinked, pulling back until he was almost out of her. "Like...me?"

"...yes...better than anyone...I...wh-what?" Buffy breathed, her heart hammering as she tried to focus again.

"That's what you said, Pet," the vampire smirked. "Perfect like...me."

Holding back what Buffy wanted, Spike slid just the head of his member in and out of her. She bucked up, trying once again, to take him in against his will. Spike held her off and continued the rhythm of his shallow thrusting. It was driving Buffy mad. She squirmed. She mewed. She bit down on her tongue determined not to surrender another thought until he satisfied her. He stopped moving altogether and she caved.

"...want more, deeper, harder," she told him, inwardly appalled at her own candor. "Do it now...screw me, savage, hard, Spike, I need it...going mad, going to scream, need you all the way inside, need you right now...spIKE."

Her voice rose at the end and Spike realized that the Slayer really was going to scream rather than submit. Then Daddy and Little Bit were sure to come running and ruin all of Spike's fun. He powered into his dominatrix, going balls deep; surging against her like an incoming tide. It felt so good to him. It didn't feel like surrender at all.

"...yes...you do what I say," Buffy confided, into his ear. "Because you're perfect...what I need inside...every night...perfect size...perfect fuck...perfect...Spike."

"When did you first notice how perfect I am, Pet?" he teased, bringing his head down to suck on one exquisitely taut Slayer nipple even as he continued riding her home.

"...sucking...oh...still deep inside too...slippery...sliding...need...need it...harder...faster...stairs...tongue more...please, GOD....oh....yes, like that..."

Buffy continued the stream of consciousness commentary and Spike gave her a good twenty minutes of hard, fast, slippery attention before he questioned her again.

"Which stairs?" he asked, casually, as she shuddered down out of her second climax and started up toward her third. "When we kissed? In the Bronze?"

"...no, please...no more...truth...just this...touch."

"Only a little more, Luv," he promised. "Or do you want me to stop making you feel like screaming?"

"...don't stop...going to come again...soon...just...don't stop fucking...want you everywhere...hard cold cock, in my mouth, up my ass...oh...spilling come...everywhere...all of the time...Spike...fuck me...deeper, go deeper...only you can, baby...knew you could even then...on the stairs...knew it...only you can make me scream...make me want to get down on my knees and suck you dry....right in the middle of...the...family dinner...knew it then...couldn't say...no time left...but...I knew..."

"Such a filthy little mouth you have, Slayer," Spike admired, before covering it with his own. Savaging her with kisses, he barely kept himself from screaming as he jacked his stream of melt into her.

Exhausted, spent, and totally pleased with himself, Spike rolled off of Buffy's still trembling body. He lay next to her, staring at the ceiling, wishing for a cigarette. The Slayer shifted and he glanced over to catch her fondling herself. Slim fingers slick with their combined juices, fumbled in her swollen folds. Spike turned on his side to watch as Buffy dipped her French-tipped nails in and out of her engorged quim. God, he thought, she was the most amazing creature that ever lived.

"Tell me about the stairs," he said, reaching out to assist her.

He traced one hand over the curves of her belly all the way down to her saturated curls. Sliding under her busy fingers, he gripped her and they plunged inside together. Four fingers, two of hers and two of his all the way in...just the way she liked it. Buffy moaned, dropping her head back and arching up under Spike's hand. She rubbed against his palm filling it with her essence. The scent, the sound, the words tumbling from her mouth all combined to make him hard as stone again.

"...oh, baby...so good...so good to me...stairs at home...Glory took...Dawn...stairs at home...knew it was you...what you said...perfect...end of the world...wanted it so badly...wanted you...so badly...just for a second...on the stairs..."

Spike felt like he was caught out in the midday sun. Rays of light like fiery blades seemed to cut through his chest. He was frozen in time, in that moment between life and death when all things become clear.

"Before you died?" he mouthed, the sound barely leaving his lips. He swallowed and tried again. Shifting his hips so that he was poised above the Slayer like a predator about to pounce, Spike demanded an answer, "This moment on the stairs? When you wanted me like this? It was BEFORE you died?"

Buffy blinked and the Slayer appeared in her eyes, standing between Spike and the sweetest moment of his entire existence like the cold, uncompromising Bitch that she was. The need in him was an open wound. It drew the predators out of hiding.

"Nothing...else...to say," she ground out.

"I have to know," he said, almost begging. "If you felt this way before...if you...please, Buffy."

"Go to Hell," she snarled, her body freezing solid beneath him.

Spike raged, the demon in him rising up; hating her, needing her and willing to do anything to reach her. He bit. Morphing and striking quick in a lightning sequence of events, the vampire drew blood. A crimson flood welled up from two tiny punctures on Buffy's shoulder. Spike turned human and looked into her eyes again, searching for the woman he loved. The woman who belonged to him. Not finding her, let his anger take control.

"Past time you understood this game, Slayer," he commented and lowered his head to drink.

There wasn't a lot of blood. The wound was shallow and well away from any major arteries. But it was enough to initiate Buffy into the circle of the Sire bond. It was enough to let her feel the tug of eternal shackles on her wrists. The transdimensional connection closed between Buffy and Spike with a tiny cosmic click. Her blood flowed in his veins, even as his flowed in hers. And he loved her. The certainty of it filled every dark corner in Buffy's mind leaving no room for doubt.

But his love didn't matter, couldn't matter to her. Steel doors slammed shut inside the Slayer's psyche even as Spike set up a resonance in her blood. Instinctively, she fought him off, denied him access to her thoughts and her heart. It was common knowledge that no vampire could turn the Slayer. The Sire bond wouldn't hold her. She would die rather than surrender herself. She would spend her last breath dealing out swift ashy death.

No Slayer had ever been turned but then again Buffy Summers wasn't the average Chosen One. Spike was willing to bet that his sweetheart was the only Prophecy Girl to willingly perform fellatio on one of his kind. She had taken his seed. She had invited him into her home, into her bed, and then into her body. There were only two possible reasons why she would do such a thing...either she was resurrected less than human in some vital way or...there was a connection already in place between them. A bond that existed before death and after it and somehow transcended all differences.

"Do you...? Did you...love me before you died?" he asked.

"Don't," she panted, "won't...can't."

"Which is it?" he pressed. "Don't, won't or can't?"

"Stop!...Can't..."

"Say you love me."

"You love me," she returned, snidely.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he snapped, pulling her hair, twisting a handful until she cried out. "Say it proper: 'I love you'."

"You love me," she repeated, her eyes flashing defiance.

"Yes," Spike surrendered, releasing her and sliding down her body, "I do. Now you know...I do."

His voice dropped to a whisper as he added, "Now it's in...our blood."

He ran his tongue along the valley where her thigh met her abdomen. Only her skin was soft, the muscles underneath were like iron. As unyielding as her will. She was stronger than he was because she didn't care as much. She wouldn't give way. Spike tried another tack. He gave himself to her, flowing through the blood, using the Sire bond to make them one flesh.

Buffy felt Spike slip into her mind even as his cock drilled into the molten core of her womanhood. She was more than pleasured by him. She was him. She knew what it was like for him to be inside of her. It was like Heaven had been for her, safe and warm and filled with peace.

Spike shuddered, close to the edge. He took Buffy's face in his hands, holding her gently. He looked deep into her eyes and screwed her violently into the bed, forgetting their need for silence. Forgetting everything but his need for her. Buffy's body convulsed under him. Spike rocked his pelvis against her, pushing deep, going to her womb. Mentally, he went all the way in, as well, to that night on the stairs. *Presto, no barrier...I'm counting on you, to protect her...to the end of the world...I'll be a minute...you treat me like a man*

Buffy's body bowed up, the walls of her inner passage undulated and then clamped down on him. She surrounded him, a natural force, as fluid and as unforgiving as the sea. Every one of her muscles went rigid, every fiber of her being cried out for release. She had lingered on the brink of orgasm far too long, well past the point of pleasure. Slick viscous juices ran down her thighs, soaking the sheets. Buffy's eyes rolled back and her mouth opened on a silent scream. She shivered with the frigid ongoing cold of her frustrated desire.

Knowing he was about to come, Spike dropped his head into the hollow of Buffy?s neck and pleaded with her.

"Please, sweet love, please...let me in."

Buffy didn't understand why Spike was torturing her. He was inside her, in her arms, in her mouth, in her belly, in her mind...like a stake in her heart. Why didn't he give in to her need...didn't he see...didn't he know already what she could never say? She needed to scream but she was still in thrall. Spike had denied her even that much satisfaction. She needed to come again and again, to drown in her lover's cold seed but he held her at bay.

"I know I'm a monster," he whispered. "But you..."

"You," Buffy gulped out and the dam broke.

She opened before him like a blooming rose, bolted doors swinging wide in her mind, down the long corridor to the center of her being. Spike filled her completely. Her body cracked like a whip against him as he spilled into her. She was on the stairs and down below looking up. He was beneath her, and she was inside of him, choking him with tenderness and being choked. Spike was below her and beneath her; under her and inside her looking down. She was with him by the door, waiting for a word. He was with her on the stairs, feeling the slight swell in her chest and the wet bloom in her groin as she experience the first stirrings of this forbidden passion.

"I love you," he said and, since her mouth was his mouth, she had no choice but to speak the line with him.

Over and over they confessed, until their words were as tangled as the sheets and as intertwined as their bodies. Until the phrase became a twisted rope of meaningless syllables that they chanted together like a mantra.

A long time later, Buffy slept. Spike lay with his head pillowed on her belly. He floated, at peace, listening to the sounds of life inside her: soft, steady breathing, the chicken dinner digesting and blood rushing to and fro. He remembered laying his head like this on her dead body, a few hours before they put her in the ground. It had been the coldest, bleakest and bitterest night of his entire existence. This night, this Christmas Eve, was the warmest, the brightest and the sweetest.

He thought about how much Buffy would hate him in the morning. He couldn't justify what he had done. He had taken her to a place that she wasn't ready to acknowledge existed. He had forced her to look at things she didn't want to see. Buffy had trusted him, again. And again he had failed her. A monster didn't need justification, and Spike seldom looked for any but he wanted to be a man for Buffy Summers. So, he lay pillowed against her in the small hours of the morning, thinking about what a man would do in his situation.

When the answer finally came to him, Spike eased out of the bed. He quietly pulled on his jeans. Then, gathering up the rest of his clothes, he slipped out of the bedroom, padded downstairs and let himself out into the dark and chilly Christmas morning.
 

Buffy woke to an aching emptiness. She was alone in her mind...alone in her body. She was no longer filled with her lover's cold flesh. He was no longer thrusting into her thoughts. She reached out, her hand smoothing the rumpled surface of the sheet and blanket. Her bed was empty, too. She sat up, checking the rest of the room. Spike was gone.

A rumble of engine noise drew her to the window. She arrived in time to see Spike's bike pull away from the house. He hesitated at the end of the driveway. Buffy placed her fingertips against an icy pane, cupping her hand around him. For a moment she seemed to hold him under her palm, like a butterfly under glass and then his motorcycle roared out into the street.

She watched as he passed beneath the glow of the streetlight on the corner of Revello Drive. He disappeared into the darkness, the night quickly swallowing up the sound of his motorcycle. Hugging herself against the chill, Buffy stumbled back to bed. She tried not to care that he'd left her. Then she tried to be angry.

She told herself she had every right to be furious with Spike. He had assaulted her. He had entered her mind, accessing her private thoughts. He had forced her to submit to his will. Buffy knew she should hate him for the violation but all she could manage was a deep sense of loss. Shaking, cold and lonely, she curled up in a tight ball in the center of the bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had made a mistake. Spike acknowledged it privately as he drove away. He hadn't realized how serious a mistake it was until he'd tried to leave. The siren's call of the Sire Bond was blaring inside him. He paused at the curb outside the Summers' house, gunning his engine. He needed to stay with his love, the bond screamed. He needed to keep her safe. Turn her; feed on her, flow into her. They loved each other. He knew it was true even if she refused to admit it. She was his. And the urge to complete the siring was more primal than appetite.

It was a new experience for him. He had never sired anyone. Spike wasn't one for elevating the livestock. Never met anyone he fancied living forever at his expense. And frankly, it had never been necessary. Dru was a prolific breeder. She had kept them hip deep in unwanted minions without Spike's help. But he knew what was expected of him. It was instinctive, the drive to procreate.

The Sire bond turned lover into offspring. It helped perpetuate the species. But it went beyond that. It connected all of his kind, generation to generation. They were, in a sense, one demon. It was the simplest form of reproduction, the division of self. And once the bond was invoked it was always consummated. It wasn't supposed to be temporary. It was eternal. Not a test of fidelity but fidelity itself. Infinitely more binding than "'til death do us part."

"Bloody fool," Spike snarled inwardly, "leg-shackled yourself to the Slayer. Not enough of a slave to her already? Had to make it worse? Had to burn her soddin' brand into your flesh?"

Spike had no idea how long he sat, with his motorcycle idling, outside his crypt. He didn't know when he'd arrived. He remembered nothing of the trip to the cemetery. His mind had been filled with images of red death and tenderness. His mouth watered and his body ached. When he stepped out of the saddle, he nearly collapsed. His knees buckled and he, quickly, widened his stance, bracing himself against the bike. Panting, head hanging low, he stood there.

God, if he went back now...if he took her...? Spike's heart and mind rebelled against the thought even as his demon voiced the demand. He must take her. It was no longer a question of if, only when and how. She was his; his Mistress, his Daughter, and his love. The same blood flowed in their veins. She would fight him but he would pull her down in time. Spike knew one day he would remake Buffy in his image. And he was horrified at the thought of it.

He needed a distraction. Something to return him to the semblance of humanity, something loving, something, in short, far removed from the cold-blooded monster he knew himself to be. Spike needed to focus on the task that had driven him back to his crypt.

"Hey," a familiar voice twanged, "whatcha doin' back here? Don't tell me she threw you out on Christmas Eve? Man, that is cold-hearte-ehhhgk," Larry squeaked, backing hastily away as the beam of his flashlight picked up the amber fire in the vampire's eyes.

Forehead casting bumpy shadows and white teeth glinting in the moonlight, Spike stalked the groundskeeper. Larry two-stepped around tombstones in a complicated dance of avoidance.

"Uhm...look, Spike...we go back a long way," he babbled, "...you and me.... and I know you don't want to do anything that would jeopardize our friendshiiiiYEAACK!"

The little man tripped over a sprinkler head and went down. Spike was on him in a heartbeat. His fingers curled like talons, cutting into Larry's arms, dragging him upright. The vampire leaned in close. Chilled breath crawled along the groundskeeper's skin as Spike spoke in a low menacing growl.

"I need a Christmas present," he said. "Fast! Tonight! Who do you know?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's a junkyard," Spike said. He cast a dubious eye on the high wooden fence lit by his motorcycle's single headlight and the double beams of the cemetery station wagon.

"Yep," Larry agreed, happily, his head half out the car window. "Better hours than the Sunnydale Mall.

The groundskeeper shut off the car, climbed out and slammed the door. After a moment's hesitation, Spike knocked down the kickstand. He cut his engine and stepped off the bike, adjusting a black duffle on his back with one hand as he pulled his 12-gauge from the motorcycle's holster with the other. He still felt off. He struggled with the bloodlust as he watched Larry ramble over to the barbwire-topped fence. The groundskeeper pressed his finger on a button next to the gated entrance, holding it down. A buzzer blared in the distance. Dogs barked and snarled on the other side of the gate. Spike snarled back.

"Doesn't quite have that mall atmosphere," he commented, peering through a crack in the fence.

"Well," Larry shrugged, when he finally released the button, "it's like I told you, Spike, this ain't the best time to go shopping. But my buddy, Darrell, is a night watchman here. Lives in...sweet deal...got a little place set up and all. And he has this side business in nearly-new and previously-owned merchandise."

"Yeah," Spike said, turning a very toothy smile on the man, "but I'm not looking for a set of hubcaps. I need something nice. Tasteful. Something for a young lady."

"You'd be surprised what people leave in their cars, Spike. 'Specially the DUI's that need late night towing. Lots of fine things just laying around on the seat or in the trunk."

"Thought the police took that stuff into custody," Spike said, carelessly. "Being evidence and all?"

"Nah," a deep masculine voice growled, from behind the fence, "not in Sunnydale."

A large black dog with a nail-studded collar barked furiously, lunging up behind the man as he opened the gate. He swatted it hard; eliciting a sharp yelp, "Shut the Fuck up, you stupid mutt," he roared at the beast before turning back to his visitors. "Cops'll come by in the morning and go over a tow sometimes," he continued, "I'm not suppose to touch 'em 'til they give the okay." He laughed, heartily, at this idea.

The newcomer was a dark, heavy-set man with two days growth of beard and three days worth of body odor. A motor-oil stained t-shirt made a valiant effort but didn't quite cover the expanse of his belly. He scratched the hairy skin of his abdomen as he ran a critical eye over Spike.

"So, Larry here tells me you gotta do a little last minute shopping," he said, chuckling again. He waved one beefy arm, pointing down a darkened corridor between smashed vehicles, "Come on in, I'll fix you right up."

"My aren't you the jolly old elf," Spike muttered, as he trailed after Darrell and Larry. "Shame I don't still have those Santa Pants to trade."

The unlikely trio wandered through a maze of crushed vehicles stacked twelve feet high. Spike tried to ignore the claustrophobic feeling that tingled through him. He looked back at the distant gate and caught the red wink of 2-dozen pairs of eyes. Small things watching from the shadows; dogs, cats, rats or maybe Santa's little helpers. Spike tightened his grip on his shotgun as a wave of paranoia swept over him.

Darrell and Larry stopped and waited at the center of the web of connecting passageways. As Spike drew closer he noticed that what appeared to be a random pile of junk was actually a cottage.

"Home sweet home," Darrell announced, waving them ahead of him. "Ya'll come on in out of this harsh winter night." He laughed again, his belly rolling.

Spike wrestled with the urge to cut and run as he approached the shed. The door was narrow and the ceiling was low. Ducking to avoid the steep slanted beams overhead, Spike entered Darrell's lair. The place smelled like the man that owned it only more so. It was close inside and cluttered with all manner of machinery, gutted appliances and crates of car parts. Greasy, yellowed newspapers tied in twine were stacked to the ceiling. Drawers and bins and boxes were filled to overflowing with bottle caps, string, nuts, bolts, gears and other less easily identifiable things. At the center of it all was an overstuffed recliner and a huge entertainment console. A scuttle of movement drew the vampire's eye to a dining table half-buried under empty beer cans and old plates apparently being picked clean by the cockroaches.

"Think I've seen enough," Spike said, turning on his heel to leave. The massive body of Darrell was blocking the exit. The man needed to loose a few pounds or add a few inches to the doorway. A low growl rumbled in Spike's throat; the hairs bristled up on his arms. He could feel the warm flood of Buffy stirring in his belly, urging him to attack.

"Now, don't be coming over all queasy on us, Spike," Larry soothed. "Darrell may not be the best housekeeper in the world but he's got an eye for what will fence."

Spike searched the confines of the tiny room with mounting apprehension. He and Larry were standing well back as the fat man huffed and heaved himself into the cramped space. The vampire checked for another exit, just in case. He found one. There was a dormer style skylight halfway up the slanted roof. Spike relaxed slightly, still high on Slayer blood but less of a trapped predator now that he had an escape route.

"Right then," he snapped, placing his shotgun on the table and trying to ignore his radical internal swings from euphoria to paranoia. "Let's get on with it. I need a gift. Something special. For a young lady."

"He's in the dog house," Larry supplied, earning a glare from the vampire and a murmur of denial.

"How bad?" Darrell asked, edging past Spike to lift down a plastic bin from one of the many stacks. "For the royal fuck up, I got a really nice fur from a totaled Mercedes tow last Tuesday...fox...size 16."

"Is that real small?" Larry frowned. "'Cause his old lady wouldn't overflow a rain barrel...little slip of a thing."

"Look here," Spike said, trying again for coherent communication, "you got the wrong end of this. I need a present for..."

"Petite, huh?" Darrell considered, caught up in the problem and ignoring Spike in favor of the more familiar Larry. "Not clothes then. Don't have nothing decent smaller than a eight...'cept a few leather items." He addressed the vampire over one ample shoulder, ass in the air as he shoved through the clutter, "Your woman? She into that sort of thing? Studded collars? Thongs?"

Spike stood very still while he contemplated the corpulent man through dangerously narrowed eyes. On the one hand, Buffy in a studded collar was a wonderful idea...inspired really...he could picture her vividly...stripped to the barest essentials...moaning beneath him...manacled to the head of her bed...but on the other hand...

"What the bloody hell kind of question is that?"

"Okay," Darrell said, calmly. "I'll take that as a no...can't blame a fella, though! By the look of you...I thought maybe...." He let the sentence trail off.

Larry was nodding in sage agreement with his buddy's remarks but as Spike shot him a baleful look he held up a placating hand, "Nothing against her, Spike...beautiful little girl, sweet as springtime to look at...I'm just saying," he shrugged in helpless apology, "she's kind of a street fighter, you know? Last month, I saw her take on three of your sort and lay them out cold...nothing but net."

Spike felt that sense of duality take him again as he contemplated Buffy's extraordinary skill at hand-to-hand. Mental images of flesh impacting flesh assaulted him...sensory memories of rib-cracking punches merged with those of slender fingers thrusting deep into his core. He needed to be with her...he needed out of this stinking hole...he needed...blood and sex and death...sweet violence, like honey full of stinging bees...and...

Darrell had returned to rummaging in assorted cardboard boxes, but he broke off at Larry's final comment to ask, "She the physical type?"

"Hey, now," Spike blinked, snapping back into reality with his mind so far in the gutter it couldn't see over the curb, "you really need to watch your mou..."

"Sports, I mean," Darrell said, pulling a tennis racket out from behind a dishwasher carcass. "Does she need any new equipment? I got rackets, weights, gym bags and shoes. Lots of shoes. And a fine pair of skis came in yesterday..."

"Must work out," Larry commented. "Seen her throw a huge ax near 20 feet once...using only one hand, too. But I'm not sure he should get her any thing sharp...it's bad luck...'specially if she's likely to use it on him."

"Okay, that's ENOUGH," Spike barked, coming out from under the influence for a minute. "Present's not for BUFFY...it's for her sister."

"Oh, Spike," Larry cautioned, "Sisters are bad news. You don't want to go there."

Spike gaped at the man and then rolled his eyes heavenward. He opened his mouth to explain, considered his impaired senses and thought better of it. Instead, he unzipped his duffle and upended it into the seat of the recliner. A number of beautiful crystals and magical texts and amulets tumbled out of the bag. Darrell levered himself up and shuffled over to peer at the vampire's offering.

"Not much to trade," the fat man said, getting down to business, "but I have a buyer for that Lasseria Stone...throw in your shotgun and I could get you a nice audio system for her car."

"I don't think she drives," Larry said, quietly.

"Which one?" Darrell asked, out of the side of his mouth, his eyes never leaving Spike's barter items.

"Neither of 'em."

"Jewelry?" Spike suggested, starting to space again.

"Well," Darrell considered, "Costume jewelry maybe...don't pay to keep the real stuff around." He wrinkled his nose up and added, "Not that you could afford it."

Spike zipped open a pouch on the duffle and took out a wad of bills and a small packet of stained and faded cloth. He tucked the mystery package into his jeans' pocket and tossed the money into the chair. Biting down on the need to ask what the vampire was holding in reserve, Darrell scrunched up his face and thought hard.

Turning, he waddled over to the entertainment center, popped open one lacquered door and took out a red metal box. The box was bent and battered but Spike noticed the lid was painted with the Chinese symbols for peace and longevity. It made him want to giggle. The sides of the box were decorated with an interlocking pattern of white cranes. Darrell pried off the lid and held the Oriental tin out so that Spike could inspect the contents.

"Any of this do?"

Sadly, none of it would. The jewelry in the red box was tangled together in a gaudy mess of bright beads and tarnished chains. Turning away with a sigh, Spike started reloading his bag.

"Hey, where are you going?" Darrell said, sharply. He reached past the vampire, pudgy fingers straining toward the Lasseria Stone.

Spike morphed up, whipping around and striking without thought. The headache arrived on cue. But it was distant and blunted. His synaptic responses were already on overload from the continual stimulation of the incomplete bond. Spike realized with gleeful certainty that he could tolerate the diminished pain. He could work through it. Snarling, he advanced on Larry and Darrell.

The little groundskeeper squealed in terror. He pushed past his buddy and headed for the door at best possible speed, scrambling like a rat over the piles of junk in the way. Spike smiled at the spectacle, exposing sharp teeth. He was about to pounce when Darrell loomed up in his path. The mountainous man had stepped directly in front of a bloodthirsty vampire, cutting off his charge. Nobody did that unless they were slack-brained...or suicidal...or....

Spike's eyes took the long trek up the steep slope of belly to Darrell's face and completed the thought, "or...armed?" he said, gravely.

The rotund man nodded. He was holding a remote control device in one hand and with a flick of his wrist he plunged them into darkness. Spike froze for a second. Nothing happened. He shifted back a step. Nothing continued to happen.

"You turned out the lights," he said, after another few seconds ticked by uneventfully.

"Yep!"

"I'm a vampire. I can see in the dark, you stupid git."

"It won't help you."

And suddenly the room was full of movement. The darkness stirred, coagulating into solid form. Spike felt the rush of lithe bodies circling. Red-eyed beings, dozens of them, were materializing around him. They mewed and snapped and hissed as they came through the walls like apparitions. Spike knew what they were, not upper echelon demons, but lower animal forms. Beings too much a part of the dark to live independent of it. They weren't intelligent or large or even particularly strong but then again they didn't have to be.

"Vespertines!" Spike spat out the name even as the pack leaders leaped in to hamstring him.

Fur flew, fangs ripped, necks and backs and assorted limbs crunched. Larry paused in the open doorway to look back toward the sounds of battle. It took a minute or two for his eyes to adjust to the dark and in that time, Spike killed ten or more of the creatures. But they kept coming. The floor grew slick with ichors as the body count mounted. As far as Larry could tell, the vampire was relatively unscathed but he was being pressed back, maneuvered into position. Larry saw the trap first and, reflexively, yelped out a warning.

"Spike, behind you."
 
The vampire turned. A half-second too late. Two of the pack members hit him hard at the back of the knees and he stumbled. Spike fell into a stack of bundled newspapers and the Vespertines swarmed over him, burying him in black muscle and sinew. Larry felt a brief and uncharacteristic pang at the loss.

The feeling didn't last. There was a sharp rasping noise and a spark ignited. The pack fell away, scurrying to shadows, turning insubstantial in the radiant glow from the vampire's silver lighter. Larry's eye followed the flame as Spike lit the tinder of old newspaper. The fire caught and flared into a blaze of glory even as the vampire rolled clear. With a distant baying noise, the Vespertines vanished, fleeing the light.

"You dead-dicked bastard," Darrell bellowed, rushing at the just rising Spike. "What the fuck are you doing? We'll burn! Are you insane?"

Spike sidestepped like a matador and landed a punch to the fat man's temple. Both of them staggered, screaming in pain and clutching at their heads.

"Bloody hell," Spike exclaimed, his mouth twisting in agony. The fight had taken the edge off his Sire-buzz. His chip was firing on all cylinders.

Luckily, Darrell was too dazed by Spike's blow to take advantage of the vampire's weakened state. The huge man flopped on the floor like a fish, struggling to stay conscious, straining one hand toward his chair. Mindful of the roaring fire that was fast consuming the building, Spike started for the door. Then hesitated. Looking back, he traced the fat man's line of sight and spotted a lock box glinting under the recliner's dust ruffle. In three quick strides, he was there, tossing the chair aside and scooping up the safe.

It had only taken a second or two but in that short time the fire had cut off his escape. Spike started to panic and glanced up at the dormer window. The beams were on fire but he thought he might make it. But only if he left Darrell to die. It was an easy choice...and Spike felt like a fool for not making it.

Larry was standing well clear of the burning building but his sense of security was precarious. The darkness outside the circle of firelight was filled with red eyes. And then there was the flying debris. With a tremendous crash, a large metal projectile shot through the near cottage wall into the yard. It bounced and tumbled to a halt a few feet from the groundskeeper. It was followed immediately by Darrell's oversized chair. Larry sidled a couple of steps to the right. Just before Darrell came through the ever increasing hole in the wall. The roof of the cottage groaned and heaved and caved in. A fountain of sparks backlit Spike as he came out with a flying somersault. The vampire pushed up, flipped in the air and landed on his feet. Larry couldn't help smiling.

"You sure are hard on the living quarters, Spike," he called, forgetting his earlier fear.

The vampire didn't spare him a glance. Sirens were already sounding in the distance. Stalking to the lock box, Spike kicked it open with one firm blow of his heel. When the lid broke free, he turned out the contents. Money and gemstones and assorted papers poured onto the ground. The vampire grimaced in disgust but scooped up the loot, stuffing his pockets.

"Wow," Larry said, close behind him. "That's quite a haul."

"Useless," Spike sighed, standing up. "I still need a present."

"Your squeeze don't take cash?" Larry said, in shock. Spike closed on the little man, wrapping his windpipe in a one-handed, vise-like grip and yanking him forward.

"For the last time," the vampire growled. "Get it through your thick head...I need a gift...for...a...young...LADY! A 15-year-old little girl. Not my women...not my squeeze...not anything BUT my brassed-off sweetheart's baby sister."

"Urk," Larry managed, trying to speak.

Spike released him before the chip-ache bloomed again and the groundskeeper massaged his throat for a minute before saying, "Ooooh, Hey! Will this work?" He fumbled a hand toward his shirt pocket and pulled out a long necklace.

Spike stared in amazement at the delicate silver carousel that twirled at the end of the sterling chain. It was beautifully detailed with prancing horses and tiny tigers and miniature poles wrapped in ribbons. Larry nudged the merri-go-round with one fingertip and it spun on its axis. A subtle chiming of bells accompanied the motion.

"It's jus' right," Spike said. He looked at the little man in wonder. "Where the hell did you come by that?"

"Oh, well," Larry shuffled his feet and gave a tiny shrug. "I happened to notice it lying around while you and Darrell were chatting about leather and stuff." He gathered the chain up into his palm adding, "I can let you have it for five hundred."

"FIVE HUNDRED?" Spike roared. "Dollars? It's not even yours!"

"Darrell going to make it you think?" Larry asked, peering past Spike at his friend's unmoving form.

"He's still breathing."

"Bet he wouldn't sell it to you for less than two hundred, though," Larry remarked.

Spike glanced toward the smoldering cabin, frowning.

"Fire's dying down," he commented, totally off topic. Looking back at Larry, his expression brightened considerably. He dropped a companionable arm around the man's shoulders and turned with him until they faced away from the blaze. Red eyes stared back at them from the darkness, "Tell ya what," Spike said, softly. "I'll give you fifty AND I'll walk you back to the car."

Larry's eyes widened as he took in the swirl of movement beyond the firelight. He gulped twice before stammering out, "W-w-well, since w-were f-fr-friends and all...uhm...okay...fifty, yeah!"

"There's the Christmas spirit," Spike said, giving the man's shoulder a little squeeze.