D’Hoffryn ruled over Arashmahar and he loved his job. He loved his stable of talented Vengeance demons. He loved the lamentations of the justly chastised. It was his favorite time of the rotation, when those lamentations rose into pleas for Gurnenthar's Ascendance. He usually found the added futility highly entertaining. He wasn’t enjoying it as much as usual, though.

It was a terrible season to be without your dear one.

And that’s why he didn’t love going home. Not anymore. It was empty and cold, more house than home. It was, in a word, Skipless. His lover, his sweet sexy boo, would never again greet D’Hoffryn with a steaming cocktail, never sand his back just so, never leave his chin rings lying on the sink.

Skip was banished in disgrace for allowing a prisoner to escape his endless torment. Defeated by a vampire, of all things. D’Hoffryn couldn’t allow his personal feelings to interfere with the swift administration of justice, and so he had authorized Skip's permanent banishment, and thereafter avoided going home as much as possible. No doubt the imps were tired of his constant and demanding presence, but the backlog of vengeance cases had never been so low.

He was working late, casting about for some diversion to keep him from wallowing. Rifling through his Special Projects file, an item caught his eye.

The resurrection of the Slayer.

The Hellmouth might be ripe for his personal attention. Miss Rosenberg was a promising new recruit and growing ever more powerful. The forces she had initiated must be bearing tainted fruit by now. It might also be pleasant to look in on Anyanka during this holiday season.

+++

Spike hit the Alibi Room early these days. He might hear something that would help the Slayer on patrol and besides, he needed to be back at the crypt in case she stopped by after the Summers’ evening repast. He apparently wasn’t allowed to pick her up at the house for patrol. “Someone” might get the idea that she didn’t hate him anymore or something. Might figure out that the Slayer was fraternizing with the enemy again. And again. And yet again. Every chance she got.

If he’d known he would be even more shut out of her life once she’d dropped her knickers for him, he might not have been so quick to scratch her itch. Well, that was a lie. He could no more have refused her advances than he could give up blood at Christmas. It was fine. He didn’t mind being available to her. If she could just manage not to be such a bitch about it, that would be a nice change.

“Women,” he grumbled at his drink.

The blue guy next to him swung his big horned head in his direction and lifted his glass.

“Amen to that,” he said, and tipped his drink in Spike’s direction.

They drank. The blue guy motioned to the bartender for refills.

Spike nodded his thanks. “Much obliged.”

“It’s the least I can do for a fellow sufferer. Troubles at home during the holidays are miserable, are they not?”

Spike snorted. “Like I’d know. Won’t even let me anywhere near the house. Suppose she thinks I’m a corrupting influence. Like I didn’t watch over her family like a bleeding Queen’s Guardsman for nearly half a year. Nary a mark on ‘em while I was around. Soon as I’m on the outside, there’s broken bones and what all. And who’s the one being punished? Me, that’s who. It’s not bloody right.”

He looked at his once again empty glass and wondered when he’d become so hard up for a sympathetic ear that he’d start spilling to any bloke in a bar. Well, he never had been the silent type, truth to tell.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” said the blue guy.

“Unfair as the sunrise,” said Spike. “And just as inevitable. She’ll never see me as anything but a convenience. ‘M just her dirty little secret.” He mulled this over, but then burst out with what was especially bothering him tonight. “We could be so good together. If she’d let me in, I’d take good care of her and her little sis. Make sure they were happy, eating proper, and well-defended. Be a man for them, you know? It’s what she needs, maybe even what she wants. She’s just too stubborn to let it happen.”

The blue guy nodded. He was remarkably understanding.

“You can’t force happiness, more’s the pity,” he said. “How would you begin?”

“If it was up to me, I’d begin right now. Just wish she’d let me in, so I could do right by them this Christmas, for starters.”

“Done,” intoned the suddenly much more imposing blue demon.

“Oh, bollocks,” said Spike just as everything whited out around them.

For some backstory on the Skip/D'Hoffryn relationship, see my story, The Gay Agenda (or, Happy Anniversary). When begging for bunnies taking requests for the 2014 round of LJ community noel_of_spike, rbfvid asked if I knew of any Christmas fic featuring D'Hoffryn. Well, no. Is that a red flag I see?

“Spike! You said you’d help!”

Spike blinked and looked around. He was on a familiar back porch, the cigarette in his hand burned nearly down to the filter. He looked over his shoulder to see Dawn, hands on hips, lips pursed. She had on an apron and smears of what looked like flour on her forehead. Aside from the mild irritation she was directing his way, everything else in the vicinity seemed peaceful. There was no sign of a cast on her arm, so already things were looking up. Whatever trouble his wish had landed him in, it didn’t look like much else had changed, except for his presence here at the Slayer’s hallowed homestead.

“Yeah? Aim to. Help with what, exactly?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. C’mon, already.” She turned and flounced into the kitchen. Spike rose and followed. The kitchen was clearly in the middle of a campaign of some complexity. The sink was piled high with bowls, the counters strewn with racks and pans and still more bowls.

“Is the red the right color?” Dawn said, holding a bowl up for his inspection.

“Right color for what?” asked Spike, looking at the bright substance inside.

“The blood of the innocent! Jeez, you’re really being slow. Did you hit your head on patrol last night or something?”

He glared at her and got the patented Summers glare in return. After a moment, Dawn sighed.

“Okay, from the top. We’re making cookies. You said you’d help decorate if we made gingerbreadmanpires. So, I made frosting for the dripping fangs. Is it alright?”

There was a slight line between her smooth brows. He shifted his gaze away from her anxious face to examine the frosting carefully, and to give himself time to change gears. Doing things like this with Dawn wasn’t entirely new — it was just since Buffy was back that he had fallen out of the habit.

“Looks perfect, Bit. Does Buffy know about this?” He felt obligated to ask, his eyes sweeping over the entire kitchen disaster. “Where is the Slayer, anyway?”

“Spike! This was Buffy’s idea. I think she wanted to get out of doing it with me. So she’s out shopping with Willow and Tara. Are you okay?”

“Was letting my mind wander, just now.” He gestured with his thumb toward the back door, then let his hands drop. “So, how does this work, exactly?”

+++

Spike, the Big Bad, was grinning. Dawn was giggling. The kitchen was, if anything, even more of a wreck than when they’d started. Some of the cookies had frosting wounds on their necks, their mouths shaped in round “Os” of surprise. Others grinned widely, frosting blood droplets dotting their chins and Santa hats set jauntily on their gingerbread heads.

They paused when they heard the front door open, the chatter of the women returning home drifting through the house. The rustling of bags was testament to a successful outing.

“We’re back!” Buffy called. “How’d it go?” She poked her head in the kitchen doorway, eyes going wide at the mess. “Pretty well, looks like. I’m going to put stuff away. I’ll be down to start the cocoa in a bit, IF I can get to the stove.” She gave a pointed look at the two of them and disappeared again.

Spike and Dawn shared conspiratorial smiles, only slightly tinged with guilt.

“All right, ‘spose we can tidy a bit. We’ve had our fun, yeah?”

“Okay,” said Dawn. She started putting the cookies onto a serving plate and packing the extras away. Spike tried to clear some space, eyeing the sink with trepidation. Somehow, they brought enough order to things that Buffy managed a small smile when she returned and busied herself at the stove. Spike turned to the sink, endeavoring to keep his hands busy and off of Buffy. That was one drawback to this whole domestic bliss lark: pint-sized chaperones.

Buffy slipped by him on her way to the refrigerator, pausing to place a hand on his arm. “Thanks,” she said, giving it a squeeze. He stared after her, feeling the lingering impression of her fingers like electricity. Almost more shocking was the easy gratitude of her words. Well, word.

Tara and Willow popped in, coats still on.

“Have a nice night, you guys!” said Willow. “We’ll be back later. With gelt. My dreidel skills may have gotten rusty in the past year, but I think I can still rustle up a good enough haul.”

Buffy paused in her labors. “Oooh. Chocolate money. That’s the best kind.” she said.

“Definitely,” agreed Dawn with a nod.

“We’ll try not to eat too many latkes this year,” added Tara, looking at Willow with mock severity.

While Spike was still marveling at being somehow included in the friendly “you guys”, or at least not excluded, the girls waved and left.

Buffy shut off the stovetop. Dawn loaded up a festively painted tray with cookies and mugs of steaming cocoa and made puppy eyes at Spike until he carried it into the living room. The tree was strung with lights, but could still use some trimming.

“Spike, would you please put on some music? What do you think, Dawn, Nat King Cole?”

Spike opened his mouth to object, but was preempted by two stern faces. He shrugged. After spending the evening decorating cookies and looking forward to quaffing hot chocolate, he could hardly draw the line at “The Christmas Song”. He did as he was bid.

Then he watched from his sprawl on the couch — with his cocoa — as Dawn and Buffy unpacked ornaments and discussed their proper placement on the tree. He was trying to focus on working out just what his inadvertent wish had wrought, but it wasn’t easy. There was bound to be some sort of Monkey’s Paw-type poison pill someplace, but so far he hadn’t found it. Just the opposite. He felt as excited as he always did when he was around Buffy, but there was an added, alien emotion. There was...warmth, and a sort of, well, contentment. If he had any brains at all, he’d be terrified.

“We haven’t had the angel up there in five years!” exclaimed Dawn, brandishing a nine-inch tall, trumpet-blowing figurine.

“I thought maybe we could do something different this year,” said Buffy. “Something new.” She produced a slender box and took out a blown glass spire, crystalline and colorful. She cast a shy glance toward the couch.

“Is that a spike?” asked Dawn, incredulous. “You’re even more ridiculous than he is, you know that, right?”

“What’s this, now?” asked Spike, suddenly acutely interested in their discussion.

“It’s not a spike! It’s a, a…” Buffy peered at it more closely. “Oh my god. Well, okay, yes. I guess it is a spike. Technically.” She shot an irritated look at Spike. “Don’t get excited. I just thought it was pretty. Don’t you like it?” she asked Dawn.

“No, it’s nice. I just don’t want you to think you’re fooling anybody, that’s all. And you’re right, we should do something different.”

As Spike placed the new topper on the Summers’ tree, he thought this was surely the moment when it would all turn to ash.

But it wasn’t.

The Nutcracker?

Well, that seemed even more on the nose than usual.

“She’s really looking forward to it,” said Buffy, letting her fingers drift over his bare chest. “It’s sweet of you to do it. I know it’s not your thing.”

Spike thought back to St. Petersburg in 1892 — and a certain zaftig ballerina — but decided not to argue the point. He was more interested in the other part of her statement.

“I’m a sweet bloke,” he asserted. “Just try this patch, here.” He turned his head, exposing the place behind his jaw, under the ear, and she obliged him by tasting it. He shivered as her little tongue slid across his neck.

“Mmmmmm,” she replied. He could get used to this amiable version of Buffy. “You’re also kind of salty, with a hint of smoke. A big, sweet, salty, smoky bad.”

“Is that a good thing, pet?” He gasped as she nipped at his throat.

“It means you’re on my ‘naughty but delicious’ list.”

Her hands slid slowly up his arms to the tinsel that bound his wrists above his head. It was getting very difficult to follow the conversation, but he gave it one last effort.

“That’s all right, then.”

+++

When he awoke in his crypt the afternoon of Christmas Eve, he knew where he was, and why he was alone. He was sore in a number of very nice ways, but not at heart. This Buffy was still a very demanding lover — no complaints there — but she saw him when she looked at him and had even talked to him last night like he was an actual person.

They’d made out a little on the couch after Dawn went to bed, the lights from the tree making her eyes sparkle in a way that made him wonder if he was dreaming this whole thing. After the witches got home, they’d gone out on patrol and ended up at his crypt. Where, she explained, they didn’t have to worry about keeping the noise down. And he thought he’d loved her before...

She’d even kissed him when she left for home, citing the need to spend the day with Dawn. A proper goodbye kiss, with no kicks to his head or bitter promises that this would never, ever, not ever happen again. He was well and truly damned, but he’d go to perdition with a smile on his face.

No time to woolgather. Apparently, he had a date with his two best girls at the ballet tonight. He’d been thoroughly instructed on proper attire and everything.

+++

Spike was under no illusions — he’d been asked to come so that he could do the driving. Los Angeles wasn’t far by his lights, but Buffy was still not comfortable navigating freeways. They left in Joyce’s SUV just after sundown. The first stop was Pink’s Hot Dog stand for dinner, which was a mysterious Summers Christmas Eve tradition, or so Dawn insisted.

“We were always kind of rushed to get to the ballet, and Dawn had this weird affinity for odd food combinations even as a kid. I don’t think mom liked it all that much, but I guess dad thought it was funny: fancy ballet, super unfancy dinner,” explained Buffy.

The line moved up a few feet. Buffy glanced at Dawn, who was intently examining the menu, and lowered her voice.

“Jokes on him, I guess. He’s still paying for the fancy ballet. Three tickets. He must have forgotten to cancel the subscription before he left for Spain.” She stared at the ground, her mouth starting to look pinched and worn. Spike would never forgive the pillock for putting that expression back on her face. He’d do what he could to buoy her back up, though.

“Whereas I am the lucky bloke that gets to buy you ladies dinner. Anything you want, Slayer. Sky’s the limit.”

She blinked and then gave him an challenging look. “Even the Chili Cheese Dog with Sauerkraut?”

“Even that,” he agreed. “Bet you can’t eat two.”

“You’re on.”

After dinner — and the promise of a stop at House of Pies after the ballet — Spike felt his plan of feeding up the Summers girls was starting to get somewhere.

+++

They barely made it before the curtain went up, but once they were settled in their seats with Dawn between them, Spike realized that this was something more than a date. This was a real, true family tradition, and he’d been invited in. It was almost more affecting than when he’d been reinvited into the house before the final fight with Glory.

The ballet passed in a blur while he savored this new feeling. Buffy frequently glanced over at Dawn, whose shining eyes and rapt expression seemed to satisfy her. It was clear that Dawn’s happiness was making her happy, and Spike felt as if he was on the verge of understanding something about humans that he had somehow forgotten. He knew full well that they could make one another miserable, and did so regularly. But that they would do things just to bring pleasure to another person — it had been awhile since that had been an element in his existence. He’d done plenty for Drusilla, of course, and had never expected much in return. But this easy, open pleasure was something that put him in mind of his human days. He’d yearned for a grand passion, of course, but could remember the sweetness of his mother and sisters’ kind attentions, and how he’d delighted in bringing a smile to their faces. It seemed so far away, but seeing Buffy’s example before him, he felt he could almost manage it again.

Dawn gave out a sigh of contentment at the close of the Suite and wriggled happily in her seat. Buffy’s eyes met his in conspiratorial look — one adult to another. It hit him then that he wasn’t just invited along on this outing, important though it might be. He was in on the project, the project being to make Dawn’s Christmas a nice one.

That was what he’d wished for, wasn’t it? To make Buffy and Dawn happy for the holidays? It just seemed so responsible and upstanding, now that he was in the middle of it. Not that it wasn’t without its rewards, mind. It just was starting to seem more like the thing was supposed to be its own reward, and that was a bit of a change of gears for bad old Spike.

Before he knew it, they were bundling back up into the car for the trip home. Dawn soon fell asleep in the back seat, undone by the sugar overload and the monotony of the drive. Buffy fiddled with the radio until she found some carols which played softly as they headed north.

“Thanks, Spike,” she said. “It was a strangely nice night. I’d go into more detail about all the hideous, monstery things that didn’t happen, but that would probably jinx it.”

“Yeah, best not tempt fate, pet. We are headed to the Hellmouth, after all.”

“Yeah.” She subsided into silence, and seemed to find the hands in her lap riveting.

“Out with it, Buffy,” he said. “Know you’ve got something to say, so you might as well say it before Dawn wakes up.”

She started a little and glanced back at Dawn slumped in an ungainly posture in the back seat. She nodded.

“It’s not that big a deal. It’s just that it’s Christmas tomorrow, and we’ll open our stockings in the morning, and then have Christmas breakfast, and then open presents, and then work on Christmas dinner for the gang, and well, Ithinkyoushouldbethere.”

She looked at him expectantly, her big, shining eyes imploring.

“‘Course I’ll come, if you want me there,” he answered her not-exactly-a-question. “Only have to tell me how high you want me to jump. You know that.”

She blanched a little. Her brow wrinkled fetchingly.

“That’s not what I, um, okay, that’s good to know, I guess. But what I meant was that I think you should sleep over tonight. If you want.”

“If I… You mean, in the basement?”

He glanced over and caught her little minx smile as she shook her head. He looked back at the roadway and steeled himself.

“Not the sofa, either?”

He looked over again and saw her brows hitch a fraction and her lips twitch. Once more, she shook her head. He looked away and gripped the wheel a little tighter.

“In that case, I want,” he purred. Before he could stop himself, he added, “If you’re sure.” He nearly smacked his forehead on the steering column, wondering what possessed him to be so assiduous about the niceties tonight.

“I’m sure.”

A highway sign reading “Sunnydale, 42 miles” flashed by. He reined in his impulse to floor it, and tried very hard to focus on the precious cargo he carried.

The rest of Christmas Eve passed like a dream of the sort that Spike had been denied for years. He helped hang the stockings, though perhaps not with care. He doused the lights. He saw the Slayer safely off on her sugarplum dreams with a helluva lot more care than he’d shown the stockings.

Right up in her sweet, fluffy bedroom.

He didn’t even mind keeping things quiet, and found himself captivated by her gasps and sighs. They were just as satisfying in their way as the groans and screams he coaxed from her when they were in his crypt. She even giggled loopily and rubbed her face against his chest like a kitten as he pulled the covers snuggly up to her neck and settled them in for their not-so-long winter’s nap.

He lay there savoring her luxuriant heat and her body’s perfume as the dark night slid by with nothing stirring except a few errant brain cells. The quiet meant there was nothing more to occupy him, and that led to thinking, which was usually when things started to go awry. Sure enough, after running through it a few times he began to believe he was an imposter in this tidy domestic scene.

He knew a little about how these wish scenarios went. He’d listened to Anya, even if nobody else wanted to. Seemed like sometimes the wish led to a simple evisceration or an application of the pox. But with the more complex cases, like this one, another dimension might be created or somehow entangled. Which meant that somewhere out there could be a Spike who was used to the sort of treatment he’d been enjoying the past couple of days. The acceptance. The easy affection.

Spike might just hate this other him, who no doubt didn’t appreciate his good fortune nearly enough. What had the lucky bastard done that he hadn’t? Or, more likely, what hadn’t that one done that he had?

And what of Buffy? The one he remembered calling the “not so pleasant” Buffy. The Buffy who was afraid of her own heart. He was worried about her trying so hard to subsist on thin, sour gruel, emotionally speaking. If he wasn’t there to pull her away from her rigid plodding back into the grave, who would do it?

Was the other him with her right now? Would he be too soft with her, too sweet, and end up making her sink further into her morass of hopelessness? Or would he figure out the puzzle of her and make her whole? He seemed to have managed it here.

He looked down at the golden head of the Slayer, mussed and pillowed on his shoulder. Her nose crinkled in sleep as a stray hair tickled it.

He hoped he didn’t fuck it up with this one.

+++

Spike was going to snap like a candy cane if he didn’t get away from the overstuffed house with all the overstuffed people in it.

Today, as the Summers’ home filled with people, he felt like one of those frogs in gradually warming water that found itself boiled alive before it ever noticed. The events of the day marched along as Buffy had predicted: stockings, breakfast, presents, dinner preparations. Carols played in the background, the phone rang, the Scoobies arrived and dashed about, all busy with some task or other.

Dawn roped him into playing board games.

He refrained from snapping at the lot of them, even as their constant cheeriness began to bang away at his skull, reminding him that this was not natural. Even Harris was being less obnoxious than usual, and gave Spike an extra dollop of brandy in his nog. It just added to his feeling of being a cuckoo in the nest. Especially after a brief but alarming tête-à-tête with Anyanka. If he could get a moment alone with Buffy, he might be able to settle himself. But she was in full hostess mode, and a passing squeeze of the hand was the extent of the PDA she’d allow.

As soon as the sun was low enough, he headed for the back porch, ostensibly for a smoke. One fag turned into two, two turned into five. It was full dark when Buffy came out to sit with him.

“Kinda hard to take all that Christmas spirit, huh?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“If it makes any difference, I think half of the merriness is sugar induced. Also: alcohol.”

“I’m just happy the little bit is having a good Christmas, in the bosom and all.”

“You didn’t slip her any booze, did you?” Buffy lowered her chin and regarded him with narrowed eyes, but her twitching lips gave her away.

“Didn’t spike her punch, vamp’s honor,” he replied, holding his hand over his heart. “Might’ve encouraged an extra helping of pudding, though. Won’t make that mistake again in a hurry.”

“Yeah, well, I think you’ve already paid the price. I didn’t know she could still get so shrill.”

He grimaced, gingerly fingering the ear that had got the most direct blast.

“I’ll unlive.”

They sat quietly, breathing in the crisp December air.

“It’s getting to be movie time in there. You want to get in on that, or do we patrol?”

“Christ, Slayer. Let’s get out of here.”

“I thought the words went ‘Christ...is born in Bethlehem’,” she said.

“Very droll, pet.”

She shrugged. “Not my best, but it’s seasonal.” She stood. “I’ll get my stuff. Go tell Dawn goodnight.”

“Oh, bossy.” He stood and pulled her into his arms before she could go marching off. “I like it.”

He looked down into her smiling face and brought a hand up and swept her hair back. He cupped her cheek and brought her lips to his. His previous agitation melted away and he felt her relaxing into him.

When they broke apart she blinked up at him. “I guess I needed that. I might even need some more.” He bent to kiss her again, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “After patrol. Is that okay?”

“I can work with that.”

She grabbed his hand and tugged him into the living room. She announced they were going a-slaying and dragged him out the door, duffle in hand. Spike barely had time to throw Xander a mocking kiss. Dawn’s giggles followed him down the front steps.

+++

Spike ran his tongue along Buffy’s spine from tailbone to neck, capturing droplets of perspiration as they slipped down her back.

“Bloody ambrosia,” he murmured into her skin. She hummed and allowed him to settle her lax form on her side among the disarranged bedsheets of his bed. He tucked a pillow under her head and pulled the duvet up around them. When he couldn’t find the other pillow, he dangled over the side and probed under the bed with one hand. His fingers skated over crisp paper a moment before they hit soft puffy cotton. He pulled up the pillow and reached back for the paper object.

“Oh, right,” he said, pulling up a flat oblong wrapped in butcher paper. “I’ve a present here for you.”

“Present?” His previously shagged out Slayer sat up with bright eyes and outstretched hands. “Gimme!”

“Greedy thing.” He chuckled and handed over the package, enjoying the view of her uncovered breasts. He loved that she was unmindful of her nudity when they were together. His indomitable warrior queen.

She ran a finger under the tape at the bottom and swiftly removed the wrapping, revealing a charcoal drawing of Joyce and her daughters smiling out at the viewer. Buffy stared at the picture with wonder.

“Oh, Spike. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.” She dragged her suspiciously moist eyes away from it to look at him. “Did you make this?”

He scratched the back of his head and sniffed. “Not the frame. Snaffled that. Did the sketch, though.” He looked up at her from under his lashes. “Do you really like it?”

In answer, she launched herself at him, knocking him back into the mattress and peppering his face with kisses. She paused to look him directly in the eye.

“I love it. It’s the best. You’re the best. God, I think I love you.”

Time slowed as her words registered in his brain. Far off, he could hear the Mission bells begin to peal, counting down to midnight. She smiled down at him, her big eyes shining. His heart might be cold and dead, but at the moment it felt fuller than it ever had.

He rolled her under him and kissed her with every ounce of feeling he had. She clutched him to her more firmly and moaned into his mouth.

Dimly, he registered the last toll of the distant bells.

She began to struggle beneath him, and he moved to suckle her neck, leaving her airway free. Her struggles increased.

“God, Spike! Would you just get off me, already?” She shoved him aside. He landed in a sprawl halfway off the bed. She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her eyes over the carpets, presumably hunting for her clothes.

“What’s the problem, Slayer?”

“The problem is you, Spike. I’ve got to get back to Dawn, and you are, as usual, getting in my way.” She stood and turned her back to him, bending to pick something up and skinning into her shirt.

Spike gave his head a sharp shake, trying to square her words of a few minutes ago with her current actions.

“I’m what, now? Thought we were having a moment.”

“The ‘moment’ was over five minutes ago. Stop trying to drag it out.”

She spied another item and bent again to pick it up, giving him yet another unimpeded look at her delectable arse. It was distracting. It was also a bit less plush than he remembered it being earlier this evening.

Her arse and the rest of her disappeared as she dropped down to feel around under the bed, if the scrabbling and bumping noises were anything to go by. A hand popped up holding one of her boots. Then the rooting sounds stopped.

“What’s this?” She brandished the picture frame in the air.

Spike sighed. “It’s your sodding Christmas present, Buffy. We’ve been through this.”

She stared at the drawing with horror.

“Oh. My. God. This obsession of yours… This is just crazy. I will not have you stalking us like this.” She held up the picture like it was Exhibit A.


“Oh, that’s rich! Have me over for tea and crumpets and then tell me I’m stalking you? Get over yourself, Slayer.”

“What are you talking about? You know what? Nevermind. Just stay the hell away from us.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before.” Spike reached for his cigarettes with one hand and made shooing motions with the other.

Somehow, she’d managed to get dressed and shod while she berated him. She spun on her heel and stormed out of his crypt, banging both doors on her way out.

He sighed and lit a fag.

Couldn’t claim to be surprised, could he? “Merry sodding Christmas,” he muttered.

+++

At around 1:30 AM, Spike sauntered into the Alibi Room with a bounce in his step. He spotted his target sitting in the same place he had been a few days earlier. He slid onto the seat next to the horned blue demon and signaled to the bartender for a drink.

“Anya tells me you’re D’Hoffryn. Says you’re a big smell in vengeance,” he said. “I don’t get it. Aren’t these wish deals supposed to be some sort of punishment?”

D’Hoffryn didn’t bother to look at him. “That is a vast oversimplification.” Then he regarded Spike with curiosity. “Do you not feel the pain of having your happy home, your perfect love, stripped from you in the blink of an eye? Perhaps your affection doesn’t run as deep as you believed?”

“That last bit’s a load of bollocks, mate. Stings a little, sure,” Spike allowed. “But I’ve sussed it out. I’m better off than I was before. Now I’ve seen what we could have, if she’d let it. I know she loves me. Nothing she can say or do to make me believe she doesn’t.”

“Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase ‘sometimes love isn’t enough’?”

“It’s enough for me.”

“I see. It seems as if your suffering is just beginning, then. I wish you the very best Gurnenthar's Ascendance, William the Bloody. As if anything could help you now.”

D’Hoffryn vanished from the spot.

Spike drained his drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him. He turned on his stool and smiled at the room, enjoying the way his apparent happiness made some of the smarter demons flinch.

Without a doubt, this was the best Christmas in ages.

Fin