Synopsis: Spike enlists the aid of a reluctant Angel in playing the role of secret Santa. This leads to tearful (happy and sad) reminiscing by the Scoobies, who are spending their first Christmas apart in a long, long time.

Rating: G. That’s right, folks--you aren’t going to see this very often by me!

Timeline: Angel Season 5

Disclaimer: As much as I enjoy my delusions, I don’t own any of ‘em. They’re Joss’s, every single one.

The large oak doors swung open as a black-clad figure sauntered into the corporate office.

“Good morning, Peaches.”

Angel sighed. This is just what his morning needed--a bleached pain in the ass. “Spike, I really don’t have time for any of your crap. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes with K’varno’k missionaries, and then I have to meet some Yelog rebels seeking asylum.” The darker vampire’s forehead creased as he picked up two stacks of papers from his desk. “Or was that Yelog missionaries and K’varno’k rebels? Damn! I knew I should have read through these...” Eyes steady on his notes, he picked up the phone, frown still in place. “Harmony, can you get Wes in here? I’m gonna need him for the K’varno’k meeting...”

“Uh, hello? Conversation, here!”

“No, you were talking and I was ignoring you. That doesn’t constitute a conversation...”

“Oh, want to be like that, eh? Well, where’s this meeting we’re going to, then?”

Resigned to the fact that he‘d have to hear Spike out--or endure him until he did--Angel finally looked up at him, noticing that he‘d seated himself in one of the seats opposite the desk. “Fine. What do you want?”

“I need a favour.”

“No. You’re not getting the Viper. Can I go now?”

The younger vampire let out a snort. “Like I ever ask permission for the Viper. Look, Angel, this isn’t a lark--I’m serious. There’s something I want done and this literal hell hole is the only place I know capable of pulling it off.”

Spike never called him Angel. Ever. Peaches, Captain Forehead, Poof, but never just Angel. This was a clear indication that the subject was indeed serious. Sighing in defeat, he gave in. “Ok, Spike--you’ve got three minutes. Then I’m meeting with those missionaries. Or rebels...”

***

A light tapping on the bedroom door managed to rouse Xander Harris from his sleep. Rest had been hard to come by ever since the Hellmouth had been closed and when it did come it was fitful. Images of people he had lost, places he’d never again see melded with memories of long ago.

It all came down to the good, the bad and the ugly, except he still wasn’t half as cool as Clint Eastwood, even with the eye patch.

“What?” Was all he managed to mumble as he sat up.

A young woman, dark skinned with long black hair, poked her head in. “You decent in there?” Without waiting to hear his answer, she entered the room and, seeing him in a t-shirt and shorts, pouted. “Damn, you are.”

“Farah, I’ve told you already, I...”

The girl plopped down onto the foot of the bed. “Aren’t ready for a relationship yet, blah blah blah. Heard it, you know. You old guys are so hard to snare, you know?”

Xander was incredulous. “Old?! I’m only five years older than you--how can I be old? Giles is old, not me...” Trying not to pout--cause that’s just not a manly thing to do--the young man’s attention turned to a package that Farah held in her hand. “What’s that?”

Handing him the reason why she was there, the girl smiled. “I found it in the living room this morning. It’s for you; well, so says the tag. But the tag also says it’s from Santa and, being adults, we all know about that lie...”

The box, wrapped in gold paper with Christmas trees, wasn’t very big and didn’t weigh all that much. But Xander’s heart leapt anyway. He’d almost forgotten about Christmas this year--gone were the Charlie Brown sleepovers with Willow, his mother’s dry turkey and even drier stuffing--God, where are Mom and Dad, anyway?

“Come on, open it!” Seeing the young man folding back into himself was too much for Farah. All this moping around was giving him wrinkles. She liked to tease him about his age--and loved his responses even more--but he was so serious, so morose that he really did seem far older than his 23 years.

Aside from the “To: Xander/From: Santa” tag on the gift, there was no card to say who had sent it; nor was there a stamp to tell him where it was from. Letting his glee at getting a mystery gift override any misgivings he might have had, Xander tore through the paper and found himself staring at a blue Gap clothing box. “What the...”

“Ooh! Maybe Santa got a letter from your wardrobe! ‘Dear Santa, we need an overhaul, pronto!’”

“Hey, first I’m old and now I dress funny?” Her reply was lost on him, though, as he lifted the cover off the box. Slamming it back down, he had to hold himself from falling off the bed. He felt as though he’d been run through with a sword, set on fire and caught in a vise all at once.

“What’s wrong? Chinos can’t be that bad!” Farah tried to keep her voice light but the pallor that Xander’s face had taken on scared her. Hoping against hope that she wasn’t going to find something really gross, she pried the box from his hands and opened it. It contained...

...nothing much, at first glance. Some baubles, old comic books, a video... then it hit her. These were mementos from his past, from the Hellmouth. Seeing these--and his reaction to them--she finally understood what he’d been going through. Farah tried to imagine what it would be like losing everything she’d ever owned, everything that meant something to her. The serving spoon that was her grandmama’s, the door frame that had all the pencil marks where her mother had charted her growth, the old tree by the school where she’d shared her first kiss... nothing left. It would be like she’d never existed, like everything she remembered just a fabrication of a well-developed imagination.

Seeing that he was trembling, the young woman moved to the head of the bed and sat down beside her friend, holding him. “I’d really like it if you could tell me the stories behind all of these--maybe it could help you deal with the pain.”

He’d never had a loving family, or the luck of being popular, but one thing Xander Harris had always been graced with was caring, devoted friends. Allowing himself to be held by Farah, he brought his trembling hands back to the cardboard box and opened it.

A Spiderman comic book: Xander laughed out loud as he opened it and rifled through the marked pages. “God, where did they find this? I’d been looking for it for years... Willow and I bought this--geez, I think we were seven--with the change we had in our pockets. We used to do that a lot--hang around, play games, watch TV. You know, normal things that normal kids do. God, we were so carefree back then--no worries about vampires or demons. Well, not the real ones, anyway.”

Farah smiled--finally, he was remembering good memories. “So why does Spiderman have red hair on every other page?”

“Willow was mad because Spiderman was a guy and there weren’t any female superheroes in the story. We got into this fight because she wanted to make him a girl. Finally we came to an agreement--he’d be a girl in half the story. I honestly can’t remember who’s idea it was to colour in every second page instead of the first half or the second half of the book... She’s gonna have a conniption when she hears about this.”

A singed ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ video: “Ok, whoever sent this stuff had to really know me well...” He turned to the girl beside him and for the first time in months felt something stir inside him. Large brown eyes, soft and caring yet sharp as a tack, stared back at him openly. The desire to kiss her madly washed over him but he fought it--maybe later, he thought. Right now he still had some ‘gifts’ to unveil. “This--this was our biggest, most important tradition of the year. Every Christmas eve, Willow would sneak over to my house and we’d watch it. She’s Jewish, and her parents would have flipped if they found out she was partaking in what they saw as a Christian custom.” Putting the video back down into the box, he chuckled. “You know, if you’re lucky maybe you’ll get to see my Snoopy dance one day.”

A gaudy Hawaiian shirt: Farah watched as the ugliest shirt she’d ever seen was pulled out. “Ok--that’s proof that you really need a wardrobe overhaul. Please tell me you never wore that...”

Xander simply stared at the shirt. Now why would anyone send him this shirt of all the ones he’d owned? “Actually, no. I never wore this one. Spike did...”

Ookay... “William the Bloody in a tacky Hawaiian shirt? This one’s gonna be good...” As a potential, Farah had spent the past months learning about her powers, about demonology, and about Scooby history--well, whatever she could coax out of Xander when he was in one of his better moods. If only he drank, then she could get him drunk and he‘d spill everything. There had to be more to the original gang than what he’d told her.

“Oh, he was staying at my place, tried to do his laundry, shrunk his clothes and had to bum something off me. So, naturally, I gave him the ugliest thing I owned. Seeing Spike in shorts is one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen. That was when he discovered that he could still kill demons, even with the chip; boy was he ever happy that day...” He sniffled, baffled that memories of Deadboy Junior could evoke such feelings in him.

A small velvet pouch: The young man held the bag in his hand, weighing it, feeling it. No, it can’t be... He untied the strings and poured its contents into his palm. A necklace--no, an amulet--fell out. Xander felt his body shake as his grip on the stone tightened. Anya... Tears slid down his cheeks as he clutched his only physical link back to his former love. “God...”, he choked, “I miss her so much.”

As the young woman held him, she couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d cried for his lost love before now. Like the others who had witnessed the Hellmouth’s closing, he kept a tight rein on his emotions. Had any of them mourned properly? “Andrew said she ‘fought valiantly, like Boromir against the Uruk-Hai’, or something nerdy like that... She must have been a strong woman, to go out fighting.”

Xander took a deep breath before trusting himself to speak. “Actually, she really wasn’t strong and brave. Her motto--aside from ‘show me the money’--was ‘look out for number one’. When she first joined us--it was the year that the Mayor turned into a big snake--she tried to get me to escape with her, to let Buffy and the others take care of things. But that’s what makes what she did so special--she gave her life for Andrew, for all of us.” He took one last look at the amulet before placing it back in its pouch.

“Well, that looks like the end of ‘Xander Harris, this is your life’--well, the Hellmouth version, anyway.” Farah started to close the box, when she noticed something. “Wait a minute--what’s this?” A crumpled Christmas tag lay amongst the Styrofoam pellets. The young woman picked it up and smoothed it out. “To: Whelp? What the heck does that mean?!”

Before she knew it the tag was ripped from her hand and her friend was staring at it, mouth agape. “It can’t... but he... with the burning...”

Finally, Xander’s mouth closed and he smiled. His first genuine goofy smile in a long, long, time. Somehow, some way, Spike had reached out from the grave and finally made amends.

***

All thoughts of missionaries and rebels were left to the wayside as Angel listened to Spike’s plea. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“No, I just barged into your office with no reason other than to waste your time.”

Both vampires stared at each other blankly.

“Right... Then, yes, I’m serious and you’re bloody well going to help me.”

***

“Wake up, lazybones...”

Willow turned onto her back, the sun’s rays kissing her skin. “Mmmph...” Shielding her eyes with her hand, she propped herself into a sitting position. “Morning, honey. What’s that?”

“Looks like a certain Jewish witch was good enough to get a present from Santa.” Kennedy laughed at the bewildered look on her lover’s face. “Don’t ask me--I found it on the kitchen table this morning. There’s a card that reads ‘To: Willow/From: Santa’ and no postage. That’s all we’ll know until you open it...” She handed the small box over and sat down, eager to find out the parcel’s contents.

Shrugging--she’d seen stranger--Willow peeled the decorative paper from its box. She lifted the cover off the plain white box and let out a choked sob. “Oh, goddess!”

Instantly Kennedy was at her side, peering at what it contained. She remained quiet for a long time, just staring at the few items that lay in front of them. “Willow... how did anyone get this stuff? I mean, we watched it--the Hellmouth crumbled; hell, it almost took us with it!” Seeing that the other woman still hadn’t moved, she softly put her hand on her thigh. “Do you want me to take this away, so you can look at it later?”

To be honest, Willow’s reaction was a relief to the younger Slayer. Aside from the elation of the final spell, the witch hadn’t displayed any strong emotions in a long time. There had been few tears and fewer words after the calamity. But now, this box--sent by whomever--seemed to have re-opened wounds that had never properly healed in the first place.

“No.” The redhead’s voice pulled her from her musings. “Actually, would you be offended if I wanted to go through this myself?”

Yes, she was offended; or, rather, she was hurt. No matter how much time they spent together, Kennedy couldn’t shake the feeling that she and Willow would never make that deeper connection, like the redhead had with Tara. But the Slayer put on a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and shook her head. “Of course not. Take your time--I’m going to go and do some groceries. If I wait too late, I’ll have to pick through the crappy vegetables.” She reached over and gave her love a quick peck on the cheek and left.

Willow waited until she heard the front door close before reopening the box. The same emotions coursed through her, but this time she was prepared. Kennedy was right--who sent this, and how on earth did they get it? The items, packed carefully in Styrofoam pellets, could come from nowhere but Sunnydale--more specifically, from her room on Revello.

A plastic Lambchop menorah: Smiling ear to ear, Willow finally allowed her tears to flow freely as she picked up the kitschy souvenir her Bubie Irene had picked up in Florida. Her mom had been aghast at the obvious commercialization of a religious artefact, but six-year-old Willow had taken to it like a bear to honey. Of course, it hadn’t only been used for its intended purpose. There was that one time where she and Xander had used it as a multiple rocket launcher for his GI Joe men--it still even bared the scratches from when the missiles had been inserted (*cough* forced *cough*) into the seven candle holders.

The witch turned to her left and spied a shelf on the wall by the windows. It still lay bare, even two months after they’d moved in; she’d simply never found anything to go on it. It was too small for flowers, but too big for any of the smaller knickknacks she and Kennedy had picked up on their trip down. The little menorah was perfect for it, and would be displayed proudly. Maybe she’d even light a few candles, even though Chanukah was over, just for remembrance’s sake.

A thick manila envelope: Willow sat back on her bed and pulled the box onto her lap. The brown envelope was hard to miss, lying in a sea of white pellets. Wonder what this could be? she mused. Maybe it’s a letter from whoever sent me this. She opened it and reached inside. “Oh, my!” All her final high school report cards, her acceptance letters to Harvard, Yale, Oxford, MIT... “It’s all here...” Anything and everything she’d need if she ever decided to go back to school. Whoever had put together these gifts had not only given her part of her past, but a chance at a better future as well. The redhead resealed the envelope and slid it under her pillow before turning back to the box.

A silver hair comb: The minute her fingers brushed the metal object, the witch felt a familiar tingle course through her. A comforting warmth enveloped her like a warm blanket, and the smell of lily of the valley invaded her senses. Tara... Whatever it was that lay beneath a layer of Styrofoam had belonged to her lost love.

Willow pulled her hand out and saw that it grasped a silver hair comb, carefully etched with tiny butterflies. It had belonged to Tara’s mother, who had worn it every day that the blonde witch could remember. Tara herself had worn it a few times at special occasions, like birthdays, but usually kept it nestled away in her jewellery box, afraid that it might go missing. And in a way it had, crushed under thousands of tons of rock and debris, fallen into the Hellmouth along with everything else that had made up Sunnydale.

But the memories she had, the emotions Tara could still muster--they didn’t lie at the bottom of a crater. They remained alive in Willow’s brain, in her heart, in her soul. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t yet shed any tears over the memento. Smiling wistfully, she used the comb to sweep her hair up.

A sweater: Willow still wasn’t any closer to figuring out who had sent her the box. She was smart enough to know that it really wasn’t Santa, no matter what Virginia said. The handwriting on the tag didn’t ring any bells, and it didn’t help that there hadn’t been any postage or any return address on the box. By the parcel’s weight, she knew there was still something in it--and anyway, she’d seen more than a hint of pink through the white pellets.

Pulling out the sweater, she frowned. Why the heck would this... mystery Santa send her one of her old sweaters? What the heck was so special about this fuzzy pink sweater? She hadn’t worn it since the kidnapping incident with Spike.

Come to think of it, the bleached vampire had been the only guy to ever take notice of it, if what he’d told her that night he tried to bite her was right. But Spike was dead. Well, deader--no longer of this world. And anyway, why the hell would he be sending her Christmas presents?

Still confused, she stretched across the bed to answer the phone. This conundrum could be solved some other time.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Wills! Merry Christmas! I’m not waking you, am I?”

It took her a moment to register Xander’s voice. They hadn’t spoken since they’d parted ways a few months ago. “Xander! Oh my goddess, how are you?!”

“I’m great! Confused, but great!”

“That’s good! Well, the ‘great’ part...” The redhead chuckled, happy to be speaking to her best friend. “Please tell me the confused part doesn’t have anything to do with a mystery gift from ‘Santa‘...” There was a long pause where she thought she’d lost him. “Xander? You still there?”

“Um, yeah. That’s kinda why I’m calling. So... so what did Spike send you?”

The redhead fell back and stared at the box. No. It couldn’t be...

***

“You’re not going.”

“Yes, I bloody well am. How the hell is your team going to know what to pick out of that mess? It’s a whole town for Christ’s sake--how will they know where to even start?” Spike shot out of the chair and began to pace. “It’s gonna be a jumble, I imagine. I mean, Fred was sayin’ the whole sodding place imploded!”

The bleach blonde turned to look out the windows. It had been so long since he’d been able to see anything by the light of day that, months later, he still couldn’t quench the giddy feeling it gave him. After a few minutes he felt the presence of the other vampire standing beside him.

Now he understood. Or thought he did, at least. As Angel stood beside Spike, sharing the same tingle from the sunlight--although neither could feel its warmth--it finally dawned on him that the younger vampire’s changes were indeed real. The whole white-hat bit wasn’t some cockamamie chapter in a larger evil plan. Of course, he should have remembered Spike’s lack of patience for such grandiose schemes. Never could get him to stay still long enough to pay attention...

“You’re doing this for Buffy, aren’t you?”

“No, it’s not for Buffy. You don’t get it, do you? It’s not always for Buffy. This...” A weary sigh escaped Spike’s lips as he pushed himself away from the glass. “...this is for me. It’s me doing something I want for people that I care about. Yes, Buffy’s included, but she’s not the be-all and end-all of my life anymore. She has her life, I have mine. It hurts, it’s hard to accept, but it’s how things are.” His features were drawn, lips pressed tightly together, eyes saddened with the weight of reality. “My staying here, my not contacting her--that’s for Buffy. I love her and that won’t go away. Because the last thing she needs is for me to come prancing over to her and throw a wrench in this new beginning of hers. I get it, now, what you did for her when you left. What you gave up, what you tried to give her. Thing was, she just wasn’t ready for it yet when you left her. But now? No Hellmouth, no weight-of-the-world, no attachments. And no vampire lover to pull her down into darkness.”

It was so much more than he’d intended to say. He and Angel had never been known for their deep heart-to-hearts, but this was something that only the older vampire would understand.

“You know what, Spike? I do understand. I’ll put a call through for a team, but I need you to do me one favour...”

***

Rupert Giles placed the phone back in its cradle and sighed. It was late and he was tired--logic would dictate that he seek out his bed and have a nice long sleep.

But--in an unusual turn for the watcher--logic wasn’t calling the shots on that early Christmas morning. He’d just hung up from a long talk with Buffy and his emotions were still raw. Rest wouldn’t be found easily.

Both had laughed, smiled and shed a few tears. As grateful as they were for what they still had--family, health, friends--the pain from their losses remained as acute as when they’d driven off in that bus months ago. Rona, Chao-Ahn and the other girls who had fought so valiantly for a cause that was new to them, but no less important; Anya, poor, poor Anya, thought Rupert, a millennium old, yet still too young to die; and Spike. He still had trouble swallowing the sacrifice that the vampire had made--his own life. He’d listened with awe as Buffy, through tears and a proud smile, had told everyone about the amulet and the all-consuming fire. William the Bloody had died in an inferno, elated at the feel of his soul.

Bugger if that hadn’t finally changed Rupert’s mind about the bleached pest.

A sharp rap at his door caught his attention. “Hello?”, he called out, baffled at who it could be at this late hour. A woman, in her mid-sixties, walked in. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Giles, but this came in for you just now. I could ‘ear you walkin’ around up ‘ere and figured you might want to see it.”

“Thank you, Millicent.” The watcher took the parcel and couldn’t hide his amusement at the ‘To: Rupert/From: Santa’ tag that was taped to the bright blue wrapping paper. Turning his attention back to the woman, he frowned. “Not that it’s any of my business, but why are you still up so late? I hope I didn’t keep you awake with my pacing.”

Millicent laughed. “Oh, no, Mr. Giles--my nerves are all aflutter! I couldn’t sleep if you gave me ‘alf a dozen toddies. My Anne-Marie--the one who’s in New Zealand, teaching--is in the ‘ospital. She’s in labour wit’ her first child.”

The woman’s smile stretched from ear to ear and she simply glowed with pride. Now that’s what Christmas is about, Rupert mulled. “Congratulations are in order, then! It’s so nice to hear good news for a change.” His gaze returned to his gift. “Did you see who dropped it off, by chance?”

“Oh, no! But it was the oddest thing, you know? I was sittin’ at my kitchen table and closed my eyes for a sec--I may be excited, but I’m still tired, bein’ an old lady and all--and when I opened them up again, there was the present, right there ‘afore my eyes! It was the strangest thing, Mr. Giles; it was like ol’ Saint Nick really did bring it ‘imself.” She chuckled to herself, shaking her head. “Well, I must be off--can’t stray from the phone for too long! Happy Christmas to you, Mr. Giles!”

“Yes, Happy Christmas to you too, Millicent. And congratulations, again.” Rupert Giles saw the woman out of his apartment and closed the door. Once again, his attention was diverted to the parcel in his hands. Although not very big, it was quite heavy--he hadn’t a clue as to what it could contain. The notion that it might be a ruse of some sort flitted through his mind but was instantly discarded. Something about this gift felt... right.

Tearing through the paper, he almost dropped the box when he saw that it said ’Victoria’s Secret’ on the cover. If this is Xander’s doing, I swear I’m going to...

Whatever retaliation he had in mind was forgotten as he opened the box.

A leather-bound book: Rupert pulled out the dog-eared book from its packaging, shaking his head in wonder. It was his Watcher’s Diary. How on earth did someone get their hands on this? he wondered to himself. In his haste to fight the good fight, his bible--as Buffy’d always called it--had been left behind at the Summers household. His thoughts hadn’t even wandered back to it until much later, when he was trying to rebuild the Council.

And at that point it was all he could do not to think of it. Not only for the valuable information it held, but also for the memories. Everything he and the Scoobies had gone through was recorded in that diary and although his memory was good, it couldn’t compete with the accuracy of the written medium.

He flipped through the pages, reading an entry here and there: meet Buffy for the first time, meet Angelus, Faith appears, Joyce dies, Xander and Anya become engaged... It was all in there--everything he and his charge had been through. In retrospect, the book wasn’t as much a Watcher’s Diary as a record of the good times and not so good times he’d shared with friends who had become family. He put the diary down, caressing its soft cover. “There’s still lots of time for us to get reacquainted, old friend,” he muttered, stroking it with great affection.

A bottle of Glenlivet scotch: Rupert brushed away the Styrofoam pellets and discovered the one thing he would have needed above all else immediately after the Hellmouth’s collapse: his prized bottle of Glenlivet. It had always remained at the back of his liquor cabinet, saved for a grand occasion--whatever that turned out to be. Spike had constantly badgered him for a sip but that was one bottle that would remain untouched.

It seemed like decades ago when the vampire was chained to his bathtub, making a complete nuisance of himself. Back in the days of Willow’s apology cookies, Scooby meetings in his living room, donut jelly in his oldest, most delicate books. What he wouldn’t give to go back to those simpler times.

But things hadn’t been simpler, had they? Loved ones died--sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn’t. Lovers turned into enemies and enemies became lovers. Maybe it was safer to say that times had been... different.

Sick of his maudlin humour, the watcher decided that this was as good a time as any to break the seal. Celebrate life and all that rot, he mused as he got up to get himself a tumbler. Once again comfortably seated, he grabbed the bottle and did a double take. The seal was broken and some scotch had been taken. Who the hell would take a thirty year old bottle of scotch--someone else’s thirty year old bottle of scotch--and just help themselves?!

The answer came to him in the guise of his third ‘gift’: A mug with ‘Kiss the Librarian’ stamped on it. A mug which, when sniffed, smelled an awful lot like Glenlivet.

The mug nearly slipped from the watcher’s hand as he put two and two together.

“Bloody hell...”

***

Spike stared in rapture as the ‘crater-that-was-Sunnyhell’ regained its form, just like in those documentaries that played a building’s demolition in reverse. The weight of a hand on his arm gently roused him from his stupor.

“We can only keep this up for forty minutes--not a minute longer.” Fred smiled at the shell-shocked vampire. Giving him a push forward, she giggled. “That means ‘skedaddle’, silly!”

Spike set out on his mission. Vampire speed notwithstanding, getting everything done in forty minutes wasn’t going to be easy. Especially since, at the last minute, he’d opted to go in alone. He didn’t want anyone else in there in case they took too much time and the whole thing collapsed on them. “There’s already enough blood spilled on the Hellmouth, Peaches,” he’d argued. “I’m not going to be responsible for any more of it.”

***

A series of piercing shrieks roused Buffy and Dawn from their bedrooms and brought them running as fast as possible towards the living room.

The sight of a pyjama-clad Andrew, dancing on his tiptoes, caused both girls to groan.

Yawning, Dawn gave him the evil eye. “Andrew, I swear if this is another Nathan Lane impersonation, you’re going to be eating those Aragorn pj’s!”

Ah, but the youngest Summers’ bad mood couldn’t quench the immense joy resounding through his entire being. A parcel in each hand, the young man danced around the sunny apartment, doling one out to each of his room mates. “Santa came! Calloo, callay! I told Mom he was real! But no, she tried to ‘let me down’, tell me the ‘truth’...” Laughing, he jumped back into a chair, his own parcel cradled in his arms like a baby.

The two girls exchanged a look, shrugged, and took a seat. After all the crap they’d been through it was nice to bask in a bit of happiness.

A collectible figurine: Buffy didn’t even have the tag ripped off her own box before Andrew let out yet another shriek. “Oh my God! It’s a limited edition 1979 Boba Fett!”

Dawn frowned, watching the young man pose the figurine in the YMCA dance steps. “Shouldn’t it be in packaging or something?”

“Well, I...” He hadn’t really thought of it, with all the excitement of Santa‘s visit. Andrew took a closer look at the bounty hunter and, as if burned, dropped it to the floor. Pointing at it, he jumped up onto his seat. “That... that’s Warren’s!” He whimpered, eyes never straying from the toy. “Oh, the purgatory for my misdeeds has begun; whoa is me...”

The Slayer picked the figurine up, turning it under her gaze. “How can you be so sure it’s Warren’s? I mean, didn’t they make thousands of these or something?” And what was it with guys and these things, anyway? They were just like mini-dolls. Little armed, fatigue-wearing dolls.

“There’s a scratch on the helmet where Jonathan... um, ok--where I scratched some of the paint to see what was underneath. There can’t be two of them with a scratch like that!” Eyes all watery, he looked at the girls. “Why would Santa send me this? Is it some kind of message?”

Really wanting to avoid one of the young man’s nervous fits--the ones he’d suffer at the mere mention of either of his two deceased compatriots--Buffy walked over to him, put her hand on his shoulder and gave him the Star Wars figurine back. “Andrew, I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything like that. Maybe... maybe Santa wants you to have it for some reason.” Then, a stroke of genius hit her. “Maybe it means you’re forgiven.” Trying to ignore the little voice that kept repeating ‘you’re talking to a 23 year-old about Santa as if he really exists! Hello?!’, she nodded and smiled at him. She handed him his gift box, which had fallen between the chair and the sofa, and went back to her own place beside Dawn.

Dawn’s gift remained on her lap, unopened. What the heck would be in hers if they were getting guilt gifts? One of the bracelets she’d shoplifted? “So, what else do you have in there?” That’s it--stall!

A classic: The young man dragged his fingers through the Styrofoam popcorn and picked something out. Quietly, he examined what seemed to be a book. Awe-struck, he began leafing through the first pages. “It’s a first-edition copy of The Hobbit. It looks like it’s been read a few times, but... wow...”

“Hey--I’ve seen that book before!” Buffy’s exclamation came as a surprise to everyone, including herself. Memories of a bleached vampire, sitting on the sarcophagus in his crypt, reading by candlelight flooded her. She’d teased him about it--reading a children’s book--until he offered to read it to her, out loud. Sleep had overtaken her so many times after that, lulled by the rising and falling cadence of his voice, as the adventures of Bilbo Baggins were relayed to her. They had been such intimate moments to share, something she had been unaccustomed to with Spike. Too often, their time together was spent arguing, a push-and-pull of wills. She’d claimed that she hated him, but what she truly hated was how she’d grown fond of his company, fond of him.

“Um, Buffy?” Dawn’s voice broke the room’s silence. A far-away look, a wry smile--it had to be Spike; nothing else could steal her sister like the bleached blonde’s memory. But what could he have to do with Andrew’s book? When Buffy snapped out of it and was looking at her, she nodded towards the book. “You said you’ve seen it before?”

“Uh, no. I just thought I remembered it.” She wasn’t ready to share such intimate memories with anyone--not yet, anyway. Maybe one day she’d be able to sit with Dawn, on one of those lazy ‘it’s raining outside let’s have some hot chocolate and chat’ kind of days, Buffy would bare her soul. Everything they’d done--the good and the bad--but especially all the happy little memories. But that wasn’t for today--no, she couldn‘t even consider how the book had even reached Andrew, never mind the why of it.. Anyway, there were two people with unopened presents, and that was way wrong. “Why don’t you open yours, Dawnie? See what Santa gave you.”

Gulp. Here goes... Taking about as much care with her paper as the young man before her, Dawn tore through the shiny green wrapping. A plain white box stared back at her, possibly the bringer of bad, bad memories. Shrugging, she decided to just open it and find out--no use avoiding the unavoidable. Or something like that...

A journal: A shriek equalling Andrew’s shot from her lips. “My diary!!” She pulled it out, noting that the key was indeed still attached to it. Unlocking it, she began to read through it, a goofy smile plastered across her face. “Oh my God... Buffy, remember Ted? That creep that Mom was seeing, that turned out to be some sort of robot?” She laughed out loud. “Geez, I’d forgotten about him...” Her entire life, seen through the eyes of first a naive pre-teen, then an angst-ridden teenager, lay before her. “And here’s the entry you wrote in it: ‘Stop writing lies about me or I’ll burn this thing’. I was sooo mad at you.”

Buffy laughed at the memory. “Yeah, I didn’t know it was possible for the human voice to reach notes that high.”

The younger Summers sister just chuckled in agreement. A year ago, she would have yelled back, stomped to her room (probably stepping over a dozen potentials) and sulked. But now things were better between her and her big sister. They’d had more than one serious talk, ironed out a lot of differences, and had finally found the sisterly vibe they’d lost after their mother’s death. She rifled through the box and pulled out a second gift.

A photograph: Not the first Scooby to receive an unexpected surprise on that Christmas morning, the young woman choked back a sob, her fingers gripping the picture frame in a white-knuckled grasp. Her voice, rough with emotion, was but a whisper. “Mom...”

“What about Mom?!” Buffy’s body went rigid as she leaned over and grabbed the object from her sister’s grasp. Her mouth opened and she let out a pathetic ‘oh’ as her eyes set upon the picture in her hand. It showed Joyce and her two daughters, standing in a copse of trees, all three smiling widely.

And that was when something totally unexpected happened. Buffy smiled. The smile turned into giggles, and the giggles into outright laughter. Scooting over to sit hip-to-hip with her sister, she lay the picture down so that it sat across their thighs. “Remember when this was taken? Mom always had the craziest ideas when it came to parenting...” She paused, sensing Andrew behind them, then moved her head a bit to the side so he could see it too. Good memories were too few and far between not to share. “I think she’d read something in one of those books of hers about how important it was for parents and kids to do things together--I’ve no idea where she came up with a nature walk...”

Now smiling fondly, Dawn nodded in agreement. “Yeah... We lasted what, twenty minutes before she got someone to take this picture so we could leave? Then we drove to the mall, had the most obnoxiously yuppie coffees at Starbucks and shopped for shoes ‘til we couldn’t walk.”

Happy tears. Neither girls had ever understood what they were until now. Being able to laugh as you remembered someone who was special to you, smiling at the good times you shared. That’s how people went on with their lives, that’s how they ploughed ahead, strengthened--not weakened--by their memories.

Dawn laid her head on her sister’s shoulder, still sniffling. “I still miss her so much, but it doesn’t hurt like it used to. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does...” Buffy reached over and plucked some Kleenex from the box on the end table, handing her sister and Andrew--who was also sniffling--some. “Now, is there anything else in there, or can I open mine?”

Gaming supplies: The younger sibling leaned over and gently placed the picture on the coffee table. She reached into the box and pulled out a copy of Rummy for Dummies with a pack of cards tied to it. Her heart skipped a beat as her mind went back to a few summers ago, when Spike tried his best to teach her to play rummy to pass the time before Willow and Tara returned from school.

She must have been trembling, because Buffy’s hand went to her arm. “Dawn? What is it?”

Dawn’s voice quivered as she answered. “Buffy--when you... when you said you recognized Andrew’s book. Were you thinking about Spike?”

A moment passed before the Slayer let out a long sigh. “Yeah. He... I think that’s his book--I mean, it’s the exact same copy he used to read from. Why?” Why was Dawn asking? Why was she sharing this information? Why was she all of a sudden afraid of a Rummy for Dummies book?

“That summer--the one where you weren’t there, Spike spent almost every day trying to teach me how to play rummy.” Tears in her eyes--some for the memories of that harsh summer, some from guilt because she never forgave the vampire--she looked at her sister. “Do you think Spike sent these?”

A loud bark escaped Buffy’s lips, something between a laugh and a cry. That was a thought that was too frightening to consider. “No, Dawnie. That’s impossible. I saw him... he couldn’t have survived that.” He was beautiful...

The words were out before he could stop them. “Oh no, it makes complete sense.” Andrew’s eyes grew large at the gaffe he’d just committed. Spike had been adamant that no one know about his return--especially not the Slayer. “Because... because...” Damn it, think! His eye caught his Boba Fett. “Well, you say the book was his, and he threatened Warren’s Fett once, when he was still evil, so he could have remembered it... Maybe he took all this stuff before the big fight and sent it to someone--maybe Santa, maybe Angel--so that you would have it eventually.”

The young man was so proud of himself. Now he could add ’quick-witted’ to his Watcher Resume, right under intrepid, fearless, vampyre expert... Hopefully, the two girls would buy it.

Something about Andrew’s explanation didn’t ring true, but Buffy couldn’t refute it. In a way, it wasn’t at all like Spike to think ahead, but he’d surprised them so many times that he could easily have taken the steps to have their cherished belongings stored safely. “I guess that’s possible,” she admitted out loud. “In that case I wonder what’s in my box?”

Her eyes grew large as an idea came to mind. “Oh, please tell me you’re in there!!” she yelled at the box as blue paper flew everywhere. The lid was off, landing squarely on Andrew’s head, before either of the younger roommates could ask her what the heck she was talking about.

A stuffed animal: Everything else in the world could have imploded at that moment and Buffy Summers wouldn’t have noticed. Holding Mr. Gordo in a crushing hug she began to kiss him, laughing. “Oh, I missed you so much...”

Andrew looked at Dawn in a ‘and she thinks I’m nuts for believing in Santa?!’ way. The young woman, though, shook her head. No one would ever understand the intense relationship that had always existed between her sister and the stuffed pig.

“Um, Buffy? Maybe you could stop macking on the pig and see if Santa sent you anything else?”

A silver ring: Her face pinched in a petulant pout, Buffy sat Mr. Gordo on her lap so that he could see, too. A burgundy satchel was plucked from the box and opened, and the Slayer gasped as she peered inside. She tipped the bag over her hand and a silver ring fell out. “Angel...”

“What is it?!” Dawn pulled her sister’s hand closer, careful not to tip it to one side or another. “Wow... Isn’t that the ring that Angel gave you when you guys were going out? I thought you gave that back to him.”

“I did.” Now she--and everyone else in the room--were thoroughly confused. Angel may have been close to Buffy, but he couldn’t have sent Andrew the bobafek doll or the book--heck, he didn’t even know Andrew, and he’d never paid enough attention to Dawn to know about her journal... “Maybe Andrew was right--maybe Spike sent this stuff to Angel, and he added this to it.” It was the most logical answer, but it was still just plain weird to think of the two vampires working together on anything.

Wiggy thoughts aside, she turned the ring over in her hand, trying to remember the emotions that had coursed through her the night that Angel had given it to her. She was so young then, so naive; she had really thought that the love they shared would be eternal. She slid the ring onto her finger, stretched her arm out to appraise it, and nodded. “You know, I think I’m gonna keep it. Silver pretty much goes with anything these days anyway.” It was a testament to a life she’d lost long ago and, although her love for Angel had changed, you never really forget your first love.

“Ok, so you’ve got the pig, the ring--now what the hell’s up with those scarves?” Dawn prodded Buffy out of her musings with a sharp index finger to the ribs.

Two scarves: “Ow! Geez--ok! Pokey much?!” The Slayer emptied the remains of her box on the floor, Styrofoam bits be damned. The only thing left was two emerald silk scarves.

And she didn’t have to think twice about where she’d seen those...

Blushing, she tried to nonchalantly brush them off. “Hmm... I don’t know what those are. They sure are pretty, though.” She got up quickly and headed towards her bedroom. “I’ll just go put them away somewhere...” Like under my pillow...

“Whoa right there!” Dawn and Andrew were standing in front of her before she knew it.

Damn... Curious roomies 1, Slayer 0...

“So what’s with the secrets all of a sudden? And the blushing and the running away?” The youngest woman raised her eyes and put her hands on her hips in an authoritative parent look that Buffy had seen all too often with Joyce.

Sighing, the Slayer slouched and returned, defeated, to the living room. She sat back down on the couch and stared at the two squares of fabric. If they could only be that, she thought, and nothing else. Goosebumps peppered her skin as the memory of cool fingers ghosted up her arms, a husky voice taunting her into agreeing to things she’d vowed never to do... “They’re Spike’s.”

“So, what--he collected silk hankies or something? That so doesn‘t sound like Spike.” Dawn had no idea why Buffy was acting so secretively. It’s not like she found handcuffs or anything, she thought, vowing to bleach her mind after that particular image.

“Ooh! Ooh! I know!” Andrew jumped up and down, holding his hand up. “They were his mother’s!”

There was no getting out of this whatsoever. Buffy let Dawn take one of the scarves before answering. “No and no.” Turning to her sister, she sighed. “You know all those times you said ‘I’m not a baby, I know about all that stuff!’?”

“Yeah...” The younger sibling had a scary feeling about where this was leading, so she held the green fabric between her thumb and forefinger--just in case.

“Well, take that, add to it ‘silk scarves’, and a whole truckload--no, wait--a whole boatload of TMI.”

Dawn nodded. “Oh.” Then her sister’s message came through loud and clear. “Oh! Oh, eww!!” She threw the scarf back at Buffy and wiped her hands on her pyjama pants. When she lifted her head again, her eyes glinted with a hint of mischief. “But really, really hot considering, you know, Spike...”

Buffy laughed out loud and nodded. “Believe me, a guy lives for a hundred and twenty years? Really does wonders for his repertoire...”

A sigh beside the two girls caused them to jump. Andrew was with them, on the couch, listening to Buffy with a dreamy look. “And those abs of his? Wow...”

Ah, hell, thought the older girl, why not? “Mmm.. Don’t even get me started on that...”

For the first time since it had been let, laughter rang out of the third-floor apartment. The Christmas spirit had indeed touched its three occupants, leaving them to revel in happy memories and good company.

***

The group from Wolfram and Hart stood silently as Sunnydale fell back into its crater.

“So that’s what it looked like from out here...” Spike watched in wonder as the buildings collapsed and the concrete caved in to cover the Hellmouth. But there was something amiss. Something that just wasn’t right.

And then it came to him.

“Hey--Charlie boy, toss me those keys to the van, will ya?” At the incredulous look the man gave him, he groaned. “Oh, come on! I’m not gonna bloody well run away--I just need to do something.”

Gunn muttered under his breath as he threw the keys to the bleached vampire. “I know I’m gonna regret this...”

Their attention diverted from the hole-that-was-Sunnydale, everyone turned to watch Spike hop into the driver’s seat. He drove out about thirty feet, turned the vehicle away from them, then hit reverse. The gang was speechless as the van was driven in reverse at full tilt, heading towards them. At the last moment, it took a sharp turn to the right and ploughed into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign.

Spike hopped out and jogged to the edge of the crater. Nodding in satisfaction towards the defunct sign, he tossed the keys back to Gunn.

“Now I‘m done...”

Author's Note: A little Christmas present for all my readers--I hope you liked it :) May you all have wonderful holidays, and spend them doing whatever you want (that's always a great present in itself!)