Author's Chapter Notes:
Using my creative license to go slightly AU from season six, it’s Christmas time, and the events of OMWF haven’t yet occurred.
“This is harder than it used to be.”

Buffy stood, hands at her side, clutching a delicately constructed glass star. She stared up at the top of the freshly adorned Christmas tree.

Spike arched an eyebrow. “You’re as short as you’ve ever been, so I know you can’t be talking about placing the star up top, Slayer,” he drawled.

She shot an annoyed glance at him before refocusing on the tree. When he’d come over to find her and Dawn setting up all the Christmas decorations, and Willow and Tara away, he’d planted himself on the couch and hadn’t moved an inch, eyes following their every move. That familiar irritation at his mere black-clad presence had flared briefly before quickly being quelled by the pleased look on Dawn’s face.

When Dawn had started sorting through the ornaments, she’d picked up her ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ bulb and stared at it with a strange silence. Buffy plucked it out of her hands and hung it on the tree. “I remember shopping with Mom when she picked this out,” she said. “She spent ages choosing the best one, and I was just sooo bored. But Mom wanted to make sure she got the best.”

Dawn let out a tiny, “Really?” And after that, she’d kept up a steady stream of chatter, oohing and ahhing over past holiday memories until the phone rang, sending her running towards the kitchen.

Now it was just the vampire and the slayer together in a warm and cozy living room.

“I meant this,” Buffy said with an aborted gesture, hand with the star raising halfway toward the tree before falling back down again. “Doing the holiday thing. Without Mom. And with me… all…” her voice seemed to fail her, and she stopped.

Spike studied her; taking in all the small details for the umpteenth time tonight. The crimson knit sweater she wore. The way her blonde hair tumbled halfway out of the bun she’d absentmindedly arranged. The silence stretched and it became clear she wasn’t going to continue. “All, what? You’re all what?”

One skinny shoulder moved up and down halfheartedly. “A giant mess.”

“Not a mess. Just sad.” His limbs itched to be in motion. He wanted to go to her. To wrap her in his arms and tell her sweet things until she smiled again. He’d be up and across the floor in less than a heartbeat if she’d allow it.

“This isn’t sad, Spike. Something’s wrong with me when I can’t even be happy over decorating a Christmas tree with my little sister.” She remained facing the tree, not looking at him.

“No,” he emphasized, straightening up on the couch, “It’s you just getting torn out of bloody Heaven, is what it is.” Buffy spun, darting a nervous glance towards the kitchen where Dawn chatted happily, before shooting him a dirty look. “Going through the pearly gates was meant to be one way, pet. You upgrade to a round trip and things get a bit more complicated.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, still clutching the star in one hand.

“Gonna have to tell her some day, Slayer. She’s your sister. Deserves to know where you were hanging your halo,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“As if I don’t know that,” she retorted. “And I will. Just… later. It’s not exactly conducive to the holiday spirit.”

“And when would be more appropriate? After New Years, do you think?” he asked, sarcasm shading his voice.

She gave him a look that could slay lesser men, and he had to suppress a bitter smile. Seeing her all het up was about as good as seeing her happy nowadays; at least she was showing some kind of emotion, not just curling in on herself.

As quickly as it came, her anger deflated. “I-I mean I have to do the whole Christmas card thing and decorate and make a big holiday dinner and buy gifts that we don’t even have any money for in the first place. None that we didn’t have to borrow from Dad, anyway.” The look in his wintery blue eyes drove her own eyes to the floor. It was too… tender. And mixing that word and Spike together just made for dangerous territory. “Mom never seemed stressed out about Christmas. Unless Dad was coming over. And even then, the whole house was all festive and smelling of gingerbread and turkey with plenty of eggnog to go around.” Her voice quavered, threatening to crack. “It’s the first Christmas without her.”

Gracefully unfolding himself from the couch, he crossed the living room to her side in several quick steps, taking the glass star from her hand before she could stop him. He looked down at the star, and then up at the tree. “You just kind of set this thing in there, then? No tie-ons, or what all?”

Without wait for a reply, he stretched out, placing the star at the top of the tree. He stood on tip-toe, barely tall enough himself, she noted with a certain amount of childish satisfaction. He poked at it, body pressed up against the tree, until it was firmly nestled in the prickly boughs. The multi-colored rainbow lights shined cheerfully on his black t-shirt and taut, pale skin. She watched the muscles of his arm flex as he fiddled with the ornament. When he suddenly shifted back down, she quickly swung her eyes to the tree, appraising the star. Not his body. And definitely not the strength in his well-toned arms. She only had eyes for yuletide splendor.

She more felt, than saw him turn to her, suddenly becoming overly aware of how close he was. “You’re doing fine, love,” he said, voice soft. Her eyes flew to him of their own accord. “Dawn’s happy. She’s snug and warm in a home all bedecked with festive baubles and nutcrackers and the like. S’even stockings hung up on the mantle. Best of all,” he continued, “she’s got her big sis here, loving her with every ounce of strength in her body. Your Mum’d be proud.”

Buffy stood, riveted. “Do you…” Her gaze fell to the floor again, before looking back up through her eyelashes. “Do you think so?”

Hooking a finger under her chin, he tilted her face upward. “I know she would.”

His eyes darkened, and fell to her lips. Butterflies invaded her stomach, holding their own miniature butterfly war. “Spike…”

“Buffy!” Dawn exploded into the living room. “Can I go to the mall with Jan – ” she trailed off, eyes going wide at the sight them standing so close together. “With Janice, tomorrow?” she finished, haltingly.

Forcing a cheerful smile, Buffy quickly took a step back. “Sure, as long as you don’t blow off your homework later.”

Dawn gave a mild eye roll before turning her focus back on them. “Did I interrupt something?”

“What?” Buffy cringed. Was that high, squeaky, and totally guilt-ridden voice actually hers? “No, no. Spike was just – ”

Spike jumped in, hand still in the air, “Decorating the tree, is all. I – ”

“ – leaving,” Buffy said, shooting a firm look at the vampire. “He was just leaving.”

Spike’s hand fell to his side. “Yeah,” he said, with what he hoped wasn’t the grimace it felt like. “I was just on my way out. Too many holiday warm and fuzzies. You know us vamps. We hate good cheer.” He shot a glance at Buffy. She looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Dawn’s expression wasn’t much better, her eyes rapidly ping-ponging between him and Buffy.

He drew in a breath and nodded, “Right, then.” Striding towards the door, he snatched up his duster off the stair rail and tugged it on. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Goodnight, Spike,” Dawn called after him.

He nodded to her. “Pidge.” Pulling the door open, a blast of freezing wind greeted him.

“Spike!” Buffy shouted.

Already out the door, his head immediately popped back into the entryway. “Yeah?” he asked, unable to keep a tint of nervousness from his voice.

Quietness threatened to seize her tongue. “I just wanted to say thanks. For the um, for helping with the tree. Thank you.”

His eyes softened and he straightened up in the doorway, half in and half out. “Anytime.” He moved, as if to disappear again, and then stopped. “Patrol tomorrow?”

Buffy swallowed. “Sure. That could be good.” There. That was nonchalant, wasn’t it? Perfectly casual.

He nodded again, a smile threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth. “See you tomorrow night, then.”

Before she could change her mind, Spike left, pulling the door shut behind him. He paused, standing in the darkness of her porch. Warm light poured through the thin curtains of the living room, seeming to take the edge off the cold air. Made it just a bit easier. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his duster, automatically going for his lighter and ciggies. Instead, his hand wrapped around the small box bound in paper and twine that lay in his right-hand pocket. He stroked a corner with his thumb. “Tomorrow night,” he said softly, looking towards the bright window. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow night.”

With a small, wistful smile, he stepped off the porch, and headed into the dark. The light of the living room burned like a beacon at his back. The light of his girl burned like a beacon in his heart; effulgent.





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