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I’m flying down the highway, as wide-awake as awake can get. It’s either the five cups of coffee I managed to down before heading out or Juan started lacing the Colombian beans with yellowjackets and no-doze.

It’s raining but it isn’t cold enough to snow. The temp’s hovering somewhere around thirty-six degrees and…


I miss him.

I crank up the radio with false hope that Billy Corgan screeching the chorus to ‘Bullet with Butterfly Wings’ will somehow drown out my thoughts. It doesn’t. But I’m pretty good at repressing. Who needs to feel when you can be a robot who doesn’t hurt?

I’ve done it for so long, but moments like this creep up on me – nagging at my occipital lobe (heh. Occipital lobe) waiting until I get alone –

Spike had this unhealthy love for Christmas.

Not unhealthy in a he’s asking Santa for blood and twenty new black T-shirts kind of way but…

" ‘ S’pose you’re gonna tell me there’s somethin’ wrong with havin’ a Christmas tree?"

"Angel told me vamps didn’t celebrate Christmas as a rule." I have to smile.

Spike tilts his head and lets out a snort. "Captain Fun said that?!" he gasps in mock disbelief and dramatically brings a hand to his chest. "I for one am shocked!"

"Still, you have to admit it’s a little weird…"

He shrugs. "I like putting up the Charlie Brown tree – maybe even some garland if I’m feelin’ festive…"

"Andrew’s got Jesusi," I inform him, "and red bows."

I turn away from the road and catch him looking at me with a raised brow. "Jesusi?"

"Or Jesus’s." I shrug. "Whatever."

I hear him laugh and I tear my attention away from the billboard just overhead:

Best Buffalo Wings in the Tri-County Area! TJ’s Bar and Grill – Exit 52!

Spike flashes me this brilliant smile – the kind of smile I don’t have many memories of seeing that often, and points to the highway sign. "Your exit’s coming up, luv."

"Oh. Thanks."

He’s sprawled out in my passenger seat playing with his Zippo. I can see the flame flicker in the corner of my eye. "Don’t think you’re getting out of the Christmas tree explanation." I grin.

"All a part of William rearin’ his ugly head," he chortles. "I dunno. S’like havin’ a little piece of what I used to be. I’m not sayin’ I still get dressed in my Sunday best and head off to Midnight Mass, but the tree’s a nice reminder of home. My mum." He turns to me, rueful smile on his lips. "Sometimes, it’s hard to let go of the past, innit it?"



The Boise County jail is lit like an airport runway. The floodlights blind me and the moment I blink, Spike’s gone. It’s just me, a passenger seat occupied by Dawn’s Spanish and Algebra II books, and an awful Hoobastank song pouring out of the one good speaker in my ’95 Caprice Classic.

See what moments of non-repression get me? Nothin but heartache with a side of crazy.

Florescents make my retinas burn and the police station is bathed in them. The lighting creates this low buzz in the room that makes my ears hum and my skin crawl. So glad I chose to go makeup free – bet I’m the hottest mutant to ever grace the county jail’s doorstep.

The desk cop at the counter sips his coffee and takes a big bite of a doughnut, getting powdered sugar in his thick, black mustache. (so, this is where Starsky disappeared to) "Can I help you?" he barks without looking at me.

"Yes, I’m here to…"

"Buffy Summers?"

I look pass the desk jockey and catch a surprisingly smiley face. Young, good-looking, short dark hair and eyes, five o’clock shadowy stubble – he’s got this whole Benjamin Bratt-y thing going on. Benji Bratt Jr. extends his hand and I shake it,

"Yes, I am."

"Detective Morales." Benji’s smile fades and he motions towards my dutiful Slayer who’s handcuffed to a desk (makes a big-sister figure proud). "Take it you’re here for the kid?"

(No, I came for the spicy Buffalo Wings I saw advertised back on exit 43) "Yeah," I say.

"How many times do I have to tell you! I’m not a kid!" (That’s Claire obviously continuing to make me look as good as possible.)

"And how many times do I have to tell you, keeping your mouth shut is key to keeping your ass out of more trouble!" Morales snaps back and my favorite half-pint quickly reverts to pouty face (wow, Benny’s got bite).

"What did she do?" I ask sternly. I feel the need to get adult-y, so I cross my arms and send a few pointed looks in Claire’s direction.

"Bar fight."

"Bar fight?!" (She’s fifteen! Maybe I should get her a pack of cigarettes and a copy of Esquire when we get out of here…)

"I didn’t start it!"

"You’re barely old enough to baby-sit! How the hell did you get into a bar?!" Benny gives me this look that screams Claire did a fairly good job of hiding her age and I let out a nervous laugh (commence back peddling). "Did I say not old enough to baby-sit?! What I meant to say was, too old – far, far too old. Hehe, Claire baby-sits me sometimes…"

Benny nods his pretty, little head and smiles briefly. "The guy’s not pressing charges, so, you pay the bail, she’s free to go." He shakes his head. "I just don’t get how a little girl like that completely thrashed a three-hundred pound biker…"

(Three-hundred pounds and a biker?! Way to go Claire) "I’ll be sure to give her a good, stern talking to."

Another doughnut connoisseur (minus a 70’s porno mustache) unhandcuffs Claire and leads her around the maze of desks to my side. Putting a hand on her shoulder, I do my adult glaring thing to convey my massive disappointment in her (three-hundred pounds…!!) and turn my misguided, little Charge in the direction of the bench while I prepare to fill out a mountain of paperwork.

"Oh, Detective Morales…" I call over my shoulder (god, I’m not even sure if form 10a is in English!)

"Yes, Ms. Summers?"

Deeming form 10a as ‘written in Sumerian’, I smile at him. "Maybe you shouldn’t underestimate ‘little girls’."



**



"Okay – you’ve got five seconds to give me two damn good reasons why I shouldn’t kill you right now!"

Claire whips her auburn hair over her shoulder and despite the darkness I can see a glint in her green eyes. "One: I don’t think Mr. Giles is gonna keep you in the running for ‘Watcher of the Year’ if you waste your Slayer…"

"…Two… One…"

"And! And – I’m really sorry and swear this’ll never happen again, Buffy."

I crank up the radio and pretend to be totally engrossed in Phantom Planet. I may love ‘California’ and some of the memories it stirs up (sunny skies, beaches, and unspeakable evil as far as the eye can see) along with a handy reminder to tape the O.C. this week. But right now, the song is a welcome distraction keeping me from grabbing the nearest blunt object…

"God, what are you?! Faith 9.0!" I shout over the music (heh, so much for distraction). "The Bad-Slayer shtick’s already been done and much, much better. So, if you actually want to make a difference, fine. All good and dandy – be prepared to work hard and learn to understand the power you have and how to use it. But, if you want to waste my time – let me know now. There’s lots of other Slayers out there and I’m sure at least one of them actually gives a shit about this job."

Claire’s quiet – a first really, the kid almost always has something to say. The radio station’s on commercial break, so I turn it off. Nothing left but deafening silence in between moments of the swish, scrub of my whipers across the windshield.

More silence. Quiet kills me – I hate it: especially when it comes from the direction of a very talky person like Claire. The rain’s starting to let up a bit and I glance at the billboards once again – only cause there’s no other cars on the road to keep my mind occupied with license plate bingo.

World’s Largest Potato – Next Exit!

‘Mommy I Saw The World’s Largest Potato!’ T-shirts and Novelty Mugs – Just Ahead!

Would I Go Off-Roading In An SUV That Didn’t Meet Proper Emission Standards? – Jesus



"I want it." Claire speaks up so suddenly, that it scares the crap out of me and I end up jerking the wheel. Wide-eyed, she’s clutching her door and looks at me with her mouth agape. "I didn’t mean I wanted to die."

I smile sheepishly. "Sorry." Taking a deep breath, I slip back into ‘stern, adult’ Buffy and out of ‘immature, passed Idaho driving test by showing her instructor a little leg’ Buffy. "What do you want, Claire?"

"To make a difference." She sighs and gives me a tiny smile, "It’s a good fight and I wanna help."

"Then it’s time to start acting like it."



**

I guess bar fightin makes ya hungry.

I’m nursing another cup of coffee (at this point, 95% of my blood has been replaced with Java) as Claire devours the ham and cheese omelet on her plate like there’s no tomorrow.

"This your first time tasting food?" I smile wryly.

She gives me this huge smile that lights up her pixie face -- complete with freckles scrunching -- and it almost makes the still present desire to strangle her disappear.

Almost.

"I got a little side tracked – totally missed out on tasting TJ’s famous wings."

"Cute," I snicker. "So how did…"

"I was out for some post-patrolling fun and my ride decided my ass looked cold and needed his hands to warm it up," she says nonchalantly and puts her grubby mitts on a piece of uneaten toast on my plate. "You weren’t gonna eat this, were you?"

"Knock yourself out, Sparky."

"Thanks."

I take a measly bite of my hashbrowns (I would’ve gotten the grits if I knew what the hell a grit was). "And how does Daddy McMullen feel about his one and only little girl trolling bars and hanging out with bikers?"

"He’s out of town," Claire says. There’s a tiny flash of sadness in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can call her on it. "But, I like to think he’d be most happy."

"But tomorrow’s Christmas Eve…"

She shrugs. "Business is business."

And just another reason for Christmas Nazi to put in her bid to have this holiday eliminated…

I nod and sip more coffee like the adult Buffy I’m supposed to be, but the five-year-old Buffy who has more memories of waving ‘goodbye’ to her father in an airport than of playing ‘Candyland’ with him is internally rearing her ugly head. I understand more, than, I’m sure, Claire thinks I do. Papa Summers used to specialize in the same type of ‘business trips’.

"You do know what that means, don’t you?" I ask.

She sighs heavily. "I’m crashing with my Watcher for the holidays?"

"See," I smile sardonically, "you really are learning."

**

I have to admit there is a certain coolness about being a Watcher. Of course I don’t have the truly bitchin fashion sense that Giles did in his early days (snerk – if only they made tweed mini-skirts), but what I do have are training exercises – the pointless ones he used to love torturing me with:

"Buffy, I don’t need to learn how to use the quaterstaff! I’m not going to be battling the Sheriff of Nottingham!"

God, how I love carrying on the tradition.

"Nonsense!" I exclaim slapping Claire on the back (I’m feeling very Giles-y – damn, I kinda wish I wore glasses). "A Slayer must be skilled in all weapons," I quote like a textbook and my Slayer and a half gives me a look. I shrug, grinning like a mad woman. "Plus, Puffy!Andrew is just damn funny."

Andrew scrunches up his face and drops his arms in a huff. "Can we hurry and get this over with?! These pads are itchy."

I chuckle. "Show me whatcha got, kidlet," I say to Claire and then carefully move out of the way and take a seat on the nearby pommel horse.

The old house out in the suburbs of Boise that Dawn and I found has this huge basement and with the help of a visiting Xander, we were able to turn it into a Slayer’s training wet dream –

"Ow!" Andrew shrieks, "I wasn’t ready, Claire!"

Sadly, we still haven’t found the right dummy to practice on.

"Buffy! Seasons Greetings from La La Land!" Dawn calls out as she tramps down the basement steps, phone in hand. She tosses it to me with a smirk. "Make sure you tell Angel, there’s no way I’m going to forget ‘Joy to the World’ was blasting in the background when he called."

" ‘Joy to the World’? What happened to vamps don’t celebrate Christmas as a rule?" I say into the phone, amused. "Claire, don’t stick out your elbow!"

"Wolfram & Hart Christmas party," he grumbles like only Angel can. (Angel and party? Two words in the English language that have no business anywhere near each other)

"Wolfram & Hart throws Christmas parties?! Must be one helluva secret Santa swap."

"Actually, the real Santa Claus is showing up – he’s a client."

"Santa’s real?"

"Yeah," Angel says seriously. "He disembowels children."

I pause. "Wow – kinda puts the ‘he knows when you’ve been naughty’ thing in a whole new, and much scarier light."

"Anyway, I was just calling to…"

"Awkwardly wish me a merry Christmas?" I chortle.

"Exactly," Angel says and I can hear the smile that must be on his face, in his voice. "Dawn says your not celebrating this year?"

"Just call me ‘Ebeneezer’," I tell him dryly. "I’m just not rapt with the holiday spirit this year. It was more mom’s holiday, anyway." Taking a deep breath to stave off the lump in my throat and the tears that come with said lump, I manage to laugh, "And the year after, Anya kind of took over on that front. Worst. Party. Ever." The memory of Ahn’s disastrous ‘Christmas Spectacular 2001!’ makes me smile. "You should’ve been there – Willow was mope-y from her break up with Tara, and jittery from the cold-turkey magic quitting. Xander burned the cookies to a shade of black that I didn’t know occurred in nature. Anya wrote her name on every slip of paper in the secret Santa box, so she’s the only one who got any presents. Oh, and the highlight was a very NC-17 game of Pictionary in which my little sister was asked to draw a ‘hymen’ before I pulled her away and made her go upstairs."

"I’m sorry I missed that," Angel chuckles.

"Yeah," I sigh, "surprisingly, Spike was the only one who kept me sane throughout that whole…"

"Oi – tall, dark, and forehead! The French-onion dip’s lookin a little sparse over here!"

Okay – maybe after my teensy weensy hallucination in the car earlier this morning, this could be looked at as just another bout of Buffy insanity, but the thing is, I know.

I know.

Spike’s is the most recognizable cockney on the fucking planet – I know I just heard him in the background, despite ‘Winter Wonderland’ playing, despite the sound of numerous, faceless voices, despite the fact he’s dead for keeps – I heard him.

Angel’s calling my name, asking if I’m still there and I drop the phone.





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