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Andrew announces from the kitchen, that, KFC was sadly all out of original chicken and he had to settle on a bucket of extra crispy (sacrilegious!) as we walk in the door.

Spike’s right behind me and even if our playful, graveyard banter carried over into a banter-y ride back to the outskirts of bumfuck Dawn and I call ‘home’ (after motoring around in a DeSoto for god knows how long, he’s got the nerve to insult my Caprice!). And, a hastily, thrown together explanation of who he is to Claire (devoid of any real details – of course) things feel slightly awkward.

He’s in my home. Only this isn’t Revello. There’s no huge oak tree in the yard, or comfortable porch with the swing. I don’t have bay windows or my mom’s decorating sense. This is the tiny house wedged in a cul-de-sac on 1523 Marshall Drive. It’s drafty, but surprisingly comfortable. There’s an attic, but spiders have claimed that land for breeding, and a fireplace that we won’t use because of its habit to shoot the smoke inside instead of up and out of the cute, little stack.

This is surreal. And keeping things light between us did a damn good job fooling me into thinking nothings changed…

"Extra crispy?! That’s gross, Andrew! Who the hell eats extra crispy!" Claire yells, tossing her coat on the nearby sofa.

Heh. That’s right. Claire, Andrew, and Dawn – no Willow, Xander, and Giles. Boise – not Sunnydale. Full-time Watcher, only a slayer when I need to be.

But everything’s changed.

I catch Spike giving me this look and he mouths "Andrew?"

"Yes, that Andrew." I nod. "He lives here."

"With the two of you?!" He looks between Dawn and I with an almost scary protective glint and I laugh. What? It is Andrew he’s getting all-caveman about! Andrew, who has Lief Garret records and watches Sparticus like every Sunday…

"That’s right," I say smiling teasingly, "with the two of us. Me and Andrew, doing unspeakably naughty things. Not appropriate for children under the age of thirteen types of things…"

Spike rolls his eyes. "You’re not funny."

I chortle. "Beg to differ."

The kitchen door suddenly swings open and Andrew breezes out wearing an apron (I’ve told him a million times – not necessary when you didn’t cook). He doesn’t seem to notice the rest of us, just Claire, whom he’s yelling – or whining at as the case may be.

"What did you want me to do?! They were all out of your precious original! You know, extra crispy is highly underrated – just because it wasn’t the Colonel’s recipe doesn’t mean…" Andy suddenly stops trying to sell us on extra crispy and goes paler faster than I knew a human being could –

"It’s the First!" he shrieks pointing at Spike. "The First is back and trying to kill us all!"

"Andrew…" I begin calmly trying hard not laugh, "he’s not the First."

"I’m not the First, you git," Spike puts in for good measure.

"But – but, Spike’s dead!"

"Still am."

"He – he died valiantly to save the world…!"

I get a great view of the egotistical pride that washes over Spike’s face and have to roll my eyes. Like he’s the only one who’s ever done that…

"Yeah," he beams, "kinda did, didn’t I?"

"Andrew…" I start slowly so not as to further confuse my apron wearing, little wannabe sidekick, "Spike’s not the First, see?" I demonstrate by patting Spike on the shoulder. "Touchable."

Spike gives me this lecherous grin. "Damn right I am."

Quickly, I remove my hand and try very hard to fight the flaming red that wants to creep up in my cheeks. Stupid cheeks. God, for a girl who’s had sex in positions that would make a French whore blush, I sure can be an amazing prude sometimes.

That’s me – Biddy Buffy with the bible in my right hand and huge Mayflower buckles on my shoes.

Andrew audibly breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh – I thought…" he chuckles. "So that means, you’re the real Spike?"

Spike’s looking mildly annoyed with Andy. "Yeah, last I checked."

Chef!Andrew lets out what can only be called a squeak – a joyful one, anyway, and before I and certainly Spike knows it, Andrew’s wrapped his arms around the bleached wonder in a bear hug. Heh, I even think I see tears.

"Spike! Oh, man I, missed you!"

"Yeah, yeah, missed you too, Andrew," Spike says absently as he untangles Andrew’s arms from around his waist.

"Wow!" Andrew exclaims whipping his eyes. "This is just – just great! Who’s up for some KFC?"

**

"So what was it like being a ghost? You could walk through walls and stuff, right?"

Spike smiles at Dawn and takes swig from his mug-o-blood. "Yeah."

"That is so cool," she gushes.

"Not as fun as it sounds though, Bit. After a while everyone got hip to the ghostly lurking routine." He shakes his head, "Not even the Six-Million-Dollar-Man could see through those shower curtains Fred put up…"

"Fred?" I hear myself asking aloud, even though this brief moment of unwanted and jealous panic was originally intended for the confines of my head only. It better be a bulky, greasy, trucker with man bits named Fred…

Spike gives me that smile and I want snap his neck. "Yep. Fred." (annoying vampire…)

He sets the mug down on the coffee table and gestures towards my garland-y fireplace. "Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, innit? What’s with the pitiful show?"

"Hey!" Andrew shouts, offended.

"That’s the only show we get to have, according to the Scrooge who’s inhabited my sister’s body." (Oh that Dawn, quick with the irritating teenage sarcasm)

"I don’t feel like doing the Christmas thing! Is there something wrong with that?!" I yell, suddenly feeling the need to defend myself. Apparently, Christmas Nazi’s been, locked, in a room with people who need gaudy lights and Trans Siberian Orchestra playing.

Spike snorts. "Who shit in your eggnog?"

"Ugh! Why do I have to hear this over and over from you people! I’m not in the mood for the ‘ho-ho-ho’, ‘we wish you a merry’, ‘birth of saviors’, crap this year! Can’t we just accept that and move on?!"

There’s a silence in the room that almost makes Christmas Nazi run full speed back to her Gestapo headquarters and then Spike jumps to his feet and grabs my arm:

"Come on," he says pulling me up.

"What? Where are we going?!"

"To get a tree."

I groan. "If I wanted a goddamn tree don’t you think…"

"You have no choice in the matter, Slayer – er – Watcher," Spike amends with a smile as he drags me towards the door. "Grab your coat. It’s colder than a witches tit here."

"But, all of the lots are closed," Dawn speaks up, "and it’s like the day before – the day before Christmas, all of the good ones are long gone."

Spike smiles brilliantly. "Got a chainsaw?"

**

I can’t even begin to tell you how illegal this is.

If you look in the woods off of I-17, expensive Monolo Blahnick (guilty!dad buys great presents) boots deep in icy slush, jacket pulled tight and scarf practically wrapped to her forehead, is shivering, impossibly cold me. To the right of me, follow the ungodly loud whir of a chainsaw notice the leather duster and the shockingly white hair – and you’ve got the deranged Santa with the cigarette in his mouth, which kidnapped me.

"Come on, you poncy son of a bitch!"

I wonder if anyone’s ever actually done time for stealing one of Boise’s, precious Douglas Firs…?

The wood chips are flyin and I ease closer towards him, arms crossed. "Are you quite finished?" I say once the chainsaw noise stops.

He shoots me an annoyed look. "Yeah. I figured, the tree looks so lovely still mounted to this stump, that we can decorate it here, and come back and visit it."

"For those of us with a body temp of 98.6, it’s a little on the fucking freezing side." I cut my eyes at him.

"News flash, luv, vampire’s aren’t immune to weather change." Spike snickers, "And you call yourself a watcher…"

"I’m new to the gig, ok! I’ve got ‘new watcher’ smell all over me!"

All Spike does is grin before he revs the motor and goes right back murdering trees to hang ornaments and candy canes on later (sigh). Finally, the damn thing topples so loudly that it jogs my memory of seeing an ‘All Trespassers Will be Shot’ sign back near the highway.

"All right, help me load her up!" he calls, voice straining as he picks up his end of the tree.

"This thing’ll never fit in the house," I grumble and ow! I bring my poor finger to my lips. Stupid needles.

"We’ll make it fit."

"Why are you so gung ho about a stupid tree?"

Spike raises his scarred brow. "And why are you so against it?"

I drop my end in the slush and stare at him. You know I really hate that about Spike! I can lie to everyone else, my own sister included but the vampire who bleaches his hair and still wears tight, black jeans like 1985 never ended, sees right through all of my bullshit.

It’s disconcerting being such an open book for someone. It’s almost as if Spike’s got x-ray vision and he can burn through all of the walls Protective!Buffy spent time carefully putting up for this exact purpose! So you couldn’t see what was behind them.

"Willow and Giles are in England," I hear myself begin and I want to stake him. Who the hell needs a therapist when I’ve got Spike around free of charge? "Xander lives in Modesto," I sigh. "Mom’s gone and so’s Anya…" I get quiet and swallow one of those painful lumps in my throat, "thought you were gone too, just eight hours ago." I sniffle and smile sadly. "What’s there to celebrate? All I can think about are the people I’ve lost and the ones who are oceans away. I miss California, I miss Sunnydale, I miss being the ‘one girl in all the world…’. I miss the way things used to be."

I let out a humorless laugh and shake my head. "Guess I don’t adapt to change very well."

Spike nods and is silent for a long while before saying, "No one does. Just get used to it, is all."

I sniffle again and give him a nod of my own. "Ready to cave in the roof of my car with this huge bastard?" I ask with a smile.

A big grin breaks out on his face and it makes me laugh again – but I still want to stake his undead ass for making me say all of that aloud.

Stupid vampire.

"Lead the way, luv."

We get Dougie Fir strapped to the roof of my car with almost no problem (the right passenger side window has a lovely new crack in it) and jump inside from the bitter cold, into an even more bitter car kind of cold (why does that always happen?).

I turn the key in the ignition and my poor baby does this half hum half sputter thing before it goes kaput. I glance at Spike, worried, and try it again (come on, baby, work for mama – come on, come on…) and this time there’s more sputter than hum. I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath. The engine won’t turn over – it’s like thirty below and the engine won’t turn over…

Scrooge was never visited by the Ghost of Christmas Car Repair by any chance, was he?

"Oh this is just great," Spike says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You know, this would’ve never happened with the DeSoto…"

"Shut up about your stupid car, ok!" I snap. What? I’m trying to make mental bargains with my ride here – sarcasm only interrupts it. (Please, please, please, if you start for Buffy, I promise to never let you get bone dry on oil or let Dawn eat a chilly cheese dog in your front seat ever again) I turn the key one last time and I get the same thing…

My head hits the steering wheel. "Son of a bitch…"

"Get on your mobile! Call up Andrew and have him whip down here in his Fiesta."

"Phone’s at home, charging the way stupid mobiles do," I grumble.

"Son of a bitch," Spike echoes my earlier sentiments.

"We’re stuck!" I throw my hands up. "It’s too cold, this thing won’t start up and I don’t have a phone…" I turn to him, eyes wide and full of piss and vinegar, "I’m going to freeze to death! And it’s your fault!"

"My fault!" he says with disbelief.

(what did I stutter?) "Damn right it’s your fault! If you hadn’t dragged me out here for this stupid tree, we wouldn't be stuck right now!"

"Ohh, I see – every time Spike tries to do a good thing, you throw it back in his face!"

"My window’s cracked, it’s thirty three degrees and my hands and feet are numb!" I scowl. "In. Your. Face."

Spike suddenly turns, looks back into my backseat then unhooks his seatbelt.

"What are you doing?"

"You’ve got a blanket back here," he says as he climbs into the back.

"I’m not spending the night out here!"

"Fine, enjoy your walk back home."

I sit there for a moment, (pride just won’t let me scramble for the blanket right away) before finally climbing in the back along with him.

**

It’s snowing now. In the few rare occasions I’ve seen snow, my thoughts on the matter were usually of the ‘Ooh, pretty’ variety. Now, they’re little white flakes of death…

Here Lies Buffy Summers – Daughter to Joyce, Sister to Dawn, Slayer of Demons. Died valiantly in a Chevy Caprice. She Will Be Missed.

"I’m soo gonna kill you." My teeth chatter as I talk.

Spike stretches and yawns a little. "That one never gets old." He smiles. "You could curl up right here, you know?" He pats his side and for a brief second, I think I see what can only be fear flicker across his features. The fear of rejection. (sigh) I’m so proud that I worked to further instill that in him…

"Your body temp’s gotta be like sixty degrees," I quip but find myself curling up against him anyway. I pack the blanket in around us and snuggle him to the point where my shoulder should be embedded inside of him.

"Seventy eight, still a lot warmer than it is out there," Spike chuckles and wraps an arm around me.

"Yeah," I say with a contented sigh.

We’re silent for a long while and I catch myself unconsciously doing the couple-y thing of tracing a finger on Spike’s chest. Damn finger’s got a mind of it’s own…

"How did it happen?" I ask softly. I think I’m ready to have this talk now. The private one, might as well – neither one of us is going anywhere right now.

"Dunno, really," Spike sighs, running a hand up and down my arm (god I missed that). "My essence or ashes or whatever was sucked into that sodding amulet. Wound up at Wolfram & Hart all nicely packaged."

"So you’ve been alive all this time…?"

"Casper me was bound to the law firm – so technically, I’ve only been alive and touchable for a month."

"Oh."

"I would’ve come to you sooner, Buffy if I could of," he says and takes an unnecessary breath, "you know that."

I nod.

"Before today, I thought you were still in Europe."

I bolt up. "Angel didn’t tell you…?" I frown, of course Angel didn’t tell him I’d set up shop in Idaho, "oh yeah, that’s right – macho vampire pissing contest. Almost forgot." (that gelled lunkhead.)

I settle back against him and pause for a minute. (I don’t know where the stones are coming from to get me to ask this question) "Why didn’t you believe me when I said I loved you?"

"Because, you didn’t mean it." Spike says it so casually that it stings and I have to clear my throat before speaking again,

"You don’t…"

"Did you?" he interrupts me and there he goes with his super vampire – eyeballs, seeing right through liar Buffy.

"No," I say weakly. "I thought you needed to hear it."

"I did."

"I may not love you now, but Spike, it’s not impossible." I sit up again and stare him directly in the face. I feel the need for some serious honesty tonight. Mark your calendars, an event like this only happens every seventy-five years. "The feelings are there. Strong, amazingly indescribable feelings that are stupid for me to deny so I won’t do it any more. But, I’m not quite ready to love back. See, I’m like cookie dough…"

Spike rolls his eyes and gives me a playful smile. "Bleeding Christ, not the cookie analogy!"

I frown. "Angel told you about that?"

"Oh yeah," he chortles.

(thanks a lot Super Forehead) "Oh."

Spike laughs and pulls me closer. "Don’t worry, Betty Crocker, I’m prepared to wait on you to bake all the way before I – eat – cookie Buffy." The lecherous grin is back and so are my flaming cheeks. With that statement, I think Biddy Buffy just passed out in the fifth pew of the Holy Rollers Sanctified Church…

"You need time to get used to the changes."

I smile and kiss him. What I intended on being a brief peck, turns into at least fifteen seconds of real smooching. There’s tongue and a few moans, and a nice warm melt-y feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me forget we’re stuck in a freezing car.

I pull back (at this point, the dopey smile won’t leave) and bury my face in the crook of Spike’s neck. "You know, the adjusting would go a lot faster if you dropped by on all the holidays."

"I’m thinking you’re right – anything I can do to help."

"Mmm-hmm. Which is why you’ve got to stay for New Years…"

"Oh, definitely."

"And we can’t forget about Martin Luther King’s birthday…"

"He was a great man."

"Presidents Day…"

"Wouldn’t miss it."

"Valentine’s Day – only cause it’s, you know, national…"

"Right."

"St. Patrick’s Day’s important…"

"Oh, right, pet. Don’t forget Ash Wednesday."

"Easter – when’s Veterans Day?"



It’s hard to deal at first when life suddenly changes on you, but I think I’m finally starting to get used to it.



THE END





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