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.


 


Memories of Yore


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...”


***


December 25, 2003, Matmata, Tunisia


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.”


***


December 25, 2003, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil


“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.


I still miss you, baby, but it’s getting easier, you know. All that good magic that I channelled last spring? It eclipsed the hatred, the blackness that had taken over my soul. I feel so free now; I wish you were here to share it with me. But I know that you’re looking over me, and that we’ll be back together some day.


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...”






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