Jonathan reached the end of the wide street and kicked at a tumbleweed-sized thunderhead. It rolled along the smooth plane of the altostratus cloud, then blew off the edge. Funny thing about clouds. While riding in an airplane they seemed to be made of water; in this place they were anything but. You could walk on them, wrap one around yourself like a comfy quilt. If you found the right kind of cumulus, you could even hop on the thing like a trampoline.

Since he’d only been dead for a few weeks, Jonathan was still getting used to heaven. If, indeed, that’s what this place was. Considering his more recent past, he wouldn’t place any bets that he’d managed to land in an eternity that was far removed from fiery pits.

He stopped at the street’s end, just before a dark, thick door made of stratus clouds. Large, puffy letters floated above the door, spelling out ‘Christmastown.’ He’d been wandering around looking for this place all morning. If the person he was searching for was real, this would be the place to find him. And if there was a day for miracles, what better time than Christmas Eve?

Jonathan tugged open the door and stepped inside to find a crowded Main Street featuring shops and decorations from every time period imaginable. A trio of World War One soldiers stood outside the window of a Hot Topic, admiring the jackets on display. Dickensian carolers strolled past a shop banner that read ‘8-tracks Now 50% Off!’

Jonathan reached a hand out and tapped one of the singers on his shoulder. “Excuse me. Do you know where I might find ‘The Mangy Lion’?

“Aye.” The portly man nodded. “Two streets up and take a right at ‘Garters Galore.’ It’ll be halfway down and tucked away. Blink and you’ll miss it.”

“Thank you.” Not knowing what else to do, Jonathan gave an awkward wave. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd before he lost his nerve and decided the whole idea had been a fool’s mission.

After a bit of jostling through the masses, he found the quiet little side street; it was paved with wispy, cirrus clouds. Though the nondescript street was crammed with shops that sold everything from hooped skirts to Nintendo Game Boys, he couldn’t find anything that resembled a pub within the jumble of businesses.

He walked the length of it twice and was just about to give up, when he saw the sign. It was a wonder he’d been able to spot the thing: a ragged bit of cardboard taped to a weather-beaten door. ‘The Mangy Lion’ was written across the scrap in drunken scrawl. Just above the words someone had drawn a cartoon lion with sticks for legs and little scribbles of hair where mane should have gone.

Jonathan reached out for the knob and gave a tentative twist. It turned, much to his surprise. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Though the crude sign led him to believe the place would be abandoned, the pub appeared to be quite cozy. It was, in fact, the very picture postcard of the typical English Pub of his imaginings: a long wooden bar with gleaming brass beer pulls, snug corner booths and a man with mutton chops mopping up the counter with a bar rag. Only a few patrons sat at the bar and they didn’t look up.

The bartender greeted him with a nod. “Happy Christmas, young man. I’m Cecil. What can I get for you?”

“A beer.” Jonathan hoisted himself onto a stool.

“Which sort of beer?” Cecil stroked his mutton chops thoughtfully. “We have more than a few.”

“A Guinness,” Jonathan said with authority. He’d seen an episode in which Dr. Who ordered a Guinness. If it was good enough for the doctor, it was good enough for him.

The bartender busied himself with the taps and placed a glass before Jonathan. Though it was full of a substance that looked like tar, the foam on top indicated that it was at least related to the beer family. Jonathan took a tentative sip. It was at that moment that he discovered that the tastes of bitter and sour weren’t actually the same thing. They warred for possession of his taste buds and he willed his eyes not to water. What he wouldn’t give right now for a Zima.

“Yum,” Jonathan said, in what he hoped was a genuine tone.

Cecil laughed, but not unkindly. “You’re clearly not here for a pint, young man. And this is a place that mostly caters to angels, not human sorts like you. Why don’t you tell me what really brought you here?”

Jonathan released a sigh. “I’m looking for someone and I was told that he hung out here a lot. You don’t happen to know a Clarence, do you?”

“Clarence? Got a last name?”

“Odbody,” Jonathan said. “Clarence Odbody.”

“Over there.” Cecil chuckled and pointed to a booth at the far end of the room. “Christmastime seems to bring you fellows out – all of you looking for Clarence.”

Jonathan swallowed. He hadn’t expected to hear that there would be others. To be honest, he hadn’t even expected to find that Clarence actually existed. “So, would it be okay if I just … went up and talked to him?”

“The only way to know is to ask him.” The bartender shrugged and turned to polish the counter.

Grasping his glass tightly, Jonathan pushed off from the bar and walked to the back of the room. As he rounded the corner, he held his breath and looked down at his beer. When he lifted his eyes, he saw the man seated at the booth. No, not a man, an angel. Clarence. He looked just like Jonathan knew he would: a suit and hat from the 40s complete with polka dog bowtie, white hair and a round bulb of a nose. With a few more pounds and a beard, the man could have been cast as Santa Claus instead of the angel-in-training from ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’

“Hi Clarence!” Jonathan blurted.

The old man looked up from his glass. It was the same dark brew that Jonathan’s own glass held. Maybe Guinness wasn’t made for humans. It was a kind of beer brewed specially for angels and time-travelling aliens. That would certainly explain the taste.

Clarence greeted Jonathan with a smile. “Ah. Another one has found me out. Have a seat, won’t you?” He gestured at the wooden bench on the other side of the booth.

“So, you’re real.” Jonathan scooted into his seat and wrapped his hand around his beer like it was a liquid security blanket.

“I’m as real as you are.” Clarence took a sip of his beer. He did not wince at the taste. “Most folks dismiss the whole idea of me. Think I’m only a character from a movie. Still, around the holidays traffic tends to pick up. It’s why we made the pub so hard to find. Only the most diligent are rewarded.” The old man tilted his head and looked over at Jonathan. “Who might you be, young man?”

“Jonathan Levinson.”

“And newly dead, are you?” Clarence asked. “You have something of an earthly feel about you.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

Clarence tilted his glass back again. “So, why’d you go to all the trouble to find little old me?”

“I was hoping for a favor.” It was best to just cut to it. Clearly the angel was used to these sorts of requests. “Christmas is the time of giving, after all.”

Clarence nodded, his expression serious. He took a long pull from his beer. “So, what is it you’d like me to give to you?”

“Oh, it’s not for me.”

Clarence raised his brows. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Who is it for then?” The old man watched Jonathan with patient eyes and nursed his beer.

“It’s … well, you can see what’s happening on earth now, just like me. And that means you can see what’s happening in Sunnydale right now.”

Clarence nodded again. “Everyone in this place is following the events in Sunnydale. They’re up against it there. But nobody knows that better than you, my young friend. After all, it’s where you lost your life.”

Jonathan said nothing. He stared into the dark liquid in his glass. His guilt weighed down on him like the ghost of Marley’s chains. If this place was heaven, he wished he’d been able to leave most of his memories at the door.

“So what would you like me to give to the people of Sunnydale?” Clarence’s voice was kind and steady. “There’s only so much that I’m able to accomplish you know. My powers are weak at best and only so-so as far as reliability is concerned. I certainly can’t help everyone.”

“How about just helping one person? The girl who deserves it most of all. Buffy Summers.”

Clarence grinned. “Worthy, is she?”

Jonathan nodded. “She’s saved my life more than once and I repaid her horribly. She’s saved … a lot of people. I knew that once. Somehow, I got caught up in my own stuff and managed to forget that for a while.”

“And now you’d like to repay her in some way?”

“You bet, I would.” Jonathan considered taking another sip of beer, but decided against it. “She’s in a hell of a mess now. Err, can I say ‘hell’ here?”

“I don’t know why the hell not.” Clarence shrugged. “Please continue.”

“Well, it’s just that … she’s stuck in a war against the First Evil and her troops are nothing but a bunch of green girls. Even now that it’s the holidays, she’s stuck with evil Christmas tree lots and getting the shit kicked out of her by an ubervvamp. She keeps fighting even though she knows she can’t win.”

Jonathan snuck a glance up at Clarence but the old man merely continued to watch him while he nodded in a distracted manner, the way old men tended to do.

“I figure its payback time,” Jonathan said, “But in, you know, a good way.”

“And what do you want me to give to her? The Standard Package?”

Jonathan laughed. “You mean a chance to see what everyone’s life would have been like if she’d never been born? No. I think that ground has already been covered when Cordelia made a wish to a vengeance demon. Also, I don’t think that’s what Buffy really needs right now.”

Clarence clapped his hands together. “I quite like where this is going. To be completely honest, I’m getting a little tired of The Standard Package. What should my gift be, my fine fellow?”

“I’d like her to have a break. That’s all. To have one good Christmas away from all the slaying.”

“One good Christmas for Buffy. Easily done.” Clarence tipped his beer up, drained it, then set the glass back on the table. “Is there anyone else you might extend your good wishes to? Anyone at all?”

Jonathan coughed. “I hope you’re not hinting about Andrew! He’s the one who killed me. I mean, I know its Christmastime, but …”

“Not Andrew, no.” Clarence waved an arm toward the bar, signaling for another beer. “I was thinking more of someone who’s currently tied up in the school basement being tortured by the First. You can see him as well as I can.”

“You can’t mean Spike?” Jonathan sputtered.

“If anyone can understand what its like to be tortured by the First Evil, I would think it would be you.”

“But a good Christmas? I don’t think Spike deserves…”

Clarence pursed his lips and sighed. “You might be surprised by what Spike is truly worthy of, my boy. Besides, no one knows better than you that sometimes a fellow ends up with a fate far better than he might deserve. Isn’t that right?”

Jonathan stared down at his beer, once again feeling that chain of guilt wrap a little tighter around him. Cecil arrived at their table and handed a frothy pint to Clarence.

The old man waited until the bartender had departed before speaking again. “I made it snow for Angel once, you know. Hard to say how worthy he might have been. Christmas isn’t about judging people as deserving, Jonathan. It’s about giving to others, regardless.”

Jonathan grasped his Guinness, braced himself and took another gulp. It tasted just as foul as he expected.

“Fine.” Jonathan waved his hand. “Buffy and Spike, then.”

“All right!” Clarence raised his glass up. “We Christmas Angels are a lot like Vengeance Demons, you know. There’s a certain way of doing things. You need to state your wish exactly and in the form of a toast.”

Jonathan stared at Clarence dumbly.

“Raise your glass, state your toast, then clink our glasses together.” Clarence smiled encouragingly. “It’s quite simple, really.”

Jonathan raised his glass of Guinness. “Here’s to Buffy and Spike. May they have exactly the kind of Christmas they deserve and want.”

Instead of Clarence’s face lighting up, the way Jonathan had expected, the old man looked as stunned as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach. “Oh dear. A Christmas they deserve is one thing, but the kind of Christmas they want – well that would be an entirely different kettle of fish.”

“Should I reword it?” Jonathan asked.

“Too late now.” Clarence shook his head and clinked their glasses together.

A light sparked to life just where their two glasses touched. Their beer lit up, turning the dark liquid amber and quickly illuminating the entire bar. The patrons, however, didn’t react in the slightest. No one even turned their head.

As the light sparked and danced between their glasses, Jonathan felt a sudden heat where his fingertips held the beer, followed by a sudden pop. Their pints burst, raining down a shower of dark liquid and glass.

Jonathan was soaked in the foul stuff. He shook his head and bits of glass tinkled to the floor.

“Making wishes come true by Guinness sounds like a terrific idea until you read the fine print,” Clarence grumbled. He shook his hat out over the floor, then wrung out the excess liquid before plopping the soggy thing back onto his head.

“You didn’t seem so sure about my wish,” Jonathan said. “This is going to turn out well for them, isn’t it?”

Clarence’s eyes widened. “I certainly hope so. I’d hate to think that we have to smell like stale hops for the rest of the day and have made this terrible mess – only to have disaster fall upon two deserving souls.”

Clarence waved sodden arm toward the bar. “Cecil, I’ll need to borrow your mop again. And bring another Guinness for me and a nice lemon shandy for the lad, will you? I think we may be in for a long night.”

Spike opened his eyes and had no idea where he was.

Last thing he remembered was … where had he been again? Right. Beneath Sunny-D High, being tortured by the First. Dru had been cackling and dancing about in mad glee as she carved him up right good and proper - like a Christmas ham.

Wherever the bloody hell he’d landed, it wasn’t a school basement. He blinked to clear his vision and squinted into the falling snow: a quaint Victorian street, shops festooned with holly and pine boughs. From just up the street a trio of carolers approached, dressed in nineteenth century clothing. A covering of snow dusted the street, and a pair of workers were lighting the gas street lamps lining the street.

What fresh hell was this?

A brand new torment – wrapped up with a bright Christmas bow, was it? Trick was, how did this place tie into the First’s repertoire of tortures?

God, but he was tired. Weary of their torments and god-damned sick of Dru’s games. Couldn’t he rest? If this whole charming scene was the prelude to a Charles Dickens’ play, he’d go out of his bloody mind. He wouldn’t have the strength for the three ghosts, the wankers. Hell, he wouldn’t have even lasted through the Ghost of Christmas Past. God knows, his past had been playing merry hell with his head since he’d won his soul back.

He took a second look at the scene before him, trying to sort out what the First might have in store for him. There was something strangely familiar about it: the way the street curved just as it went up the incline, the bright red bows decorating the wreaths on every door, the candles glowing from the shop windows.

This place, whatever it was, emanated a sense of authenticity. When the First had come to him as Dru and as Buffy, Spike could still sense evil lurking just beneath the veneer of their masks. This place felt different. It felt solid. It felt real.

The carolers, complete with fiddler, strolled past him. When they nodded and touched the brims of their hats, he returned the gesture. And wait just a minute – he was wearing a sodding hat?

He brought his hand to his face and his fingertips bumped up against wire-rimmed spectacles, nearly knocking them off his face. Reaching up a little further, his fingers threaded their way into a tangle of curls before they nudged against the brim of his top hat.

He dropped his hand to his side, glancing down to notice that he was dressed in a charcoal grey town coat, just like the one he used to own.

Oh god. He was William again?

Perhaps this was something other than a new torment the First had devised. Maybe it was worse. What if they’d dusted him after all? If so, question was, had he landed in heaven or hell?

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets to stop their trembling. He felt the edge of a small rectangular item and a folded bit of paper nestled in his right coat pocket. He pulled them out, curious.

Borle’s Jewellery & Fine Gifts was printed across the top, and just beneath that was a looping script: Pratt, locket - £6.
Spike stared down at the receipt dumbly. Like the grey town coat and the festive decorations on High Street, it too was strangely familiar.
It took only a moment before his mental breaker switch flipped on, and when it did his memories lit up like Piccadilly Bloody Circus at night time. He knew exactly where he was. He even knew when he was.

Christmas Eve, 1879.

He’d gone out in the late afternoon to pick up his mother’s gift: the locket he now held in his hand. She would be back at the house, putting the finishing touches to the tree before Christmas Eve dinner. She’d seemed so healthy that December. He’d had no idea it would be the last Christmas she’d be alive. For that matter, it had been the last Christmas he’d been alive.

The street was so familiar because he’d walked it hundreds of times: High Street in Hampstead, back before it had been swallowed up by London, even before the Northern Line had put a tube stop in. He cast a long look at the scene and inhaled deeply, a strange mixture of pine, holly, horses and an undertone of coal fires filled his lungs.

This was clearly not a delusion, and yet hell could be nothing like this place. Except, perhaps, for the scent of horse dung.
“Best to proceed with caution,” he said to himself, just above a whisper. “And listen to me, not back five minutes and I already sound like Bloody William.”

He tucked the receipt and gift back into his pocket and pulled his coat closed against the falling snow. Even if he didn’t know what kind of reality he’d landed in, it only made sense to head toward home. The thought of seeing his mother for the first time in a hundred and twenty years drove him on. It might be a cruel hoax, it might even be a new form of torture, but a fellow could hope, couldn’t he? At least a foolish fellow could, and he was the very definition of a fool.

He strode down High Street, relishing the way the snow glistened in the fading light. As he reached the bottom of the incline, he noticed a young woman walking about at the end of the street. She wore a lovely gown of shimmering green material, trimmed with white lace and a coat that was a darker shade of green. Her hands were tucked into a white muff and she wore a matching green hat with a wide brim which obscured her face.

She seemed to be quite troubled, however, as she worried a pathway into the snow, first wandering a few feet down one street, then changing her mind and going the other direction.
As he approached her, he paused. “Excuse me, miss. Are you lost?”

“You have no idea,” she replied in her distinctly American accent. She stopped pacing long enough to look up at him.

“Buffy?” he blurted. His vampire senses should have recognized her from a distance. This time and place must truly be flummoxing him.

She looked him full in the face and narrowed her eyes as she studied him warily. It took a few seconds before recognition dawned.

“Spike? Is that … you in there?”

“It is.” He was too confused to say anything more.
“God, am I glad to see you. What the hell is going on?”

“No idea,” he admitted. He felt a lump of fear in his throat and swallowed it. Buffy being here didn’t bode well at all. The First Evil had to know that no one could redefine pain for him like Buffy. If they were going to use her as a weapon, he’d have little defense.

“I’m a more than a titch freaked out right now.” She blinked at him; her eyes were wide. “How’d you get here – do you know? What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The First torturing me in the basement beneath the school. It was pretty straight-forward stuff, as far as torture goes. I passed out and woke up here. I have no idea why they’d send me to this place. Or why they’d send you.”

She shook her head. “No clue. I was on a walk. Giles had just arrived and I needed to clear my head. I was trying to figure out what the First had done with you. One minute I was on the streets of Sunny-D and the next thing I knew, I was smacked down here. Where is here, do you know?”

“I think that I do. It seems to be a moment from my past. 1879 to be presise.”

She considered his words and said nothing for a few moments. “And no idea why?”

“None at all.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would the First do this?” She jerked her chin up, her green eyes sparkling with energy. “Oh my god. I just thought. What if you run into yourself?”

“How do you mean?” Spike asked.

“You know, the other William-the-human version of you? What if you run into him?”

Spike slipped his hand into his coat pocket, tracing the edge of the box there. “I don’t think that’ll happen. I landed right in the middle of a moment I remember very specifically, doing an errand at the same time as I’d done it before. I’m pretty certain that this version of me is the only one there is.”

Buffy stamped her boots in the snow. “Whatever this place is, it doesn’t really feel like a dream at all.”

“I know just what you mean,” Spike said. “So, what do you reckon we should do about it?”

She blew out a little puff of air. “The last time something like this happened, I tied up my friends and tried to murder them in the basement. Really don’t want a repeat performance of that stellar moment. Keeping low key is key.”

“Low key and us. Right.”

“Unless you’ve got a better suggestion?” She raised a brow at him. Once again he’d managed to irritate her without even trying. Interesting how that particular talent seemed to manifest itself, no matter the century.

“I think we should go along with things,” she said. “If we’re reliving your past for whatever reason, the smart thing to do is to follow along and live the events as you lived them.”

“Except now, ‘me’ would be ‘we.’ I think that is going to make a bit of a difference. At least it will to my mother.”

“I’m going to meet your mother?” She smiled in that way of hers. It started out slow, then spread across her face like a dawning sun. Something in his chest twisted; his heart reminding him again that it didn’t need to beat to feel pain.

God, but he was a fool. He stared down at his boots and kicked a line in the snow.

“Let’s get going then.” She looked up at him, eager to get started.
“Yes, we should proceed,” he said.

“Proceed,” she echoed, beaming a grin at him. “You’re sounding so … Williamy. It’s kind of blowing my mind.”

“I just hope that our minds are the only ones blown tonight. When I told you about my past, I mentioned that William was something of a … confirmed bachelor. Showing up with a pretty stranger on Christmas Eve is quite out of character. We’ll have to come up with a convincing tale.”

“Oh, I want to help with this part. I got back story coming out of my backside.”

He grinned and held out his arm even before he realized he’d indulged in the gesture.

She looked at it with a puzzled expression, then understood his intention and placed her arm in his. “Olde tyme manners. This is going to take some getting used to.”

~*~

“God, give it a rest already. I’ve got this, Spike.” Buffy gave him an exasperated glare.

“William,” he said. “Your level of readiness would be more convincing if you called me by my name.”

“I’m ready, William.” She crossed her arms. “You don’t need to worry. You know I’ve faced uptight English people before. If I can handle the Watcher’s Council, I can take a few questions from your mom.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to go over it one more time,” he said.

“Yes, it would. It’s cold out here. My hands are freezing and my muff isn’t all that warm.”

A very dirty response came to mind, and he kicked it away.
“Very well,” he released a resigned sigh. “If we don’t arrive soon, I suppose Mother will start to worry.”

He led her out of the snow-covered park where they’d been rehearsing their story and turned onto Archimedes Road. His home was only a short distance down the street.

As she walked down the street, she moved her hips from side to side, causing her wide skirt to swish across the snow in a dramatic fashion. When he looked up to comment, he noticed a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. Of course. Playing dress up was a rare treat for the slayer, but one she relished. Back when he’d first met her, she’d chosen a Halloween costume quite similar to the one she now wore. Even if the First was gearing up for something terrible, it was lovely to catch her in this moment, to see her pleasure, no matter how fleeting.

“Very quaint little street you have here, William.” She said his name with no small amount of emphasis. “Reminds me of Mary Poppins. I keep looking skyward for incoming governesses.

Which house is yours?”

“Number seventeen, just there.” He gestured toward the three story, red brick home. It was decorated with holly and ivy, complete with candles glowing from red-ribboned windows. He’d forgotten how lovely his home had looked in this season, had forgotten what it felt like to have a home at all.

“Very nice,” she said. Her tone was suddenly serious, almost as though she’d been attuned to his thoughts.

They walked the remainder of the distance in silence. The front walk had been freshly swept and when he reached the front step he stomped the snow from his boots.

He leaned over to murmur in Buffy’s ear. “You’ll need to shake out your skirts before we enter.”

She frowned, then grasped the green material with both hands and shook her skirt vigorously.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.
He couldn’t stand to see that expression on her face. “You look like you’re about to face the bloody executioner. No need to be so glum.”

“Glumness seems like a natural response to this,” she waved an arm in the air, “whatever-it-is weirdness that the First is doing to us.”

“Well, we don’t know for sure that’s who’s doing it, after all,” he said.

She gave him a skeptical glance. “Like, who else could it be?”
He shrugged. “No idea. It just might be something else, that’s all I’m saying. For all I know, a bloody angel has decided to make our every dream come true.”

“Oh, sure.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “And a choir of pigs is about to fly out of my ass and burst into a chorus of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’.”

Right. Comments like that - maybe there was a good reason for her concern after all.

He rubbed a hand on the back of his head, lifted the latch and stepped through the doorway.

God but it was a sweet miracle to be home again.

He inhaled and relished the scents that filled his chest and then his head: a strong scent of pine and just beneath that the smell of freshly baked bread rising up from the kitchen.

He removed his hat, then turned to assist Buffy with her coat.
She shook her head. “So you help me walking and removing my coat? Victorians took manners all the way to eleven.”

As he began to unbutton his own coat, he heard the sound of footsteps. He knew in an instant who they belonged to: Mrs. McLaughlin, the housekeeper.

The plump woman stomped into the foyer wearing an apron and a very frazzled expression. “Oh thank goodness, Mr. Pratt. You’re home at last. We were beginning to worry. Your mother was …” She stopped speaking the instant she saw Buffy.
“Yes, Mrs. McLaughlin, allow me to introduce Miss Elizabeth Summers.”
“Ma’am.” The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and dropped her gaze to the floor for an instant before resuming her examination of the unfamiliar female.

“Pleased to meet you.” Buffy tilted her head toward the woman, then shot Spike a quick look that said See? I told you I could do it!

“Miss Summers is the sister of an old friend of mine. She’ll be staying with us through the holidays.”

“Excuse me, sir, but … staying with us?” Mrs. McLaughlin looked as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

“Yes,” Spike kept his voice matter-of-fact, as if the master of the house routinely brought beautiful young women home and set them up in the guest room.

An uncomfortable silence filled the entrance hall. Mrs. McLaughlin looked at him curiously, then turned a suspicious gaze back toward Buffy. After he could endure the awkward silence no longer, he took a step toward the housekeeper. “Our guest would do quite nicely in the Rose Bedroom, I think. I trust you’ll see to that?”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll just set Jenny to it.” She wrung her apron around her hands and continued to watch him warily.

“Your things, miss?” Mrs. McLaughlin looked directly at Buffy.

“Things?” Buffy cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What things?”

“A driver should arrive with her luggage shortly,” Spike interrupted before quickly changing the subject. “Is Mother in the front parlor?”

“She is, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin nodded. “But she’s trimming the tree. She’s not ready for you yet.”

Ah, yes. Victorian traditions kept slipping from his head. A Christmas tree was a relatively new custom, having been popularized by Queen Victoria herself. The lady of the house took great care decorating the tree, only unveiling it to the family on Christmas Eve. He couldn’t spoil his mother’s surprise.

“Then if you’d be so good as to ask her to come to the entrance hall, please?”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin released a very put-upon sigh as she walked toward the parlor.

“Now, here goes nothing,” Buffy muttered, just above a whisper.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. McLaughlin turned to look at her, stunned.

“I said…err, Now Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding. You know? Like the song?” Buffy gave the housekeeper a hopeful smile.

Mrs. McLaughlin looked at Buffy as though she was some sort of alien, freshly landed on planet earth.

“Ha, ha,” Spike said, his voice so shrill with false cheer that he had to rein in a wince. “Americans have such an unusual sense of humor. I find it terribly refreshing. Now, if you’d please announce us to Mother?”

Mrs. McLaughlin turned and continued toward the parlor. She stopped before the door and gave two brisk knocks before opening it a crack. “Mr. Pratt and his American guest have arrived, Ma’am.” Her inflection on ‘American guest’ made it sound like a synonym for ‘bomb-rigged terrorist.’

There was a brief pause. “What’s this? Who?” Though his mother’s voice was higher pitched than usual, full of surprise, it sounded, well, exactly likeher. Sweet, concerned … and fragile. He hadn’t anticipated what hearing her again would sound like, feel like. It nearly brought him to his knees.

He cast a quick glance to Buffy. She returned his gaze, her green eyes wide with fear.

Flooded by a strange concoction of nostalgia, longing, fear and an infusion of Christmas cheer, he had to wonder what the bloody hell he had got them both into.

The parlor door opened and an older blonde woman stepped into the foyer. She seemed so fragile that she might fracture if a person so much as brushed against her. Her cream-colored dress brought out the paleness of her skin. She cast a quick glance toward Buffy and smiled tremulously before looking back toward Spike.

“William,” she said, wheezing. “And you’ve brought a guest? How surprising.”

Spike blinked. The look on his face was unlike any expression Buffy had ever seen him wear. His mouth hung open and his eyes shone brightly. Even in the dim light, she could see they were brimming with tears. He looked almost … broken.

“Mother,” he said, tilting his head toward her.

“Dear?” His mother’s small smile hung on her lips for a moment, then fell. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, I … I'm … quite fine.” Spike shook his head, as if he could toss the emotions from his mind.

“Are you certain? You look unwell.” She appraised her boy with a concerned glance. “Is everything …?” she trailed off.

“I’m fine, truly.” Spike swallowed. “Allow me to introduce Miss Elizabeth Summers.” He nodded toward Buffy and his mother’s gaze followed. “Miss Summers, this is my mother, Mrs. Anne Pratt.” Everything about Spike’s voice had changed: the pitch, the volume and most especially, the accent. If she’d closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to guess he was the same man.

Buffy was so stunned that for a moment she simply stared at him. Then she remembered her lessons and curtsied deeply, concentrating on not letting her knees poke out at odd angles.

“Miss Summers is the sister of a friend of mine from Oxford,” Spike said. “Mr. Edgar Summers of Boston. I’m sure you remember my speaking of him.”

Mrs. Pratt blinked and her smiled wavered a little, clearly remembering nothing of the kind.

“She was to meet her brother for the holidays,” Spike said, “but his voyage ran into difficulties, delaying him by several days. I happened to run into her just now and insisted she stay with us until Edgar arrives.”

“I wouldn’t want to be any trouble,” Buffy said.

“Of course not, Miss Summers.” Mrs. Pratt smiled sincerely. “We’d love to have you as our guest. Having company over the holidays would be such a treat.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much!” Buffy threw that ‘ever so much’ bit in because it sounded kind of Victorian inside her head. Once it was out there, lingering in the foyer, it had a distinctly Southern sorority girl vibe to it. Spike’s mouth twitched a little.

“I’ve taken the liberty to ask Mrs. McLaughlin to prepare the Rose Bedroom.” Spike rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Pratt said. “And we could have Jack bring your things up.” She cast a curious look behind Buffy.

“Miss Summers’ luggage has been delayed as well.” Spike reached up to tug on his hair. An odd gesture – one Buffy had never seen before.

“Oh, my. You’ve been quite cursed with poor luck, haven’t you, dear?” Mrs. Pratt said. “But then, happening to run into William, in Hampstead of all places, well that seems to be most fortunate, indeed.”

Rather than say the wrong thing, Buffy opted to nod.

Mrs. McLaughlin reappeared in the foyer and waited just outside their circle.

“Is her room ready so soon?” Spike gave Buffy an encouraging look. “The sooner you’re settled in, the sooner you’ll feel at ease.”

Buffy had to hold in a giggle. Coming out with little homilies like this was so very unlike Spike. Next thing she knew, he’d be urging her not to cry over spilt milk.

“I keep the all the rooms in excellent condition, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin sounded very affronted. “It won’t take Jenny but a moment to freshen it for our guest.”

“Oh, I don’t mind an unfresh room,” Buffy said.

Mrs. Pratt turned to look at her, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Perhaps you could show Miss Summers to her room now, then,” Spike said in his spanking new Masterpiece Theatre voice.

“Certainly, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin nodded toward Buffy. “If you’ll just follow me, miss.”

Unsure about correct protocol in leaving Spike and his mother, Buffy threw down another curtsy just in case. Mrs. McLaughlin thudded up the wide central staircase and Buffy slipped in behind. Just as she reached the top landing, she could hear Mrs. Pratt speaking in an excited whisper.

“Oh, she’s lovely, son! And you’ve been so silent about her, and her brother as well. You must tell me all about them, dear.”

Buffy inhaled deeply, grateful to have escaped that particular line of questioning.

Following Mrs. McLaughlin down the hallway, Buffy couldn’t help but be impressed by the elegance of the house. The walls were covered in rich brocaded wallpaper and runners of expensive carpet lined the polished wood floors. Just before they reached the front of the house, Mrs. Laughlin stepped through an open door on her left. Buffy followed.

The room was bright and done up in pink and white, with rosebud wallpaper. A large brass bed was tucked into a corner where a plump, young girl complete with the traditional black and white Victorian maid garb, was busily stuffing pillows into fresh pillowcases. She looked up when they entered the room.

“Jenny, this is the guest I told you about,” Mrs. McLaughlin said. “Miss Summers, this is Jenny.”

“Miss,” Jenny curtsied deeply. Buffy returned the curtsy, remembering to throw in a subtle head-tuck, mimicking Mrs. Pratt’s gesture.

“I have dinner to attend to, Miss Summers. I will leave Jenny to acquaint you with the room.” Mrs. McLaughlin turned to aim a steely glance at the young maid. “It shouldn’t take you long so don’t dawdle. You’re needed in the kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jenny said.

“Miss Summers.” Mrs. McLaughlin nodded toward Buffy as she left the room.

As soon as the severe housekeeper had stomped down the hall, Buffy sighed in relief. She heard Jenny giggle. When she looked up, Jenny quickly stifled her laughter and shot Buffy an apologetic glance.

“Mrs. McLaughlin makes me a little nervous,” Buffy confessed. “Does she have that effect on you too?”

Jenny nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, miss.” Jenny finished with the pillows, then stepped toward the bureau. “If you’d like, I can help unpack your things.”

“I am thingless,” Buffy said. Upon seeing Jenny’s puzzled expression, Buffy elaborated. “I don’t have any luggage.”

“I see.” Jenny paused for a moment. She gave Buffy a look that was full to bursting with curiosity. “Are you … an American, miss? Excuse me for asking, but your accent is so unusual. Mrs. McLaughlin is always on about me being too familiar with my betters but I–”

“Your betters?” Buffy interrupted. “Please.”

Jenny beamed a grin.

“Yes, I’m an American and to tell you the truth, all this ‘miss’ stuff is getting on my nerves. Why don’t you just call me Elizabeth?”

Jenny’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh no, miss. That wouldn’t do at all. I believe Mrs. McLaughlin might boil me in oil if I were to do such a thing.” She cast a nervous glance toward the door as though the bad-tempered woman might be lurking, oil-filled pot in hand.

When she turned back toward Buffy, her expression lightened. “I’ve never met an American before.”

“Today’s been chock full of firsts,” Buffy said. “Hopefully we’ve seen the last of them.”

Jenny blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t quite seem to be following you.”

“Its okay, Jenny. Even Americans have a hard time following me.” Buffy gave her a reassuring grin.

“Is it very grand living in America? It seems an adventurous place.”

Buffy nodded. “I guess so.”

“Tell me,” Jenny snuck another peek at the doorway, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen red Indians? Are they truly bloodthirsty?”

Immediately, Buffy thought of the Chumash tribe and their little skirmish over the Thanksgiving table. It would have felt unfair to mention that, however. To say nothing of freaking out poor Jenny. She concentrated instead on the guy who'd coached her through Algebra. “I knew a guy who was half-Cherokee. That should count. He sat next to me in high school. He wasn’t savage at all, but was very good at math.”

“Math?” Jenny gasped. “You’ve studied mathematics?”

“Well, study might be stretching it. I took a class.”

Jenny shook her head in wonder. “Quite unusual.”

Buffy wasn’t sure if Jenny was referring to ‘red Indians’, Buffy in particular or math generally, so she said nothing.

“We weren’t expecting company for the holidays,” Jenny said. “Not that we mind at all, miss. It is just so wonderful to see Mr. Pratt in the company of such a young lady as yourself.”

It took Buffy a second to register that Mr. Pratt was the same person as Spike. Not quite sure of what to say, she nodded noncommittally.

“I suppose you’ve been friends a while then?” Jenny blushed slightly. Buffy didn’t have to be knowledgeable about Victorian customs to know that maids weren’t supposed to question their guests over such personal matters. Still, Jenny’s interest didn’t feel gossipy. She simply appeared to be delighted for ‘Mr. Pratt.’

“My brother went to school with Mr. Pratt. I mostly know him through my brother, Edward. Or Edwin.” Buffy stammered. “Eldridge?”

Jenny raised her brows and bit her bottom lip.

“I … erh … have a lot of brothers,” Buffy stammered.

“I should be going.” Jenny edged toward the door. “Mrs. McLaughlin will be wanting my help in the kitchen and wonder where I’ve got to. Should you need anything, miss – anything at all – just ask.”

“I’ll do that, Jenny. Thank you.”

Jenny curtsied, a fluid, graceful gesture that looked nothing like Buffy’s own, then scurried from the room.

~*~

After pacing around her room for half an hour or so, Buffy was relieved to hear footsteps in the hall. They slowed when they reached her room and she looked up to see Spike. Or William. There was very little of Spike in him now, all dressed up in his gentleman's costume. He didn’t talk the same. He didn’t even walk the same. Where Spike would have swaggered up to the door and leaned against the frame, hips thrust out, William stood primly in the doorway, hands clasped together. He wore a concerned expression.

“Did things go all right with Jenny?”

“Well enough, I guess.” Buffy shrugged. “She mostly wanted to know about Indians and was curious about where you and I met. How did things go with your mother?”

He smiled. “Quite well.”

“Do you want to come in?” Buffy asked

“To your bed chamber?” He swallowed. “Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.”

Buffy burst into laughter.

Spike tugged his hair and cast a nervous glance down the hall. “We could retire to the library. It might be a more appropriate venue for a conversation.”

“Good god, you sound like you swallowed a thesaurus, Spike.”

“William,” he said through gritted teeth, finally sounding like Spike after all.

“To the library, then.” She shook her head. “Tally-ho and God save the King.”

Spike clenched his jaw in that way of his, then stepped back and waited for her to lead the way. It irritated her. She knew he had to bust out nineteenth century manners, but since she had no idea where the library might be located, his aggressive politeness was a little impractical. She walked toward the front of the house where three doors were lined up in a row. She paused.

“The center one,” Spike murmured.

She lifted the latch and stepped through the doorway. The library featured wide windows, but since the sun had set, it was difficult to see any details about the room. Spike reached up to a small box on the wall and withdrew a match. He struck it and lit the brass wall lamps.

The flickering gaslight illuminated a charming room which was completely lined with books. Blue floral carpet covered the floor and two bright green armchairs were tucked beside an end table in the far corner. Against the back wall, in the center of the room, a large desk was piled with stacks of papers and ledgers.

Buffy loved the room in an instant. It felt strangely familiar to her, but not in an uncomfortable way. It felt a little like coming home.

She walked to one of the green armchairs and settled in. Spike went directly to the desk and sat behind it. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the bottom drawer and fished out a bottle of amber liquid.

“No way,” Buffy said. “Some things never change.” She had to admit to herself that she felt a little reassured. Since they’d landed in this place, he’d seemed like another creature entirely. To see him take a tug from a bottle of whiskey would be a comfort.

He reached back into the drawer and pulled out a glass. After splashing a little whiskey in the glass, he knocked it back.

“Did you find out anything from your mom?” she asked.

Spike shook his head. “All Mother wanted to talk about was … well, you.”

“Yeah, I got the distinct impression from Jenny that William wasn’t in the habit of bringing home random women.”

“To say the least,” was all Spike said before pouring another, much larger, drink.

“Did you come any closer to figuring out what’s going on? If this is something conjured up by the First Evil or …?”

“Something worse?” Spike stared at his whiskey for a moment, then took another gulp. “I did not. The best that I can tell is that all is as it appears to be. We’re living Christmas Eve in London, 1879 exactly as I lived it. Well, as William lived it. With the addition of you.” He gestured his glass in Buffy’s direction, sloshing a little.

“So what should we do? Just keep pretending?”

“Don’t see as we’ve got much choice. For all we know, we really are back in time. Outing ourselves as a slayer and a vampire wouldn’t accomplish anything. We’d likely get tossed into the loony bin, as well as upsetting everyone here.” Spike swirled the whiskey around in his glass, looking thoughtful. “At least until we know what’s going on, we’d best play along.”

“So, if I’m going to be playing along, can you give me a preview?”

“What?” He pulled his eyes from his whiskey and tilted his head toward her.

“Can you tell me what’s going to happen tonight – since you already lived it and all.”

“Ah, yeah.” Spike stroked his chin. “We’ll have dinner and then Mum will unveil the Christmas tree. We’ll exchange gifts.” He thought for a moment. “Before she became ill, we would have gone to Christmas Eve service at the local Parish church. But by ’79 she’d been ill for some time and we hadn’t been to church for years.”

Tap, tap, tap.

A hammering sound came from the hall, but it was soft, almost surreptitious. Spike’s brows knit together and he slid out from behind his desk. He walked to the library door, then pulled it open to reveal, Jenny – standing on a step stool, completely blocking the doorway.

“Oh, excuse me, sir.” Jenny fluttered her hands at him. Considering she carried a hammer in one, it was a far more threatening gesture than she'd likely intended.

“May I assist you?” Spike’s voice had immediately lost its edge and had returned to the more cultured William version.

“Oh, no. I’m quite fine. I was just finishing decorating the house, sir.”

Buffy looked up to see a sprig of leaves hanging just above the door. They were tied with a bright red ribbon and hung down about six inches. They would be quite difficult to miss when walking in or out of the room.

“It’s mistletoe, miss.” Jenny grinned at Buffy and wobbled a bit on the stool. She grasped the door frame for support. “If they don’t have mistletoe in America, perhaps Mr. Pratt could explain it to you. It’s a lovely tradition.” When neither Spike nor Buffy said anything, Jenny’s smile broadened. “Just lovely.”

“Well … that's …” Spike swallowed. “Thank you, Jenny.” He closed the door firmly behind him, then leaned against it, as barricading the door against his maid. He looked more uncomfortable than she could recall ever seeing him.

“Whatever the reason we've been sent back here, we'd better sort it out bloody fast.” He strode to his desk where he poured another glass of whiskey, emptying the bottle.