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.
[Reviews - 3]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | 
Chapter or Story
Has been viewed 1531 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story - Text Size +
Author's Chapter Notes:
Beta'ed by All4Spike. The whole thing is, actually! And it will run once a week until just after Christmas. It's just over 37K words. Sorry about having to start Christmas so early, but it got a little longer than I'd anticipated. Cool announcements coming next chapter!