A fic for the season
"Holiday fic" be buggered, as Spike would say - this is a Christmas story, written last year for noel_of_spike, a comm which is running again this year, with some fabulous stories already - hie thee there to see for thyself if thou hasn't heard of it!
Anyway, archaic language pushed to one side, here's the story - set during the festive season of S6, when nothing much felt very festive or joyful to anyone.
Title: A Sodding Christmas
Author: Gillo
Pairing: Spike, Dawn, Buffy - Spuffy implied
Rating: Very much G
Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. He said we could play with his toybox, though, and Christmas is for sharing.
Summary: S6, set between
Wrecked and Gone. Christmas in Revello Drive isn't looking very promising this year. So Dawn enlists some help.
Spike was becoming used to the sound of stylish yet affordable boots crunching along the gravel to his crypt. The somewhat surprising developments of late had meant some interesting visits from the Slayer, and some even more interesting activities ensuing. He slouched back into his chair, eyes narrowing in amusement. Come for a little extra benefit had she?
He braced himself for the inevitable crash as the door slammed open.
After a moment or two he shifted his posture, hooking one knee over the arm of his chair, which just happened to point his crotch toward the door. She might as well get a view of what she was coming for. He waited for the noise, the violence, the snark. And waited. And waited some more.
Only vampire hearing would have caught the gentle tap on the door. What the? Not the Slayer’s style at all. Who the hell would knock on the door of a crypt in broad daylight? Anyone fool enough to think there was likely to be someone inside would also know about daylight “allergies” wouldn’t they? He listened more closely.
One foot dancing to another. Anxious breathing pattern. Someone was anxious. So they should be anyway. Big Bad here, remember?
The hinge creaked as the door moved tentatively open. Definitely not Her style.
“Spike? You there?”
He relaxed - Summers woman, yes, but the Bit, not the sister.
“What you doing here, Niblet? Big Sis won’t be so happy about you visiting the cellar-dweller. Anyway, shouldn’t you be decking the festive halls or some such?
Dawn scowled. “That’s the point. Nobody’s doing anything festive. Buffy says we can’t afford Christmas this year, Willow’s Jewish and Tara says the Solstice was her big day. So there’s nothing going on at all.”
He looked her over, attentively, “That the real problem? Nobody making with the eggnog at your place? No mountains of expensive goodies waiting under the tree for you?”
She scowled even more fiercely. “No. But it’s not that. Not really. It’s just so different from last year. And it feels wrong and it can’t ever be right again.” There was just the faintest hint of a sniff there.
Spike’s eyes became gentle, his expression softened. “Missing your Mum, pet? Stands to reason. No need to mope, though.”
If Dawn had been even two years younger, she would have stamped her foot. “There’s every need to mope! Yes, I miss Mom. I miss the holidays too. I’m a kid. Everyone keeps telling me so. So why shouldn’t I want a proper holiday?”
Now was not the time to point out that she was contradicting herself. “Got a good point there, luv. But why tell me? Vampires are not so big on the religious festivals, you know. Can't exactly go helping with the annual spendfest.”
She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I kinda was hoping you could help me out, somehow. At least with the baking and candy canes and eggnog and stuff.”
He opened his eyes. “Those are exactly the things I don’t have a clue about. Haven’t celebrated Christmas for well over a century.” Well, he had - gotta twist the truth a little for the hearer. There'd been delicious children, gift-wrapped for Dru, with cute big bows in their hair. Or that time they'd all posed as carol singers, invited in for mulled wine and quite a different feast from what the hosts had offered. Angelus torturing that kid and Dru leaping on the doll she carried in delight, even as the brat’s screams reached descant level. Happy times. He shook his head. Really not memories to share with the little Bit.
“Well you must have some traditional stuff you can do, surely.” There was the beginning of a pout there, made her look a lot more like her sister.
“Traditional stuff? I was born a Victorian, pet. We pretty much invented Christmas traditions.”
“What like?” Dawn’s eager little face affected him more than it should. He really did need to work harder on the whole Evil Creature of the Night thing or he’d be the laughing stock of Sunnyhell demonhood. But just this once…
“Sit down. Let me tell you what Christmas was like when I was your age. See if any of it makes sense.”
Obediently, Dawn curled up next to him. She’d done that so often the summer before; it still felt wholly natural and right, somehow. Resting her head on his shoulder, she spoke in a subdued tone, “Tell me, then.”
“I must have been even younger - ten, twelve, something like that. My father was still around then, and the big treat that year wasn’t a panto, but a trip to see Mr Dickens read.”
She interrupted, big eyes staring at him, “The Dickens? The one who wrote all those books we have to read for extra credit? You saw him?”
“Well, he didn’t die till I was eighteen, you know. Nothing so surprising there. He used to do these huge tours, reading chunks from all his books. We went on Boxing Day that year,” he sighed, enjoying the memories he’d thought buried even longer than his life had been.
“Boxing Day?” Dawn furrowed her brow. Spike could see the exasperated question hovering on her lips: Why couldn’t Brits speak normal American?
“Day after Christmas, luv. We used to give the servants and tradesmen their Christmas boxes - cash for the men, pieces of stuff for the girls to make dresses out of - that sort of thing.”
“Sounds very sexist to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We were Victorian. If anyone had explained what that meant we’d have agreed and been proud of it. Women were expected to know their place back in those days. Look, do you want to hear or not?”
Dawn nodded.
“So, we gave out the boxes and dressed up to the nines - me in a little suit with a stiff collar, my parents glorious in evening dress. And we went out - took a cab to the hall, had the best seats. And that bloke - he really knew how to read. He did his Scrooge story mainly, and, do you know, there were people crying? Laughing too, but the sentimental old bastard always did know how to pull on the emotional strings. He made up a lot of what we took for granted even by then - the tree, the presents, even the sodding turkey owed a lot to him.”
Spike stretched, luxuriating in nostalgia. “They even let me have a glass of port when we got home. Lovely, blood-red stuff it was.” He smacked his lips absent-mindedly, then stopped at Dawn’s expression of disgust. What’s your problem, pet? The alcohol or the blood?”
“Both. Just eeeuw.”
“Vampire here. Remember?”
“Yes, but. Ugh.”
It was time to change the subject. “So, wanna do something for Christmas after all?”
“Like what?” She was suspicious, but there was a hopefulness in her expression too. He couldn’t resist that look.
“I’m not messing with baking, mind. Or sodding candy canes. But I know a British shop in the mall. What say we go there and get the real essentials?”
**********
And thus it was that Buffy, dragging herself downstairs on a day that ought to be special, but was just one more grey, bleary period to get through, stopped and stared on Christmas morning. The night before there had been total treelessness about the house. Nothing shiny, no sparkly lights. And now?
A lopsided pine, shorter than Buffy by a long way, stood on the small table. Chains made out of coloured paper festooned it, and there were tiny, real, bright red candles attached to the branches. Below, wrapped in brown paper tied with ribbon, were some intriguing shapes. Next to it sat a tray, carrying a plate of strange pastries - was that meatloaf in the centre? There was a peculiar, misshapen pie and a dish of dark, almost-black, oval lumps, scented with vinegar. More pastries, miniature pies, were dusted in white - sugar?
Buffy blinked. What was this? “Dawn!” she began to call. But as she turned, she saw, sprawling on the soft chair as if he belonged there, her nemesis, her addiction, her personal vampire. Perched on the bright hair, a crude, bright paper crown. Curled on his lap, her sister, also in a silly hat.
She began to sigh. More mess. But despite her best intentions, a tiny smile pulled at her lips. They looked so silly in those hats.
“Merry Christmas, Buffy!” Dawn pulled herself to her feet, hugged her sister and began gabbling, incomprehensibly, of crackers and pork pies and pickled walnuts and mincemeat. Spike lolled, eyeing her up and down, a smirk on his face that was very nearly a smile of joy.
And suddenly, the day wasn’t quite so bad after all. There was so much wrong with her life but this - just for a moment she felt loved, cared for - and, even if it was unlikely to last for long, she relaxed.
Anyway, archaic language pushed to one side, here's the story - set during the festive season of S6, when nothing much felt very festive or joyful to anyone.
Title: A Sodding Christmas
Author: Gillo
Pairing: Spike, Dawn, Buffy - Spuffy implied
Rating: Very much G
Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. He said we could play with his toybox, though, and Christmas is for sharing.
Summary: S6, set between
Wrecked and Gone. Christmas in Revello Drive isn't looking very promising this year. So Dawn enlists some help.
Spike was becoming used to the sound of stylish yet affordable boots crunching along the gravel to his crypt. The somewhat surprising developments of late had meant some interesting visits from the Slayer, and some even more interesting activities ensuing. He slouched back into his chair, eyes narrowing in amusement. Come for a little extra benefit had she?
He braced himself for the inevitable crash as the door slammed open.
After a moment or two he shifted his posture, hooking one knee over the arm of his chair, which just happened to point his crotch toward the door. She might as well get a view of what she was coming for. He waited for the noise, the violence, the snark. And waited. And waited some more.
Only vampire hearing would have caught the gentle tap on the door. What the? Not the Slayer’s style at all. Who the hell would knock on the door of a crypt in broad daylight? Anyone fool enough to think there was likely to be someone inside would also know about daylight “allergies” wouldn’t they? He listened more closely.
One foot dancing to another. Anxious breathing pattern. Someone was anxious. So they should be anyway. Big Bad here, remember?
The hinge creaked as the door moved tentatively open. Definitely not Her style.
“Spike? You there?”
He relaxed - Summers woman, yes, but the Bit, not the sister.
“What you doing here, Niblet? Big Sis won’t be so happy about you visiting the cellar-dweller. Anyway, shouldn’t you be decking the festive halls or some such?
Dawn scowled. “That’s the point. Nobody’s doing anything festive. Buffy says we can’t afford Christmas this year, Willow’s Jewish and Tara says the Solstice was her big day. So there’s nothing going on at all.”
He looked her over, attentively, “That the real problem? Nobody making with the eggnog at your place? No mountains of expensive goodies waiting under the tree for you?”
She scowled even more fiercely. “No. But it’s not that. Not really. It’s just so different from last year. And it feels wrong and it can’t ever be right again.” There was just the faintest hint of a sniff there.
Spike’s eyes became gentle, his expression softened. “Missing your Mum, pet? Stands to reason. No need to mope, though.”
If Dawn had been even two years younger, she would have stamped her foot. “There’s every need to mope! Yes, I miss Mom. I miss the holidays too. I’m a kid. Everyone keeps telling me so. So why shouldn’t I want a proper holiday?”
Now was not the time to point out that she was contradicting herself. “Got a good point there, luv. But why tell me? Vampires are not so big on the religious festivals, you know. Can't exactly go helping with the annual spendfest.”
She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I kinda was hoping you could help me out, somehow. At least with the baking and candy canes and eggnog and stuff.”
He opened his eyes. “Those are exactly the things I don’t have a clue about. Haven’t celebrated Christmas for well over a century.” Well, he had - gotta twist the truth a little for the hearer. There'd been delicious children, gift-wrapped for Dru, with cute big bows in their hair. Or that time they'd all posed as carol singers, invited in for mulled wine and quite a different feast from what the hosts had offered. Angelus torturing that kid and Dru leaping on the doll she carried in delight, even as the brat’s screams reached descant level. Happy times. He shook his head. Really not memories to share with the little Bit.
“Well you must have some traditional stuff you can do, surely.” There was the beginning of a pout there, made her look a lot more like her sister.
“Traditional stuff? I was born a Victorian, pet. We pretty much invented Christmas traditions.”
“What like?” Dawn’s eager little face affected him more than it should. He really did need to work harder on the whole Evil Creature of the Night thing or he’d be the laughing stock of Sunnyhell demonhood. But just this once…
“Sit down. Let me tell you what Christmas was like when I was your age. See if any of it makes sense.”
Obediently, Dawn curled up next to him. She’d done that so often the summer before; it still felt wholly natural and right, somehow. Resting her head on his shoulder, she spoke in a subdued tone, “Tell me, then.”
“I must have been even younger - ten, twelve, something like that. My father was still around then, and the big treat that year wasn’t a panto, but a trip to see Mr Dickens read.”
She interrupted, big eyes staring at him, “The Dickens? The one who wrote all those books we have to read for extra credit? You saw him?”
“Well, he didn’t die till I was eighteen, you know. Nothing so surprising there. He used to do these huge tours, reading chunks from all his books. We went on Boxing Day that year,” he sighed, enjoying the memories he’d thought buried even longer than his life had been.
“Boxing Day?” Dawn furrowed her brow. Spike could see the exasperated question hovering on her lips: Why couldn’t Brits speak normal American?
“Day after Christmas, luv. We used to give the servants and tradesmen their Christmas boxes - cash for the men, pieces of stuff for the girls to make dresses out of - that sort of thing.”
“Sounds very sexist to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We were Victorian. If anyone had explained what that meant we’d have agreed and been proud of it. Women were expected to know their place back in those days. Look, do you want to hear or not?”
Dawn nodded.
“So, we gave out the boxes and dressed up to the nines - me in a little suit with a stiff collar, my parents glorious in evening dress. And we went out - took a cab to the hall, had the best seats. And that bloke - he really knew how to read. He did his Scrooge story mainly, and, do you know, there were people crying? Laughing too, but the sentimental old bastard always did know how to pull on the emotional strings. He made up a lot of what we took for granted even by then - the tree, the presents, even the sodding turkey owed a lot to him.”
Spike stretched, luxuriating in nostalgia. “They even let me have a glass of port when we got home. Lovely, blood-red stuff it was.” He smacked his lips absent-mindedly, then stopped at Dawn’s expression of disgust. What’s your problem, pet? The alcohol or the blood?”
“Both. Just eeeuw.”
“Vampire here. Remember?”
“Yes, but. Ugh.”
It was time to change the subject. “So, wanna do something for Christmas after all?”
“Like what?” She was suspicious, but there was a hopefulness in her expression too. He couldn’t resist that look.
“I’m not messing with baking, mind. Or sodding candy canes. But I know a British shop in the mall. What say we go there and get the real essentials?”
**********
And thus it was that Buffy, dragging herself downstairs on a day that ought to be special, but was just one more grey, bleary period to get through, stopped and stared on Christmas morning. The night before there had been total treelessness about the house. Nothing shiny, no sparkly lights. And now?
A lopsided pine, shorter than Buffy by a long way, stood on the small table. Chains made out of coloured paper festooned it, and there were tiny, real, bright red candles attached to the branches. Below, wrapped in brown paper tied with ribbon, were some intriguing shapes. Next to it sat a tray, carrying a plate of strange pastries - was that meatloaf in the centre? There was a peculiar, misshapen pie and a dish of dark, almost-black, oval lumps, scented with vinegar. More pastries, miniature pies, were dusted in white - sugar?
Buffy blinked. What was this? “Dawn!” she began to call. But as she turned, she saw, sprawling on the soft chair as if he belonged there, her nemesis, her addiction, her personal vampire. Perched on the bright hair, a crude, bright paper crown. Curled on his lap, her sister, also in a silly hat.
She began to sigh. More mess. But despite her best intentions, a tiny smile pulled at her lips. They looked so silly in those hats.
“Merry Christmas, Buffy!” Dawn pulled herself to her feet, hugged her sister and began gabbling, incomprehensibly, of crackers and pork pies and pickled walnuts and mincemeat. Spike lolled, eyeing her up and down, a smirk on his face that was very nearly a smile of joy.
And suddenly, the day wasn’t quite so bad after all. There was so much wrong with her life but this - just for a moment she felt loved, cared for - and, even if it was unlikely to last for long, she relaxed.