Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt, Parts 1-4.
Title: Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
Author: fenderlove
Pairing: In these sections, Spike/Drusilla.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: When you live as long as Spike, you've had a variety of holiday-related experiences. Here are twelve glimpses into some Christmases in the life and unlife of our favourite vampire.
Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
:: Part I, II, III, and IV ::
December 25th, 1853
London, England
William was not in the best of moods. His mother had trapped him, yet again, within the confines of several blankets. He weakly squirmed and whimpered until he had kicked himself free of the infernal swaddling. He made a happy squeal of triumph when he finally could freely move his arms and legs about, even if he could do little more than that at three months old.
Anne attempted to tuck the blankets around her son again, but he fussed, letting her know that he was having none of it.
Shaking her head good-naturedly, Anne smiled, "Silly thing, you're going to get cold."
"It's warm enough to roast a goose on the floorboards, my darling," Phineas spoke as he played the first few measures of Once in Royal David's City on the pianoforte, "I think the boy is safe for a little while outside of that cocoon you've concocted for him."
Anne ignored her husband's comment, though allowing her son to remain unbundled, and returned to her preparations for the new year, threading tiny blue ribbons through her visiting-cards so that she could attach William's new cards to hers. She was replacing the original handwritten cards with engraved ones. It was a bit of an extravagance, but she wanted to show how very proud she was of her little son.
Going over to the cradle, Phineas lifted William up and held him against his chest. The baby waved a chubby hand towards some of the glass decorations on the mantlepiece glinting in the firelight.
"What do you see, Will?" Phineas asked, letting his hand stroke the wisps of fine curls on top of the baby's head.
William opened and closed his hands slowly, reaching towards the red baubles and silver ornaments nestled in the garlands. His brow furrowed slightly when his father kept him far enough away from the candles and breakables so that he couldn't grasp anything.
Setting aside her work for the moment, Anne went to her husband's side, kissing his cheek and then William's, "Everything looks lovely. The colours just come alive in this light."
Phineas smiled brightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a very handsome fashion, "I do believe this is my favourite time of year, my treasure."
"Next Christmas, perhaps we can throw our own party," Anne suggested, wrapping her arms around Phineas's shoulders.
"Annie," Phineas sighed, "let's just hope our finances hold past Boxing Day."
Anne gave his arm a pinch playfully, "You'll get a new position, I'm sure of it. There have to be many schools looking for proper professors."
"I certainly hope so, for all of our sakes," Phineas looked down at William, who appeared to be attempting to eat the ribbons on his gown, "Perhaps tutoring and lecturing will out long enough for a more permanent appointment. Let's hope that happens before your family withholds its generosity."
Taking the baby into her arms and kissing his little nose, Anne leaned her head onto her husband's shoulder, "They wouldn't be that cruel, darling, not with William here."
Phineas stifled a laugh, "I suppose not... though I don't believe they will ever forgive me for stealing you away from that Viscount or whatever he was."
"He was a Baron, and you didn't steal me from him. My father was just under the delusion that Varleigh would ever consider marrying a banker's daughter," Anne countered, "Besides, I always considered that my father's great ire for you stemmed from you perferring to pursue a career in academics over accepting a position through his firm."
"Alas, my head strays to the written word and fictional realms so much that I really do regret that I have no talent with figures," Phineas replied as he jangled a little silver bell from the garland over William's head.
The baby giggled and reached up, his tiny fingertips touching the bell.
"Dear, I think you have a wonderful talent with figures," Anne raised one eyebrow slightly, her head tilted.
Phineas pretended to look scandalized, gasping, "Such talk! And in front of William too! It's shameful."
She grinned, "It truly is a pity that I don't feel ashamed."
While his parents engaged in their repartee, William poked at the silver bell, frustrated that it would not make any more noise.
"It seems that our William is getting fussy," Anne jogged her son a little in her arms.
Phineas rang the bell a few more times for the baby's amusement, "Poor chap, you're just not used to so much excitement." To Anne, he said with all the amazement of a new parent, "Imagine next Christmas, my love. He'll be talking, maybe even walking."
"Is it horrid of me to want to keep him small forever?" Anne looked down at her precious bundle who was staring up at her with his big blue eyes as he decidedly sucked on his own fist.
"Yes," came the rather amused reply of her husband.
Anne pouted for a moment before giving Phineas a rather deep kiss. He cupped her face as he returned the kiss in kind. As he stopped for a breath, Phineas let one of his thumbs trace over the high plane of her cheek, feeling her lean into the touch. William, rather bored when his parents had turned their attention elsewhere, yawned.
"Someone's ready for bedtime," Anne smiled, placing her small son against her shoulder and patting his back.
Phineas nodded, "Probably a good idea for all of us." As they ascended the staircase to the nursery, he spoke thoughtfully, "You know, I really think this has been my best Christmas."
********
December 25th, 1865
London, England
It was around midday, and William still wasn't dressed for dinner. He fiddled with his tie and, finding it an impossibility, threw it back onto his dresser. His fingers just could not make the material do what he wanted. His father had always been the one to help him, but things were so different now.
William had to swallow a large lump in his throat as he thought about how dreary and quiet the downstairs would be. The decorations remained stored away, no music came from the piano that was now gathering dust, and even the candlelight seemed diminished. There were no parties held or attended. However, none of that mattered in comparison to the absence of the person who enjoyed the season most. William missed his father.
Stoically, the boy tried persevere all these months, tried to be brave, but all he saw in the mirror was a frail-looking, awkward child, not the strong, handsome man his father had been. Even on his deathbed, coughing until his whole body shook, Phineas seemed as though he could still take on the world, trying to smile and laugh through it. In his illness, William saw his father as a knight, battling a powerful dragon. Unlike a fairytale, the dragon won, and the knight was gone, leaving a wife without her husband and a son without his father.
William's bottom lip trembled though he tried to force the tears back. He had cried so much in grief for his father, and yet watching how his mother suffered in her loss was even more heart-wrenching. She couldn't eat as everything made her stomach turn, and what she could keep down didn't sustain her very well. William had hoped that they could get through a Christmas dinner, a little sad though the table dressings and fare might be.
The bell rang at the door, and William stopped just as he was about to give his tie another go. He went to out of his room to the stairs and tried to peer down to see who was calling. They had sent no invitations to dinner nor had they received any cards. He heard a loud female voice speaking with some authority though he could not make out what she was saying. Taking a few more steps down, William watched as his Aunt Charlotte, his father's elder sister, swept into the front hall in her great coat. Kirke, the Pratts' housekeeper, followed behind her, seeming flustered.
Charlotte was a fierce-looking woman with a pointed nose, pointed glare, and a pointed manner of speech. Everything about her was prickly. She might have been pretty had she not had the appearance of wanting to wring the neck of anyone who came near her. She stood in the hallway, yanking off her gloves and shoving them in her pocket.
"Where is she?" Charlotte demanded of Kirke.
She was spoken in a tone as though the word was bitter on her tongue.
The girl stammered, "Mrs. Pratt is not well, ma'am. She still suffers-"
"It's a wonder she doesn't have the whole house festooned like a funeral, all black and dun crepe. My brother, poor soul that he was, has been in the ground nearly eight months," Charlotte never lowered herself to turn her head towards anyone; she merely held her head up and stared down the bridge of her nose. "When my first husband died, I mourned for a few weeks, and I dare say that by the second marriage, I found it sufficient to mourn less than twelve hours."
"Good Lord..." Kirke was noticeably shaken by such a speech and even more so when Charlotte shrugged off her coat revealing that she was wearing a man's jacket and flannel trousers underneath and that the apparent bustle was really attached to the coat.
William stared intently at his aunt, as he'd never seen a woman wear men's attire before nor behave in such a brazen manner. As Charlotte threw open the heavy damask curtains to the parlor, William heard his mother and aunt begin to speak loudly, and he crept down to the landing. William had had very few interactions with his aunt. She was intimidating and generally spoke to no one at their family gatherings save her current husband or one of her horrible daughters.
Kirke rung the edge of her apron as she heard Mrs. Pratt's voice demand that Charlotte leave. William felt a pair of hands on his shoulders. The hands belonged to Mrs. Gardiner, their cook, who was a stern, no-nonsense matronly woman.
"Young sir, you should get back upstairs," she said as she too made her way into the parlor.
William, however, did not move. He felt as though he should do something, but he could not bring his feet to budge.
"Get out of my house!" Anne shouted, her voice was weak and sounded tearful.
Charlotte retorted, "Pick yourself up off the sofa and stop your sniveling."
"The Missus has asked you to leave, and I suggest you do before I throw you out on your ear," Mrs. Gardiner spat angrily.
"Do you want to watch yourself die in a crumpled heap, you stupid girl?" Charlotte's voice took on a shrill pitch. "What about your boy? Who will look after him? If I know anything, I am certain that you and Phineas filled his head with daydreams and flowery sonnets. He won't survive long in this world. I suggest for his sake and your own that you get up and stop acting like a fool."
William could not tolerate anymore. His small fists were clenched as he stormed into the parlor before Kirke could try to stop him.
"Leave my mother alone! How can you be so unfeeling? He was your brother! Don't you care that he's gone?" William didn't realize he was crying openly until he began to speak.
Anne looked up at her son before getting up and going to him. She knelt down and drew him into her arms. Charlotte stared at the sobbing boy for a moment, and then a small, sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, a strange expression for someone so stern in appearance. She reached out and brushed William's curls away from his forehead. Her touch was somewhat stiff and uncomfortable.
"Dear boy, of course, I care," Charlotte said softly yet seriously, "but you can't stop living because someone you love has."
William sniffled pitifully, but seemed to be mulling over her words. Anne pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed it gently over his cheeks to dry up the tears as he calmed down.
"He's just like Phineas," Charlotte mused, "a perfect miniature."
Anne brightened at that, "Funny, Phineas always said William took after me in appearance."
"I didn't mean appearance, but rather personality," Charlotte responded and then continued, "The boy's got spirit, passion, just like my brother. You, however, are a milksop."
"Leave," Anne glared up at the other woman.
Without another word, Charlotte returned to the front hall, fastened up her great bustled coat, and left with the same tenacity in which she had entered.
Anne sighed, feeling some of the tension from the unexpected visit dissipate. William held onto her waist as she stood, clinging to her a little more than a boy of twelve probably should have.
"Well, that was unpleasant," Mrs. Gardiner spoke. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"I'm fine," Anne leaned down to kiss William's forehead, "I'm feeling a bit peckish though. Is dinner ready?"
"Yes, ma'am, I'll get Kirke to set up the table," Mrs. Gardiner left the parlor to return to more pleasant duties.
Anne took William's hands in hers. He was a bit small for his age, but she didn't worry about that too much since both she and her husband had been on the petite side of the scale. However, with his hair mussed and his eyes teary, he could have passed for a child several years younger than he was.
"William, are you hungry?" Anne asked, fixing the boy's shirt collar where he had mangled it trying to get his tie straight.
"No," he replied quietly.
"Well, how about just some hot chocolate, hm?" Anne let her son remain hugged tightly to her as they went into the dining room. "I think we still have some of that guimauve that we can put on top. You said you really liked how it frothed up in the chocolate."
William nodded, looking longingly at the table. He felt as though he and his mother had both avoided the room, seeing Phineas's chair empty at the head of the table as a constant reminder that he was no longer with them.
"Why don't you sit here?" Anne placed her hand on what had been her husband's chair, but when William seemed uncomfortable with the idea, she took her son's chair and placed it at the head of the table as well while she took to Phineas's.
William sat down, leaning his forehead against his mother's shoulder. Anne tried to smile and attempted to eat a little of the food that Mrs. Gardiner had so painstakingly prepared, and William did the same. It didn't feel right, but they owed it to Phineas to at least make the effort.
"Next year it will be better," she promised, "We'll decorate the house just the way we used to."
Sipping at his hot chocolate, William still seemed a little crestfallen, "Will you sing next year?"
Wiping a little of the chocolate and guimauve fluff from her son's nose, Anne nodded, "I will sing this year, if you want."
That seemed to perk William up somewhat, "Really?"
"But you have to sing with me."
Anne couldn't help but laugh at the rather reluctant face William made. She resolved to at least make things more pleasant for her child, petting her son's hair, trying not to be so sad in front of him. She had to believe that managing her grief would get easier with time, and she counted her blessings that she had her sweet William still with her.
********
December 24th, 1880
Loxley, Sheffield, England
Vampires did not "do" Christmas, as it turned out. Well, not in any type of tradition sense at any rate. As far as Willliam, or Spike as he preferred to be called now, could tell, being a vampire towards the end of the year revolved around finding large holiday gatherings for hunting, committing all manners of sacrilege and blasphemy during holy services, and generally spattering the traditional holly greens with a splattering of fresh, hot, delicious red.
Perhaps it is the overindulgence that lends itself to the season that led the small faction of the Order of Aurelius to make their presence a little too known in northwestern corners of Yorkshire. They had taken refuge in mining tunnels along the Western Riding, taking a southernly route to Sheffield where the news of their vampiric carnage would have been lesser known.
Being a vampire had been more than Spike could have ever dreamt of, save some unpleasantness in the beginning, memories of which he shoved into the furtherest corners of his mind to hopefully never dwell upon ever again. As an otherworldly creature, one never had to worry if the cashbox was empty or if one's wardrobe was a bit shabby. Need a new pair of trousers or a new dinner jacket? Find the right size and liberate the garments from their owner while getting a fine meal and whatever money was left behind at the same time. It was all so convenient.
Had their familial hunting methods been left to Spike, he would have greatly preferred to take to the streets, the pubs, and the bawdier and more ribald theatres with Drusilla. However, where ever they had planted temporary roots, Madame and Angelus insisted on hunting amongst society, making themselves appear to be the height of elegance and mystery before gorging on the wealthiest lot. The poet Spike had been in his human life might have ventured to draw some conclusions about his elders and their conspicuous and literal consumption of wealth, but he dared not voice any of them lest he spend a fortnight locked in a steamer trunk somewhere in a back bedroom.
It so happened on the Christmas Eve that the vampiric foursome arrived in the Sheffield area that a ball was being held at one of the large manor houses at Loxley. The whole of the land was damp and soggy, and the smell of the mines permeated the air, but the manors looked warm and inviting enough for their purposes. After a quick stop for a change of clothes and a bit of refreshment at a home in which the wealthy residents had already departed (thanks in no small part to the servants being so accommodating), they made their way to the largest manor in the area, the walkway lit by a dazzling amount of lanterns.
In such a large gathering, even in an isolated community, four strangers would not immediately garner attention, especially during the end of the year when relatives might be on holiday in the area. The din of the guests and the music within the home was almost overpowering to Spike's vampiric hearing, but it was warm and dry, which was much preferable to any mineshaft.
Quickly separating from the overbearing gaze of his grandsires, Spike had found the spread on the banquet table to be quite tempting. He took his fill of pudding, roast pork, succulent potatoes, ginger beer, and treacle, reveling in never truly feeling full while eating human food. He tried to persuade Drusilla to taste a few of the pastries, but she was more interested in pricking her fingers on the sharp edges of a holly leaf that she had plucked from a wreath on the wall.
"What in the hell are you doing, boy?" Angelus demanded in a hushed voice as he jerked hard on Spike's elbow. "Would you eat from the trough with the fatlings?"
"But it's really tasty," Spike replied with a mouth full of pikelet and jam.
Angelus rolled his eyes and, taking Spike's chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned the fledgling vampire's face towards the crowd of humans drinking, gossiping, and dancing.
"You're a vampire, you little idiot. Look around you. There are far more delicious morsels all about, so leave the feed for the cattle," he spat.
Spike swallowed the last of the pikelet and glanced around as he licked the remaining jam from his fingertips. He hated parties. As a child, he had loved it when his parents would show him off to their friends at get-togethers, letting him recite the works of Whitman, Keats, Emerson, and Shelley for the amusement of the adults. When he was older and expected to make his own conversation, however, William had been a spectacular failure on the social scene, endearing himself to no one and despising the vulgarity amongst his peers. Now, there was nothing stopping him from behaving in whatever manner he chose. William was not around anymore, and Spike could be as vulgar or as dashing as he so pleased. It's not as though anyone would be around long enough to think less of him for it.
Once Drusilla had left him to find her own sport, likely the children in attendance, Spike took a turn about the room. He was a little uncomfortable in the suit that he'd been forced into; the waistcoat was on the small side, and the shoes pinched, but he could endure. As he meandered searching for his dessert, a cluster of males laughing jovially drew his attention. At their center was a dazzling creature, divinely light where his beloved Drusilla was dark.
The young woman tapped her closed fan against her full lips in a teasing fashion, quipping to the men about this and that. Her fiery red hair was swept up with one delicate curl spiraling down to grace her shoulder. Her milky white bosom heaved against golden silk. Her carriage and mannerisms were enough to make Spike forget about tarts and custards. This was a far rarer delicacy.
Somehow their eyes met, her green to Spike's blue, and she dismissed her little retinue of followers with all the hauteur of a princess. She walked with a little swing to her hips only accentuated by the style of dress that was the fashion. As she continued by him, Spike wondered if he would have to work a little harder for his meal, but thankfully the woman was only using this as a ruse to "accidentally" brush against him.
"Oh, pardon," she said, smiling in a way that let Spike know that he could have had more than a nibble at her throat if he had a mind to. Pausing, she looked him up and down and asked, "Have we met?"
"No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance," he spoke.
Spike had played this game before, but he was willing to take full advantage of his new found confidence. He could play a part for a little while and live as that character for an hour or two. If he was only play-acting with no real intentions other than retaining a meal, then his flirtations were not an infidelity in any way, and that was something he took comfort in.
"So, Mr. Edgington," as Spike had taken as a moniker for the night, "what brings you to Loxley?" asked the young lady.
"Visiting a few distant relations, I'm afraid," Spike answered as the two finished a dance and took to the gardens just outside the ballroom for some air, though he did not need it in particular. "What about you, Miss Quartremain?"
"The same in point of fact," came her reply as she sat on stone bench beside a rather decrepit-looking Water Elder shrub.
In the light from a nearby lantern on the walkway, Spike could make out actual mistletoe mixed in amongst Miss Quartremain's hair ornaments.
Well, isn't she just a minx? Spike thought to himself as he watched her lean forward to smooth her skirts, though he was fairly certain she was trying to make her bust an even prettier picture for him to admire.
As she bent, the pearls at her throat came away, and she said as she picked them up, "Bless these wretched beads. The clasp must be broken."
"Allow me," Spike took the opportunity to sit beside her on the small bench, pressing his body close to hers, gently taking the necklace from her dainty hands.
Miss Quartremain turned her body away from him to allow him to re-clasp her jewelry. He brought the necklace up, letting the little pearls run sensually over the tops of her breasts. She gasped as he brushed her hair away from her neck, caressing her skin. Tenderly, he placed a tiny kiss to the juncture where her elegant throat met her shoulder before letting his vampire visage rise to the surface. Before his fangs could sink into warm flesh, however, a glint of light in the corner of his eye startled him.
The lady was holding up her closed fan, a tiny mirror affixed to one of the outer ribs, and while Spike could not see his own reflection in the polished surface, he caught sight of the wicked gleam in Miss Quartremain's eye.
"Thought so," she grinned.
Completely taken aback, Spike barely had time to move out of the way as the young lady spun with a wooden stake in her gloved hand, aiming straight towards his heart. He tumbled to the stone walkway and ran. How could such a woman know what his intentions were let alone that he was a vampire? Scrambling between wilting hedgerows, Spike did not have time to think as he heard the fast approach of clinking heels.
Bracing his back against a post, Spike reached for one of the lanterns, which burned his fingers as he grasped the hot metal casing. As Miss Quartremain made her way around a corner with her stake raised again, he threw the lantern at her. He had hoped it might catch her dress a-flame, but it did nothing but splash lamp oil all over her as the wick died out upon impact. It was enough of a distraction for Spike to run back towards the house. Surely, this woman would not pursue him into a crowded manor with a weapon drawn.
As Spike neared the garden doors, something went sailing by his ear. He turned to see that Miss Quartremain had taken his idea and had hurled a lantern at him and was about to lob another. While a human body is fragile, it is not quite as combustible as a vampire's body as Spike had learned from Angelus's numerous lectures. Thinking quickly, Spike snatched the second lantern out of the air before it could do him any damage. The oil within was still lit, and he began backing up to the garden doors while his eyes never left his potential assassin. Spike held the lamp aloft, making motions as though he would throw it back at her, and when the lady flinched, he smashed into the curtains around the entryway, hoping that the flame would take.
It did, and panic erupted amongst the party guests as fire leapt up the walls, swallowing up paintings and tapestries. Sprinting through the rush of excited human bodies, Spike found Drusilla and yanked her away, hoping to find another exit without being crushed into powder or burned to a cinder. Somewhere in the confusion, Angelus and Darla found the pair, and they managed to make an escape through a window before the entire manor house went up in flames.
Angelus had the leather strap he kept in his pocket out before Spike could even begin to explain what had happened. He forced the fledge along by the scruff of his neck, whipping the strap against the boy's thighs and backside as the foursome made their way back towards the safety of the mining tunnels.
"She- OW! She knew I was a vampire, Angelus!" Spike attempted to plead as he twisted about trying to avoid the blows, "How did she know? Ow! Stop hitting me!"
The young vampire still had so much to learn, and perhaps Angelus had been a little remiss in teaching him of all the very real dangers to their kind. Well, that would end very shortly, but that could wait until Spike had learned a lesson of a different sort.
********
December 25th, 1907
New York City, New York
Champagne and caviar went perfect with celebrating any event in high fashion. While Spike preferred most baser, humble pleasures, he had to admit that indulging in the fancier side had its allure on occasion, and tonight was one of them.
The previous ten months had been about liberation, new beginnings. After Angelus had disappeared at the turn of the century to parts unknown, Spike and Drusilla had spent the following years toddling after Darla across Asia and then back to Europe. His great-grandsire had a terrible habit of leaving them behind without warning, but they always seemed to find her eventually. It was after being stranded in Bucharest while Darla sought out an "old companion" that Spike realized that he was more than capable to care for himself as well as Drusilla. A trip to the Americas seemed like a perfect way to prove it to anyone who might have questioned that.
A week before Christmas, Spike and Drusilla had stepped off an ocean-liner and into the hustle and bustle of New York City. It was a whirlwind of new sights and sounds, the great melting pot of human beings with poor and rich shoulder-to-shoulder under a blanket of foul air and the shadows of enormous buildings. Immediately Spike knew that this city was the perfect place for a grand adventure of his own making.
There were so many delights to discover- dance halls playing the latest rag-and-blues music from Tin Pan Alley, gambling parlors offering Jamaican ginger mixed with gin, seeing the Follies at the Jardin de Paris, and all the people. The people were a never-ending array of flavors, spiced by virtue and vice alike, and Spike and Drusilla felt as though they were in the embrace of a wonderful dance.
It so happened that the Plaza Hotel had opened its doors after a magnificent remodeling, and Spike decided that it would be a lark to actually pay for lodging, especially in such a fine place. Drusilla clapped her hands when Spike thought of what a fun game it would be to pretend to be a pair of European nobles on their honeymoon. The bellhops and waitstaff were so accommodating to the young couple, and Spike found himself quite magnanimous, handing out tips liberally. He doubted those receiving his generosity would have cared that the cash they pocketed was purloined from the corpses of a vampire's victims. It would have just gone to waste anyway.
For twenty-five dollars a night, Spike and Drusilla enjoyed the luxury of one of the poshest suites in the whole hotel. It also made for a hunting ground of the highest quality. Christmas Eve allowed Spike the opportunity to sneak out to find a decent present for his lady love. Finding the right person was always a chore. Not only did the lady herself have to be aesthetically pleasing, but she needed to be dressed well and the right shape, but Spike didn't mind the effort when it was for his darling Dark Goddess. It so happened that the delectable treat for the evening was an adorable socialite staying on their floor, and she came with the bonus prize of her brother whose clothes were luckily a fit for Spike.
After enjoying their real supper, the pair dressed for the evening with care. Almost three decades of living with two ladies who were fastidious about their appearance, yet never had a maid survive their tempers for very long, had given Spike skills that he never imagined he would learn nor would he admit that he knew about the styling of hair, the lacing of corsets, and the application of cosmetics. Drusilla helped Spike tie his cravat though he had to stop her from making it too tight.
Their reservations for the evening were in the Oak Room, and the couple turned heads as they were shown to their table. Spike felt a glow of pride as he noticed how the gentlemen in the room brimmed over with jealousy. He couldn't blame them. Drusilla was a vision in a creamy satin Parisian gown with teardrop pearls and diamantes. It would have been surprising to Spike, however, if he had realized that quite a few of the men were admiring his appearance as well as he cut quite a handsome figure in his tuxedo, the sea-blue cravat a fine match for his eyes.
"A toast, pet," Spike smiled, holding up his glass of champagne as they sat amongst the heavy engraved paneling and thick oaken columns.
Drusilla licked a bit of clotted cream and caviar from a tartlet, "To Father Christmas?"
"Of course," he smiled, letting their glasses clink together.
In truth, Spike had wanted to celebrate being a vampire as long as he had been a human, especially since Angelus and Darla had been so positive that he wouldn't see his first decade, but he didn't have anything to prove to them anymore.
Leaning across the table to kiss her cheek, blocking their audience's view with one of the hotel's engraved menus, Spike whispered, "Happy Christmas."
And it was.
To be continued...
Author: fenderlove
Pairing: In these sections, Spike/Drusilla.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: When you live as long as Spike, you've had a variety of holiday-related experiences. Here are twelve glimpses into some Christmases in the life and unlife of our favourite vampire.
Twelve Christmases in the Life & Unlife of William H. Pratt
:: Part I, II, III, and IV ::
December 25th, 1853
London, England
William was not in the best of moods. His mother had trapped him, yet again, within the confines of several blankets. He weakly squirmed and whimpered until he had kicked himself free of the infernal swaddling. He made a happy squeal of triumph when he finally could freely move his arms and legs about, even if he could do little more than that at three months old.
Anne attempted to tuck the blankets around her son again, but he fussed, letting her know that he was having none of it.
Shaking her head good-naturedly, Anne smiled, "Silly thing, you're going to get cold."
"It's warm enough to roast a goose on the floorboards, my darling," Phineas spoke as he played the first few measures of Once in Royal David's City on the pianoforte, "I think the boy is safe for a little while outside of that cocoon you've concocted for him."
Anne ignored her husband's comment, though allowing her son to remain unbundled, and returned to her preparations for the new year, threading tiny blue ribbons through her visiting-cards so that she could attach William's new cards to hers. She was replacing the original handwritten cards with engraved ones. It was a bit of an extravagance, but she wanted to show how very proud she was of her little son.
Going over to the cradle, Phineas lifted William up and held him against his chest. The baby waved a chubby hand towards some of the glass decorations on the mantlepiece glinting in the firelight.
"What do you see, Will?" Phineas asked, letting his hand stroke the wisps of fine curls on top of the baby's head.
William opened and closed his hands slowly, reaching towards the red baubles and silver ornaments nestled in the garlands. His brow furrowed slightly when his father kept him far enough away from the candles and breakables so that he couldn't grasp anything.
Setting aside her work for the moment, Anne went to her husband's side, kissing his cheek and then William's, "Everything looks lovely. The colours just come alive in this light."
Phineas smiled brightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a very handsome fashion, "I do believe this is my favourite time of year, my treasure."
"Next Christmas, perhaps we can throw our own party," Anne suggested, wrapping her arms around Phineas's shoulders.
"Annie," Phineas sighed, "let's just hope our finances hold past Boxing Day."
Anne gave his arm a pinch playfully, "You'll get a new position, I'm sure of it. There have to be many schools looking for proper professors."
"I certainly hope so, for all of our sakes," Phineas looked down at William, who appeared to be attempting to eat the ribbons on his gown, "Perhaps tutoring and lecturing will out long enough for a more permanent appointment. Let's hope that happens before your family withholds its generosity."
Taking the baby into her arms and kissing his little nose, Anne leaned her head onto her husband's shoulder, "They wouldn't be that cruel, darling, not with William here."
Phineas stifled a laugh, "I suppose not... though I don't believe they will ever forgive me for stealing you away from that Viscount or whatever he was."
"He was a Baron, and you didn't steal me from him. My father was just under the delusion that Varleigh would ever consider marrying a banker's daughter," Anne countered, "Besides, I always considered that my father's great ire for you stemmed from you perferring to pursue a career in academics over accepting a position through his firm."
"Alas, my head strays to the written word and fictional realms so much that I really do regret that I have no talent with figures," Phineas replied as he jangled a little silver bell from the garland over William's head.
The baby giggled and reached up, his tiny fingertips touching the bell.
"Dear, I think you have a wonderful talent with figures," Anne raised one eyebrow slightly, her head tilted.
Phineas pretended to look scandalized, gasping, "Such talk! And in front of William too! It's shameful."
She grinned, "It truly is a pity that I don't feel ashamed."
While his parents engaged in their repartee, William poked at the silver bell, frustrated that it would not make any more noise.
"It seems that our William is getting fussy," Anne jogged her son a little in her arms.
Phineas rang the bell a few more times for the baby's amusement, "Poor chap, you're just not used to so much excitement." To Anne, he said with all the amazement of a new parent, "Imagine next Christmas, my love. He'll be talking, maybe even walking."
"Is it horrid of me to want to keep him small forever?" Anne looked down at her precious bundle who was staring up at her with his big blue eyes as he decidedly sucked on his own fist.
"Yes," came the rather amused reply of her husband.
Anne pouted for a moment before giving Phineas a rather deep kiss. He cupped her face as he returned the kiss in kind. As he stopped for a breath, Phineas let one of his thumbs trace over the high plane of her cheek, feeling her lean into the touch. William, rather bored when his parents had turned their attention elsewhere, yawned.
"Someone's ready for bedtime," Anne smiled, placing her small son against her shoulder and patting his back.
Phineas nodded, "Probably a good idea for all of us." As they ascended the staircase to the nursery, he spoke thoughtfully, "You know, I really think this has been my best Christmas."
********
December 25th, 1865
London, England
It was around midday, and William still wasn't dressed for dinner. He fiddled with his tie and, finding it an impossibility, threw it back onto his dresser. His fingers just could not make the material do what he wanted. His father had always been the one to help him, but things were so different now.
William had to swallow a large lump in his throat as he thought about how dreary and quiet the downstairs would be. The decorations remained stored away, no music came from the piano that was now gathering dust, and even the candlelight seemed diminished. There were no parties held or attended. However, none of that mattered in comparison to the absence of the person who enjoyed the season most. William missed his father.
Stoically, the boy tried persevere all these months, tried to be brave, but all he saw in the mirror was a frail-looking, awkward child, not the strong, handsome man his father had been. Even on his deathbed, coughing until his whole body shook, Phineas seemed as though he could still take on the world, trying to smile and laugh through it. In his illness, William saw his father as a knight, battling a powerful dragon. Unlike a fairytale, the dragon won, and the knight was gone, leaving a wife without her husband and a son without his father.
William's bottom lip trembled though he tried to force the tears back. He had cried so much in grief for his father, and yet watching how his mother suffered in her loss was even more heart-wrenching. She couldn't eat as everything made her stomach turn, and what she could keep down didn't sustain her very well. William had hoped that they could get through a Christmas dinner, a little sad though the table dressings and fare might be.
The bell rang at the door, and William stopped just as he was about to give his tie another go. He went to out of his room to the stairs and tried to peer down to see who was calling. They had sent no invitations to dinner nor had they received any cards. He heard a loud female voice speaking with some authority though he could not make out what she was saying. Taking a few more steps down, William watched as his Aunt Charlotte, his father's elder sister, swept into the front hall in her great coat. Kirke, the Pratts' housekeeper, followed behind her, seeming flustered.
Charlotte was a fierce-looking woman with a pointed nose, pointed glare, and a pointed manner of speech. Everything about her was prickly. She might have been pretty had she not had the appearance of wanting to wring the neck of anyone who came near her. She stood in the hallway, yanking off her gloves and shoving them in her pocket.
"Where is she?" Charlotte demanded of Kirke.
She was spoken in a tone as though the word was bitter on her tongue.
The girl stammered, "Mrs. Pratt is not well, ma'am. She still suffers-"
"It's a wonder she doesn't have the whole house festooned like a funeral, all black and dun crepe. My brother, poor soul that he was, has been in the ground nearly eight months," Charlotte never lowered herself to turn her head towards anyone; she merely held her head up and stared down the bridge of her nose. "When my first husband died, I mourned for a few weeks, and I dare say that by the second marriage, I found it sufficient to mourn less than twelve hours."
"Good Lord..." Kirke was noticeably shaken by such a speech and even more so when Charlotte shrugged off her coat revealing that she was wearing a man's jacket and flannel trousers underneath and that the apparent bustle was really attached to the coat.
William stared intently at his aunt, as he'd never seen a woman wear men's attire before nor behave in such a brazen manner. As Charlotte threw open the heavy damask curtains to the parlor, William heard his mother and aunt begin to speak loudly, and he crept down to the landing. William had had very few interactions with his aunt. She was intimidating and generally spoke to no one at their family gatherings save her current husband or one of her horrible daughters.
Kirke rung the edge of her apron as she heard Mrs. Pratt's voice demand that Charlotte leave. William felt a pair of hands on his shoulders. The hands belonged to Mrs. Gardiner, their cook, who was a stern, no-nonsense matronly woman.
"Young sir, you should get back upstairs," she said as she too made her way into the parlor.
William, however, did not move. He felt as though he should do something, but he could not bring his feet to budge.
"Get out of my house!" Anne shouted, her voice was weak and sounded tearful.
Charlotte retorted, "Pick yourself up off the sofa and stop your sniveling."
"The Missus has asked you to leave, and I suggest you do before I throw you out on your ear," Mrs. Gardiner spat angrily.
"Do you want to watch yourself die in a crumpled heap, you stupid girl?" Charlotte's voice took on a shrill pitch. "What about your boy? Who will look after him? If I know anything, I am certain that you and Phineas filled his head with daydreams and flowery sonnets. He won't survive long in this world. I suggest for his sake and your own that you get up and stop acting like a fool."
William could not tolerate anymore. His small fists were clenched as he stormed into the parlor before Kirke could try to stop him.
"Leave my mother alone! How can you be so unfeeling? He was your brother! Don't you care that he's gone?" William didn't realize he was crying openly until he began to speak.
Anne looked up at her son before getting up and going to him. She knelt down and drew him into her arms. Charlotte stared at the sobbing boy for a moment, and then a small, sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, a strange expression for someone so stern in appearance. She reached out and brushed William's curls away from his forehead. Her touch was somewhat stiff and uncomfortable.
"Dear boy, of course, I care," Charlotte said softly yet seriously, "but you can't stop living because someone you love has."
William sniffled pitifully, but seemed to be mulling over her words. Anne pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed it gently over his cheeks to dry up the tears as he calmed down.
"He's just like Phineas," Charlotte mused, "a perfect miniature."
Anne brightened at that, "Funny, Phineas always said William took after me in appearance."
"I didn't mean appearance, but rather personality," Charlotte responded and then continued, "The boy's got spirit, passion, just like my brother. You, however, are a milksop."
"Leave," Anne glared up at the other woman.
Without another word, Charlotte returned to the front hall, fastened up her great bustled coat, and left with the same tenacity in which she had entered.
Anne sighed, feeling some of the tension from the unexpected visit dissipate. William held onto her waist as she stood, clinging to her a little more than a boy of twelve probably should have.
"Well, that was unpleasant," Mrs. Gardiner spoke. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"I'm fine," Anne leaned down to kiss William's forehead, "I'm feeling a bit peckish though. Is dinner ready?"
"Yes, ma'am, I'll get Kirke to set up the table," Mrs. Gardiner left the parlor to return to more pleasant duties.
Anne took William's hands in hers. He was a bit small for his age, but she didn't worry about that too much since both she and her husband had been on the petite side of the scale. However, with his hair mussed and his eyes teary, he could have passed for a child several years younger than he was.
"William, are you hungry?" Anne asked, fixing the boy's shirt collar where he had mangled it trying to get his tie straight.
"No," he replied quietly.
"Well, how about just some hot chocolate, hm?" Anne let her son remain hugged tightly to her as they went into the dining room. "I think we still have some of that guimauve that we can put on top. You said you really liked how it frothed up in the chocolate."
William nodded, looking longingly at the table. He felt as though he and his mother had both avoided the room, seeing Phineas's chair empty at the head of the table as a constant reminder that he was no longer with them.
"Why don't you sit here?" Anne placed her hand on what had been her husband's chair, but when William seemed uncomfortable with the idea, she took her son's chair and placed it at the head of the table as well while she took to Phineas's.
William sat down, leaning his forehead against his mother's shoulder. Anne tried to smile and attempted to eat a little of the food that Mrs. Gardiner had so painstakingly prepared, and William did the same. It didn't feel right, but they owed it to Phineas to at least make the effort.
"Next year it will be better," she promised, "We'll decorate the house just the way we used to."
Sipping at his hot chocolate, William still seemed a little crestfallen, "Will you sing next year?"
Wiping a little of the chocolate and guimauve fluff from her son's nose, Anne nodded, "I will sing this year, if you want."
That seemed to perk William up somewhat, "Really?"
"But you have to sing with me."
Anne couldn't help but laugh at the rather reluctant face William made. She resolved to at least make things more pleasant for her child, petting her son's hair, trying not to be so sad in front of him. She had to believe that managing her grief would get easier with time, and she counted her blessings that she had her sweet William still with her.
********
December 24th, 1880
Loxley, Sheffield, England
Vampires did not "do" Christmas, as it turned out. Well, not in any type of tradition sense at any rate. As far as Willliam, or Spike as he preferred to be called now, could tell, being a vampire towards the end of the year revolved around finding large holiday gatherings for hunting, committing all manners of sacrilege and blasphemy during holy services, and generally spattering the traditional holly greens with a splattering of fresh, hot, delicious red.
Perhaps it is the overindulgence that lends itself to the season that led the small faction of the Order of Aurelius to make their presence a little too known in northwestern corners of Yorkshire. They had taken refuge in mining tunnels along the Western Riding, taking a southernly route to Sheffield where the news of their vampiric carnage would have been lesser known.
Being a vampire had been more than Spike could have ever dreamt of, save some unpleasantness in the beginning, memories of which he shoved into the furtherest corners of his mind to hopefully never dwell upon ever again. As an otherworldly creature, one never had to worry if the cashbox was empty or if one's wardrobe was a bit shabby. Need a new pair of trousers or a new dinner jacket? Find the right size and liberate the garments from their owner while getting a fine meal and whatever money was left behind at the same time. It was all so convenient.
Had their familial hunting methods been left to Spike, he would have greatly preferred to take to the streets, the pubs, and the bawdier and more ribald theatres with Drusilla. However, where ever they had planted temporary roots, Madame and Angelus insisted on hunting amongst society, making themselves appear to be the height of elegance and mystery before gorging on the wealthiest lot. The poet Spike had been in his human life might have ventured to draw some conclusions about his elders and their conspicuous and literal consumption of wealth, but he dared not voice any of them lest he spend a fortnight locked in a steamer trunk somewhere in a back bedroom.
It so happened on the Christmas Eve that the vampiric foursome arrived in the Sheffield area that a ball was being held at one of the large manor houses at Loxley. The whole of the land was damp and soggy, and the smell of the mines permeated the air, but the manors looked warm and inviting enough for their purposes. After a quick stop for a change of clothes and a bit of refreshment at a home in which the wealthy residents had already departed (thanks in no small part to the servants being so accommodating), they made their way to the largest manor in the area, the walkway lit by a dazzling amount of lanterns.
In such a large gathering, even in an isolated community, four strangers would not immediately garner attention, especially during the end of the year when relatives might be on holiday in the area. The din of the guests and the music within the home was almost overpowering to Spike's vampiric hearing, but it was warm and dry, which was much preferable to any mineshaft.
Quickly separating from the overbearing gaze of his grandsires, Spike had found the spread on the banquet table to be quite tempting. He took his fill of pudding, roast pork, succulent potatoes, ginger beer, and treacle, reveling in never truly feeling full while eating human food. He tried to persuade Drusilla to taste a few of the pastries, but she was more interested in pricking her fingers on the sharp edges of a holly leaf that she had plucked from a wreath on the wall.
"What in the hell are you doing, boy?" Angelus demanded in a hushed voice as he jerked hard on Spike's elbow. "Would you eat from the trough with the fatlings?"
"But it's really tasty," Spike replied with a mouth full of pikelet and jam.
Angelus rolled his eyes and, taking Spike's chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned the fledgling vampire's face towards the crowd of humans drinking, gossiping, and dancing.
"You're a vampire, you little idiot. Look around you. There are far more delicious morsels all about, so leave the feed for the cattle," he spat.
Spike swallowed the last of the pikelet and glanced around as he licked the remaining jam from his fingertips. He hated parties. As a child, he had loved it when his parents would show him off to their friends at get-togethers, letting him recite the works of Whitman, Keats, Emerson, and Shelley for the amusement of the adults. When he was older and expected to make his own conversation, however, William had been a spectacular failure on the social scene, endearing himself to no one and despising the vulgarity amongst his peers. Now, there was nothing stopping him from behaving in whatever manner he chose. William was not around anymore, and Spike could be as vulgar or as dashing as he so pleased. It's not as though anyone would be around long enough to think less of him for it.
Once Drusilla had left him to find her own sport, likely the children in attendance, Spike took a turn about the room. He was a little uncomfortable in the suit that he'd been forced into; the waistcoat was on the small side, and the shoes pinched, but he could endure. As he meandered searching for his dessert, a cluster of males laughing jovially drew his attention. At their center was a dazzling creature, divinely light where his beloved Drusilla was dark.
The young woman tapped her closed fan against her full lips in a teasing fashion, quipping to the men about this and that. Her fiery red hair was swept up with one delicate curl spiraling down to grace her shoulder. Her milky white bosom heaved against golden silk. Her carriage and mannerisms were enough to make Spike forget about tarts and custards. This was a far rarer delicacy.
Somehow their eyes met, her green to Spike's blue, and she dismissed her little retinue of followers with all the hauteur of a princess. She walked with a little swing to her hips only accentuated by the style of dress that was the fashion. As she continued by him, Spike wondered if he would have to work a little harder for his meal, but thankfully the woman was only using this as a ruse to "accidentally" brush against him.
"Oh, pardon," she said, smiling in a way that let Spike know that he could have had more than a nibble at her throat if he had a mind to. Pausing, she looked him up and down and asked, "Have we met?"
"No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance," he spoke.
Spike had played this game before, but he was willing to take full advantage of his new found confidence. He could play a part for a little while and live as that character for an hour or two. If he was only play-acting with no real intentions other than retaining a meal, then his flirtations were not an infidelity in any way, and that was something he took comfort in.
"So, Mr. Edgington," as Spike had taken as a moniker for the night, "what brings you to Loxley?" asked the young lady.
"Visiting a few distant relations, I'm afraid," Spike answered as the two finished a dance and took to the gardens just outside the ballroom for some air, though he did not need it in particular. "What about you, Miss Quartremain?"
"The same in point of fact," came her reply as she sat on stone bench beside a rather decrepit-looking Water Elder shrub.
In the light from a nearby lantern on the walkway, Spike could make out actual mistletoe mixed in amongst Miss Quartremain's hair ornaments.
Well, isn't she just a minx? Spike thought to himself as he watched her lean forward to smooth her skirts, though he was fairly certain she was trying to make her bust an even prettier picture for him to admire.
As she bent, the pearls at her throat came away, and she said as she picked them up, "Bless these wretched beads. The clasp must be broken."
"Allow me," Spike took the opportunity to sit beside her on the small bench, pressing his body close to hers, gently taking the necklace from her dainty hands.
Miss Quartremain turned her body away from him to allow him to re-clasp her jewelry. He brought the necklace up, letting the little pearls run sensually over the tops of her breasts. She gasped as he brushed her hair away from her neck, caressing her skin. Tenderly, he placed a tiny kiss to the juncture where her elegant throat met her shoulder before letting his vampire visage rise to the surface. Before his fangs could sink into warm flesh, however, a glint of light in the corner of his eye startled him.
The lady was holding up her closed fan, a tiny mirror affixed to one of the outer ribs, and while Spike could not see his own reflection in the polished surface, he caught sight of the wicked gleam in Miss Quartremain's eye.
"Thought so," she grinned.
Completely taken aback, Spike barely had time to move out of the way as the young lady spun with a wooden stake in her gloved hand, aiming straight towards his heart. He tumbled to the stone walkway and ran. How could such a woman know what his intentions were let alone that he was a vampire? Scrambling between wilting hedgerows, Spike did not have time to think as he heard the fast approach of clinking heels.
Bracing his back against a post, Spike reached for one of the lanterns, which burned his fingers as he grasped the hot metal casing. As Miss Quartremain made her way around a corner with her stake raised again, he threw the lantern at her. He had hoped it might catch her dress a-flame, but it did nothing but splash lamp oil all over her as the wick died out upon impact. It was enough of a distraction for Spike to run back towards the house. Surely, this woman would not pursue him into a crowded manor with a weapon drawn.
As Spike neared the garden doors, something went sailing by his ear. He turned to see that Miss Quartremain had taken his idea and had hurled a lantern at him and was about to lob another. While a human body is fragile, it is not quite as combustible as a vampire's body as Spike had learned from Angelus's numerous lectures. Thinking quickly, Spike snatched the second lantern out of the air before it could do him any damage. The oil within was still lit, and he began backing up to the garden doors while his eyes never left his potential assassin. Spike held the lamp aloft, making motions as though he would throw it back at her, and when the lady flinched, he smashed into the curtains around the entryway, hoping that the flame would take.
It did, and panic erupted amongst the party guests as fire leapt up the walls, swallowing up paintings and tapestries. Sprinting through the rush of excited human bodies, Spike found Drusilla and yanked her away, hoping to find another exit without being crushed into powder or burned to a cinder. Somewhere in the confusion, Angelus and Darla found the pair, and they managed to make an escape through a window before the entire manor house went up in flames.
Angelus had the leather strap he kept in his pocket out before Spike could even begin to explain what had happened. He forced the fledge along by the scruff of his neck, whipping the strap against the boy's thighs and backside as the foursome made their way back towards the safety of the mining tunnels.
"She- OW! She knew I was a vampire, Angelus!" Spike attempted to plead as he twisted about trying to avoid the blows, "How did she know? Ow! Stop hitting me!"
The young vampire still had so much to learn, and perhaps Angelus had been a little remiss in teaching him of all the very real dangers to their kind. Well, that would end very shortly, but that could wait until Spike had learned a lesson of a different sort.
********
December 25th, 1907
New York City, New York
Champagne and caviar went perfect with celebrating any event in high fashion. While Spike preferred most baser, humble pleasures, he had to admit that indulging in the fancier side had its allure on occasion, and tonight was one of them.
The previous ten months had been about liberation, new beginnings. After Angelus had disappeared at the turn of the century to parts unknown, Spike and Drusilla had spent the following years toddling after Darla across Asia and then back to Europe. His great-grandsire had a terrible habit of leaving them behind without warning, but they always seemed to find her eventually. It was after being stranded in Bucharest while Darla sought out an "old companion" that Spike realized that he was more than capable to care for himself as well as Drusilla. A trip to the Americas seemed like a perfect way to prove it to anyone who might have questioned that.
A week before Christmas, Spike and Drusilla had stepped off an ocean-liner and into the hustle and bustle of New York City. It was a whirlwind of new sights and sounds, the great melting pot of human beings with poor and rich shoulder-to-shoulder under a blanket of foul air and the shadows of enormous buildings. Immediately Spike knew that this city was the perfect place for a grand adventure of his own making.
There were so many delights to discover- dance halls playing the latest rag-and-blues music from Tin Pan Alley, gambling parlors offering Jamaican ginger mixed with gin, seeing the Follies at the Jardin de Paris, and all the people. The people were a never-ending array of flavors, spiced by virtue and vice alike, and Spike and Drusilla felt as though they were in the embrace of a wonderful dance.
It so happened that the Plaza Hotel had opened its doors after a magnificent remodeling, and Spike decided that it would be a lark to actually pay for lodging, especially in such a fine place. Drusilla clapped her hands when Spike thought of what a fun game it would be to pretend to be a pair of European nobles on their honeymoon. The bellhops and waitstaff were so accommodating to the young couple, and Spike found himself quite magnanimous, handing out tips liberally. He doubted those receiving his generosity would have cared that the cash they pocketed was purloined from the corpses of a vampire's victims. It would have just gone to waste anyway.
For twenty-five dollars a night, Spike and Drusilla enjoyed the luxury of one of the poshest suites in the whole hotel. It also made for a hunting ground of the highest quality. Christmas Eve allowed Spike the opportunity to sneak out to find a decent present for his lady love. Finding the right person was always a chore. Not only did the lady herself have to be aesthetically pleasing, but she needed to be dressed well and the right shape, but Spike didn't mind the effort when it was for his darling Dark Goddess. It so happened that the delectable treat for the evening was an adorable socialite staying on their floor, and she came with the bonus prize of her brother whose clothes were luckily a fit for Spike.
After enjoying their real supper, the pair dressed for the evening with care. Almost three decades of living with two ladies who were fastidious about their appearance, yet never had a maid survive their tempers for very long, had given Spike skills that he never imagined he would learn nor would he admit that he knew about the styling of hair, the lacing of corsets, and the application of cosmetics. Drusilla helped Spike tie his cravat though he had to stop her from making it too tight.
Their reservations for the evening were in the Oak Room, and the couple turned heads as they were shown to their table. Spike felt a glow of pride as he noticed how the gentlemen in the room brimmed over with jealousy. He couldn't blame them. Drusilla was a vision in a creamy satin Parisian gown with teardrop pearls and diamantes. It would have been surprising to Spike, however, if he had realized that quite a few of the men were admiring his appearance as well as he cut quite a handsome figure in his tuxedo, the sea-blue cravat a fine match for his eyes.
"A toast, pet," Spike smiled, holding up his glass of champagne as they sat amongst the heavy engraved paneling and thick oaken columns.
Drusilla licked a bit of clotted cream and caviar from a tartlet, "To Father Christmas?"
"Of course," he smiled, letting their glasses clink together.
In truth, Spike had wanted to celebrate being a vampire as long as he had been a human, especially since Angelus and Darla had been so positive that he wouldn't see his first decade, but he didn't have anything to prove to them anymore.
Leaning across the table to kiss her cheek, blocking their audience's view with one of the hotel's engraved menus, Spike whispered, "Happy Christmas."
And it was.
To be continued...