Chapter 1

Buffy stepped through her front door after a quick patrol around Sunnydale's graveyards. It was quiet out that evening, but it wasn't unexpected since it was Christmas Eve. She thought of the nice, quiet dinner they typically had in the evening when her mom came home from work, which was usually last minute Christmas shopping more than actual work.

Hanging up her coat, she froze as she walked into the dining room, finding the person she least wanted to see, the blond wonder, Spike, sitting at the table with her mother.

"Get out of here this minute," Buffy warned in her most low, hostile voice.

"Buffy!" her shocked mom said.

"Mom! He's a vampire. We do not invite vampires into the house. It took a lot of trouble getting him disinvited from the last time you invited him in, why would you do it again?"

"We're just having a chat," her mom defended, "and he's really is a charming young man when you get to know him," Joyce said, while Spike smiled broadly. Buffy had to repress an urge to smash his face in. Joyce handed her a glass of wine. "He has the most impeccable manners. He'd Victorian, did you know?"

"This is Spike we are talking about." Buffy said.

"And my mother raised me right," he cut in. "I know how to have a civil conversation with a lady." Joyce smiled.

"Mother, he is evil," Buffy stated, still in shock Spike was in her house and that he hadn't done something to her mother.

"Well, be that as it may, he is all alone this season, so I invited him to join us for dinner."

"What? He is a vampire, mom, he doesn't eat dinner."

"Nonsense," Joyce said. "I asked." Usually inviting a vampire to dinner meant you were on the menu, so she wasn't sure what angle Spike was working at but she was going to rip him a new one. Or this Christmas Eve dinner was going to turn into an all out brawl between herself and the admittedly good-looking, and didn't he know it, blond vampire. It really wasn't a wonder her mother had been captured by his charm. No doubt he could turn it on when he wanted to. Vampires could—they all learned to coax anyone to follow them down a back alley. But this was new, and it had only been a few days since Spike last tried to kill her with that stupid ring.

Mom was in full hostess mode and left the room.

"Get out now." Buffy threatened, glaring at Skype as he sat in the arm chair, looking way to comfortable.

"Or you'll what? Ply me with gravy?" he teased with an arched brow. He had a point, she wasn't doing to start a smash up of her house on Christmas eve, not unless she had to. His face turned serious. "I want my ring back."

"Like that is ever going to happen." she laughed, crossing her arms.

"I could have killed your mother while you were out. I didn't. I think you owe me."

"I owe you for not killing my mother?" she asked with astonishment. "What I owe you is a royal ass-kicking before I stake you. Maybe I will subtly miss your heart, repeated, the stake you to a tree and let the sun take care of you."

"Where's my ring, Slayer?" he said in a low tone, like that would convince her.

"It's gone. On its way out of town like you should be if you know what's good for you, because I am never going to put up with your pasty ass near me or my mother again."

"Yes, well, we both know what class of arse you like near you, don't we, princess?" He said referring to his observation of her complete humiliation by the whole Parker debacle, having pointed it out with such glee a few days earlier. "Maybe if I had known it was so ridiculously easy to get you to drop your knickers, I would have gone about things in a whole different way."

"You're revolting."

"And you're easy."

Joyce entered the room with a modest-sized glazed ham.

"There," she said, beeming with obvious pride.

"It looks lovely, Mrs. Summers," Spike said and Buffy narrowed her eyes at him.

Joyce did her best to try to keep the conversation going, and to Buffy's complete annoyance, Spike was having an in-depth conversation about vintages of Boudreaux wine with her mother. So much for her mother's contention that Spike was young. He most certainly wasn't, and no self-respecting young person knew about stupid stuff like wine.

Her fingers were itching to rip into him after this. They were going to have it out outside as soon as she could get him out of the door, but her mother didn't seem to be co-operating in any meaningful way.

"Now we have a tradition that we open one present on Christmas Eve," Joyce continued.

"I am sure Spike does not want to witness it," Buffy said through gritted teeth, upset he had ruined Christmas Eve as it was. She wasn't about to open presents with her self-appointed arch nemesis watching.

"Nonsense, I would be delighted," he said with a smile. Again, her hand itched to punch it off him. "Nothing but a cold dark crypt to return to."

-0-

Sitting pretty, he could see the Slayer getting more and more worked up, and it warmed the cockles of his cold, dead heart. He hadn't intended on spending the evening in the Summers' house, having been lying in wait for the girl when he was seen by the mother and invited in, to his quiet pleasure.

Even when accepting the invitation, he'd no intention of killing Joyce Summers. Generally he didn't like killing mothers, and Joyce was a nice lady and he liked her. She treated him well and it was always good to have someone willing to sit down and listen to his problems. It had been a long time since someone had offered to do that for him, until Mrs. Summers. It certainly wasn't something done in the demon bars, and Harmony wouldn't even understand if she ever started talking to him again. He certainly wasn't going to blow a perfectly good cold treatment.

He didn't feel the same about her prissy daughter. Annoyingly, his last endeavour to dispatch the girl had failed, but the war was far from over, having become the focus of his existence at the moment. If he was honest, he would admit it consumed most of his waking thoughts—most of his sleeping ones as well. It is what he had come back to Sunnydale for, and he was certainly not leaving until he had the girl under his fangs. With a slow blink, he could practically taste the rush of her blood over his tongue, imagining he pleasure. He was enveloped by her scent as it was, sitting there practically within arm's length.

"Now I don't have a present for our guest, but you can have one of Buffy's."

"What?" Buffy whined like a spoilt child.

"That is very kind, Mrs. Summers, but not necessary." It had been ages since he had stretched his manners muscle, but no matter how long it had been it never quite disappeared. Although the idea of him being given one of the Slayer's presents was just too precious. The girl looked sour enough to tackle a large lemon.

"Don't be silly, everyone should have a present on Christmas Eve. Now who is first?" Joyce said and Spike almost felt a little twinge at the kindness, considering he was planning to murder her daughter later, but it passed quickly enough. He felt perfectly at ease with enjoying the moment as it was.

"This one is for you, Buffy." Joyce said with a bright smile. "Leaving this one is for you, Spike."

"I have one for him, too, it's wooden and pointed, and I will give it to him later," Buffy said with an over-worked smile.

"Mind your manners, girl." Spike warned, and saw her eyes narrowing a bit further at being admonished by him on etiquette, but the bint was rude. Irrespective, he felt the juices flowing at the thought of their upcoming fight. She seemed keen and he had no plans of denying her.

The girl opened her present, one of those talking boxes people had started carting around with them. She was obviously overjoyed as she squealed and hugged her mother. There would be no hugging of any kind, no matter what the present was—he did have some standards.

He started to open his present, which was heavy and an odd shape, wrapped in red Christmas paper.

"I'll get the camera." Joyce said and ran out of the room.

"Mom, no!" Buffy said. "I don't want any evidence of this."

It was a snow globe, a Christmas scene in a little village encased in a glass dome with specs of snow floating around. He didn't know how he felt about the present; it certainly hadn't been something he expected to ever receive, although he could well imagine it was something he could have received as a boy from his own mother. A twinge pierced his still heart.

"I'm so glad my mother has given you my present," Buffy said, dripping with sarcasm.

He turned the globe to make it into a blizzard inside the dome, but he felt an odd sensation in his belly as he did so and looked up. Maybe the slayer has stuck a knife in him, but it didn't hurt. Then there was a yank and he heard a scream. The girl's scream.

His feet planted on a blanket of snow with the Slayer standing next to him. What the hell had just happened? "What did you do, girl?" he demanded.

"I didn't do anything," she defended herself. "What happened? Where are we?" She turned to look around, mindful not to give her back to him.

Stepping away, he looked around and they were somewhere else. They were outside and it was snowing. In some township somewhere; it certainly wasn't Sunnydale with the snow and all. Something like an America set designer's version of the perfect English country village. Maybe they were on a set somewhere. Red wooden houses with high pitched gables, lit small paned windows and lots of picket fences. Seeing all those pickets brought his attention back to the girl next to him. He blocked her blow just before it got him in the head.

"Leave off, Slayer," he shouted in sharp tones. "I wasn't prepared."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," he shouted back, blocking another of her blows, sending one back. He certainly wasn't going to stand there and let himself be used as a punching bag. She did one of those round house kicks of hers, but he got her under her knee and knocked her off balance. Ha, got the bitch.

She recovered quick, flipping up on her feet and coming again. Oh, his blood was singing. This is what he lived for, duking it out with the slayer. He got her a good punch in the stomach, but then she jumped and kicked him in the head, knocking him off balance.

She drew blood, he could taste it, splitting his lip, filling his nostrils with the smell of blood. It just made it better. And she didn't have a stake; hadn't had one when she walked into the dining room as she hadn't anticipated him being there. So no weapons to watch out for, just fists—and teeth, just the two of them, evenly matched and he was going to show the bitch. Not he was just waiting to get close enough to bite.

They were slogging it out and she was tiring a little. He was going to bruise after this, but he didn't care. And then she got a great kick in his sternum which hurt like a bitch. He could feel something was out of line, but it cracked back when he stretched.

He threw her as hard as he could and she went crashing into one of the fences. Unfortunately she had finally clicked onto the pickets and was breaking one down to size. He wasn't tired enough to worry about her with wood yet. A good kick got her flying to the ground again, sending more pickets flying.

Charging him, she knocked him off his feet and they grappled on the ground. He had his legs around her, pinning her still, but she had her hand on his throat, keeping his teeth from their desired destination. He could do this forever; he didn't need to breath, but they were stuck in a position where neither of them was getting anywhere.

She had no weapon; there was little she could really do to him other than hurt him and he had a pretty high tolerance, particularly as she was this close and that sweet blood of her was singing its fast and steady pulse into his ears, like a mesmerising drumbeat. The heat from her body, worked through him as his thighs still clasped around her, holding her still. If someone saw them like this, it could be interpreted very differently.

Well, now that they were stuck, where the fuck were they? With all the shouting and ruckus, he would have expected someone to come out of the houses, but no one came. There wasn't a single noise other than the Slayer's breathing.

And then everything shifted. Another sharp tug and they flew up into the sky, swirling around in the snow flakes. The village shifted beneath them ever which way and he had no idea what was going on. The only thing he had to hold onto was her and she had her arms around his waist until they smacked into some kind of barrier, hard enough that he lost grip on her. And then off flying again. She now had a grip on the back of his shirt as he didn't have his duster; he'd taken it off when he got invited to dinner. Damn his fucking manners, look what they had gotten him. Now he was flying through the air in some freaking dimension with an irate Slayer hanging onto him. No, he was going to murder all the Summers women, he decided.

He smacked hard into another barrier, and the Slayer smacked into his back before he slid down the barrier like some kind of demonic slide. It looked like water and it was cold like water, but solid. The ground was coming fast. The Slayer grappled up him. She was going to use him as a cushion, the bitch. He hit hard, losing his ability to think.

He had no idea what was going on or why a very winded Slayer was straddling him.

"That's my mom," she said. He had no idea what she was referring to. Maybe this was one of those bizarre pseudo sexual Slayer dreams of his. "That's my living room." She continued. "We're…on the mantle piece?"

"We're in the fucking snow globe, you dumb bint," he said. "Get off me."