Title: Mythical Creatures

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 9: Santa Baby

Note:

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every one of you! Knowing the story is being enjoyed is like hot chocolate for my muse, with those little marshmallows, of course!

Thanks to PaganBaby and Holi117 for their beta assistance, though I've fiddled so much it's hardly the same chapter they originally looked at, so, of course, all errors are mine. LMK if you spot one and I'll fix it!

Of course, Spike had followed the fleeing Slayer out into the cool night, but she'd scarpered, fast as a rabbit from a fox. All that remained was her intoxicating scent drifting lightly on the breeze. "Such a sodding idiot!" he chastised himself, banging the side of his fist against his forehead as he looked around the empty cemetery. "Knew she wasn't ready for that bollocks."

He hadn't gone after her – chasing her now would only make her run faster, build those walls she'd dropped back to epic proportions, proportions that he was sure he'd have no chance of scaling or tunneling under. He had to let her come to him. "Please, Slayer… come back," he plead into the stillness of the winter night, but she didn't. Not that night. Not the next.

When she hadn't shown, even to patrol, by ten on that second night, he ignored his own advice and went to her house. He stood outside beneath the large oak, waiting and watching and chain smoking. He could see the flickering light of the TV through the sheer curtains in the living room, and could catch snatches of the dialogue from the telly. His girls were watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'.

It had been a wonderful life the last few days. More wonderful than it had been in ages. Being around Buffy, getting her to open up, first with her words, then with her actions – yeah, it had been sodding wonderful. And, as usual, he'd bollixed it up. Spike sighed, dropping the fag end to the ground and grinding it beneath his heel as he squinted up into the thick branches of the tree above him. "Don't reckon ya got any angels lookin' to earn their wings, eh?" he inquired of the heavens. "Could do with a bit of a miracle here."

Spike waited a few minutes, listening to the faint murmurs of the Summers women that filtered past the sound of the telly as they talked. He could smell popcorn and his chest ached, remembering their popcorn catching contest, remembering laughter and inclusion, remembering Dawn declaring him a superhero, but mostly remembering sitting with Buffy in the lights of the tree, talking, sharing, both tentatively lowering walls.

Why couldn't he just keep his big mouth shut? Declarations of love never went well for him. How many bloody times did it take for him to learn that?

Of course, no Clarence-like apparition materialized to get him out of this mess. "Don't expect helping out a vamp would get any bells to tinkling," he admitted, giving one last, longing look toward the house before heading back to his crypt, head bent, hands stuffed into his duster pockets.

On the third night, Christmas Eve, he woke to find all the wrapped gifts gone from his crypt and a note in their place.

I took the presents to put under the tree. Mom invited you to come over for Christmas dinner, just after sunset tomorrow. – Buffy

Maybe he did have a guardian angel after all! It wasn't exactly an undying declaration, but it was a crumb, a crumb from the Slayer's mum, but Spike could work with that. He'd been working with much less for a long time.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Spike could smell the food before he'd even turned up the walkway to the house. The mingled aroma of turkey roasting, mashed potatoes and gravy on the stove, and pumpkin pie cooling reminded him of his first meal with Buffy… tied to a chair, with a bear. "Please don't let there be any sodding bears," he muttered under his breath as he made his cautious way up the porch steps to the front door. That would be just his luck – a bloody hilarious cosmic joke.

Spike paused in front of the door and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from his blue oxford shirt and khakis, checked that his boots were free of grave dirt, and ran a hand over his gelled-to-immobility hair. Butterflies fluttered around behind his navel in a combination of fear and giddiness, hoping beyond hope that he could somehow mend things with the Slayer. With a deep, calming breath, he arranged the flowers and the bottle of wine for best effect, squared his shoulders, then rang the doorbell. The door opened almost before he'd pulled his hand away from the bell and an excited Dawn greeted him.

"Spike! Finally!" she gushed, grabbing his arm and nearly making him drop both the wine and the flowers as she dragged him inside. "You guyyyssss! Spike's here!" she called to the house in general. "Can we start now?!"

Spike's brows furrowed as he juggled his good tidings, barely keeping from crushing the flowers or shattering the wine bottle. From the movies he'd watched, he'd expected the lounge to be a disaster area, cluttered with open boxes, discarded wrappings, and gushed-over gifts. There was none of that; in fact, all the gifts he and Buffy had wrapped were untouched, spread out like a smorgasbord of cheer under the tree.

"Spike! Don't you look nice? And you're right on time," Joyce greeted him, standing up from where she'd been reclining on the couch.

"I, uh, thanks, pet… wasn't sure…" he stammered, feeling off-balance and uncomfortably self-conscious.

"Oh, what lovely flowers," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, admiring the posies in his hand. "You didn't have to."

Spike shrugged. "Least I could do," he offered diffidently, tugging nervously at the collar of his shirt.

"Actually, you've done so much. I really can't thank you enough," Joyce gushed, looking at the tree and all the beautifully wrapped gifts. "The girls were so surprised this morning."

Spike nodded, but shifted his gaze nervously away from hers, noting that Buffy was nowhere in sight, though he could feel her nearby. It made his stomach flip again. "Glad t' help."

"Why don't you take the flowers into the kitchen. Buffy can get a vase… and that wine will be lovely with dinner."

"Mom's resting. We're cooking Christmas dinner," Dawn explained. "C'mon!" she urged, pulling him by the arm again.

Spike followed her into the kitchen where Buffy was basting the turkey. Spike's heart leapt into his throat at the sight of her. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg her to forget what he'd said. If they could just go back to where they were before that, everything would be fine.

"Guess who's here?" Dawn trilled as she started opening cabinets, looking for a vase.

"Dawn, the whole neighborhood knows who's here," Buffy chided, turning to face the girl. "You aren't exactly subtle. And I'd like to know how 'we're' cooking dinner when you've been doing nothing but drooling over the presents all day."

Buffy looked up at Spike, who had stopped in the doorway. "Hey, Spike," she said in a neutral greeting, seeming nervous, unable to quite meet his eyes. "Merry Christmas."

Spike gave her a diffident nod. "Buffy… Smells good as I remember."

Buffy gave him a small, knowing smile and the whole room lit up. "Let's just hope there are no bears this time," she teased.

The Slayer flipped her hair back over one shoulder and Spike saw she was still wearing the necklace he'd given her. Spike's heart soared with hope, but he dared not do anything to spook her. He chuckled, trying to appear unfussed. "Got no argument from me on that count."

"We even got you some blood," Dawn announced, filling up the vase with some water before taking the flowers from Spike.

"Thanks, Bit. Reckon I'll be all right with the cranberries and whatnot," he assured her as Buffy took the wine from his hand. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn't look at him directly, keeping her eyes averted. Bugger. That couldn't be good.

"Okay, pleasantries over!" Dawn declared, having gotten the flowers arranged suitably in the vase. "Can we open the presents now?"

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. "Let me put the turkey back in the oven and then—"

"Yay! About time!" the girl cut her off, jostling excitedly past Spike and back into the living room, all gawky limbs and child-like glee. "Buffy says we can finally open the presents!" Dawn told Joyce in a voice loud enough for the ghosts of Restfield to hear.

Buffy snorted and turned her attention back the turkey.

"Thought ya opened the goodies on Christmas morn," Spike ventured, coming up to stand at the breakfast counter behind Buffy, begging her silently to turn around, to look at him, to give him another crumb of hope.

"We normally do," Buffy admitted. "But when Santa is a vampire, you open them on Christmas night."

"That so?" Spike asked, his brows furrowed, but a small smile quirking his lips. He couldn't get a read on her at all like this. But she seemed... friendly? She hadn't bloodied his nose yet, or even threatened to stake him. Had someone wiped her memory? If the red witch had done one of her forgetting spells, Spike was gonna get her a new broom for Christmas.

"Them's the rules," Buffy affirmed, opening the oven door, and sliding the turkey back in. She turned around to face Spike, finally meeting his eyes. His unneeded breath caught in his throat as she gave him another smile, though this one looked a little mischievous. "So, are you ready to pass out the presents, Santa?"

Spike quirked a suspicious brow at her. "What's the catch?" It didn't really matter what the catch was – she was looking at him. He'd stand out in the midday sun under a waterfall of holy water if she'd just keep looking at him like this.

Buffy picked up a Santa hat from the counter and held it out to him. "You have to wear this."

Spike looked from the red and white swath of fuzz back up to her eyes and his mouth, as usual, ran off without checking in with his brain. "Just the bonnet? You sure the Summers ladies are ready for that, pet?" he teased, his eyes glittering with wicked mirth as he slid a hand down his chest to rest on his belt buckle. He wagged his brows at her and curled his tongue against his teeth lecherously.

Buffy blushed, following the track of his hand with her eyes, her imagination once again treating her to all sorts of naughty images of Santa-Spike in nothing but the hat... and bows. There should definitely be bows. 'Santa, baby, hurry down the chimney tonight.'

Buffy cleared her throat nervously and looked away, picking off some non-existent, and apparently undesirable, fuzz on the hat.

'Oh, bloody hell! Can't keep your trap shut, can you? Shouldn't provoke her and get her scarpering again, you stupid git!'

"What are you guys doing!? C'mon! It's present time!" Dawn demanded eagerly, coming back into the kitchen.

Buffy bit her lip and tossed Spike the Santa hat. "G-rated Santa," she instructed firmly.

Spike caught it easily, and slipped it onto his head. "How's that look, then?" he wondered, trying to get her to look at him again.

It worked. She looked up appraisingly. Buffy licked her lips. 'Good enough to wish I'd hung some mistletoe,' she thought. "Very Santa-like... if Santa was an Abercrombie model."

A pleased grin spread over Spike's face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. She was looking at him again, not running, not attacking. "Take that as a compliment, then."

"Oh, my God!" Dawn complained in utter exasperation. "Who cares what he looks like!? It's present time!" she reminded them again, tugging on Spike's arm. He let her drag him away with a chuckle, keeping his gaze turned back toward the Slayer, who was still smiling as she followed.

Maybe Christmas miracles did happen, after all.

NOTE:

Just one chapter to go ... Clarence better work fast!