Ah, Christmas. Snow-covered streets and trees. Carolers. Spiked eggnog and candy canes. Heart-warming films and good-cheer passed between passersby. These were the staples of Christmas. Rupert Giles had yet to find any of those elements in Sunnydale, California. There was no snow, the Carolers sang pop!Christmas songs instead of the classics, and it seemed the only station he was getting clearly on his outdated TV was the Hallmark channel, which preferred to air sappy, extremely one-dimensional Christmas love stories instead of the films he grew up with. The only redeeming feature of Christmas on this hellmouth was the abundant alcoholic eggnog recipes.
Oh, and the traditional Christmas play hosted by Sunnydale High School—The Christmas Carol. That seemed to be a staple everywhere. Rupert had seen the production advertised all over the last few weeks' morning papers. He fully intended to attend one of these productions. After all, The Christmas Carol was a decidedly British story, and he was feeling just a tad homesick over the holidays. Everyone was eager to go home for the holidays and spend time with their families—or more realistically, sleeping-in and hanging out with friends—but since his own home was rather far and rather void of people, Sunnydale would have to do. And the Christmas Carol would have to give him the dose of British comfort he was lacking by remaining in the States.
"Snyder strikes again," Buffy complained as she entered the school's library the last day before the holiday break began. Giles, who had been sipping tea and reading the paper, glanced up at her curiously. She was dragging her feet before plopping down in a chair across from him. They stared at each other for a long moment . . . until she finally asked, "are you going to ask me what he did?"
Giles lifted an eyebrow. "I rather thought my silence was question enough."
"No. Because sometimes when you're silent, you aren't actually listening. You're just off thinking . . . whatever people named Giles think about," Buffy said. Giles was silent, having actually zoned out in that exact moment when she had been speaking. "Hello? Earth to Giles?" Silence. "HEY" she said louder.
Giles blinked, driven abruptly from his thoughts. "Apologies, what did you say?"
"Never mind," Buffy rolled her eyes. "You won't believe what Snyder has us doing."
"Attempting to achieve a grade higher than a C?" Giles remarked with a small teasing smirk.
Buffy gave him an unamused scoff, but proceeded with the truth. "He's making Willow, Xander and I perform in the school's play. Us. You saw how bad we were at the Talent Show. Now he wants us to perform again! In an actual play!"
Giles lifted an eyebrow curiously. "Did he give a reason as to his sudden . . . interest . . . in your acting career?"
"Something about wanting to ensure we kept ourselves busy during the Holiday Break. Pretty sure he thinks we're all going to go home and pass around a pot pipe or something," she waved it off. "Or, you know, start a sex trade in our spare time." She sighed heavily. "What am I going to do? I don't have time to practice. And I don't want to do the play at all. I got the part of Fred's Wife. She has like . . . three lines. Which isn't that bad, but if I'm going to do a stupid play, I at least want a starring role and not some accessory. Plus, her lines? Totally boring. Nothing but stroking her husband's ego. Who does that?" she wrinkled her nose.
"Indeed," Rupert said derisively. "What about the others? What parts did they receive?"
"Willow got the Ghost of Christmas to Come or whatever. Non-speaking role. At least Snyder spared her in that regard. Not that that matters to Willow. Just being on stage is going to make her freak out," Buffy said. "And Xander," she snorted, "Xander . . . is Scrooge."
Giles' eyebrows practically flew up into his hair. "Xander received the starring role?" he questioned. Buffy nodded. "Blimey. I didn't intend to see the high school production, because I wanted to see something worth my money, and now I know that I will definitely not be attending. The secondhand embarrassment alone would kill me."
"You have to help us, Giles," Buffy said, her voice desperate.
Giles set his newspaper down, shaking his head. "I'm not entirely sure what I can do, Buffy. Principal Snyder is my boss, after all. If he wants you to perform, you're going to have to perform. When are rehearsals?"
"We start tonight," Buffy groaned, none-too-pleased at the powerlessness of her Watcher. "I guess there's one silver lining." At Giles' questioning look, she replied, "Andy Williams got the part of Fred." Her eyes turned soft, and she sighed happily, "he's so dreamy."
"Yes," Giles murmured, removing his glasses and cleaning them. "Just-um . . . make sure that the only . . . stroking you do for your husband begins and ends with his ego." Standing from his chair, he finished wiping his glasses and put them back on. "Shall we get in a bit of training before you're off to learn about mid-nineteenth century Britain?"
"I've been rubbing elbows with you for a year now, Giles," Buffy told him, hopping out of her chair. "I already know everything about mid-nineteenth century Britain."
The next morning, Giles woke a little later in the day. It was a lovely start to the holiday breaks. Indeed, his morning was progressing quite well. He had a filling breakfast and had just put in an order for a series of books that was to be distributed early next month. He was just collecting the morning paper when the bold-faced headline caught his eye. 'FIFTH ACTOR DIES DURING "A CHRISTMAS CAROL." PERFORMANCE. SERIAL KILLER FEARED.'
Normally, Giles might have simply turned the page. After all, serial killers were human and thus out of the realm of Watcher/Slayer duty. But since he had intended to attend the performance of the theatre listed in the story, he decided to read it in full. Walking to his armchair, he sat down and turned to the full story, reading through the journalist's report of the event quickly. When he had finished, he was left with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Oh dear . . ." He needed to see Buffy.
A rushed change of clothes and drive to Sunnydale High later, he was charging into the auditorium where sets were being built and students were running to and fro as they learned their marks and lines. Giles dodged as much of the chaos as he could, nearly being squished under a set piece that decided to fall, and finally found Buffy and the others sitting backstage and looking terribly comfortable. "Giles!" Buffy exclaimed, grinning when she saw him, "you hear to bust us out? Please tell us you're here to bust us out."
"Yeah, G. There has to be some evil afoot somewhere. Right? Right?" Xander asked, already looking pale and ill. There was even a sheen of sweat across his forehead. It didn't seem he was taking to his starring role all too kindly.
"Actually . . . quite possibly," Giles said. They made sounds of relief, looking as though he had just told them that their precious canine companion had made it through a risky surgery safely. "At least something worth investigating. Has anyone read the newspaper today?" Their blank stares reminded him that newspapers were no longer considered 'trendy.' "Ah. Well, there have been five unsolved murders in Sunnydale. Each victim played the same part in the 'A Christmas Carol' play—Scrooge." The three of them stared at Xander, who started to pale in the wake of this news. "Though the suspect has yet to be caught, each victim is left with the same sort of wounds and is murdered shortly after the First Act."
Buffy wrinkled her nose. "So what about these murders makes you think it's supernatural?"
"I don't," Giles admitted. "Not yet. Though the particulars seem rather questionable. No one is aware that their lead actor is being killed off-stage somewhere? And the markings that they describe—perfect circle imprints on the forehead—something about that seems familiar to me," he murmured, trying to recall just where he had read about such attacks—and what had caused them. "Regardless, the only way we're going to be able to check is at the high school performance. All other performances of the show have been cancelled until the police catch the murderer. Principal Snyder decided tradition was important than student lives—or Xander's life, in particular—so he isn't adhering to the police's request to shut down the performance."
"Oh, lucky me," Xander bemoaned, the pallor turning green instead. "Not only do I have to learn over a hundred lines, I also have to worry about being murdered. If I survive, I better win an Oscar."
"Erm. The correct award you're looking for is the Tony award. You'd never make it in film," Giles bluntly remarked.
"Well, you have a daytime TV face," Xander retorted.
"That's when soap operas air, and the men hired onto those shows are all Adonis', so thank-you," Giles shot back, then realized that he had admitted that he was not only aware of soap operas, but also knew what some of the actors looked like. "Ahem. Moving on," he cleared his throat and pressed into the previous subject before anything could be said, "we need to prepare what we can. I have to see what the books say about those markings. With any luck, we'll know exactly what we're dealing with by the time the curtain rises."
Yet, days later, there had not been a single break in their investigation. Or, perhaps, the correct result was that there were so many breaks, that it was nearly impossible to whittle it down to a single suspect. Giles was running his hand wearily through his hair on the night of the opening performance. Dark circles clung under his eyes—a testament to the lack of sleep the Christmas holiday had provided for him. The Scoobies were equally as exhausted—especially Xander, though his came about more from terror than anything else. "Well, we know for a fact that it isn't a vampire," he said for what was likely the hundredth time. "The wounds don't match."
"That still leaves twenty other possible demons," Buffy sighed. "I'm starting to love that I only have three lines in the show. Otherwise I might end up shouting, 'By golly, guv'nor, that Scrooge is a real multi-phasal lexon demon!'" Giles inwardly winced at the horrid accent she had attempted. Even Henry Higgins would cringe at that.
"Speak for yourself. I've barely managed to memorize half of it," Xander bemoaned. "I don't even remember schoolwork following into the next day." He rubbed his face. "I'm going to die. If the demon or whatever doesn't kill me, then the audience is once they realize they've wasted their money on a ticket."
Giles looked over him. He felt something akin to sympathy as he did so—the poor lad was practically trembling. Sighing, he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose in a manner that spoke of determination. "Well then. I suppose there's no other way around it. I'll play the part."
"What!?" they cried in unison—though in varying tones. Buffy's was of panic, Willow's of excitement and Xander's of relief.
"Quite. I know the entire part by heart, anyway. It's rather indoctrinated into my ilk at an early age. At least it used to be. No, there's no other way around it. I'll play the part of Scrooge. We'll tell Snyder you've fallen ill or something. In the meantime, Xander, you'll have to keep an eye out behind the scenes. Buffy, Willow and I will only be available to move so far from the stage." He didn't particularly enjoy the thought of his life being in Xander's hands, but . . . he couldn't exactly allow for him to play the part of the bait when there were so many variables yet either.
Neither, it seemed, did Buffy. "Giles," she said, frowning at him. "This is dangerous. We don't even know what we're up against."
"You know, I can't help but find it slightly offensive that you're less willing with him risking his life than me," Xander pointed out. "Just saying!"
Buffy nudged him. "You're basically a demon magnet, Xander. It was bound to go after you, regardless." Xander scoffed, but nodded. Her gaze returned to her Watcher. "Are you sure?"
The thought of a demon coming after him compounded with stage fright was really quite deterring, but Giles knew this was what he needed to do. He gave a firm nod. "You'll need a costume," Willow pointed out. "You're a bit taller than Xander."
"I have some old clothes lying about. They should suffice," Giles murmured, his tone distracted as he began to think about possible traps or detection spells they could put into place. Hearing the snorting and chuckling, he glanced up to find them giggling amongst each other and eyeing him. "What?"
"Oh nothing," Buffy grinned. "Just . . . somehow it isn't all that difficult to imagine that you would have nineteenth century clothes just lying about. You know, since you're from there." The three started laughing again, making Giles roll his eyes.
"Amusing. They're heirlooms," he sniffed. The fact that the top hat was actually a recent purchase was kept to himself. "Now, be off. We may not know what's coming our way, but that doesn't mean we can't be ready. I want to smuggle an assortment of weapons in the theatre. Mind you don't place them where the layman might pick it up," he added. "Willow, you and I will work on some spells. Something that might give us the edge."
They broke off into pairs—Xander and Buffy booby-trapping the theatre and placing their arsenal hidden places throughout—and Willow and Giles painted runes onto the floor and ceiling of the theatre to hopefully trap—or at the very least sound an alarm—whatever it was that might come after Giles that night. With the theatre prepared and Snyder dealt with, Giles dressed in the costume he was to wear for Scrooge. As he put the top hat on, Buffy came wandered into the makeup room and looked him over.
"Okay, it's scary how British you look right now," she told him.
"I'm not sure whether I should be offended or not," Giles replied, smirking just a little. Truth be told, he was quite nervous. He had a stake concealed up one sleeve. It may not have been a vampire that was after them, but quite a few things could die when impaled through the heart. Or brain. Buffy hesitated, lingering, and he looked back over at her. "Buffy?"
She hesitated again, then moved forward and hugged him. "Don't die, okay? I won't let you. So . . . you don't let yourself either."
Giles was touched by her concern, and he returned her hug. It was almost comical to think of how they had begun. He could hardly tolerate her, and she wanted nothing to do with him. Now, he couldn't imagine his life without his Slayer. "I have my Slayer near. I'm in good hands," he told her warmly. She pulled back and nodded, her brow creased with focused determination. She was ready for the fight ahead . . . whatever it might be.
They parted, Buffy heading out to check in with the others. Giles stared at himself in the mirror. His heart was beating quickly—apprehension looming high. "I need a bloody vacation after this . . . vacation." Fixing his cuffs, he took a few deep breaths, and then headed out backstage. His eyes were peeled, glancing at everyone as he passed. Most were students—fellow actors and some crew. Yet any one of them could be the demon. He nearly jumped when he was touched on the shoulder and had to fight not to squeal in terror.
"You're up in five, Scrooge. Take your place," the backstage manager informed him, nudging him to his waiting mark.
"R-Right," Giles murmured, moving forward. The play was already in progress—the opening scene currently occurring. Giles looked out from between the curtains. All seemed perfectly normal and at ease on stage. Glancing towards the audience, he peered through the blinding spotlights to find a mostly crammed house. Perhaps the demon was among them? There was a nudge on his shoulder again, and the manager counting down until his entry. Once they counted to one and gave him a small push, he was walking out on stage. A strange thrill ran through him as the spotlight washed over him. Right . . . acting . . . he could do that.
Judging by the snores he could hear from the audience, he really could not do this. He knew he should have insisted on the musical version. At least he had some semblance of talent with singing. As the narrator took over, telling the audience that Scrooge slept, waiting for the visit from the next ghost—that of the Present—he laid himself down on the make-shift four poster bed and closed the curtains around him. Staring up at the ceiling, he waited for the lights to be dimmed. It was the closing of the First Act, and once the lights were extinguished, the set had to be moved for the Ghost of Christmas Present to arrive.
Giles sighed lightly, tapping his fingers against his chest irritably. Why weren't the lights going down? Was it a malfunction? He was just about to stick his head out from behind the curtain when he realized . . . the light wasn't coming from outside . . . it was inside of the curtains. The ceiling he had been staring at seemed to dip down, as if it had become liquid and was about to release a drop. Giles froze, pressing himself back against the bed as it drew nearer. Before he could cry out, the form suddenly rushed at him, sending his body right through the bed and down into a trapdoor underneath the stage.
The last thing Giles saw before he blacked out was a face—was it a face?—that he vaguely recognized. It had been the face of the actor playing the Ghost of Christmas Past. Draped all in white, their face had been more-or-less concealed, but he remembered the dark eyes. Giles was pinned to the ground by two strong arms, and then he felt something pierce his head. Crying out in pain, he realized he recognized this pain . . . it had happen to him before . . . years ago when he had been but a student at the Watcher Academy . . .
"Come on. The Highgate Vampire has to be here somewhere," Philip said, leading them through the vacant cemetery. "Does everyone remember the plan?"
"Yes, yes," Lucy replied irritably. "We've only been practicing for months. I'm anxious to have this over with, so we can move onto something different."
Rupert followed after them, his hand clutching the wooden stake in his sweaty palm. He wished he was as confident as the others. He was no stranger to vampires—having a Watcher for a father did that—but he wasn't prepared to tackle one just yet. "J-just remember our form," he stuttered. "We're just students. No one try and play the hero."
"Speak for yourself, Rupert," Charlotte smirked over at him. "We're neck-and-neck in top marks. I'm determined to outdo you tonight." Rupert couldn't help but smile at her. He fancied her a bit . . . her freckles were rather adorable, and she was wicked smart. Perhaps tonight wouldn't be so bad after all. He needed to keep up the competition, after all.
A sudden rustling noise up ahead made them freeze. "Low now," Philip whispered, and they crouched, all of them holding their stakes out as if that alone would keep them safe. They crept forward as quietly as they could, peering over a long tombstone to see a figure in a trench coat bent over what looked like a woman dressed in black—a mourner. "Okay," he turned back to them. "Remember the plan. Giles and Lucy toss Holy Water bombs at it to disorient it. Charlotte, you and I will rush forward and stake it whilst it's in pain. Ready?"
Giles produced his perfectly crafted holy water bomb and nodded. They took their places, and at Philip's nod, he and Lucy tossed their bombs. They splashed all over the figure, but did . . . nothing. The students froze—confused. The figure dropped its victim and turned toward them. The hood of the coat fell back, revealing dark eyes and a long proboscis that was dripping with blood.
"What is that!?" Lucy exclaimed, stepping back.
Giles had never seen it before in any of the texts they'd read thus far. The others seemed just as flabbergasted. In a flash, the creature had jumped from its spot and was suddenly snatching Philip up their hiding spot and piercing its proboscis through his skull. Philip's eyes rolled back, but he otherwise made no other sound. The others, however, did. Lucy shrieked, making the creature lash out and claw her throat out in one swipe with its razor-sharp claws. Lucy fell to the ground—dead.
Giles and Charlotte scrambled to their feet and ran back towards the entrance where the Watchers they had traveled with were waiting. His father was among them. His heart was racing in terror, his hand clasped tightly to Charlotte's. "GILES!" she suddenly squealed, and he felt her hand pulled from his grasp. Giles turned to find the creature had tackled her to the ground. In horror—and heartbreak—he watched the creature snap her neck before launching at him. Giles didn't stand a chance. He fell onto the grass, hitting his head against a tombstone that had him seeing stars. He was vaguely aware of a piercing pain in his forehead . . . and then blackness . . . screams . . .
Screams . . . jostling . . . Giles slowly blinked, consciousness crawling back into his brain. His head was aching horribly, and he felt as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him. It was dark and . . . fuzzy. Where were his glasses? "GILES!" he heard shouted somewhere above. "GILES GET UP!" Was that Buffy? As he became more aware of his surroundings, he also heard the sounds of fighting and grunting. Opening his eyes completely, he found himself lying on his back on the ground. They were underneath the stage, only a few lights on around them.
Yet, he could see Buffy struggling with . . . "No," he breathed when he realized what she was fighting. Of course. It all made sense. A Lorophage Demon. Buffy was struggling against it. She kept ducking as the demon slice at her with its claws. Willow was tossing weapons over to Buffy left-and-right. Xander was on the ground, seemingly knocked unconscious. Giles got to his feet and blinked back the pain in his head. His Slayer needed him—Lorophage Demons were practically impossible to kill.
"Keep it occupied, Buffy!" he called to her, rushing to Willow who was preparing some sort of harpoon gun. Where had she gotten that? He didn't know he had a harpoon.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK I'VE BEEN DOING!?" Buffy called back. "I wasn't the one napping!"
Giles scoffed. "I was rather knocked out!" He took the large spike from Willow's harpoon gun and turned toward them.
"That's what you always say!" Buffy shouted back, struggling against the demon as it tried to use its proboscis to pierce through her head.
Giles charged towards them, harpoon spike in his hands. "GET BACK, BUFFY!" The Slayer braced her feet against the demon's chest, then used the grip on it to shove herself back out of the demon's arms—jumping backwards and landing on her feet just as Giles shoved the harpoon spike through the Lorophage's skull. The demon shuddered, blood oozing from the wound. Giles groaned and wrenched it further in. Buffy rushed back to them and grabbed the spike on her end, yanking it through the Lorophage's head and then piercing it through the chest. Giles jumped back as the spike came through the demon's back. "Bloody hell."
The demon sank to its knees before falling to the floor—dead. Giles stumbled back, breathing heavily as the adrenaline worked its way through him. "What . . . what happened?" he asked, looking back at them. Willow was helping Xander up, who was looking just as confused as Giles felt.
"Xander heard the commotion and rushed down here. He saw the demon over you and tackled him. He shouted loud enough for us to hear and we hurried down. We weren't sure if you were still alive," Buffy explained.
"You were seizing while that thing was . . . doing whatever it was doing to you," Xander said. "Hopefully not laying eggs. That sounds horrible."
Giles lightly brushed his forehead, fingers gingerly touching the sore spot in the middle of his head. "Not laying eggs . . . feeding." He shuddered. "This isn't my first time with a demon of this kind. It's a Lorophage Demon . . . Ancient and rare." He looked down at the corpse of the one they had fought. It was still draped in the white cloak that had been serving as the Ghost of Christmas Past's costume. "I first came across one when I was at the Academy. A group of students and myself were sent out to hunt it. The Council believed it was just a pesky vampire. They were mistaken, and everyone but myself was killed because of it." Giles frowned—the memories quite fresh. He felt the grief now that he had then over the deaths of his fellow classmates—of Charlotte.
"The Lorophage feeds on traumatic memories. They pierce the mind and make you relive those memories. Most are driven mad and killed . . . My father and two other Watchers saved me. Now it seems my life is saved again by the three of you. You have my thanks. At least I haven't been driven mad . . . so far, anyway," he added with a shrug. His head was sure aching though. "It's clear that this demon found the perfect guise as taking the place of the Ghost of Christmas Past. Little lines. Long cloak. It was likely drawn to the character of Scrooge precisely because of the traumatic memories in his past." Giles noticed, suddenly, that something seemed a little . . . off. "Does um . . . anyone know where my glasses are?"
"Is that why you're talking to the wall?" Buffy asked, touching his arm and holding out his glasses to him. Giles grunted and put his glasses on the bridge of his nose. At least he had been able to see enough to drive the spike where it needed to hit . . . even if he had been aiming for the demon's chest. No one needed to know that though.
"Well," Giles fixed his collar. "I suppose we ought to head back up there. My audience awaits."
"Oh . . . about that," Willow eyed the others, "they-um . . . all left. During intermission. So. The play has been cancelled."
"What!? Why!?" Giles exclaimed.
"Ummmm. They wanted to be home with their families?" Willow said in a tone that was far from convincing.
Giles frowned heavily. Surely his performance hadn't been that terrible! "Giles, buddy," Xander wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "let's just say you're not getting that Tony either."
"Ba—" Giles grunted, "humbug."