“Spike! You said you’d help!”
Spike blinked and looked around. He was on a familiar back porch, the cigarette in his hand burned nearly down to the filter. He looked over his shoulder to see Dawn, hands on hips, lips pursed. She had on an apron and smears of what looked like flour on her forehead. Aside from the mild irritation she was directing his way, everything else in the vicinity seemed peaceful. There was no sign of a cast on her arm, so already things were looking up. Whatever trouble his wish had landed him in, it didn’t look like much else had changed, except for his presence here at the Slayer’s hallowed homestead.
“Yeah? Aim to. Help with what, exactly?”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. C’mon, already.” She turned and flounced into the kitchen. Spike rose and followed. The kitchen was clearly in the middle of a campaign of some complexity. The sink was piled high with bowls, the counters strewn with racks and pans and still more bowls.
“Is the red the right color?” Dawn said, holding a bowl up for his inspection.
“Right color for what?” asked Spike, looking at the bright substance inside.
“The blood of the innocent! Jeez, you’re really being slow. Did you hit your head on patrol last night or something?”
He glared at her and got the patented Summers glare in return. After a moment, Dawn sighed.
“Okay, from the top. We’re making cookies. You said you’d help decorate if we made gingerbreadmanpires. So, I made frosting for the dripping fangs. Is it alright?”
There was a slight line between her smooth brows. He shifted his gaze away from her anxious face to examine the frosting carefully, and to give himself time to change gears. Doing things like this with Dawn wasn’t entirely new — it was just since Buffy was back that he had fallen out of the habit.
“Looks perfect, Bit. Does Buffy know about this?” He felt obligated to ask, his eyes sweeping over the entire kitchen disaster. “Where is the Slayer, anyway?”
“Spike! This was Buffy’s idea. I think she wanted to get out of doing it with me. So she’s out shopping with Willow and Tara. Are you okay?”
“Was letting my mind wander, just now.” He gestured with his thumb toward the back door, then let his hands drop. “So, how does this work, exactly?”
+++
Spike, the Big Bad, was grinning. Dawn was giggling. The kitchen was, if anything, even more of a wreck than when they’d started. Some of the cookies had frosting wounds on their necks, their mouths shaped in round “Os” of surprise. Others grinned widely, frosting blood droplets dotting their chins and Santa hats set jauntily on their gingerbread heads.
They paused when they heard the front door open, the chatter of the women returning home drifting through the house. The rustling of bags was testament to a successful outing.
“We’re back!” Buffy called. “How’d it go?” She poked her head in the kitchen doorway, eyes going wide at the mess. “Pretty well, looks like. I’m going to put stuff away. I’ll be down to start the cocoa in a bit, IF I can get to the stove.” She gave a pointed look at the two of them and disappeared again.
Spike and Dawn shared conspiratorial smiles, only slightly tinged with guilt.
“All right, ‘spose we can tidy a bit. We’ve had our fun, yeah?”
“Okay,” said Dawn. She started putting the cookies onto a serving plate and packing the extras away. Spike tried to clear some space, eyeing the sink with trepidation. Somehow, they brought enough order to things that Buffy managed a small smile when she returned and busied herself at the stove. Spike turned to the sink, endeavoring to keep his hands busy and off of Buffy. That was one drawback to this whole domestic bliss lark: pint-sized chaperones.
Buffy slipped by him on her way to the refrigerator, pausing to place a hand on his arm. “Thanks,” she said, giving it a squeeze. He stared after her, feeling the lingering impression of her fingers like electricity. Almost more shocking was the easy gratitude of her words. Well, word.
Tara and Willow popped in, coats still on.
“Have a nice night, you guys!” said Willow. “We’ll be back later. With gelt. My dreidel skills may have gotten rusty in the past year, but I think I can still rustle up a good enough haul.”
Buffy paused in her labors. “Oooh. Chocolate money. That’s the best kind.” she said.
“Definitely,” agreed Dawn with a nod.
“We’ll try not to eat too many latkes this year,” added Tara, looking at Willow with mock severity.
While Spike was still marveling at being somehow included in the friendly “you guys”, or at least not excluded, the girls waved and left.
Buffy shut off the stovetop. Dawn loaded up a festively painted tray with cookies and mugs of steaming cocoa and made puppy eyes at Spike until he carried it into the living room. The tree was strung with lights, but could still use some trimming.
“Spike, would you please put on some music? What do you think, Dawn, Nat King Cole?”
Spike opened his mouth to object, but was preempted by two stern faces. He shrugged. After spending the evening decorating cookies and looking forward to quaffing hot chocolate, he could hardly draw the line at “The Christmas Song”. He did as he was bid.
Then he watched from his sprawl on the couch — with his cocoa — as Dawn and Buffy unpacked ornaments and discussed their proper placement on the tree. He was trying to focus on working out just what his inadvertent wish had wrought, but it wasn’t easy. There was bound to be some sort of Monkey’s Paw-type poison pill someplace, but so far he hadn’t found it. Just the opposite. He felt as excited as he always did when he was around Buffy, but there was an added, alien emotion. There was...warmth, and a sort of, well, contentment. If he had any brains at all, he’d be terrified.
“We haven’t had the angel up there in five years!” exclaimed Dawn, brandishing a nine-inch tall, trumpet-blowing figurine.
“I thought maybe we could do something different this year,” said Buffy. “Something new.” She produced a slender box and took out a blown glass spire, crystalline and colorful. She cast a shy glance toward the couch.
“Is that a spike?” asked Dawn, incredulous. “You’re even more ridiculous than he is, you know that, right?”
“What’s this, now?” asked Spike, suddenly acutely interested in their discussion.
“It’s not a spike! It’s a, a…” Buffy peered at it more closely. “Oh my god. Well, okay, yes. I guess it is a spike. Technically.” She shot an irritated look at Spike. “Don’t get excited. I just thought it was pretty. Don’t you like it?” she asked Dawn.
“No, it’s nice. I just don’t want you to think you’re fooling anybody, that’s all. And you’re right, we should do something different.”
As Spike placed the new topper on the Summers’ tree, he thought this was surely the moment when it would all turn to ash.
But it wasn’t.