Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: AtS Season 3, BtVS Season 6. The December following Nightingale. However, it’s not necessary to have read Nightingale to follow this fic.
Summary: Having been abandoned by his friends, Wesley finds himself alone for the holidays, haunted by the face of the woman he can’t have. Two days before Christmas, he runs into an old friend and her mate, who are similarly in need of a haven from those they called family.

With a vain grumble, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce pushed his cart toward the grocery store. Were it any other town, he would have sworn it was about to snow. The weather was unexpectedly chilly—reminiscent of a Christmas he barely remembered when the skies had opened to pour a miracle over a hellmouth.

There would be no miracle tonight. He was beyond believing in saving grace. In the inherent goodness of humanity, even if humanity came packaged with fangs. It was simply cold. Strange, yes, but not deserving of a miracle.

It wasn’t as though a miracle would help him now, as lost as he was.

Wesley released a deep sigh and shook his head. Thoughts like that would get him nowhere. Thoughts reminding him where he’d been twelve months earlier—reminding him of a small agency developed in retaliation to Angel’s hasty dismissal of all his friends. Angel’s willful descent into madness that was somehow more acceptable than Wesley’s human conscience simply for the difference of a pulse. After all, as Kate had told him before she left town, Angel had killed out of apathy. Angel had killed for revenge.

Angel had killed. Wesley knew what that meant. He knew well what Angel was capable of. Of course he did. He might not have been the Council’s most brilliant Watcher, but time collected experience. He had aged so much so quickly. Barely thirty-four, and he already felt like an old man.

How much had changed in a year. In six months. In a week.

Inside the supermarket, he brushed imaginary snowflakes off his jacket and started the lonely journey up and down various aisles. He didn’t want to be out too long, and seeing as he was making Christmas dinner for one, there wasn’t much he needed. A prepared turkey, some canned vegetables, and enough liquor to make sure he remembered nothing of the season once the new year hit.

Enough to make him forget that he didn’t want to be alone, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Over the speakers, various seasonal tunes haunted the store. He could remember the glee he used to feel as a child during the holidays, and even a few years ago. A season filled with warmth and care, even when his friends were numbered. Now, though, the feeling had abandoned him, leaving only emptiness.

‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. From now on our troubles will be out of sight…’

Wesley closed his eyes briefly as though pained, and took leave down a row of canned goods. His throat burned, the fading scar roughened into his skin. The inner voice of reason that told him all would be made easier if he excluded all but the Jack Daniels was promptly ignored. A man of reason, he knew, somewhere, that he could not survive on alcohol alone.

‘Here we are as in olden days. Happy golden days of your faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more…’

Wesley stopped abruptly, attacked by the sudden urge to drop everything and return home for simple lack of caring. After all, there was plenty of time left for shopping. Tomorrow, he could rely on those few scattered restaurants around his apartment. There had to be a McDonalds somewhere in a city this large.

That thought alone persuaded him to continue.

‘Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow. Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow…’

Then, his façade fell. Nothing climactic or note-worthy, as most changes of mind occur without any need of forethought, rather incessant prompting. Wesley rushed through the store at lightening speed. Though the song was nearly over, he knew one just as bad would follow. Even the classy opening of chestnuts roasting on an open fire was unwelcome tonight. A continuous reminder of those that had abandoned him when he needed them the most.

Of the woman that likely hated him now. The girl he had lost to his best friend.

He didn’t want to think of her tonight. Her or any of his former family. It hurt too much.

Naturally, his mind had other ideas. Once started down memory lane, there was nothing to do but see the path through to completion. The unrelenting pain in her eyes would be something he’d never forget. Of all of them. However, of all his former family, she was the one that looked the most wounded. The most betrayed. As though the ideal of him had been shattered, and some distant dream she’d always clung to was formally destroyed.

He didn’t want to think about it. It was Christmastime, and though his seasonal attitude was far from cheery, he didn’t need any boosters with reminders of the past—of his numerous faults and mistakes. What he desperately wished to change, but couldn’t. What he could trade in for two-cent ethics and human incorruptibility.

Wesley wanted to forget. He didn’t want the power to disturb the universe—had no real use for it. To hurt those he loved? To feel this hurt in return? To look in her eyes and know he had caused her pain? Fred was his deepest care. She had found herself caught in the crossfire between two great powers: the want of good and the want of truth. She wanted to believe in him. Angel didn’t. Angel wanted to think the worst. And though it was Angel who deserved his sorrow, he felt it was Fred that he had betrayed.

Angel thought nothing of his struggle to cope with the power he’d been handed. The power to disturb the universe.

That was it. No more. He couldn’t stand it. Forgetting his shopping list, Wesley made a beeline for the front of the store. Over the speakers, Andrea Bocelli was belting out ‘O Holy Night’ in painful perfection. Though it was nothing to remind him of his family, in his state of vulnerability, he feared suffering any sort of epiphany would drive him to Angel’s doorstep, begging for forgiveness. The last thing he needed was to be consumed with further guilt.

The shopping cart was bare; the grocery list abandoned. Christmas was the most miserably lonely time of the year for those on the outside. Those who had nothing more to lose.

He sniggered dryly to himself. You cannot take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal—except my life—except my life—except my life.

Jack Daniels was the only thing he needed.

He watched impatiently as the teller rang up the bottle. Watched his purchase disappear into a single sack. Wesley wondered ashamedly how far in the parking lot he could get before tearing the alcohol free and liberating it down his throat. Sensibility, however, overruled him. Getting stopped for public drunkenness wasn’t exactly a lifetime goal he was striving for. No, he was definitely smart enough not to get clumsy with his liquor.

The cashier reported the total and Wesley handed over his credit card, ignoring the voice that chanted: this is how good people get impoverished. So many lost souls that squandered everything on booze and quick fixes. It was easy to say it would never happen to him. Of course. It could never happen to him.

He was such a cosmic joke.

Wesley managed to brush past the paperboy. He even managed to regroup his cart with the others, scolding himself for pushing it around without reason. However, before he could reach the door, he felt a tug on his jacket sleeve, and slowly turned around. He was too tired to be irritated at the interruption, and too immersed in thought to really consider who might find it imperative to speak to him seconds before his leave. At this point, it no longer seemed to matter.

Though for everything in the world, Wesley was hardly prepared for such a blatant shock.

“Buffy!”

God, she looked all grown up. Long gone was the girl he had attempted to control during his brief stint as a watcher in Sunnydale, replaced instead with a young woman looking at him with eyes as old as he felt. She smiled, warming him with her inherent radiance, but striking him as worn and suffered—the face of someone who had crawled from the pits of hell and was a better person for it. Her eyes spoke of generations burdened with the curse of living, though her gaze was shielded with wisdom and even happiness that he had never known her to possess. Never.

Beside her was a man he had never seen, though knew without relying on the formality of introductions. A man depicted in a number of ancient texts, usually as a postscript to Angelus’s colorful career. For more on William the Bloody, see page such-n-such. But God, there he was. Not the monster Wesley had always envisioned. A man. A man just the same as himself. A man he would never accuse of being a vampire had he been none the wiser. Even William’s paleness seemed natural on him.

Perhaps it was the eyes. William the Bloody didn’t have the eyes of a murderer.

Buffy took his hand and squeezed. “How are you, Wes?”

“I—I’m…” He broke off with an awkward laugh and shook his head. “Exceedingly surprised to see you here. Good Lord, it’s been…how many years?”

“Three,” she said with a short, non-committal nod. “Three years since I graduated.”

Three years. Had it truly only been three years? Quite possibly—the man that had worn his body to face the Ascension no longer existed. All that was left of him was an empty shell of idealism. How tired and old he must look to her. How aged. How thoroughly hollow.

“You look lovely,” he told her.

“Thank you. You look definitely…less nerdy.” She flashed a grin and turned to William the Bloody, lacing her fingers through his. “Wes, I don’t think you’ve met my boyfriend, Spike, have you?”

Boyfriend? The world’s most infamous slayer kept dating vampires. Wesley couldn’t help himself; he chuckled.

Spike arched a cool brow in turn. “Somethin’ funny, mate?”

“No, not at all,” he answered. “I am…well…I suppose I just find it ironic.” He smiled, turning to Buffy. “I hadn’t realized you were…what I mean to say is, I didn’t—”

She arched a brow. “You’re surprised to see me with a vampire?”

Strangely, no he wasn’t. “Not exactly.”

“It’s not like that. Spike and I are actually…”

“We’re mated,” the platinum blond said for no reason whatsoever, except to guard the young woman from a dance around the truth. The vampire’s hindsight was not lost on Wesley. There was a flicker in his eyes that he identified almost immediately. A sense of territorial protection—an impending knowledge of the more likely disapproval that came with certain revelations. In that instant, they knew each other. “We’re…Buffy asked me to claim her, an’ I did.”

Well, that was certainly stunning. Wesley stared for a minute, then shook his head and extended a hand diplomatically, his mind racing to process that disclosure.

A slayer mated to a vampire? Has that ever happened before?

He needed a second to collect his thoughts. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.” He was half-surprised when Spike accepted the gesture. From everything he had heard of the vampire, he expected blatant defiance at any attempt at civility. Angel’s tales had always been inflammatory but Wesley had never known him to exaggerate to such extensions.

Perhaps he didn’t know his former ally as well as he’d thought.

“Pleased to meet you,” he continued politely. “I always forget that you go by Spike.”

The vampire smirked. “’S a watcher conspiracy, I reckon. Know of only one book that has me down by my nickname.”

“That’s because it’s a lame nickname,” Buffy murmured playfully.

“Watch it, pet. You’re not one to talk.”

Wesley offered a heartfelt, albeit humorless smile. “I apologize…the watcher in me is slightly…you’re mated?”

Buffy stiffened perceptively. Spike held up a hand. This was obviously a tender subject, considering how ‘open and proud’ the couple seemed to be. “Don’ need to be interrogated right now, mate. We left Sunnyhell to get away from all that.”

“I assure you, I’m the last person in the world to interrogate anyone. Call it mere curiosity.”

The vampire was obviously not so easily sweet-talked, and Wesley knew immediately that it was to his advantage that Buffy wasn’t nearly as defensive. She placed a hand on her mate’s arm and smiled warmly. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Wes…well, I think your days of calling the Council at a drop of the pin are over…if rumor and, well, your appearance has anything to say about it.”

He smiled grimly. “I see word still travels fairly well. Did Cordelia call you?”

“What?” The Slayer frowned. “No, I…I just meant, since you work with Angel, I thought maybe you—”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Work with Angel. Not anymore.”

“Good on you,” Spike said appraisingly. “Get away from that masochistic wanker while you can.”

Buffy didn’t look nearly as impressed. Rather, the territorial protectiveness that had previously sparked the vampire’s eyes had befallen her countenance entirely. She squeezed her mate’s hand and seared Wesley with a sharp look. “It’s not because you called the Council on him, is it?”

Oh, Buffy. If only my life were that simple.

“No.” He glanced to Spike. “I assure you, your companion is perfectly safe in my company.”

As long as you don’t have any children, and a revived vampire hunter with a grudge on the hunt.

“This isn’t the place for this,” Wesley said, noting that the grocery store around them. “Can I invite you two for a cup of tea? I haven’t eaten yet…if you’re really that interested, I’ll tell you everything…that way, when you see Angel, you’ll know why—”

“See Angel?” Buffy repeated skeptically. “Wes, we’re not here to see Angel.”

“Bloody right. You have any idea how fast he’d be to phone up Rupert, tell him where we are, an’ have the merry brigade bust up our holiday?” Spike squeezed Buffy’s hand. “As I said, we’re here to get away from that rot.”

Wesley blinked. That was certainly unexpected. “Oh…I see. I’m sorry, I just assumed—”

“The Scoobies wouldn’t think to look for us here,” the Slayer explained.

“I don’t quite understand…I never thought…”

Buffy and Spike traded an uneasy glance. The vampire smiled at her and squeezed her hand once more. She nodded, and they had reached an understanding. There. Right there. Without a word between them, something had occurred. The exchange fascinated Wesley. He had never known a mated vampire—the concept was so novel in modern days that the Council had, a time or two, debated marking the ritual as either no longer in practice or fabled altogether. But something had happened. The bond between them was so palpable, he could nearly see it.

“Why don’ we take you up on that cup of tea?” Spike asked, concluding his wordless conversation with his mate. “I think the lady needs a friendly face besides yours truly.”

Wesley nodded numbly. “Yes. Oh, yes. Of course.”

“We’ll take the Desoto.”

He nodded again, hardly believing what he was agreeing to. A drink with William the Bloody and Buffy, the Slayer untouched by time. He felt as though he had stepped into a forgotten memory; a rewrite of history with an ending much more pleasing to the masses.

He supposed there were stranger things, and he knew that said stranger things had happened to him. But for the life of him, as he turned to follow the couple into the parking lot, he couldn’t remember a single one.

They parked the Desoto in an underground garage for Buffy’s desire to walk. That was more than fine with Wesley. The car was constrictive, and he felt pressed for conversation that, from nowhere, seemed awkward. Walking provided time to think without the pressures of discussion. Walking provided the hope that the night would continue like this in the company of friends, and he could avoid returning to his empty apartment just a little while longer.

There were times when Wesley was certain that his life was so embedded in obscurity that mainstream culture, even if it was blatantly flashed in his face, went completely unnoticed. Thus he did a double take when Buffy tugged on Spike’s sleeve and noted that the allure of flavored coffee was now in control of her motor skills.

The look that had overwhelmed the vampire’s eyes sent a sharp, bittersweet pang to Wesley’s heart. Spike thoroughly adored her. Every time she touched him, or even shot a look in his direction, the hard façade he vainly attempted to emanate would melt, and he was completely at her mercy.

“You don’t mind, do you, Wes?” she asked as her mate held open the door for her. “I know there’s not much to eat here…ooh, but they have cookies! And…popcorn…there has to be a deli around here somewhere.”

He held up a hand and smiled kindly. “I’m sure a muffin will suffice,” he said. “Really, that does smell wonderful.”

Buffy nodded enthusiastically. “You should try their white chocolate mocha. Seriously? To die for.”

“She’s not kiddin’, mate. I’ve seen her decapitate trylok demons to score a free cup.”

Wesley’s eyes went wide. “Good Lord.”

Spike nodded. “Bloody brilliant with an axe, she is.”

“They have Starbucks in Sunnydale?”

Buffy laughed at the expression that crossed her vampire’s face and shook her head dismally. “No. They have a wannabe-Starbucks that serves decent mochas. Nothing like the real thing, though.”

Wesley smiled as he followed the couple inside, the rich aroma of coffee slamming him head-on rather than hiding behind veiled whiffs of temptation. It filled him with warmth and reminded him of mornings in England, watching his mother prepare breakfast for his father before the old man went off to work.

He watched Buffy approach the counter, her face barely concealing her childlike glee as she surveyed the menu. It amazed him that something so small could provide such pleasure, but at the same time, her demeanor inspired him with hope. Perhaps times weren’t as jaded as they seemed.

There was so much love between them, Wesley reflected. The casual touches, the secret glances, the way they naturally leaned into one another, as though they weren’t complete without the other’s reassuring presence. None of it made sense to him, and he would be the first to admit it. And yet, the ends, in this case, even without knowing the particulars, seemed to justify the means. There was fight left in both their auras—something so palpable, even he could see it. Then again, they made no attempt to mask how protective they were over each other. Spike had immediately leapt to Buffy’s defense earlier, though she wasn’t being perceptively attacked. He had simply heard something that reminded him of something else, and had acted accordingly to protect his mate.

It didn’t seem to matter why they were together; Wesley most certainly was not one to judge. Something had simply happened to bring them to such a point, and he was willing to bet all the money in his pockets that it hadn’t been easy.

Wesley knew Rupert Giles better than anyone would ever give him credit. The fact that the world’s most notorious slayer had mated with an unsouled vampire had likely crushed the man to the point of doing something remarkably foolish, like disown his surrogate daughter—or hurt her to the point where she felt she had to runaway.

But Spike loved her. Anyone who looked at him would know that. And Wesley felt absolutely no compulsion to object or intervene with the happiness of a man who had the woman he loved by his side.

“I think I want a chocolate chip cookie,” Buffy said thoughtfully, as though she was pondering aerodynamics.

Spike rubbed her back lovingly. “With big chocolate chips?” he asked.

She smirked at him, but nodded all the same. “The biggest, baby.”

Funny how standing behind them suddenly transformed into the awkward sensation of interrupting a private moment. Wesley glanced down and cleared his throat, though the look the vampire tossed him over his shoulder spoke clearly for his intent.

“Whaddya want, mate?” he asked, politely dispelling the discomfort running rampant through the former Watcher’s body. He found it mildly amusing that a vampire would do anything with the mindset of causing another person comfort, but the look in Spike’s eyes was warm and sincere, despite the inherent wickedness that no amount of good intentions could ever eradicate.

Wesley waved a hand. “Oh, no, don’t worry about me. I’ll—”

“I don’. The lady, though…she has a heart of gold.”

Buffy scowled and elbowed him. “Spike!”

“What? I jus’ paid you a compliment, luv.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wes, we’ll be happy to get you anything you want…but if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“Since when do people get uncomfortable off the charity of others?” her mate demanded, genuinely perplexed.

“Says he whose list of worldly possessions includes things that Giles hasn’t known to report missing.”

Spike shrugged, unbothered. “Like the git ever used his bloody telly, anyway.”

Wesley smiled thinly to himself. “Thank you for the offer, but I just want a cup of coffee and an English muffin.”

“Let’s hope they have that.”

“I thought you wanted tea,” Buffy observed.

“Well, that alluring scent in the air has temporarily possessed my better senses.” He reached for his wallet and withdrew his charge card. “Here. It’s on me.”

“Wes, you don’t—”

Spike plucked the plastic from his fingers and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Spike!”

“What? I’m bein’ comfortable with charity.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and muttered something that only her mate caught, at which point, the vampire leaned inward and murmured lowly into her ear, causing her to both blush and giggle, and washed any hint of tension off her body.

“You’re a lucky man, Spike,” Wesley said, taking a step beside him.

The vampire shot him a look. “You think I don’ know that?”

A pale smile tickled his lips. “No. I think you know exactly what you have.”

He nodded. “An’ then some.”

“Quite.”

Buffy turned around and flashed them both a smile. “I’m gonna go find a place to sit.”

“Yeh,” Spike agreed with a nod. He waited until she was gone before turning back to Wesley. “So, what’s the story?”

A blink. “Pardon?”

“Come on. ‘S Christmas an’ your best friend’s a bottle.” Wesley froze. The vampire’s brows perked. “What? You think I din’t catch that?”

“No, I just thought you had more tact.”

“’m evil, remember?”

The former Watcher snickered quietly. “Oh yes. I remember.”

“Yeh? Good. What’s the story?”

Their order was called the next second. Wesley released a deep sigh and held up a hand as they moved toward the pick-up counter. “Let’s wait until we sit,” he said. “I’d prefer to just go over this once.”

Then the two of you can decide if I’m worthy of holiday company.

The thought chilled his insides. What if he wasn’t the sort of person that deserved to be among friends over the holidays? What if his crime against Angel was so heinous that even the soulless vampire turned his back on him? The look in Fred’s eyes flashed across his mind, unbidden and unwanted, and a pang struck his heart.

Oh well. What was done was done. He wouldn’t pretty up the truth. He wouldn’t attempt to win them over with exaggerated tales of the horrors he’d faced. He’d tell it exactly as it had happened. To him, anyway, that was horrible enough.

Wesley released a deep breath as he sat down across from the happy couple, ignoring the confused look that Buffy flashed in his direction. The look disappeared the next second; she glanced to Spike and noted, “You asked him, didn’t you?”

“You weren’ around to stop me,” he replied rationally.

The former Watcher offered a tired smile. “It’s quite all right,” he said. “If you’re going to be seen with me, you deserve to know the truth.”

Spike arched a brow. “What? Did you rob a bank?”

“If only it were so simple,” Wesley retorted with a dry chuckle. “No…it’s…much worse, I fear. I kidnapped Angel’s son…and allowed him to be stolen by his worst enemy.”

The next few seconds were lost to another world. The restaurant fell silent as the words rolled off his tongue. Once more, he felt his body numb with detachment, felt himself float away even as he physically remained across from them. He preferred to watch their horror and rejection from a distance—impersonal—so the kinship that had filled him with hope would die without ceremony. At the very least, he deserved that. To allow his hopes a quiet death.

Quiet.

“What the hell?” Buffy demanded, eyes wide.

“Yes, I know. I’ll just—”

“Angel has a kid? Angel has a kid…when…how…?” She turned to her mate. “What the hell?”

The look on the vampire’s face reflected more of the same. “I am right there with you, pet.”

Wesley paused awkwardly. “You didn’t know that…Angel had a son?” Then it hit him, and he froze in horror. “Oh God, forgive me…of course you didn’t know.”

Buffy offered a kind smile and sipped at her latte, thoroughly unbothered. “It’s okay. I mean, come on. How often do you hear the excuse, ‘Yeah, I would’ve gotten that memo if I hadn’t been all dead.’”

“Well, actually, he didn’t learn about it until…” The former Watcher paused appropriately when he caught the look on the vampire’s face. “Ummm…never mind. I should have…I was thinking that…”

“What? I’d wig about Angel having a kid and not being there to play Mom? Hardly. Wes, I’d be perfectly happy to not see Angel ever again…he…” She glanced to Spike, who smiled supportively. “I know when he came to see…my friends after I died…he didn’t treat…Spike very nicely.”

“Oh.” Wesley’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right.” It wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to press. Spike raised Buffy’s hand to his mouth and caressed her skin with a kiss. “Now,” she said, clearing her throat. “What’s this about Angel’s freak baby?”

A pang struck his heart. “He wasn’t a…he wasn’t abnormal. He was…Connor was perfect.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Figures.”

“What?”

“Angel would have a perfect baby…named Connor, of all things Irish.”

“Did he adopt?” Buffy asked. “And…why? It’s not like he was bursting with free time to begin with.”

Wesley shook his head. “The baby was his.”

“How?”

“There was a prophecy.”

“There’s always a bloody prophecy,” the Slayer’s mate remarked snidely.

“The vampire with a soul will have a child,” the former Watcher concluded.

Spike’s eyes flickered mischievously. “Wes…please tell me Angel had to give birth.”

Buffy laughed and playfully slapped her mate’s arm.

“What?”

“He’s a guy, honey.”

“He’s also a vamp, luv. You sayin’ the Powers can’t give the man a workin’ uterus to fulfill their prophecy?”

It was about this time that Wesley realized he was having difficulty breathing from laughing so hard. He slapped his hand over his mouth as his body dissolved in tremors. He couldn’t help it—the damage was done. The image of Angel with a protruding, pregnant belly was simply too much, and he collapsed entirely to the bounds of hilarity. It felt good; God, it felt so good to laugh again. To laugh so richly. To find something genuine to laugh at—something beyond the sad means of his miserable life.

When he came back to himself, Buffy was watching him with a mixture of amusement and relief. She cast a proud glance to her mate and shook her head incredulously. “Show off,” she grumbled.

Wesley blinked, coming back to himself. “What?”

“I got you to laugh,” Spike observed.

“No, my friend, it was the mental image of Angel’s water breaking that did the trick.”

Buffy giggled and shook her head. “Oh God, that’s terrible.”

“Hilarious,” her mate corrected. “So if the wanker din’t give birth to a critter himself, who’s the mum?”

“She’s dead,” the former Watcher explained, his expression growing somber. “It was Darla.”

Buffy froze. “Darla?”

“She was brought back two years ago.”

Spike nodded. “Knew about that.”

The Slayer turned to him, eyes wide. “You what?”

He frowned and paused, then glanced down sheepishly as a wave of recollection washed over him. “When…Dru came back last year, she mentioned that Darla was out annoyin’ again. Din’t figure Angel’d be in line to shag that train wreck the second time through, but beggars can’t be choosers, I s’pose.”

Buffy bit her lip and glanced back to Wesley. “And you kidnapped this child?”

Ah, it was back to that, then. A journey back to the reality he loathed so much. He released a deep breath and glanced down, the cold fingers of his self-actualization returning with a vengeance, grabbing his heart in a grim reminder that his life was literally at the mercy of his darker demons. “I kidnapped Connor,” he said softly. “Yes. After…after Connor was born…we didn’t know what he was, or why he was with us. There wasn’t much time to…to research the birth by the time Darla showed up, pregnant and attacking everyone with an operating jugular. So after the baby was born, we began our research.”

“How was the baby born in the firs’ place?” Spike asked, arching a brow coolly. “Vamps bodies aren’ living vessels. Did the Powers give her a pulse for bein’ a good sport about it?”

“Hardly. No…Darla dusted herself. She couldn’t give birth, as you said, because her body was dead. The baby was going to die. It was her or Connor—she chose.”

Spike didn’t looked convinced. “My grandmother once snapped a newborn’s neck ‘cause she didn’t like the way it looked,” he said skeptically. “You can’t bloody well tell me that she wasn’—”

Wesley held up a hand and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself. Darla and her son shared a soul while he was in her stomach, and that allowed her to feel empathy, which eventually led to her staking herself for the sake of the baby. She knew that if she had the child any other way…there was a mystical field around her stomach in order to protect the baby, but that unfortunately ruled out a cesarean section. There was no choice in the matter…and Darla understood that once the baby was born, if she was still around, she would attempt to destroy it.”

“So she killed herself,” Buffy summarized needlessly.

“Yes.”

“And you stole the baby.”

“After much research,” he corrected, eyes narrowing. “I found a prophecy that read…that said Angel was going to kill the child. I didn’t believe it right off…and now, after the fact, I know I shouldn’t have believed it at all. But I did, and there’s nothing I can say about it now. Holtz stole the child from me and disappeared into Quortoth and there is nothing more to it than that.”

Spike’s eyes bulged. “Holtz?”

“Yes.”

“Lawyer wankers brought back Holtz?”

“No. He came back as a random player. Surprised Wolfram and Hart almost as much as he surprised us.”

“Who’s Holtz?” Buffy demanded.

“Vampire hunter. Nasty grudge. Before my time, pet, but Darla an’ Peaches always bragged about the number they pulled on his family.” Spike shook his head. “Bleeding hell. No wonder…” He nodded at Wesley. “Holtz do that to you, then?”

“What?”

“Your throat, mate. The scar.”

Buffy froze and turned bright red. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” She slapped her mate across the arm. “He has the tact of Anya in heat.”

Wesley quirked a brow. “That’s quite…what?”

“What happened, mate?”

He fingered his scarred skin thoughtfully, the scenery around him fading. He was suddenly in a park, listening to his thundering heart, cradling baby Connor close. Thinking in despair how terribly things had changed—how things would change. How he had damned himself to a life of loneliness. How nothing could ever be as it was.

And then gone. In a flash, gone. Justine’s knife had seen to that.

His world had ended that night.

“Holtz stole the baby,” he murmured distantly, busying his mouth with his coffee. “And I haven’t seen anyone since…they won’t talk to me. I understand that.”

Since Angel tried to kill me.

Wesley flinched and glanced down, his body shuddering a long sigh.

“You took my son! You took my son!”

Buffy grasped his hand; he hadn’t realized how hard he was trembling. How easily he had gotten lost in a sea of unwanted memory. How quickly everything came rushing back.

“You're a dead man. You hear me? Dead!”

“I think we need some air,” the Slayer said, nodding to her mate.

As though that would fix everything. As though his life had an easy fix.

And yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to object. Not to her. Not when the two most unlikely people in the world had saved him from misery as far as they could, even if it was only for one night. Even if the night was over, now that he had confessed his sins.

One night, in his life, easily amounted to a millennia.

Thus he nodded and rose to his feet, dropping a few bills onto the table out of habit rather than necessity.

Thus it ended. They knew his secret. They knew the blood that stained his hands. They knew his crime.

Just as well. Random acts of kindness could play the part of saving grace, but he knew better. He knew better than to grow accustomed, even for an hour or so, to depending on others. He had made that mistake before.

Just as well.

He might have deceived himself into believing it could snow.

He might have believed in miracles.

The prospect of saying goodbye for the night made his heart ache, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to jeopardize their acquaintance any further by waiting for them to ask him to leave. The truth about him wasn’t pretty. He would never pretend otherwise. His life was too shaded with darkness. He couldn’t ask them to become the sacrificial lambs to ease his loneliness. He refused to be that selfish, especially when they had been so kind.

“I live a couple of blocks from here,” he said as Spike lit up a cigarette. It was mostly the truth. He lived in the neighborhood, and didn’t mind the walk. “I’ll…thank you very much for the coffee.”

“You paid for it,” Buffy observed.

“Well…quite. But…I don’t want to trouble you anymore.” He ignored the flash of confusion that overwhelmed the Slayer’s face, instead casting a hand through his raven locks and releasing a deep sigh. “It was lovely seeing you again, Buffy.” He turned to Spike. “And a surprising pleasure making your acquaintance. I wish you the best. Happy holidays.”

“Are we not going to see you again?” she demanded.

There was a significant pause. “You want to see me again?”

“Well…you’re not doing anything for Christmas, are you?” She looped her arm through her mate’s, favoring the former Watcher with a concerned look. “We…we don’t really have any plans, but God, it sounds like you’ve been through Hell and back. I don’t want you to be alone on Christmas.”

Wesley stared at her in shock. “I…what?”

She glanced to Spike, then back again. “We’re not doing anything,” she said again. “We’ve rented an apartment for a couple months, but we didn’t have any plans…except, you know, ritualistic present exchange. You should come by.”

“Are you serious?”

“Trust me, mate,” the vampire said, smiling softly. “She’s serious. As a bleedin’ heart attack.”

“You two want me intruding on your holiday?”

“Well, want is an awfully strong word…”

Buffy elbowed her mate and grinned. “No one should be alone right now,” she said. “Please…we’ll probably go to some Jewish deli or some other place that’s open, because I don’t cook and Spike…we want it to be about us, and not food. But you’re invited.”

Wesley was thoroughly overwhelmed with warmth—a feeling so wonderful, so welcome, so foreign. It seemed that years had passed since he’d known acceptance, and now, right now, he was closer to sublime actualization than he’d ever been as Angel’s go-to man. He felt as though he had been pardoned by a higher authority.

“I thought…” he said weakly, afraid of bursting into tears like a ninny. “God, I thought…”

“That stealing Angel’s baby ‘cause you thought he was gonna kill it makes you a bad guy?” Buffy rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Not bad, Wes. Maybe a little misguided, and yeah, I can see why Angel wigged on you. But we’re not Angel—”

“Thankfully,” Spike muttered.

“—and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Wesley shook his head, a wealth of intrinsic denial surfacing, unbidden. “I took his flesh and blood—”

“Without malicious intent. You were doing it to help. Come on, Wes. I know you.” She graced him with a long look. “You’re not capable of doing something like that because you’re, well, not evil. Hell, Spike wouldn’t even do that to be evil.”

“Yes, I would!” the platinum vampire objected heatedly. His head dropped at the dual skeptical glances he received, and he kicked at the ground impetuously. “Shut up.”

Buffy just grinned and gazed at her mate with pure adoration. “I love you.”

That did the trick; Spike glanced up and smiled giddily, as though he hadn’t heard that very phrase a thousand times every day. “I love you, too.”

“And you wouldn’t kidnap Angel’s baby.”

He scowled. “Dirty pool, kitten.”

“Not out of the evilness of your heart, at least.” She turned back to Wesley. “Will you spend Christmas with us?”

An awkward grin spread across his lips. “I don’t suppose I can refuse now, can I?”

“Nope.”

“Girl doesn’ stop once she’s set her heart on somethin’, mate,” Spike agreed. “Come by our flat on Christmas Eve, yeh? We’ll have eggnog an’…chestnuts…or somethin’. An’ cater from a Jewish deli, like the lady said.”

He smiled. “How can I refuse such tempting delights?”

“You can’t,” Buffy retorted. “That’s the point.”

Warmth touched every nerve in his body, and he was captured with a wonderfully cheesy, however uplifting thought. So this is Christmas. “I’ll be more than happy to share the holidays with you.”

“Excellent. ‘Cause you know, I have super-strength to utilize unfairly if you’d turned me down.” She smiled. “Come on. We’ll drive you home.”

Wesley held up a hand. “I told you, I’m not too far from here. You both have been more than kind all night. I couldn’t impose—”

Spike snickered and shook his head in amusement. “You really don’ learn, do you?”

The former Watcher smiled wryly. “Guess not. In all honesty, though, I would prefer to walk.”

“Why?”

He turned his eyes heavenward.

To see if it snows.

Perhaps he wasn’t too pathetic to earn a miracle.

That thought shattered the next second without preamble. He felt the air chill and the light wind fall still, as though the world around him had died. Wesley froze and his eyes fell shut. Against the pavement rang the click of Prada shoes that could only belong to one woman.

Well, not necessarily one woman, but there was only one woman whose shoes made that particular sound against the ground as she walked. Of that, he was positive.

There was a stop, and Cordelia’s familiar voice rang out behind him. “Buffy?”

Wesley felt the Slayer’s surprise. He couldn’t blame her. After all, in a city of nearly four million people, running into two Sunnydale alumns was nearly impossible—especially in one night. Simply finding him had been extraordinary on its own; now Cordelia was in the picture. And Cordelia naturally meant Angel, which meant…

“Wesley?” a small voice asked, shattering him all over again.

There was another gasp. “Wes…” Cordelia said softly. “And…Buffy and…Spike.”

Wesley turned around, his eyes meeting Fred’s immediately. She bristled and glanced away just as quickly, her body tensing in ways he had never seen before. At least not in reaction to his presence. Never had she shivered like that because of him.

He saw Spike nod; saw his fingers tighten around his mate’s as they drew closer together by instinct. “Cordelia,” he said. “You cut your hair.”

The Seer quirked a brow. “How is it that every time you see me, you notice my hair?”

“Jus’ because.”

There was an awkward pause. Cordelia turned back to Buffy. “You’re here,” she deadpanned, sounding less than thrilled. “In Los Angeles.”

The Slayer just looked at her. “No, Cordy,” she replied monotonously. “I’m a figment of your imagination.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Vacationing.”

“Las’ I checked,” Spike drawled snidely, “you an’ your precious boss din’t have any claim on the city limits. Y’think we’d be here if we really wanted to? ‘S the only bloody place where the Scoobies won’ look.”

Cordelia stared at him for a long minute, then glanced sharply back to Buffy. “What the hell are you doing with him?” she demanded.

The Slayer’s hands came up at that, and the cordial tone Wesley had listened to all night vanished without warning. She felt distant. Unsympathetic. Ruthless. So completely far from the woman he had come to know over the past couple hours. “No,” she said coldly. “No. I don’t owe you anything. We’re not here to answer to you or anyone. We’re here to have fun. So if you can’t be respectful of my mate, we might as well end this now.”

“You’re Buffy?” Fred asked, her beautiful brown eyes as wide as saucers.

Wesley bit back a smile. She’s even lovelier than she was last week. How is that possible?

“I’m Buffy.”

The brunette nodded and turned to the vampire. “And you’re…”

“Spike,” he replied. “Unfortunate relative of your boss.”

“You’re related to Angel?”

“Strictly by sires. Don’ actually have any of that wanker’s blood in me.”

“You’re with Spike,” Cordelia said again, as though trying to get a feel for the words on her tongue. “And you expect me not to ask questions…like…have you had a cat scan recently?”

“I expect you to show some civility and restrain yourself,” Buffy spat. “We don’t need this.”

“You’re not going near Angel,” the Seer said, shooting a sharp glance to Wesley that went unnoticed by no one. “He doesn’t need this on top of everything else right now.”

“Well, darn, honey,” the Slayer retorted, shooting Spike a glance. “There go tomorrow’s plans. Scheduled, by the way, right after my voluntary root canal on the Moon. You’re unbelievable.” She shook her head angrily and seized her mate’s hand, squeezing tightly. “As entertaining as it would be watching that big vein on Angel’s head pop in between yet another series of lectures, my mate and I would prefer to have something resembling fun. We’re spending the holiday with Wesley.”

The former Watcher glanced up sharply at that, having nearly forgotten himself that he was a factor at all in this disastrous trade. “Buffy,” he said softly. “It’s not necessary—”

“No, I really wanna dispel the notion that my being here has anything whatsoever to do with Angel. And we are spending our time with you, as opposed to the alternative of being grilled throughout the holidays.” She nodded sarcastically. “I’m sure where you can see how difficult a choice this is.”

“You delicious she-devil,” Spike murmured in her ear, loud enough for Wesley to catch. If the others overheard him, they did not make mention of it.

“Good,” Cordelia replied shortly, ignoring the Slayer’s derision. “As long as we’re understood. If Angel knew you were here…with him…” She tossed another glance to the former Watcher. “He…he doesn’t need this right now.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s not for Angel,” Buffy retorted.

“I can see that.” She paused. “You know what he did, right?”

Fred grabbed her companion’s arm. “Cordy—”

“I know,” Buffy answered without a blink. “And believe me, with everything I’ve been through, I know more than anyone that there are two sides of every story.” With that, she tossed a poignant glance to Spike, who smiled encouragingly. “Whatever Wes did to…Connor, or whatever his name is, it wasn’t out of malice, and you know it. Dammit, Cordy, you were never this much of a flake.”

The other woman stiffened. “It’s Angel,” she said gently. “He needs…his son was stolen, Buffy. By a friend. You have absolutely no compassion for that?”

“I do,” the Slayer replied. “Believe me. But again…it’s Wes. You know Wes.” She waited a beat and shook her head. “Look…can we just agree to having never crossed paths tonight? You go back to looking after Angel. No one ever needs to know we saw each other.”

The two stared at each other for a long minute. Finally, Cordelia broke away and nodded, releasing a deep sigh. “Yeah. Okay. Happy holidays. Come on, Fred.”

Without waiting for a reply, she performed an abrupt about-face, tugging the small brunette by the arm. And they were gone; walking so fast that he barely caught the faint call from her heavenly voice as it rose above the wind that once again haunted the sidewalks.

“Merry Christmas, Wesley.”

Merry Christmas. Merry Bloody Christmas.

Wesley glanced to Spike, who was staring at the Slayer in awe. “God, I love you,” he rumbled, impassioned.

Buffy smiled weakly and kissed him. “I love you, too.”

Wesley loved her, too. So much at that moment—she was his angel, a savior descended from the stars to give him everything he did not deserve. Even with his heart breaking at Fred’s taciturn behavior, and the undeserved slivers of kindness she allowed him. The nearly tortuous strands of hope.

Somehow, Buffy had become the sister he never had.

He would never know what exactly brought her and her vampire to him tonight, but he would thank it for as long as he lived.

Even through the pain of his miserable, unrelenting reality.

There was no use in pretending nothing had happened tonight. Wesley wagered that Buffy’s suggestion, following the disastrous meeting with Cordelia and Fred, had much to do with the misery that he was sure poured out of every facet of his being. He found himself agreeing to return with her and Spike to their apartment, and when he blinked back to himself, he was sitting in their living room, being handed a glass of iced tea.

“Thank you,” he muttered absently, glancing down into the abyss of his glass as the packet of Sweet and Lo dissolved in the amber liquid. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

Buffy swatted at his leg. “You’re not a bother.”

“You are,” Spike said with a shrug, “but we don’ mind.”

“Ignore him. It’s okay.”

The vampire flashed his mate a smirk. “You really know how to woo a man, kitten.”

“I have you. I don’t need to woo.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt every now an’ then.”

“I don’t imagine you being too terribly difficult to seduce, Spike,” Wesley remarked off-handedly, smiling at the chuckle that erupted from Buffy’s lips. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as the ‘hard-to-get’ type.”

“I could be ‘f I wanted,” he objected, though his eyes immediately warmed as the Slayer handed him a mug of warmed blood. “Thanks, sweetling.”

She smiled and kissed him softly. “I think I’m going to turn in,” she announced. “Sorry, Wes. I’m just suddenly all tired. Not much of a hostess, huh?”

“Don’t be silly,” he admonished. “Buffy, you’ve been…really, I never…I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me tonight. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Makes two of us,” Spike agreed, kissing the back of her hand. “Go on, pet. Get some rest. I won’ let him leave without makin’ sure he knows he’s s’posed to come back.”

“I’ll be back,” he assured her. “Wassail and chestnuts are delicacies that no man can resist.”

She grinned and nodded. “I’ll hold you to that. Goodnight, Wes.”

Wesley’s lips tugged into a small smile, and he sipped at his tea with an odd sense of satisfaction that felt bizarre running through his blood. It had been so long since he had cause to be happy, and perhaps he wasn’t entirely happy now…but he was content. He could live with the hand that life had dealt him so long as he wasn’t alone.

So long as he had friends.

“She’s amazing,” Wesley commented to Spike, who tore his eyes reluctantly from the closed bedroom door. “I don’t remember her being anything like this when I was in Sunnydale.”

“Three years can be forever, mate,” the vampire remarked wisely. “Even without bein’ dead. She’s…she’s different, yeh…different with everythin’ she’s learned. But she’s the same where it counts.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” There was a heavy pause. “How did it happen?”

“What?”

“Her…how did Buffy return?”

Spike’s brows perked. “Angel not tell you?”

“We didn’t hear much. Willow called once in a panic because Buffy was…missing. Angel thought she was delusional until she explained that she’d been raised.”

The vampire snorted appreciatively. “Bloody wasn’ missing,” he drawled. “She was with me. She was torn from paradise, an’ she found me, an’ I took her somewhere safe. She was never missing. They knew exactly where she was…an’ who she was with. That was why Red called.”

Wesley froze in astonishment. “Her friends…tore her from paradise?”

“Not on purpose,” Spike retorted. “As if that matters. They thought they were doin’ what was best.”

The words struck a chord and he drew in a sharp breath. Her own good. Too familiar. The reasoning was far too familiar. He’d kidnapped Connor for no less. Because it was for Angel’s own good while an evil law firm was drugging him with his son’s blood. It was for everyone’s own good that he take leave of them—that he believe the lie, even bought that a man that loved a child as much as Angel had loved Connor could ever succumb to his darker desires and murder his flesh and blood. Hindsight was always twenty twenty, and he was paying for it dearly now. The many sins he had committed because it was for Angel’s own good.

Willow had ripped Buffy out of Heaven for her own good?

“They thought it was a hell dimension,” the vampire explained softly. Wesley didn’t know if he’d voiced his confusion aloud, or if he was just that simple to read. It didn’t seem to matter, either way. “When Buffy jumped off the tower, her friends thought she was trapped in a hell dimension. Bloody wankers never even let me or the Nibblet know what they were cookin’ up, or why. I could’ve bloody well told them that someone like the Slayer doesn’ end up in Hell—I don’ care if she walks in an’ signs the book.” He released a deep sigh. “I don’ know rot about theology, Wes. Not the way the scholars wrote it. I mean, the stories, yeh, those are old hat, but the truth behind it? Demons don’ know any better than pulsers. We’re all jus’ tryin’ to make our way. I figure there has to be somethin’ bigger out there, else the entire fight between good an’ evil would be for nothin’. An’ if there is a greater good that fights for virtue—not balance like the Powers, but real, honest virtue…there’s no way they’d let a radiant soul like Buffy’s rot away in Hell because she saved the world.”

“No,” Wesley agreed hoarsely. “Of course not.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Willow…truly believed she was doing this for Buffy’s own good?”

“I think she told herself that to justify it. Bugger all, Wes, I have no bloody idea how her mind was workin’…or if we can even give her that much credit.” Spike indulged in a long swig of blood that somehow didn’t bother the former Watcher as it always had in watching Angel drink. “Buffy was raised an’ she needed me. She found me, an’ I took care of her. I’d loved her before, you know. Before she died. An’ somehow, when she was back…she loved me, too.” His eyes misted. “She really loves me.”

Wesley smiled a half smile. “Yes,” he agreed. “She really does. I don’t remember ever seeing her so happy…” When the vampire shot him a dazed, thankful look, he glanced down in embarrassment and cleared his throat. “Well…granted, I only knew her for a few months before I left town. And she—”

“She was with Angel then,” Spike supplied.

“Yes. And I tried to have Angel eradicated a time or two.”

There was a bittersweet snort at that. “Fancy another go? Never give up’s one of my favorite mottos.”

“I mean that…Buffy was livid, as you might imagine…I think, though, that if I or anyone ever tried to harm you…you’d be mated to a fugitive.” A pause. “She loves you very much, Spike. You’re a lucky man.”

“An’ you?”

“What?”

Spike quirked a brow, and Wesley suddenly had the feeling of being utterly bare and exposed. Left to the mercy of a man that had generations of reading the unspoken, of deciphering words that were never given air, of seeing that which others wanted to keep hidden. Angel never let him see what he saw unless provoked; he oftentimes hid, and the vampire sitting across from him had no such compulsion. “Don’ think I din’t see it, mate. The brunette. The girl with the prom queen who looked at you like—”

“I don’t particularly care to know how she saw me, if it’s all the same to you.”

“She likes you.”

Wesley snickered bitterly. “I find that rather doubtful. I stole a child that she loved and let him be stolen by people that wanted nothing more than to see Angel suffer…and Connor couldn’t survive in Quortoth…the child is lost, and it is my fault. Fred will never have anything more to do with me.”

“Wrong.”

He grunted. “No offense, Spike, but I know Fred a tad better than you do.”

“An’ I know people a tad more than you do. Girls don’ look at blokes the way she was lookin’ at you without any feelin’, mate. I know that better than anyone.”

“I have to respectively disagree with you.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Look, you uptight git, I have a li’l experience in wantin’ somethin’ so bloody badly an’ thinkin’ it’s never gonna happen. Buffy couldn’t stand me for so many years. When I knew I loved her, it was hopeless…an’ yet I made a move anyway.” His brows flickered thoughtfully. “Granted, chainin’ her up an’ threatenin’ to let Dru take a bite outta her if she didn’t admit there was somethin’ between us likely wasn’ the best move…”

Wesley’s eyes went wide. “You what—”

He held up a hand. “The point is, she’s with me. She came back, which was never s’posed to happen, an’ she loves me…I’ll never know why. It wasn’ anythin’ I did. Way I figure it, she had to jump off the tower in the firs’ place ‘cause I wasn’ fast enough. When she came back, there was no reason for her to love me. She jus’ did.”

“Spike, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—”

“But nothin’. I wouldn’t give a man false hope.” He tossed a glance to the closed bedroom door. “Lovin’ her an’ not bein’ able to touch her…not bein’ close…I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I saw it in you when you looked at your girl tonight. I’ve been there; I remember it well. Bloody hell, sometimes I think I’m gonna wake up an’ still be in a world without her in it. I know what I have, an’ I’m thankful every day. Every soddin’ second. An’ if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be sharin’ Christmas with Buffy, I’d’ve wanted to torture them for bein’ so cruel.” He paused and shook his head. “But here I am.” He released a deep breath. “Whatever you think she feels for you, mate, she doesn’.”

Wesley smiled thinly, the pang in his heart deepening, despite the very best of intentions. “We can’t all live fairytales, Spike.”

He knew that just as well as anyone else. Besides, there was no coming between Fred and Gunn. It wasn’t his place; even if it were, there was no mistaking the love the two felt for each other. He would never do anything to separate them—no matter how much the thought of another man touching her made him tremble with outrage.

No one would ever know what they had when they held her. Not even Gunn, his once best friend. Fred was pure joie de vivre; the hand of Christ would waver to brush the hair from her face. Wesley was not conceited enough to presume himself any better, but he did take pride in the knowledge that he would never take her for granted. He would never question what he had. Never.

“’S late,” Spike said, rising to his feet. “The missus would have my head if I din’t offer you the guest room.”

“You have a guest room?”

The vampire arched a brow. “You’re sittin’ on it. The bloke who rented us this flat din’t have much taste for furniture, but I s’pose a fold-out bed has some unspoken virtues.”

Wesley was about to object when it occurred to him how tired he truly was. A walk home, while not far, simply seemed intolerable. Perhaps, for once, he would not object to random acts of kindness. He had been looking a gift horse in the mouth all evening; Spike was offering, and he wasn’t the type to act kindly without merit.

Still, one could not be too cautious. “You’re sure it’s no bother?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Get up an’ help me pull this thing out.”

A few minutes later, setting the bed up with borrowed sheets found in some forgone closet, Wesley had to admit that, despite the rough accommodations, there was simply nowhere in the world he’d rather be. There would be no returning to a lonely, cold apartment tonight. No staring at the ceiling in wait for sleep. No waiting for a knock from the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely as Spike turned to join his mate. “You and Buffy have been so kind. I don’t know how I’ll—”

The vampire bristled. “Jus’ don’t forget what I said, yeh?”

“Certainly.”

And that was that. Wesley was left in a foreign living room, curled up on a squeaky trundle bed that had likely not known a warm body in years.

Strange as it was, he felt he had finally come home.

She was lying on her side, her arms curled under a pillow. Undoubtedly, she had heard the whole thing. She never slept before he came to bed. Never.

Spike’s lips curled in a warm smile as he stripped off his clothing and made his way across the room to join his girl under the covers. He slid in behind her, caressing her shoulder softly before brushing a kiss over her sweet skin. “I love you,” he murmured. “I don’ tell you enough.”

Buffy smiled and snuggled firmly into his embrace. “I love you, too,” she replied. “And you tell me every ten minutes.”

“Is that all?”

She turned in his arms with a smile, her warm lips stroking his with sensuality that made him burn and quiver in the same beat. “It’s everything,” she replied honestly, her eyes wide. “Now go to sleep.”

“Bossy,” he teased, nipping at her ear.

“Yes.”

Her eyes that reflected a lifetime of suffering that somehow she managed to ignore. Her suffering was shielded with happiness now; happiness that he had helped her build. Happiness that was genuine; that patched up old scars for the want of something greater than themselves.

Spike pulled her tightly against him and kissed her shoulder again. She gave him warmth that should have reduced him to dust. She gave him so much.

He would never tire of telling her. Never.

And they slept.

It was the night before Christmas Eve, and the streets were so full, one would assume that Y2K was back. Or even better: Y2K’s much deadlier, evil sister was in town—the one who would not only ignite all the worlds’ weaponry, but merrily dance on incinerated ashes of her victims before pissing out the flames.

Americans and their hype. If nothing else, it provided cheap entertainment.

Wesley released a deep sigh as he rounded the corner to his building, tightening an arm around his grocery bag and smiling at Joseph, the bellman who tipped his hat and said his name kindly as he held the door open. The second trip to the supermarket had proven much less eventful than the first; no interruptions from Sunnydale residents, no run-ins with people he formerly knew as friends.

He supposed he should be thankful. Nights staying with friends didn’t fill up his barren cabinets. Plus, if he was going to be entertaining, he needed to have some food in the apartment.

He didn’t know why he had made the offer, other than a feeling of obligatory courtesy—a need to repay Buffy and Spike for the consideration they had shown him. There wasn’t much he could make, as cooking wasn’t a talent that the Wyndam-Pryces were known for, but there were a few dishes he could pull off without too much of a catastrophe.

It was just as well, he figured. After spending the better part of the day with his new friends, it was only polite to offer the Christmas meal they had invited him to.

The lift gave a slight jerk as it landed at his floor. Wesley released a deep sigh and stepped out, debating which pesto sauce recipe he should use, jiggling for his keys with his free hand.

“Lemon spinach would be the best,” he murmured to himself. “Don’t have any bloody spinach. This is good—let’s think up the menu after we’ve been to the store.”

“The recipe has garlic in it, anyway,” a small voice said, drawing him from his reverie with a start. He stopped dead in the hallway when he glanced up, his heart pounding, his body going numb. Fred smiled at him softly and climbed to her feet from where she had been camped out next to his door. “I don’t think any undead dinner partiers would appreciate that.”

Wesley couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look anywhere but at her. Perhaps his mind had finally bounded into all-out dementia. It seemed likely, even expected, that he would fall mad simply with the seed of wishful thinking that Spike had planted, intentional or not. The straightforward want of hope that he knew he shouldn’t invest in—he knew it. There was no reason for her to be here, if not to kick him lower than he was before.

“Okay,” she said nervously, smiling her gorgeous smile, her arms crossing elegantly behind her. “Made the first move. Kinda out here and vulnerable.”

“Fred…”

She wasn’t disappearing. Why wasn’t she disappearing?

No, instead, she was moving forward. God help him.

“Fred,” he said again, choking with awe. “My God, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting. For you.” She glanced down shyly. “I’ve been here since this morning.”

This morning? He’d spent the day with Buffy and Spike, helping them decorate their Charlie-Brown-like Christmas tree. He’d assisted Buffy in distracting her mate while she wrapped her last-minute surprise present for Spike, which she called his ‘red-rider-BB-gun’ gift. Then he’d turned around and done the same thing for the vampire; distracted the Slayer as Spike put together some surprise present. It had been a lovely day, though emotionally vacant, as he watched them together with a grain of salt. So happy for them, so jealous of what they had. Of the love that poured from every fiber of their beings. The fairytale they’d snatched from the jaws of impossibility, and were living out together, despite all odds.

And all that time, Fred had been here. Sitting right here. Outside his apartment, waiting for him.

“Why?”

“I wanted to see you,” she replied.

The obvious answer. Of course she wanted to see him. Why else would she be here?

Suddenly, Wesley was kicking himself for wasting so much time with people he barely knew. With as terrific as they both were, as much fun as he’d had, there was nothing compared to seeing the unrequited love of his life standing in his hallway, confessing that she had been waiting for him. Waiting for him, as he’d perpetually waited for her. Standing in her proverbial hallway. Standing in wait, even when he knew waiting was foolish.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” he said shortly, moving quickly for the door. “If I’d known you were here—”

Fred shook her head. “No. I’m glad you stayed with your friends.”

“I’d rather be here with you.”

She blushed prettily and glanced down. “Well,” she said, “you’re not being here really gave me time to think. To go over everything I need to say and…well…try to compose it.”

He swallowed. “Did it?”

“Yeah.” She paused, her smile remaining flawless and genuine. She truly was a ray of pure light. “Do you want to go inside?”

He nodded numbly and turned, quickly unlocking the door and cringing as he stepped inward. The apartment wasn’t messy, but it looked in shambles to him. As hopeless as he’d been, only worse as it had sat neglected since he left the night before for the market. He coughed as he flipped on the light, turning with the half-expectation that she would have either bolted or faded away completely.

“Wow,” she said, stepping inside. “I always forget how big your place is.”

“Fred—”

“I’ve left Angel Investigations, Wesley.” She froze, her eyes went wide as she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God. I was gonna work up to that. Didn’t mean to blurt it out. I…”

He could hardly believe his ears. “What?”

“I mean, you sit for hours in a hallway, thinking about what you’re gonna say, and then to just blurt it out like that—”

“Fred…”

She released a deep breath and shook her head. “I was gonna work up to it,” she said. “I really was.”

“I believe you.”

“But I’ve left Angel Investigations. I…” She glanced down again. “When Cordy and me got back last night, everything kinda fell apart.”

“What happened?”

“Well, for one thing, she had underestimated the power of Angel’s nose.”

“Oh dear.” Wesley’s blood ran cold. “He knew that Buffy—”

“Was in town…with Spike.” She paused. “And you.”

“He knew...” The former Watcher released a deep breath, trying futilely to absorb it all. “We...I should call Spike. Let him know that our peaceful—”

“No one's coming over. No one's going to try and disrupt anything.” Fred glanced to the ground shyly and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I made sure of it. And when I told Angel why, he told me to leave.”

Ah. Well, that made more sense. The hope that had unwittingly swelled within Wesley's chest began a steady deflation. Of course she would come to him as a last resort. A couple of outcasts they'd be together. “Well,” he said, nodding. “You're more than welcome to join us tomorrow. I'm sure that—”

“No, Wesley.” She laughed nervously. “You're not listening. Angel told me to leave—”

“I heard you, Fred. There's no need to—”

“Because of you.”

He froze again, almost dropping his groceries before finding the forethought to place them down. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what happened to me, really,” she explained hurriedly. “Seeing…what happened to you never…I never approved of the way you were just…forgotten by everyone.”

“Forgotten?” he whispered, ashamed at how much that simple word hurt. He had harbored no thoughts of redemption among Angel and the others, but to be forgotten was a truly terrible fate. “Well…I suppose that’s…”

“I meant after it happened, of course. After Connor was gone and Angel…they just stopped looking for you. I wanted to find you. Connor was gone, and I needed to find you.” She paused and shook her head. “I needed to make sure you were all right. I should’ve known then that it wasn’t going to get any better. And after Cordelia came back, I thought she would, for sure, try to talk some sense into Angel, but—”

Wesley held up a hand. “There’s absolutely no need to explain.”

“No, I really think—”

“Please, Fred. There’s nothing you need to tell me. I did the unthinkable. I did something that no parent would ever forgive.”

“You did it to save Connor.”

He snickered bitterly. “Yes. And look where that got me.”

“Wesley—”

“Fred…I appreciate you coming out here, but you really don’t want to be on the outs with Angel and everyone.” He released a deep breath. “Go home. Apologize to Angel, and enjoy a nice nightcap with Gunn.”

She waved dismissively, though her body went rigid. “Charles and I aren’t together anymore.”

Wesley paused. “Beg your pardon?”

“He got tired of me asking about you. So we aren’t together.” A sad look overwhelmed her, and she wet her lips, nodding gently to herself. “It’s for the best, really. He never understood…I liked him a lot, but I hadn’t…I hadn’t…” Fred drew in a sharp breath. “Wesley, I don’t want to go back. I can’t. Angel kicked me out…and yeah, it hurts, but I felt so relieved. He was going on and on about Buffy being with Spike, and seeing you…and it occurred to me…”

He was hardly aware of how fiercely his heart was pounding. “What?”

“How wrong it was…how much she was throwing her life away…” She frowned. “He even said that maybe Buffy had…come back from that hell dimension all…well, wrong. You know…because she wasn’t supposed to choose Spike over him. And it occurred to me that…about you, that I was wrong. That if you were willing to do everything…that you did, and everyone can’t understand that…” She glanced down and shook her head again, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “You sacrificed everything, and everyone abandoned you.”

“I sacrificed everything knowing that everyone would abandon me, Fred,” he replied gently. “I wasn’t supposed to see anyone again…and if I did, it was understood that they wouldn’t want to see me.”

She frowned. “No. No, you can’t tell me that it didn’t hurt. I saw your eyes. I had to pull Angel off of you. I’ve seen you twice…that you didn’t know about. I saw the look in your eyes and…Wesley, you can’t—”

“Fred—”

“Look, I know things have been terrible. And crazy. And yes, I chose Charles over you…before I knew what you’d do to protect the people you love…even if it means…” She pressed her palms to her temples, and Wesley swore that his heart was about to burst through his chest. “The side of Charles that I saw after you left…I didn’t like him. And truthfully, before he gave me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, I was so ready to break it off with him.”

He was sure that he would shatter if he moved. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…Wesley…”

God, she was close. She was so close. His eyes fluttered shut and he drew in a deep breath, inhaling her sweet scent and wishing to whatever Powers that had decided to smile at him wouldn’t recant their good blessings. If she disappeared now, he would never recover.

“Wesley…”

Then—oh sweet Jesus—her honeyed lips were caressing his. Her hands were gripping his shoulders, and he felt a wealth of euphoria burst through every inch of his body. Touch every nerve. Singe every fiber. Then her questing tongue probed his mouth, and he was drowning in the essence of Fred. In the essence of purity itself. There had never been a feeling like this, and he wagered there never would be again. The woman he loved was in his arms.

Please. You can’t take this away from me.

But she wasn’t disappearing. Heaven help him, she wasn’t disappearing. Instead, when she pulled away, pressing her brow to his, his body flooded with a resurgence of warmth. She remained in his arms, breathless, flushed; as though she had only then come to life.

“I want to be here, Wesley,” she murmured, and he shivered as his name rolled off her tongue. “I want to be with you.”

Don’t wake up. By God, don’t wake up. This is no dream.

No dream. It wasn’t a dream. She was real. She was so real.

And finally, it hit him. It hit him thoroughly. Her eyes were smiling for him. His mouth tingled with her kiss. She was in his arms, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yes,” he murmured, barely aware of the word as it left his body.

She was with him. She was with him now.

God, he would never let her go.

Christmas Eve.

The elevator rattled just slightly as it landed on Wesley’s floor.

“We won’t stay long,” Buffy assured her mate, cradling a bottle of Merlot. “With as much as I want to be there for him, I kinda got the feeling that we were beginning to shove it in his face.”

Spike shrugged. “Well…I hate to reference an obvious cliché, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Be nice.”

“’m always nice.”

She smothered a grin as they turned the corner together. “Just remember what we have to look forward to when we get home.”

He favored her with an appraising look.

“Me. You. Santa teddy. Mistletoe.”

Spike leered appreciatively. “Is this mistletoe good for only one use? ‘Cause kitten…” His eyes raked her body. “There are many places I wanna kiss.”

It charmed him that, with as well as they knew each other, her skin never failed to turn that shade of pink. She was so fucking adorable; he wanted to gobble her up. Suddenly the night was endless, and he fidgeted with the inherent need to shove her into a dark closet and begin the Christmas banquet.

As though sensing his thoughts, and likely doing just that, Buffy slapped his shoulder and pulled him to a halt in front of a closed door. “Be good,” she scolded playfully, checking the address she had ready in her hand before knocking.

“I’m always good, baby.”

“And we shouldn’t act so coupley in front of Wes. It’s impolite.”

“Whatever you say.”

The door opened to a surprised Wesley, who blinked a few times in rapid succession, as though he hadn’t seen them in years. “Buffy, Spike,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you until seven.”

The vampire glanced to his girl bemusedly. “It’s a quarter after, mate,” he observed.

“Is it? Oh dear.”

Buffy frowned. “Is this a bad time?”

“Oh, no. I—”

But indeed, it seemed to be a very bad time. At that precise moment, an only slightly-familiar voice hummed through the air as a young, brunette woman, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt, entered the room, saying, “Wesley, I was wondering if I could use your…oh…”

She froze in the living area; her eyes going wide with horror when she recognized them. “Oh…I…hi.”

There was a long, awkward pause. Spike was grateful at that instant that Buffy was squeezing his hand; he was tempted to bark a laugh. Life was too short for awkward pauses, even for those who lived forever.

So the Watcher got his girl after all. Overnight, it seemed. Even the vampire couldn’t have seen that coming.

Good on you, mate.

“I apologize,” Wesley said sheepishly. “It seems we lost track of time.”

Spike and Buffy exchanged another cheeky glance. “No worries,” the former replied as his mate handed the other man the wine. “We won’ keep you long.”

Fred rouged and gestured inarticulately for the back. “I’m just, ummm, gonna put on some clothes.”

“Oh, don’t rush on their part,” Wesley called after her, a rakish look in his eyes.

Buffy placed a hand on Spike’s and murmured lowly, “Ten minutes. I give it ten minutes. Then we’ll be asked to leave.”

“An’ begin our Christmas feast at home?”

“Chocolate sauce and mistletoe.”

“An’ a Santa-teddy, luv. Don’ forget the Santa-teddy.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Not possible, sweetie.”

Spike smirked and brushed a kiss over his mate’s forehead before moving to uncork the wine.

Perhaps this could be the new tradition, then. Christmas Eve spent with their women. Outcasts that were alike in dignity. Those misunderstood by the people that once stood beside them.

A new beginning of sorts. Perhaps. The sort of haven Buffy had missed. The friends that she needed. Friends that understood her. Friends that accepted him.

“I don’t think we were formally introduced the other day,” Fred said as she reentered the room, reaching for the Slayer’s hand. “I’m Winifred Burkle.”

His girl smiled radiantly. “Buffy Summers.”

It was a homecoming for the most unlikely people. A sense of belonging to those who didn’t belong.

All in the spirit of auld lang syne, they had found a place.

For the benefit of all, he could ask for nothing more.