DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria has learned that Joyce is looking for Buffy, Joyce is stuck at the hotel with Doyle as a babysitter while she tries to process the information about Buffy and Spike, and our two favorite blonds seem to have cleared the air between them regarding their fight...

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27. The Stars Are Brightly Shining

As Buffy laced a path through the trees, the air was slick against her skin, hints of more snow laden in its breath, blending with her sweat to leave her damp and exhilarated, enervated and vitalized, all at the same time. The ground pulled at her feet, its white drifts disingenuous of their peril, but she refused to yield to its attempts to slow her down. Spike was behind her. To slow too soon would defeat the purpose of the game.

He hadn't actually said the words, though he'd said everything in the neighborhood around them. Hell, he'd offered insight from the next town over, so even if Spike hadn't come out and blatantly told Buffy that his desire to continue their relationship was based on feelings that ran a little deeper than lust, that was all right. It wasn't as if Buffy got the gold in being upfront girl; the fact that she'd managed to squeak out what little confessions she already had still surprised her.

More than anything else---and this simple admission was the shocker to top them all---she was glad for the air clearing. Relieved. Happy.

Spike wasn't the vampire she'd thought him to be when she arrived. He'd spent the past few days showing her sides of him she hadn't seen before. And the more she saw of him...

...the more she saw of herself.

With Spike, there wasn't the need to pretend. He took her strength and turned it into an asset. Buffy hadn't realized how much she wanted that until he'd offered it to her, with no other expectations except to be treated as an equal. Which was hard in oodles of ways considering the vampire business, but something she was slowly growing beyond, breath by breath.

She had to.

He was forcing her to see that he was more than just fists and fangs and evil deed do-er every time he turned an understanding gaze toward Holly, or apologized in gestures not meant to be acknowledged. It was...freeing, in a way.

She was so ready to be free.

So, she ran, a smile playing on her lips as she skirted his attempts to catch her. She circled the cabin in roundabout patterns, never letting it go from her sight, ears alert for any sound of distress coming from the small house. She'd blocked the door slightly before climbing to the roof, but Buffy wasn't convinced that Holly couldn't still find some way to get out if the nocturnal desire overtook her. Then, there was the matter that she could wake up and freak out about being alone again. Whatever games Buffy and Spike played outside would have to be short.

Ducking behind a broad tree, the Slayer pressed herself into the bark, turning her head to listen for her pursuer. Earlier, she'd heard him thundering through the underbrush, just as loudly as she, but now, the forest echoed in silence, the only sounds she could hear the harsh rasp of her own breath. Deliberately, she focused on one of Giles' relaxation techniques to cloak the evidence of her whereabouts, other senses sharp for anything amiss. Spike may have the upper hand when it came to being able to see in the dark woods at night, but Buffy wasn't about to let that get the best of her.

A full minute passed while she concentrated. Her immobility was joining forces with the cold to leaden her limbs, but she was determined not to move until she knew where Spike was. Even if it took all night.

And then...

A faint crack of a stick breaking in the not-so-far distance.

It was gone almost as quickly as she caught it, and Buffy imagined an annoyed Spike freezing in his paces as he realized he'd divulged his location. Then, the soft brush of snow as something soft feathered against it whispered in her ear, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was approaching her. Trying to be stealthy. Trying to surprise her.

Two could play that game.

Quickly, she shimmied up the tree, swinging herself onto a thick branch that was high enough to be over Spike's head but not so high that she had an unwieldy way back down. Crouching into the deep bend at its juncture with the trunk, Buffy held her breath as she watched the direction she'd heard the telltale signs of his presence.

He didn't disappoint.

Within seconds of her settling, she saw the black leather waft around the perimeter of a dead stump, an ebony shadow that flickered and danced before revealing the white burst of his head when it appeared in her view. Buffy stifled a giggle. In this veil of blackness, Spike's hair really did glow in the dark. Teasing material, for sure.

His footsteps slowed further as he neared the tree, but his head never once tilted to look overhead. He wasn't even in game face, which would've given him an advantage in the dark, she knew. It was as if---.

She shrieked when Spike's hand shot up and grabbed her ankle, and she lashed out instinctively, breaking his hold and sending him stumbling back. When he looked up to see her, though, a broad grin creased his features, but in spite of the dim light that filtered through the branches, Buffy could still see the amusement dancing in the blue.

"Holdin' your breath doesn't stop your heart beating," he commented casually.

Damn it. She forgot about super-sensitive vampire hearing as well as the sight thing. Next time they played this game, she was going to make Spike wear earmuffs.

"So now what?" she challenged.

"Now, you get your ass down here so that I can get you all tucked in back where it's just a mite toastier than it is out here," he replied.

"Aw, is somebody cold?"

"Believe we've already had this discussion, pet. Just not interested in listening to you natter on about a few sniffles when you wake up in the morning."

He didn't mean it, but she jumped down anyway, sliding between his arms when he lifted them to help guide her path to the ground. When they settled around her back, pulling her into the insulation of his embrace, Buffy allowed herself the luxury of caressing the hard line of his chest beneath his shirt. "Do you really want to go back in?" she asked. "Unless..." Her head turned in the direction of the cabin. "Did you hear something I didn't?"

"No, but..." Reaching between them, Spike closed his fingers around her hands, containing what little heat she had in them. He felt almost warm compared to the frigidity of the air, and she jumped slightly at the sudden difference.

"You've been out and about all day," he continued. His head bent, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Rather be in and about with you, is all."

A cascade of shivers undulated down Buffy's spine, and she closed her eyes against the image of pale limbs tangling with hers. "If we go in, we have to be quiet," she said, and almost frowned when he pulled away to gaze down at her. "Is that what you want?"

"Want you." His clarification was accompanied with the tightening of his grip around her, his erection grinding against her stomach as his mouth returned to her ear. His breath when he spoke again tickled but the sensations were lost in the flood of tremors that were threatening her legs.

"Could take you here," Spike murmured. Slowly, he backed her against the tree she'd just vacated, until the harsh bark scraped across her shoulders. "That what you want?" The arm around her slid to the front, pushing its way beneath her coat so that his fingertips grazed along her waistband. "There an exhibitionist in there just dyin' to get out, luv?"

Every touch labored her breathing even more. "Being an exhibitionist requires an audience," Buffy managed to get out, though her voice was barely more than a throaty whisper.

"Which takes us back to option A." Now, his mouth was joining the music of his hand, trailing along her jaw, his tongue tasting the tang of her skin. "Warm fire...the house all decked out, with the little one able to walk in on us at any second...could even let you finish what you set out to do last night." Teeth nipped at her neck, a single finger dipping down the front of her pants. "After all, 'tis the season for givin', right? Then...it'll be my turn."

The promise brought with it a torrent of memories from the night before, how his mouth had felt between her legs, the incredible curling thing that his tongue did around her clit. Buffy squirmed against Spike's hold, desperate for something more than the hint of hardness she was getting through all the layers of clothes and coats, and heard his chuckle like a luscious pledge to her flesh.

"Looks like I'm not the only one with an oral fixation, doesn't it, Slayer? Which makes you wetter?" His hands stayed their motions, delaying during his speculation. "The thought of my hard cock sliding in and out of your hot, little mouth?" A pause while he listened to her body's rhythms. "Or is it imagining coming from feeling my tongue drowning in your juices?"

Her involuntary gasp elicited the return of his touch, and this time, she felt the sharp sting of the air as her pants came undone beneath his command, the wintry air mixing with the swelter of her pussy as Spike's hand dove in to test the results of his queries.

"What a greedy little wench you are," he murmured against her throat.

Buffy's inner muscles clenched at the intrusion of two of his fingers, and she could only pant in growing ardor when he drew them back out and promptly sucked them into his mouth. For a moment, his lashes fluttered shut as he seemed to savor what he tasted there, but when they opened again, the blue was almost entirely gone, pupils swallowing the irises to gaze at her with naked hunger.

"Guess it's a good thing---," Spike started to say, but the slam of Buffy's mouth to his extinguished his need to finish the thought, their tongues instinctively demanding the other's response as lips parted, appetites whetted beyond casual stroking.

Clinging to his shoulders, Buffy lifted her legs to wrap them around his slim hips, grinding against his erection through the denim as the world melted around her. Every cell of her skin tingled, though if that was from the cold or from Spike, she had no idea. Probably both. Didn't matter. But when his arms clutched her small frame to his, and he turned back in the direction of the cabin, Buffy broke free from the kiss to shake her head.

"No," she said breathily. "I don't want to go back. I don't want to have to worry about the noise factor."

His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth, his gaze fixated on her mouth. "Could always put a gag on you," Spike said. "Gives a whole new meaning to silent night, holy night, don't you think?"

Her mouth crooked into a wicked smile. "Maybe next time," she taunted. "For now..." Sliding down his body, Buffy quickly did her pants back up before grabbing his hand and pulling him off into the trees. She squinted against the darkness for the markers she hoped she wouldn't miss, all the while her heart pounding in her throat.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"That lake Holly and I found today."

"You're not worried about the little one?"

She hesitated in her step, glancing back at him and the direction of the cabin. "You think we should be?"

"It's Christmas Eve, and she's just a wee little nipper who still believes in St. Nick. Would you be able sleep the night through?"

She'd forgotten about the Santa Claus issue. The reminder of real life put a stopper on her rising desire for Spike, and she stopped to contemplate what she was going to do. "Why are you being so grown-up about this?" Buffy asked him. "I thought you hated having Holly around."

There was an odd discomfort to the way Spike shrugged, like he was fighting for a nonchalance that he really didn't feel. "Not too fussed one way or another," he said. "Just don't fancy havin' to take the blame for it if something was to happen to her."

"Why would I blame you?"

He cocked a single eyebrow. "'Cause that's what you do, pet. I'm your favorite scapegoat, remember? You break a nail, and somehow it turns out to be the Big Bad's fault."

"I don't---." She stopped when his gaze remained unwavering. Who was she kidding? Spike was right. Of course, the difference was, half the time, it was his fault. It was convenient having a resident evil around to shoulder responsibility for all the crappy things that happened in her life.

But if they were going to do this, if Buffy was going to allow Spike to have a place in her life, she knew that would have to stop. No way would he stick around if she continued to treat him like she had before. Not that he really had anyplace to go to, but he'd already proved to her that he still had a piece of his dignity that she couldn't touch. And shouldn't she want to treat him better? Hadn't everything he'd done so far earned him that right?

It had to start somewhere.

It had to start with her.

"What do you want to do?" Buffy asked. His fingers twitched within her grip, mirroring the surprise that drew his brows back together. "This one's your call, Spike. Whatever you want. I...I trust you."

The way his face lit up at those three simple words made her wish she'd said them earlier. He looked...younger. More vulnerable, which was wicked weird because it wasn't an adjective she would've ever applied to a vampire before. But most importantly...

He looked happy.

It didn't take him any time at all to make the decision.

"Go on back to the cabin and get yourself warmed up," Spike instructed. When she didn't react right away, he gently tugged to get her feet moving, swatting Buffy's bottom as she passed by as an extra push along. "Don't be fussed, luv. You're still gettin' your greedy little way in bein' outside. Just want you all toasty when it happens and I've got a few things to set up first."

Pausing to look back, Buffy noted the gleam in his eyes, the pleased smile that curled his lips. "What is it with you and surprises?" she mused out loud.

He didn't reply, but when she'd turned to begin the trek back to the cabin, his last direction floated up to her ears.

"And change into something a bit more...accessible."

-----

Lying before the fire was making her drowsy, so when the door finally opened to reveal a pale Spike, Buffy was almost asleep from the warmth. She had done as he requested, spending far too long staring at her wardrobe and the short skirts that proliferated there before finally opting for a long denim one. When Holly hadn't even rolled over in the space of time it took Buffy to change, she'd realized that maybe her worrying was for naught. It had been a long, exhausting day for all of them. Maybe it was better to just forego the outside idea and curl up in front of the fireplace for the rest of the night.

"Miss me?" Spike asked as he strolled to the couch.

Buffy rolled onto her side to face him, her cheek still resting on the pillow. "Were you building another log cabin out there?" she teased. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming back."

"Never been able to stay away from you," he murmured. Crouching down, his fingers, made icy by his continued exposure outside, pushed back her hair, traced the outline of her lips. "You still up for this, pet?"

She giggled. "Shouldn't that be my line for you?"

"When it comes to you, I'm always up."

Curiosity as much as desire for him propelled Buffy's legs over, her hands engulfed in Spike's when he tugged her to her feet. "This has got to be the weirdest Christmas I've ever had," she said as she followed him to the front door.

"I'm assuming you're meaning that in a good way, not in a backwards, wishing you had kept your mouth closed, way," Spike said. He grabbed her coat without breaking stride, pushing the door open with his foot and then kicking it shut again behind them as if letting her go for even a second would be too much. "'Cause otherwise, I'm goin' to have to give that tongue of yours a lesson in how not to piss off the vampire you're currently shacked up with."

She ignored his gibe. "So, what's the big surprise?" Buffy asked. Her eyes scanned the void of the forest in front of them, but saw nothing different than when she'd last walked through. "You get me all dressed up with nowhere to go? Shame on you, Spike."

"This way, Slayer," he growled. He yanked her down the stairs, but his manner was deceptively gentle, the gruffness of his movements smoothed by the care he took to make sure she didn't stumble. Without looking back at her, Spike began marching around the side of the building, his step sure, his head high.

She was more than familiar with the landscape surrounding the cabin. During their earlier forays, she and Holly had gone over and around these gliding drifts and thicks of trees until Buffy was confident she could find her way around in the dark. Still, knowing what to expect didn't prepare her for the tableau Spike had created in her absence.

There were no trees here. Whoever had built the cabin had left its rear clear of the forest, a rectangular expanse that probably served as a back yard for barbecuing during less intemperate times. The woodpile that served as their primary fuel source was stacked against the back of the building, but the loose logs and tools they used in splitting were cleaned away. Even the small snowman that Buffy and Holly had built earlier had been relocated away from the center of the space, standing guard along the perimeter as if to ward away any further trespassers.

The snow was still present, but Spike had leveled it off, creating a low, packed wall with the extra that blocked against the slight wind. A blanket that looked far too firm was laid out along the ground before it, and icicles had been broken off from the eaves to adorn the barricade like a headboard.

"Got it when you were changing," Spike said when he saw the question in her eyes. He led her over to the makeshift bed, and then wrapped his arms around her from behind to stop her from immediately settling down.

"Only have two rules," he said softly into her ear. "Keep your eyes open and focused on the sky."

"Why?"

"Rule number two. No questions."

She caught the smirk on his face before lying down on the blanket. Surprisingly, it wasn't that cold beneath her back; Buffy realized that Spike must've cleared the worst of the snow before laying it out. Above, the inky sky stretched as far as she could see, not a cloud marring the pinpricks of stars that gleamed through its curtain. If she concentrated her attention on the skeletal branches that edged her vision, Buffy imagined she could feel the world twirling away beneath her and quickly shut her eyes against the sudden vertigo that had her head and stomach swimming.

Spike's prod at her shoulder prompted them open again.

"Is it the Slayer part of you that makes it impossible to follow my direction, or is it the female part?" he asked. "Not that there's much I can do about either, but it'd be nice to know which is the bane of my annoyance."

"I put a skirt on, didn't I?"

He left it at that, crawling down to position himself between her feet. Nudging her legs apart, he picked up each of Buffy's feet and removed her boots, setting them on the edge of the blanket so that they'd be within easy reach in case the need arose. Without tilting her head, Buffy couldn't tell what he was doing, and had to fight not to break his first rule again in such a short period of time.

This was about trusting Spike.

Even having softer feelings for him, trusting him was something that was easier said than done.

She jumped when he took her left foot in his hand, strong fingers massaging the arch, working the muscles along her sole so that the workout she'd gained that day could ease in torpid relief. The groan that emanated from her throat was unstoppable, and it took every fiber of Buffy's control not to close her eyes and wallow in the pleasure.

"Never said you couldn't talk, pet." His voice drifted up in a chocolaty rumble that made the languor overcoming her body even more difficult to resist. "In fact, might make it easier to keep yourself focused on those stars."

His hands were on her ankle now, rotating her foot within the socket to loosen it up. The sudden understanding that it was actually a very vulnerable position for Spike, that he had placed himself in the path of her kicks should she choose to use them, made Buffy stiffen, but his steady rhythm gradually alleviated the alarm within her.

"I don't really do this all that often," she said in a desperate attempt to sound normal. "Look at the stars, I mean."

"I know."

Her head jerked up automatically, but at his upheld warning finger, it quickly fell back down again. "You know?" she asked. "How do you know?"

Spike sighed. "Rules are lost on you, aren't they?"

"Pretty much."

"How 'bout we amend that second rule to just be no questions about what I'm doin' here, then? Think you can stick to that one?"

"Does that mean you're going to answer me?" She deliberately phrased her response in the form of a query to elicit the exasperated sigh from Spike, and smiled when it came as she'd hoped.

"I watch you, Buffy. That's how I know. A blind man could see that you're not enjoying yourself with the slaying as much as you used to."

Her smile vanished. "When did this switch from stars to slaying?"

"All part and parcel of the same thing."

"Newsflash, Spike. I go star-gazing while I'm on patrol, and I die." His massage had moved up her leg, rubbing and kneading at her calf. He was taking extra care to keep her legs covered, though, to shield her from the worst of the cold, so it was impossible for her words to be anything more than a simple observation.

"I'm not tellin' you to get yourself distracted."

What is that catch in his voice? But any analysis of Spike's thoughts was beyond Buffy's faculty at the moment, each passing second sending her spiraling deeper and deeper into the torpor his hands were creating.

"But for someone who spends so much time out and about in the night," he was continuing, "I just think you don't actually see it any more."

"I see it."

"Do you?" Carefully, Spike put down her foot to shift his attention to the opposite leg. "Do you really?"

She didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't an accusation he was making; his gentle tone lacked any of the mocking that usually colored Spike's words. But she had never known he'd noticed more than what affected his own world.

That had been before.

Before the accident.

Before the cabin.

Before this amazing, bone-melting, shattering massage.

His hands were sliding up her legs now, beneath her skirt, onto her thighs. She had been bold and removed her underwear when she'd changed, and now, the whiff of his promise made her pussy tingle in anticipation. Unconsciously, Buffy spread her legs a little further apart, feeling the cold lick along her outer lips. It felt deliciously dangerous.

"One of these days, I'm going to have learn the constellations for real," she said. Her voice was breathy, her lungs already quickening as her body readied for Spike's attentions. "Calling them the circly-star thing and the Big Star Bonanza just doesn't cut it any more, I think."

"If you're serious, I can always teach you," Spike said.

"Is this residual info from Drusilla's talking stars?" Buffy teased. She groaned when the tip of one of his fingers grazed the junction of her thigh and hip. He was tormenting her on purpose, she decided. That had to be the only reason he wasn't finishing the job of seducing her.

"Those stars got us outta more than one mess," he replied. He paused. "'Course, they also got us into our fair share, too, so I s'pose it's a double-edged sword."

The lethargy his massage was creating within her muscles was making Buffy's vision go soft, too, she decided. The stars seemed brighter as she gazed up at them, blurring around the edges to bleed together into a sparkling collage of silver, and the dizziness she'd felt when she'd first watched them move against the tree branches was long gone. Even blinking seemed to take an eternity, and the thought of breaking Spike's first rule now seemed ridiculous when watching was so much easier.

"I think that applies to just about everything in life," she said dreamily.

She felt his hands hesitate for a fraction of a second. "Was that the Slayer who just waxed philosophical?" Spike asked.

"I do have a brain," she said. "College girl here, remember?"

He chuckled. "My little coed."

It was the combination of the possession in his voice and the sudden intrusion of his fingers against her labia that made Buffy gasp out loud. All attempts at normal conversation scattered as Spike began stroking her pussy with the same tender attention he'd given her legs, directly avoiding her clit to slide up one side and down the other, the faintest of tugs on her coarse curls to send tiny electric shocks straight into her pelvis.

"Know you're wondering why all the set-up," he murmured. His weight was pressed against her legs as he stretched out between them, his hands dancing and floating with their task. "I just...I wanted you to just enjoy it."

"Spike---."

"Know it's not been much of a Christmas for you," he interrupted. "And I know you're worried about your mum bein' alone and not knowing where your Watcher is." Spike's finger dipped into her wetness, using her fluids to make his gliding along her inner and outer lips more silken, straying now to the crack of her ass just often enough to make her squirm. "Since we both know Father Christmas isn't parking his reindeer anywhere 'round here tonight, I figured...well, a few minutes where you don't have space in your pretty little head to worry is about all I can give you in the way of gifts---."

His mouth clamped shut when she bolted up onto her elbows, and Buffy saw the dark glint in his eyes before he ducked his head in embarrassment. "Stop," she ordered, with more force than she felt, because asking him to halt what glory his fingers was creating seemed sacrilege. "Come here."

When he didn't obey as quickly as she wanted, Buffy bent to grab the lapels of him coat and hauled him upward, her skirt flaring to expose her legs to the cold before Spike covered them in denim and leather. "You're impossible, you know that?" she said when his face was level with hers.

His eyes were black, shadowed by the sky above, pupils dilated from the desire she knew he felt. "Could say the same about you," Spike replied. Pressing his palms to the blanket, he pushed away to gain some perspective, but didn't leave the call of her flesh. "You have the same problem with presents that you do with rules?"

"I didn't ask you for anything."

"Because then this would be a favor, not a gift. And before you get your knickers in a twist, no, I don't think I'm doin' you a favor by servicing you."

Her lips twitched. "Servicing me? Way to go with the romance, Spike."

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I do." Buffy's smile faded. "And...thank you."

He was momentarily stunned by the show of gratitude, but he quickly covered it up with a knowing smirk. "You goin' to let me get back to what I was doin', then?" Spike asked.

"No." Before he could argue, Buffy knocked his arms sideways, forcing him to fall back against her. Her lips found his in a hungry lock, and she clutched at his coat to keep him close. When the kiss finally broke, she met Spike's confused gaze with an assurance that astonished her.

"I'm not drunk anymore, you know that, right?" she said.

"Never said you were."

"So, what I said earlier...morning's not going to come rolling around and you're not going to throw it all back in my face with some stupid excuse that we were both under the influence, right?"

Understanding began to gleam in his eyes. "No, Buffy," Spike said, his voice surprisingly sincere. "I know bloody well what's goin' on here."

"Then...can I ask you one thing?" She felt foolish giving credence to her doubts, but until she heard him actually say it out loud, Buffy knew that niggle would eat away at her resolve and something between them would break as a result.

"Don't need to." His mouth descended to take hers in another kiss, his tongue deceptively warm compared to the frigid air around them. "None of this would've happened if you didn't matter to me, luv," he whispered when he pulled back. "Selfish vampire, remember? But you...you drive me bug-shagging crazy with your bossiness, and that little flip thing you do with your hair every time you think you're right, and I shouldn't be feeling this way 'cause natural order it's not. But...when you're not there, I'm lookin' for you, and all I want is to..." Shaking his head, he dropped his head so that their brows just barely brushed. "Yeah, so...you matter to me, Buffy. More than I thought could be possible. And right now, I'm thinkin'...I wouldn't have it any other way."

-----

Though Spike's coat hid most of the display from sight, Jenny averted her eyes anyway, turning away from the cabin and toward her ghostly partner. "Well, I suppose the upside is that at least he doesn't have a soul to lose," she commented. She held up a warning finger. "But you're not getting a 'you were right,' so don't even try."

The other woman smiled. "I'm just glad Mrs. Summers isn't here to see this," she replied. "Can you imagine the look on her face if she'd stumbled across them like this?"

"Probably close to the one she had when she saw me in her hotel room."

"I hope she's all right."

"She will be. Joyce is tough."

The other woman was thoughtful. "No offense, but I always wondered why she and Mr. Giles never hooked up. They seemed to have so much in common."

"Yeah, they did." Jenny's lips curved into a sly smile. "Why do you think I put the bug in Rupert's ear during that band candy debacle?"

She was rewarded with wide eyes. "You didn't!"

Jenny shrugged. "Rupert needed to have a little fun in his life. I just wish they both hadn't gone all shy after the spell wore off."

"You're bad."

"I try." With a sigh, she cast a final glance toward Buffy and Spike, her moans and his endearments undeniable in the calm night. "I think things are going to be good here," she said. "What say you to taking the rest of Christmas Eve off for a change? It'll be our gift to ourselves."

"Sounds good to me." Pause. "This is because you can't watch Buffy and Spike, isn't it?"

"...Yeah."

"Thought so. Let's go."
 

To be continued in Chapter 28: A Visit from St. Nicholas...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria is concerned about Giles divulging information to Joyce, while Buffy and Spike seem to have cleared the air in time for Christmas morning...

-----

28. A Visit from St Nicholas

It was the best kind of dream.

The specifics escaped him, but Spike was more than aware of the heat coursing through his body, surging and scalding from the inside out as only a fresh kill could do. His muscles hummed from the exhilaration of a good fight, pulled and stretched and ravaged until they sprang back and begged for more, but it sated him nonetheless, in ways he'd thought banished with the advent of the chip. Few gave him such satisfaction, and the various demons he'd been allowed to fight since getting tethered to the Hellmouth by a twisted mockery of fate did little but take the edge off.

If he was honest, he hadn't felt this good since fighting Buffy in the sunlight. Now that had been a beautiful day. In more ways than one.

As Spike drifted through the ether back into consciousness, he slowly became aware of a single observation that made the remnants of his dreams incongruous. The heat was not just within. The heat was also on the outside, centralized on his legs. Waking rationale offered up the possibility that it was just the blanket wrapped around his limbs, but he almost instantly dismissed the notion. It was too intense in some spots, less so in others. And it weighed him down more than a flimsy piece of cotton could.

Then...he heard it.

A moan, so faint that a human would've missed it, trapped within the confines of a slim throat that was struggling to contain it.

And with it, the heat instantaneously shifted into something more.

Something wet.

Something powerful.

Something oh so clinging, and silken, and sumptuous in the sensations it was wreaking throughout his flesh.

A mouth.

On his straining, rock-hard erection.

And Buffy's flushed curves splayed across his thighs as she sucked his length.

Automatically, Spike's hand reached down to tangle in her thick hair, curling around the back of her head to guide her as she slowly bobbed up and down. He could feel her tongue now, tracing the length of the underside. She was doing her best to swallow as much of him as she could but was failing on the final few inches. It was endearing, in a way. Like everything else in her life that she set her mind to, Buffy was trying to go all the way with her blowjob.

With it more than obvious that he was now awake, Buffy's attention intensified, and she moved just enough to allow her free hand room to participate in the festivities. Spike hissed when the tip of her nail scraped along the sensitive skin below his balls, but when she hesitated in mid-stroke, his hand tightened in her hair, pushing her back down with just enough force to set the chip to start tingling in his skull.

"Don't you bloody stop," he growled.

Her attention returned. Spike shifted, spreading his legs, and was rewarded when Buffy's hand drifted lower to draw a single line down the crack of his ass.

He'd stopped her from doing this the previous night. After they'd finished beneath the stars, Spike had demanded she retire back to the heat of the cabin, wrapping the pair of them in a blanket before the fireplace while they just watched the flames dance in the darkness. Buffy had tried initiating more sex, but after a leisurely fuck on the floor, the only thing he had wanted was to hold her.

Yeah. It had surprised the fuck out of him, too.

"You're comin' up, right?" he'd asked.

Her eyes had jumped to the loft ladder before shifting to the closed bedroom door. "Is that such a good idea?" Buffy had countered. "What about---?"

"What about, you stop fussin' with what's not broken?" Scooping her over his shoulder, Spike couldn't help but grin at the half-hearted pounding she was doing on his lower back as he strolled to the ladder. "C'mon, Slayer. You know you want to."

They'd fallen asleep curled around each other, though Buffy had insisted on wearing one of his shirts on the off-chance Holly gave a repeat performance of an alarm clock. He'd never expected waking up to a blowjob, but Spike was hardly one to look a gift Slayer in the mouth. After all, there were obviously other, more delightful things she could be doing with it.

She was speeding up, and his moans only encouraged her to start some swirling thing with her tongue, adding to the cascades that were already making his thighs quake. What she lacked in expertise, she made up for in enthusiasm, and it was far too soon when Spike felt the familiar fire at the pit of his stomach.

She held him down when his back arched away from the bed, much like he had done with her their first night. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, he was aware that the suction of her mouth had never left his erection, but it wasn't until his eyes fluttered open for the first time to gaze down at her, and he saw her muscles still working, that he realized what she'd actually done.

Words fled. In the ambient glow that radiated from below, Buffy was blushed in bittersweet, eyes sparkling in spite of the shadows, swollen lips already curling in the beginning of a smile. She was beautiful, but it wasn't that that struck Spike dumb.

It was the carefree absence of strain in her brow, the soft set of her aspect as she just watched him. As if she didn't have a care in the world.

"Merry Christmas," she said quietly, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

"Come here," Spike growled, finally finding his voice. His hands slid beneath her arms, tugging her upward to sprawl along his length, and before she could speak, he'd pulled her mouth to his, kissing her as if he hadn't seen her in a century. Touching, have to be touching, and he burned wherever their skin melded. It was a merry Christmas, all right. The best bloody Christmas he could remember.

"I take it you liked that then," Buffy said when they finally broke apart.

He answered her by flipping her onto her back, eliciting a surprised squeak as he pinned her to the mattress. "Your turn," Spike murmured, bowing to press his lips to her neck.

The faintest of whimpers stopped him, and he turned his head automatically toward the sound, eyes narrowing to peer into the dim light.

"What is it?" Buffy asked. Propping up on her elbows, she tilted her head to look past his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing to remove herself from his embrace.

Spike's gaze swiveled back. "How long have you been up?" he asked. "Did you get moptop sorted before you set to my little prezzie?"

She shook her head. "I haven't heard her. I figured she was still sleeping."

"On Christmas morning? Not likely."

It ached to disentangle from her golden limbs, but Spike did so anyway, grabbing his jeans and slipping them on before padding silently to the ladder.

"What is it? Is she---oh." Buffy stopped at his shoulder, and he knew without having to look that she had seen the same thing he had. He only beat her to the rungs because she stopped to grab her panties, and listened to her scramble down as he strode toward the small child in the corner.

She had been doing everything she could to be quiet, burying her small face into her bent knees, thin arms wrapped tightly around her legs as she curled into a ball. It was as if Holly was doing everything in her power to disappear into herself, and Spike frowned as he crouched down in front of her.

"What's up, pidge?" he said softly. Carefully, he stretched a hand to push back the hair that hid her face, but when she flinched, he froze, unwilling to advance, not willing to withdraw.

"Something got you spooked?" She wasn't asleep---the rhythm of her tiny heart gave that away---so that ruled out the sleepwalking. The only thing Spike could figure for this kind of reaction was fear, though there was no scent of it on her skin.

The soft fall of Buffy's steps neared, but he didn't tear his eyes away from the child when the Slayer knelt beside him.

"What's wrong, Holly?" she asked, repeating his concern with pretty much the same result. When she reached forward, though, the girl didn't move, allowing herself to be pulled into an awkward embrace while she stayed knotted in her tight little ball.

"She's not hurt," Spike offered quietly. At Buffy's unspoken query, he added, "Can't smell any blood."

"Bad."

Their attention jerked back to Holly at the barely uttered word. "What was that?" Buffy asked.

"Bad."

"What's bad?"

"...Me."

"Did you do something? Is that why you think you're bad?"

Though she was still rolled into her ball, they saw Holly's shoulders shrug.

He waited as Buffy tried a different tactic.

"Why do you think you're bad, Holly? We don't think you're bad."

Silence.

It was driving him to want to shake the words out of her.

And then...

"...Santa does."

Not what he'd expected, and not what the Slayer had expected, by the line that had appeared between her brows.

"What about Santa?" Buffy said quietly. She was suddenly tense, her lips thin.

Finally, the small head lifted, revealing tear-stained cheeks. "Santa doesn't bring presents to girls and boys who are bad," she whispered.

He didn't need to look behind him to see the Christmas tree bereft of presents. He saw the ache that took over Buffy's eyes before she bundled Holly even closer.

That was all it took.

-----

She felt Spike disappear, but Buffy was too wrapped up in trying to soothe away the sadness that had taken over Holly's spirit to pay more attention to it. She'd known the Santa thing would come back and bite her in the butt; she'd just hoped to keep the little girl distracted from the fact that there weren't any presents to unwrap until the holiday was past. She'd even decided she was going to surprise Holly with Mr. Gordo at some point during the day.

She hated the fact that it would be too little, too late.

Holly was still crying, but her tears were silent as they soaked into Buffy's shirt. Buffy knew words weren't going to help, but she gave them anyway, repeating the sentiment over and over as she tried rocking the child to some semblance of peace. It was a method Joyce had used on more than one occasion. It wasn't until now that the Slayer understood exactly why.

When the presence returned to her side, she didn't stop until Spike's cool fingers feathered across Holly's cheeks, wiping away the wet that remained.

"No reason to cry, moptop," he crooned in that voice Buffy was quickly coming to recognize as the vampire's best weapon against any rising emotion. "This is all ol' Spike's fault."

Both girls looked at him in confusion.

"See," he continued, "Nick trusted me with one little job and I've gone and mucked it up. S'pose that's what he gets for trusting a vamp, eh?"

"Who's Nick?" Holly asked in a tiny voice.

Spike clutched at his heart in mock dismay. "You give me an earful 'bout him thinking you're bad and you don't even know his name? For shame."

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. "You talked to Santa?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"When?"

"Up on the roof last night. Ask the Slayer." He turned a guileless gaze to Buffy. "Was I or was I not, up on the rooftop last night?"

She had no idea where he was going with this, but it didn't stop her from answering in truth. "Yes, you were."

Back to Holly. "There you go. And we both know, the Slayer never lies."

"Did Santa get stuck?"

"What's that?"

"In the chimney. Did you have to go unstuck him?"

Spike nodded, and it took all of Buffy's concentration not to break out in giggles at the seriousness on his face. "Turns out, the prat went a mite overboard on the Christmas pudding this year. Got himself reefed good and proper, and then started pissin' and moanin' for me to help him get out. Like I'm responsible for his bloody sugar bent." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Even had to have the Slayer come up and give me a hand. That's how tight he screwed himself in there, tryin' to get your swag to you."

Buffy could only watch as Holly leapt from her arms, all thought to her previous mood vanished. When Spike hooked his thumb over his shoulder, it took the little girl a bare five seconds to go rushing past him, to the small pile he'd left by the ladder.

"What did you do?" Buffy whispered. She was spellbound as Holly knelt by a small, hand-hewn cradle. Rough bark still covered its base, but its interior had been hollowed out, a trail of something lacy acting as a lining. She strongly suspected it had once been her favorite camisole, but considering the look that was currently brightening Holly's face, Buffy was willing to hold her tongue.

He seemed uncomfortable at the scrutiny. "Told you," Spike muttered. "Not interested in a load of whinging 'bout a not so merry Christmas."

Impulsively, Buffy pressed her lips to his, kissing him long and hard. "So that's why you didn't get any sleep yesterday," she said when she broke away. "You're such a softie."

"Am not! You take that back!"

"So you didn't make toys for a little girl you barely know so she'd have a nice Christmas? And here I thought I was going to have to show you how great I think that was. With my mouth."

Beat.

"Did you see the skittles set? Took me forever to suss out what to use for a ball."

"Merry Christmas, Spike."

"What about the---?"

"Don't push it."

-----

For a holiday, Giles found Christmas breakfast a somber affair, Paul and Silas making uncomfortable small talk regarding the weather while Maria just regarded them all in that composed detachment Giles found so disconcerting. More than once, he caught her gaze on him, but even when he returned it with a direct aplomb, she didn't back down. Instead, she waited for him to look away first, and then usually set to stirring her tea while she remained lost in her ruminations.

So, when she asked him to stay after the dishes were cleared, he couldn't say that he was all that surprised. Something was brewing, and the fact that she dismissed Paul and Silas to speak with Giles in private confirmed that before she ever uttered a word.

"How did you do it?" Maria asked as soon as they were alone.

"Pardon?"

Her tone was even, the lines on her brow deepened as she pondered whatever dilemma was perplexing her. "I've watched the surveillance tapes so many times, the images are eroding, and yet, for the life of me, I can't figure out how you did it. You should be quite proud of yourself, though. Very few have ever mystified me as thoroughly as you have."

Giles shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your phone call. To Joyce Summers? You alerted her to the accident. Keen work, by the way. I have to admit, I'm quite enamored with the way your mind works."

So that was her game. When she'd mentioned surveillance tapes, Giles had immediately jumped to the conclusion that she meant she knew about the book Paul had taken from her private study. This was about Joyce.

But...did tapes mean she was aware of the theft anyway? How much of their actions were being recorded? Care would have to be taken to ensure nothing more could compromise their research, but Giles was worried that it might already be too late for such measures.

"You're not denying it," Maria said, breaking the silence brought on by his contemplation.

"Would my doing so do anything to dissuade you of what you've already decided?" he countered.

"There's nothing for me to decide, since the facts speak for themselves. Joyce Summers knows of the car accident, where it occurred, and that her daughter's body wasn't found. She's there right now searching for her, and she only did this after speaking with you." Her mouth hardened. "I don't enjoy having my hospitality disrespected so, Mr. Giles. I gave you the benefit of the doubt in contacting your Slayer's mother, and asked for nothing in return---."

"Beyond my complete dedication to this hunt of yours, you mean." It was his turn to steel, leaning forward in his seat to glare at her in barely disguised loathing. "Don't deign to pretend you're merely a gracious hostess, Maria," Giles said. "You have so many ulterior motives in this farce that it wouldn't surprise me to learn you work for Quentin Travers himself. It's only the fact that you're so casually unconcerned about Buffy's whereabouts that convinces me you're not. So, if you have a problem with me, or with the work I'm doing to try and prevent this catastrophe you're so convinced is going to occur, I highly recommend you tell me so to my face, rather than hide behind vague niceties and posh manners that, frankly, suit neither of us."

She smiled. The bitch actually smiled. It took all of Giles' control not to lean even further and wrap his hands around her throat.

"I like you," Maria said. "Your files were vague on your non-Watcher life so I only had hints of this...Ripper to whom the reports kept alluding. This must be him."

"I'm sure you have a point in there someplace."

"My point is that there is no room for insubordination under my watch," Maria replied. Her voice was ice, belying the smile that still curved her lips. "I've taken measures to get the issue with Mrs. Summers under my control again, so if you wish her to remain unharmed, there will be no more attempts to cripple my search for Holly. You may find the role of saboteur attractive, but is it really worth endangering the life of your Slayer's mother?"

His blood chilled at the threat. "What have you done?" he demanded.

"Nothing lethal. Yet."

"She has nothing to do with this. If you have a problem with my conduct, you take it up with me."

"But I have, Mr. Giles. This is why I'm speaking with you now."

He bit back the retort that rose automatically to his lips. Though he was glad that Joyce had understood his cryptic message enough to deduce the true events of Buffy's non-presence, he regretted that she was being put in harm's way as a result. Without knowing more, Giles lacked the power necessary to take control of the situation. For now, he would have to concede to Maria's authority.

"You will not hurt Joyce Summers," he said tightly. "I will not allow it."

"Then I suggest you stop interfering with outside matters and focus your attentions on locating Holly before time runs out for all of us. I can only guarantee her safety for as long as you cooperate."

Her insinuation brought his awareness back to alert. "What exactly are your intentions for Mrs. Summers?" he asked. Perhaps if Joyce were to be brought to the house, together they could find out what truly was going on.

"That's really none of your concern," Maria replied. For the first time, a glint of pleasure brightened her eyes, deepening the dread in Giles' stomach. "Let's just say, I'm very glad that Father Christmas isn't the only one who makes housecalls during the holiday season."
 

To be continued in Chapter 29: You Can Do the Job When You're in Town...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Spike has surprised everyone by having gifts for Holly on Christmas morning, while Maria has informed Giles that he will keep himself in line or something untoward will happen to Joyce...

-----

29. You Can Do the Job When You're in Town

With the smile plastered on her face for the second hour running that morning, Joyce couldn't shake the sound of her mother's voice out of her head, words she hadn't considered in decades haunting her more viciously than any of these three ghosts so determined to impede her search for Buffy.

"Keep it up, and your face will freeze like that, young lady. Do you want to look like Aunt Dottie? There's a reason the dogs are afraid of her, you know."

She couldn't bring herself to stop, though. Doyle was doing everything he could to keep her distracted from the truth of the situation, and though there was undoubtedly a certain charm to his attention, it was beginning to wear thin. Just like her patience. Was there a statute of limitations on how many drinking stories one person could tell?

None of this was helping Buffy. It was all a concerted effort to bore her into submission, Joyce was convinced. To make her give up looking for her daughter and return to Sunnydale to pretend nothing was amiss, when in actuality, everything was wrong.

This was not the way to spend Christmas.

"Are you all right?" Doyle asked for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. "Still hungry, maybe?"

Joyce shook her head, glancing down at the half-eaten bacon croissant he'd managed to find for her. "Just not feeling very festive at the moment," she said.

"You know what I hear is festive? Your house back in Sunnydale. Comes complete with all the trimmings, and yours for the simple price of a tank of gas." When she just gazed at him in silence, he grinned. "Can't blame a bloke for trying, now can you? And I still think it's the best for you. You can't do anything around here, Joyce. You do, and Buffy could end up getting hurt, and we both don't want that."

Abruptly, she rose to her feet, prompting Doyle to hop up and immediately block her path to the door. "I want to take a walk," she said. "I need to clear my head and doing it in a hotel room that looks like it should feature in one of those expose-your-spouse's-affair videos on Sally Jessy isn't exactly the best place for me to do it."

"But...there's nothing open," Doyle argued. "It's Christmas morning."

"And yet another good reason not to be stuck inside the Huckleberry Motel-a-rama, don't you think?" Taking a risk, she pushed past him to reach her coat, stopping only when his hand closed over hers in the fabric.

"Give me your keys."

"Excuse me?"

"In the words of the almighty judge, Joyce, you're a flight risk. I let you out of my sight, I need to make sure you're not going to sneak off and do something crazy like go looking for Buffy on your own. The girls would skin me alive if I lost you. If I was alive to skin, that is."

She regarded him for a long moment, ignoring his feeble attempts to joke his way past her determination. Fresh air was fresh air. Maybe it was all she needed to find the solution to her situation. Inspiration often struck in the strangest ways.

"Deal," Joyce said. She waited until he released his grip, and then slid her hand into the coat pocket to extract the key ring. "I won't be gone too long. My thin California blood can't handle the cold for extended periods of time."

When he joined her in a smile, Joyce knew it was merely lip service. She would've frozen solid the previous day before stopping her search and they both knew it. Still, it was nice to have someone at least pretend to be on her side.

It was turning out to be the loneliest Christmas Joyce could remember having.

-----

The streets of the small town echoed in silence, the vestiges of a bedraggled holiday season hanging limply from telephone lines, a torn banner declaring "Merry Christmas" wreathing the main drag. Nobody noticed the dark van park along the ditch a quarter-mile away from the blinking red stoplight because there was no one around to see. It worked out well. Fewer bodies to leave in his wake.

His long rubber coat oozed like black tar around his seven-foot form as he strode toward the hotel. He didn't need it for the cold---his species was impervious to the inclement changes of the atmosphere surrounding them---but the garment served other purposes more valuable than weathercoating. Containing the venomous slime that slicked his body before he was ready to use it as a weapon, it also did so without seeping into the fabric. He'd ruined more than one good coat that way.

Dark glasses hid his obsidian eyes from the glaring reflection of the sun off the snow as he stopped in his paces. A woman had just exited the building at which he was aimed. Closer inspection told him it was the same woman Maria had ordered him to find. Good luck, that. Potentially, he could do this without destroying any personal property. Maria had requested as part of his service that it happen with as little attention from outsiders as possible. With a bonus involved, he would most definitely take any advantage he could get.

Her head was tilted down as she began walking around the edge of the building. Lost in thought. That was good. Her distraction would make this simple.

-----

Maybe if I spoke with Jenny again. Maybe I can convince her Buffy needs me.

But she knew it was fruitless. Jenny had been firmer than her partners combined that Joyce stay out of it, looking upon her interference in much the same way Rupert sometimes made her feel when it came to Buffy's slaying. He didn't mean to, but there was the unmistakable air in his treatment of Joyce that anything demonic was beyond her realm of expertise, and that she would be better off tying on an apron and playing the mom role she'd been delegated. Most of the time, she let it slide. Being Mom was hard enough.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

The fresh air was startlingly fortifying, prickling her nose before taking a direct path into her veins to send them racing in renewed vigor. She inhaled once, twice, a third time, each second her lungs expanding one more step toward clarity. Maybe she could make a deal with Doyle. Surely there could be a compromise that could be reached---.

An acrid trail of something wafting up from behind made her eyes burn, and Joyce's pace faltered as her senses went into automatic alert. Hands buried in her pockets searched for anything that could be a weapon, and she winced at the memory of passing over her heavy keyring to Doyle. She could use it just about now, and not just to drive the hell away. Without the ring, the only thing she had was a Tic-Tac box and what felt like a quarter. Unless whatever it was trailing her had a phobia of fresh breath, she was royally screwed.

It was the crunch of snow beneath a heavy tread that made her start to angle more quickly back toward the hotel. Inside. She'd go inside. Maybe it had an invite issue like vampires. Plus, she had Doyle to help her out.

And if it turned out to be one of the greasy truckers from the bar who'd just had an unfortunate accident with a cracked engine block, Joyce was going to get back into her car and drive back to Sunnydale because clearly she was just too stupid to do Buffy any actual good.

She caught a reflection in a passing window that stopped her breath.

Damn.

Even it wasn't a demon---which she highly doubted---anything that tall and that ugly could not be anything but bad news.

-----

The girls were going to kill him for letting her go.

"Keep an eye on her," they'd said. "Don't let her out of your sight." And then Jenny's, "She's crafty. Not all of Buffy's skills come from being the Slayer, you know."

And he'd let her walk right out the door. OK, so she didn't have her car keys, but he had a sneaky feeling that wouldn't make a difference to Joyce Summers.

He was dead. Deader. He had to fix this.

Grabbing the spare room key, Doyle was out the door and scurrying toward the front lobby before another moment of his self-berating could color his mood. Maybe he'd just watch her from the front. If she really was just taking a walk, she wouldn't disappear very far and he wouldn't lose what little bit of trust he'd gained with her.

He smelled it far before reaching the lobby, though. Like rotten eggs with a three-day-old dirty nappy chaser. There was no mistaking that particular stench. And it wasn't good.

All he had to do was follow his nose, but when it came to chasing it down, Doyle didn't have to run far. The Ijua demon was just rounding the corner of the building out of his view when Doyle flew through the exit, and he broke into a dead run to try and intercept it.

He had no doubts it was here for Joyce. Ijuas were demons for hire, specializing in slow torture, and more than a few of them had been involved in the attack on Holly's previous guardians. Maria had a soft spot for working with them, but how she'd learned of Joyce's presence---or that she cared enough about it to act so decisively, one way or another---was not a debate subject Doyle had time to contemplate.

"Hey!" he shouted when he got the demon back in his sights. It stopped, and turned enough for Doyle to see Joyce just a few feet ahead. At the sound of his voice, she halted as well, and though he wanted to shout at her to keep going, he couldn't afford to divert any more attention away from the Ijua.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you," he continued nonchalantly. He slowed to a walk, grateful that the expenditure of energy was mostly done. He'd always hated that part of the good fight. "Are the fumes going to your head, too? I'd forgotten how bad you guys reek."

It wore a coat to cover its deadly slime, a fact for which Doyle was glad, but its eyes were hidden by a pair of sunglasses left over from a Miami Vice rerun. "Run away, little man," it rumbled. "You might have a chance to live then."

"Unfortunately, I've filled my running quota for the day. Looks like you're stuck with me."

"Pray to your gods, then. You are about to meet your end."

If he'd had time to react, Doyle would've rolled his eyes at the Ijua's stuffiness. No sense of style, these guys, but that was an observation for another day. Right now, he had to do what he could to get out of the bastard's path.

It lumbered forward with a grace not obvious from its size. Though he didn't see a weapon in its hands, Doyle wasn't willing to take the risk, and darted sideways and around, putting himself between Joyce and the hulking form. Swiftly, he reached into his pocket and extracted the keyring she'd relinquished earlier and tossed it backward without a glance, hearing it clatter to the concrete.

"Suggest you find your inner Kerouac," Doyle shouted to Joyce, ducking a wild swing from the Ijua. "This could get a little ugly. And that doesn't even count having to see this guy without his clothes on."

It was a spur of the moment decision. She might run, but she'd be alive. If she was alive, she was locatable. A dead Joyce was simply not acceptable.

The demon had given up talking in its determination to exterminate Doyle as a competitor. When it became obvious his punches were doing little when they did manage to land, the Ijua slithered out of his coat, revealing the dark green slime of its skin.

"Hate to break it to you," Doyle said, "but---."

He grunted when a heavy backhand connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. A viscous trail smeared across his skin, and he wiped at it with barely disguised repulsion as he rose back to his feet.

"That wasn't very nice," he complained.

For the first time, the Ijua paused. "You...stand," it said, confusion faltering his words.

"And I sit, and I walk, and I've even been known to dosey-doe, given enough alcohol. Or a pretty girl. I've always been a sucker for a pretty face."

"But...but..."

"I should be writhing around on the ground, screaming because you've melted away half my face?" Doyle plunged his hand into the snowbank, wiping the excess slime from his skin. "That would be true if I was alive, mate. But I'm not. But I'm guessing you didn't know that."

The respite in the fight allowed Doyle the opportunity to glance past the demon and see the empty parking lot stretched out behind him. Good. Joyce had managed to escape. He'd done at least one thing right.

News that he wasn't going to be claiming two victims impelled the Ijua to turn away from his failed massacre, nose lifted to sniff out his favored target. Doyle frowned when the demon began marching out toward the street and away from the hotel, and darted forward to see what might have garnered his attention.

"She's long gone," he said in a futile attempt to distract him. "You might as well pack it up and tell Maria you blundered on this one. I hear she's very forgiving of people that screw up her orders."

Nothing. Not even a glance back.

He hadn't felt this ignored since Cordy had first started working with Angel.

"Maybe we can make a deal," he tried again. "I'm sure whatever Maria's paying you---."

Doyle was cut off by the sudden roar of an engine, and he jumped back just in time to see a Jeep slam into the Ijua he'd been following, sending it flying through the air to land with a sickening crunch on the concrete several dozen yards away. Behind the wheel, a very determined-looking Joyce stared ahead with white-knuckled determination, and it was a long moment before she relaxed enough to turn the key in the ignition.

"Is it dead?" she asked when she climbed out of the car.

She stopped in front of her dented grille, and both of them looked in the direction of the supine demon, motionless and silent except for the audible sizzle of its slime against the ice.

"Can't be," Doyle said. "Only way to kill Ijuas is to set them on fire."

"It was going to kill me." She seemed slightly dazed by the statement, as if the plausibility of being important enough to be assassinated had never occurred to her. "Is this about Buffy?"

"That would be one of the safest bets I'd ever make."

"But why? I don't even know where she is. Shouldn't they be trying to kill you? I mean, if they could, of course."

Doyle shrugged. "Who knows how Maria thinks?" he replied. "Maybe she got bored this morning. The important thing is, you're safe. Now, c'mon. We should get out of here while he's still out cold."

But Joyce wasn't moving. "This could be about Rupert," she mused out loud. "You told me she kidnapped him. Maybe he's in trouble."

"He's been in trouble since Maria decided she needed him for whatever part she cast him in this little drama of hers."

"We have to help him."

He was growing impatient, especially since he could see the Ijua starting to stir in the distance. "We can't do that if you're dead. Can we go, please?"

This time, she complied with his request, and climbed back into the Jeep with Doyle sliding in beside her. "There's got to be a way we can help, though," Joyce said. She turned the key, shifting into reverse. "I mean, if she sent him, won't he know where she is? Maybe we can---."

His hand shot out and grabbed the wheel, stopping her from pulling away from the hotel. "Wait." His thoughtful gaze returned to the demon on the ground. "Maybe there is a way for us to turn this around for us."

-----

When she felt the tug at the hem of her shirt, Buffy looked away from the dish she was rinsing to see Holly holding up her plate in expectation. "There's still food there," the Slayer said. "I thought I said you had to eat the whole thing."

"But...I ate a whole inch."

Behind both of them, Spike snorted. "That's nothin', pidge," he said. "Slayer here ate a good five or six before even gettin' outta bed this mornin'---."

"Spike!"

"What? Am I wrong?"

She ignored his faux innocent query, and turned her attention back to Holly. "Are you still hungry?" she asked.

A small shake of the head.

"Well, it is Christmas---."

The plate was shoved into her hands before she could finish the sentence, and Buffy watched as the child went running back to the toys she'd abandoned when lunch had been announced. She'd been gleefully playing ever since getting them, chattering happily to Baby as she tucked her away into the new cradle, pretending the bowling pins Spike kept calling skittles---Wasn't that a candy? Couldn't the English ever call anything by its right name?---were various items of food as she played house. It had been cute, but more importantly, it had kept Holly out of Buffy's hair while she did her best to get her brain around this new development.

They hadn't spoken, but there'd been no need to, the casual touches where Spike let his fingers trail over her arm when she passed by, and the glances he shot her through his lashes when he thought she wasn't looking, conveying more than if they'd used their mouths. It was probably just as well. With the exception of a handful of times, every opportunity she and Spike had to talk things out usually ended with some misunderstanding and a fight, and Buffy didn't want that for today.

Today was Christmas. The season of giving.

For being stuck in the middle of nowhere, hiding a kid from demonic forces Buffy couldn't begin to imagine---mostly because nobody would tell her a damn thing about them---and having a Watcher MIA, it was turning out to be a pretty darn good holiday.

She felt him approach her from behind, his hands skimming down her sides before settling on her hips.

"Wanna be my Christmas pudding, pet?" he murmured into her ear. He nibbled at the tender skin. "Could set you on fire and then eat you, good and proper."

"Later," she hissed, casting a sideways glance at Holly.

"Spoilsport."

"We had a deal, remember?"

Buffy heard him sigh, and the distance between them lengthened, but Spike didn't release her from his hold. "This goes away when we lose the ankle-biter, right?" he asked. "We get back to the Hellmouth and all bets are off. That's what you said."

"That's what I said," she repeated. In spite of her resolve not to, Buffy stiffened. "You're not asking because you don't believe me, are you?"

"'Course not." His mouth was back, this time suckling gently at her neck as his left hand snaked around to drift below the waistband of her jeans. "Just makin' sure you haven't forgotten your end of the bargain."

A crash from the living room startled Buffy into dropping the dish she was rinsing, but it was the sudden wail that broke her away from Spike's embrace.

Holly sat amid the disarray of her toys, tears streaming down her face. Her new crib had toppled over when she'd tried placing everything inside, landing on her leg before spilling its contents to the floor. She continued to cry even when Buffy knelt at her side, pushing the cradle away to expose the torn leg of the girl's pants.

"It's just a scrape," she said with what she hoped was reassurance. "Hardly anything to be upset over."

The denouncement only set Holly to crying louder, her eyes squeezed shut as Buffy pushed the trousers leg up to expose the injury.

"Where's the volume control on the mite?" Spike complained.

"Real sensitive," Buffy said, rolling her eyes. "Can you get me the first aid kit before this gets any worse, please?"

The bark had done its damage even through the fabric of Holly's pants. The rough scrape that ran the length of her calf had blood already dripping down the pale skin, trickling onto Buffy's hand as she held the limb firm against the child's thrashing dismay.

"Any day now, Spike," she prompted.

The crying wasn't abating, and the blood was starting to seep between the Slayer's fingers. When did she grow a pair of lungs? Buffy thought as she wrestled not to lose her grip. For some reason, Holly's struggles seem to be getting stronger, and it was taking all Buffy's power not to let go. Vaguely, she heard Spike rummaging around behind her, but the sounds seemed hollow and far away.

"Spike...?" she called out, though it was far weaker than she'd intended.

And then...

...the room went black.
 

To be continued in Chapter 30: Blue Christmas...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: A demon has attempted to kidnap Joyce per Maria's orders but was thwarted by Doyle and Joyce, while back in the cabin, Christmas lunch was followed by Holly getting hurt and Buffy passing out while tending her...

-----

30. Blue Christmas

When it came to the hunt, vampire hearing was excellent for detecting the faintest of clues to the prey's location. A reedy heartbeat. The quiet hitch of fearful tears. An inhalation while the victim held its breath.

When it came to babysitting, however, vampire hearing was excruciatingly disastrous, as it seemed small girls' piercing cries were designed especially to bypass any sense of tolerance and drive with unerring accuracy into the center of his brain. Frankly, Spike would've preferred being on the wrong end of red-hot pokers than listen to the wails that filled the room behind him. Proof positive that he hadn't gone completely soft yet, in spite of the Slayer's protestations to the contrary.

Muttering under his breath about possessed children and the worthiness of gag therapy, Spike grabbed the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard without looking back at the two females. Unexpectedly, the scent of fresh blood made his mouth water, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek in order to prevent the coppery heat from going to his head. It wasn't a reaction he anticipated. He'd lived with the aroma of Buffy's blood in the air for days now, though it got fainter as she moved past her injuries.

But this...

This was different.

Not from the fact that he hadn't eaten a human in weeks, though that was probably a contributory factor.

It smelled like...

Power.

Deep, cabalistic, ravenous power. Like he hadn't experienced since Prague and the mob so determined to subvert Drusilla's inherent talents for their own evil-doing.

It made him hard. Expeditiously, abruptly, dizzyingly hard, and he had to tighten his grip on the box in order not to succumb to the sudden desire to shift into gameface. The instinct was that primal.

Just beg off and hide in the shower until the chit's cleaned up, Spike decided as he turned to give Buffy the first aid kit. Get away from the temptation and try to suss out exactly why it had gotten to him as strongly as it had.

That decision went straight out the window when he saw her slumped on the floor.

"Buffy!" Flying forward, Spike rolled her off Holly's lap where she'd obviously collapsed, scooping her into his arms to set her on the couch. Buffy's eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and rapid, and there was a bluish tinge beginning to creep up her arms.

"What did you do?" Spike raged, turning back to the child.

The viciousness of his question silenced Holly, driving her to stare at him with huge, tear-filled eyes. It lasted only a moment, though, before her crying returned, and she retreated to the corner to sob hysterically, leaving him in raucous confusion as he reverted his attention to Buffy.

The scent of Holly's blood was still strong, in spite of the increased distance, and Spike quickly spotted the fluid staining the Slayer's hands. This was where the bluing began, and when he picked one up to examine it closer, the iciness of her flesh almost prompted him to drop it again.

Right. Simple problem to solve. Get the blood off so it stopped doing...whatever it was doing.

Doing his best to block out the crying in the corner, Spike dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a towel, giving it a quick rinse before going back to Buffy. Swiftly, he washed her hands of the blood, not stopping until the last trace was gone, and then sat back on his heels to look up into her face.

Still unconscious.

His eyes drifted downward.

And her hands are still blue. Bollocks.

"Don't do this to me, pet," he said. Resting his hand on her chest, he felt the skittering of her heart as it fought whatever poison had leaked into her system. The chill that he'd felt in her hands didn't reach here, and a quick inspection told him that it wasn't advancing further than it already had.

"Open your eyes, Buffy," Spike coaxed. He wanted to shake her, but fear of hurting her kept him motionless. His gaze, however, wasn't content to settle, darting in desperate pursuit of another symptom to treat. Finding...nothing.

He tried again. "Luv, you gotta let me see those beautiful eyes of yours. Let me know you're goin' to fight this with me."

And still...

Not even a twitch.

His fingers were shaking as he brushed back the hair from her face, searching for any other signs of the toxin. The bliss that had been his Christmas morning had been shattered so easily, all because of the damn toys he'd been such a sop for making in the first place. All because of the kid. The same kid who was still crying in the corner---.

"Will you bloody well shut up!" Spike's head whipped around to glare at the huddled girl, his brow ridging from the force of his anger. "I can't fuckin' think for all that caterwauling!"

She gulped before putting a hand over her mouth, as if that simple gesture would silence the sobs that still tore from her throat. It was better, but when Spike turned his back to her, the memory of the haunted look in her eyes stayed with him, the fear mingling with the pain to create an elixir that ate at his heart.

She was just a child. She didn't know better.

And he hated being the reason for the suffering when only minutes earlier, she'd worshiped the ground he walked on.

"Come here," he ordered, deliberately calming his voice and shifting back to human before looking at her again. At the silent query in Holly's aspect, he picked up the towel he'd used on Buffy and waved her forward. "Need to get you cleaned up."

She did as he commanded, a cowed hesitancy to the way she scooted on her bottom to get to his side. He was careful to keep himself situated between her and the unconscious Slayer; the last thing Spike needed right now was more of her blood getting into Buffy's system. Grasping the child's ankle, he pushed her trousers leg up to expose her scrape, and was immediately assaulted by the fresh scent of the crimson fluid responsible for their latest quandary.

His grip tightened instinctively, and both he and Holly cried out in pain as a result. Spike pressed the heel of his hand to his brow to try and force the headache away, and then shook his head to regain control.

Just a bit of blood. Nothin' he hadn't seen or tasted countless times before. Not anything to be writing home about.

Except just a few drops of it had knocked out one of the strongest Slayers he'd ever seen.

The urge to taste was overwhelming, but with Holly staring up at him, half-afraid that she was going to be the brunt of another verbal attack or worse, Spike knew he couldn't. It wasn't just that he couldn't predict what effect the blood would have on him. It was the desire to not hurt the child any more than he had already that made him grit his teeth and try again.

"Pretty powerful stuff there," he commented as he dabbed at the wound.

Every time she winced from the sting, Spike flinched from the stab of electricity the chip shot into his brain. It did not stop him from cleaning up the blood, though it did slow him down, and he was never more relieved than when the worst of it was gone and Holly was sitting back watching him finish the job.

"Sorry."

The single whispered word echoed within the room, bouncing around to whittle away the last of Spike's resolve to stay angry with the little girl, and he paused as he met her eyes. "You know what happened here?" he asked carefully.

There was a slight hesitation, and then the smallest of nods.

"What was it?"

"I hurt Buffy." Pause. "Is she dead?"

"No, pidge." The Slayer's still elevated pulse throbbed behind him. "Just a little poorly, is all."

"She's going to die."

The calm matter-of-factness of the statement rattled Spike, and he swallowed convulsively to quell the rising anxiety in his gullet. "Why do you say that?"

"The others did."

Others?

He wanted to barrage her with questions, but he knew that was the surest way to get her upset again. Instead, he finished wrapping the thin leg in gauze, securing the edges to keep any more blood from escaping, and then sat back on his haunches. "You've seen this before then, have you?" Spike said. "You know how to fix it?"

Holly shook her head. A fresh set of tears were finding their way down her reddened cheeks, but these were mute, as if all her energy had been sapped by her previous tantrum.

He didn't want to hear that nothing could be done. He wanted answers. He wanted Buffy well. He hadn't gone to so much bloody trouble saving her life and getting the differences sorted between them once and for all to have her die on him now.

He'd just found her.

"You go play," Spike instructed Holly gently. "I'm goin' to see to Buffy. Understand?"

"What...what are you going to do?"

"Anything I have to," he replied. He glanced back and saw the blue tinge still shading Buffy's hands. "Anything I have to."

-----

Though he knew he must, Giles couldn't concentrate on the text before him, the symbols swimming in sympathetic resonation with the words that echoed inside his skull. Maria's threat to Joyce Summers was far from idle; he had no doubt his hostess was sincere in her intent to use whatever means necessary to keep her Watchers in check, so, really, this was all his fault. If he'd only refrained from contacting Joyce, she would be safe back in Sunnydale and he wouldn't be sitting here worrying that he'd led an innocent woman to her death.

Well, potentially. Without contact from her daughter, Giles had little doubt her anxiety would've soon got the better of her. Perhaps Joyce would've stumbled upon the truth on her own. She was certainly intelligent enough to solve the mystery of the disappearance. Really, he had only sped the investigation along.

However, that didn't make what he was facing any better.

To his knowledge, no actions had been taken toward either Paul or Silas, which could only mean that Maria was unaware of the uprising within her ranks. Perhaps the surveillance of which she spoke didn't cover the entire house. She could merely be protecting the territories she considered most vulnerable. But wouldn't her private study fall within that realm? Surely, she had to know of Paul's theft. But if she did, then she would most definitely have taken some sort of recourse. She'd reacted to a threat that was hundreds of miles away---as much as Giles knew---with greater force. That would dictate equally---if not more---stringent attention to a more localized threat.

His head ached. Giles had too many questions and not enough answers, and still the problem of Maria's missing daughter to solve. He no longer was entirely convinced that Maria's intentions were as benign as she wanted them to believe. A woman who would endanger the life of someone who merely presented a potential danger could be capable of much more.

Much, much more.

He jumped when a sharp knock at his door resounded through the library. "Come in," Giles called, and waited to see who wanted to bother him. Please don't be Maria, he thought with a tinge of desperation. I simply can't stomach that woman right now.

The door opened and Paul slipped inside, immediately closing it shut behind him. A sheaf of papers was tucked beneath his arm, and a bright glint in his eye gave him the appearance of a professor gone mad from some secret experiment. Perhaps that's not too far from the mark.

"I do hope you're not terribly busy," Paul said quickly as he rushed forth to Giles' desk. "I've just found the most exciting translation---."

He stopped when Giles held a finger to his lips. "Take a seat," the elder Watcher said quietly, and rose just enough to pull over the spare chair so that it butted up against his own. He waited until a frowning Paul was sitting before leaning in to keep his words as private as possible.

"There's the possibility we're being recorded," he said. Carefully, he waited for the reaction, but when Paul jerked back and began staring into the ceiling's corners, Giles wrapped his hands around his junior's forearm and squeezed just enough to get his attention.

"We must appear as if we're collaborating on the text," he continued. "Act as naturally as possible."

Paul's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Are you certain?" he whispered. There was more than a hint of panic in his voice. "How do you know this?"

"Because Maria recorded a telephone conversation I had a few nights ago. She told me herself."

"Are our quarters under surveillance as well?"

"I don't know," Giles admitted. "I haven't been able to actually discern any recording equipment. But I think it's better to be safe than sorry, don't you?"

In spite of the assurance, Paul looked stricken, ready to bolt as swiftly as a wild foal. The papers he'd brought in with him rattled from the trembling that seemed to be overtaking his body, and it was all Giles could do not to slap some sense into the boy right there.

"I should go," Paul said, but Giles' grip on his arm prevented him from rising completely, and he sank back into his seat when the older man tugged.

"You came in here for a reason," Giles said. "Is it related to the text you showed me?" He was careful not to mention anything specific. On the chance Maria was watching, it should appear that they were merely consulting on more of the same translations that had consumed them all along. As long as neither of them spoke of it directly, she may not realize what exactly they were discussing.

Instead of verbalizing his response, Paul nodded, setting the papers down onto the desk. The top sheet had a copy of the sketch that had been in the book, notes scribbled alongside the glyphs that had already been translated. The second and third pages were merely a series of passes given to the indecipherable aspects of the drawing, but the fourth was the one that made Giles pause.

He felt the eyes on him as he read and re-read the text. The younger Watcher had made considerable progress on the rendering, but the significance of even part of the translation would've been exciting.

"Is this correct?" Giles asked. Shuffling back to the first page and the full drawing, he rested his fingertip on the group of glyphs to the right of the altar. "These are us?"

"Most definitely." The vote of enthusiasm from his superior seemed to be all that was necessary to return Paul to his previous enlivened state. He fumbled with his notes to extract the page he wanted, pointing to various sections as he spoke. "It was quite curious, actually," he said. "The transitive didn't match the other symbols, even after I found what I suspected was the key. I even attempted subjugating it, which really shouldn't be necessary for such a labored---."

"The point, Paul."

"Right. Well, I decided to try it with the nominative, and it fell into place. Literally, these mean 'seers,' but I extrapolated our circumstances and---."

"'Seers' became 'Watchers'," Giles finished. He became thoughtful. "So, it would appear that we are to play some part in this ritual." He pointed to the third set. "Do we know what, or who, these are?"

For the first time, Paul hesitated. "I think I may need to examine those further," he said.

"Why? Is your translation incorrect?"

"It has to be. It says that the ritual is haunted."

The young Englishman was right; it had to be a mistake. A haunted ritual that he and his comrades would be partially responsible for? It was preposterous. And he said so.

"I know," Paul agreed. "I can't imagine why any of us would be party to such a barbaric practice. The text delineates a ceremony to bleed a child in order to summon the powers necessary to destroy the Slayer line---."

"That's what Maria said her daughter was planning. I'd hoped she was lying about that."

"The text supports her argument, unfortunately. She very well could've been telling us the truth all along."

Now, Giles understood Paul's excitement. It had unnerved the younger man to consider duplicity on the part of their hostess. His discoveries made it more difficult to discount other things she might've said.

"Let's go over what we've learned," Giles said. After the disaster with Joyce, he couldn't fathom Maria being anything but evil in this scenario. "According to Maria---."

"And the text. Don't forget the text."

"---and the text, there is magic that could drain all Slayer power into the person casting the spell, destroying the Slayer line and killing any person with Slayer ties." That had been the clincher for Giles' involvement. It was one thing to want to rid the world of a Slayer; it was something else entirely to lose Buffy in the arrangement.

"The text states that the spell requires a blood sacrifice," Paul continued. "A child whose function seems to be as a conduit through which the power is to flow."

"But what of the warriors?" Giles pressed. "Those were the first glyphs you deciphered. Are you wrong about those?"

"Definitely not. Perhaps they're necessary to subdue the child."

"Or they are its protectors."

"Then what does that make us?" Paul queried.

"I don't know," Giles admitted. Tossing his glasses onto the desk, he leaned back in his seat and wearily rubbed at his eyes. "I believe I'll need to think on this," he said quietly. His voice was exhausted, his mind reeling. "Alone, if you don't mind. There are too many variables that still don't seem to fit."

"Of course."

Giles remained silent while Paul gathered his work papers and hurried from the room. He didn't know what to think any more. His suppositions regarding Maria were in chaos in light of the new information, but he refused to acknowledge that his gut instinct about her were false. It was a puzzle, just waiting to be solved, but...where was the piece he was missing?

Something didn't fit.

-----

Her leg hurt. She was hungry. She really had to pee, but Holly was too terrified to act on any of her needs. She was too scared of inducing another round of Spike's wrath.

The vampire hadn't said another word to her since he'd told her to play. The sun was dipping down behind the horizon, and Holly's stomach was grumbling, but all Spike would do was sit at Buffy's side and talk to her as if she was awake.

He touched her a lot, too. He didn't seem to want to let go of her hands.

With all her heart, Holly believed that Buffy was going to die. That's what happened when her blood got out. Each and every time, the girl had died, though the little girl knew it hadn't been intentional. Doyle had said that they'd just been tests, that the Council was trying to make it so that Holly could have a normal life without being a risk to anyone.

That didn't change the fact that they were all dead, though. Or that it was Holly's fault.

She didn't want Buffy to die. She liked Buffy. She smelled nice and she was fun to play with when Spike wasn't around. When Spike was around, Buffy seemed to get all flustered and forget things, but Holly figured that was because they were in love. She hadn't seen much of it in her short span on this earth, but she'd seen some, and Doyle had told her the truth on their way here. Plus, Spike was always touching and kissing Buffy. That's what people in love did.

And now Spike was going to hate Holly because she was the reason he was going to lose Buffy.

She held Baby tighter in her arms, and watched Spike tuck the blanket in around the Slayer a little bit tighter.

Please don't die, Buffy.
 

To be continued in Chapter 31: Children, Go Where I Send You...

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