Author's Notes:

I realize that in the Buffy'verse (particularly in the Spuffy fandom), Spike reigns supreme. He's our beloved anti-hero, and we cheer him on no matter his state (souled, unsoulled, evil, good). Buffy is much harder to love, and I know that for some people the only reason they like her at all is because she's what Spike wants. Even if you normally think guys with bleached blond hair wearing all black are totally out of style, you'll overlook that for Spike--and you'll let him have Buffy because Spike loves Buffy and you want him to be happy.

I'm getting just a little bit tired, however, of the (very small handful of) reviewers, however, who feel the need to call Buffy names because she hasn't immediately succumbed to the wonder that is Spike. I really love to keep characters IN character. I like to let their relationships develop. Buffy is a nineteen year old girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, thrust into an impossibly difficult situation, deprived of her safety net and everything she holds dear, and forced to work with not only her mortal enemy but also someone who really ENJOYS causing her pain at this point. OF COURSE she's not on the Spike-Love Boat. And it's going to be that way for awhile. 

I hate to make excuses for a story, or for characters, but I don't feel like these are excuses. They're simply what IS. And if you don't like that ... then maybe this isn't the story for you. Every single time I get a "what a bitch!" review about Buffy that ignores that Spike is just as much of an asshole to her as she's being to him (if not more!) it gets really discouraging for me. It makes me not want to read reviews (which normally I love), and it makes me doubt what I'm doing with my story (which I really hate). If you hate Buffy, please, keep it to yourself. Or just leave her be. She's only human, and she's doing the best she can.

Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

 

18.

Time, Buffy knew, was a funny thing. When she was bored or stuck doing research or waiting for some exciting event to happen, it crawled like Xander on an exam day. But when there was something that needed doing—figuring out how to stop an Ascension, for instance, or how to stop her ex-boyfriend from destroying the world—well, then it was like trying to stop an avalanche with your bare hands.

Three days before Christmas she felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war: on the one hand there was research which kept on keepin' on, on the other ... no matter how many books she read, no matter how fast she read them, they were no closer to figuring out how to break the spell.

And her deadline was looming—like a great-big, Christmas-colored tsunami.

Every single day she missed her mother and her friends more fiercely. Their absence left an ache inside that rivaled the hole Angel had left when he'd gone to LA. Worse, she knew all she had to do to see her mother was to go upstairs, or she could walk to their houses to see her friends—but it was too much like visiting graves. Their bodies were there, but they couldn't speak to her, help her, make her laugh, or give her advice. All they did was dream, which she supposed was nice enough for them, but it gutted her a little every time she tried to wake them and failed.

She wanted her friends back, her family, her life. She wanted Saturday afternoons spent shopping at the mall, and Sunday evenings curled up on the floor in front of the TV with Xander and Willow and a big bowl of popcorn. Weirdly, she even wanted her classes back, although who knew how the hell the university would deal with spending the last couple of months in a mass coma. Professor Walsh would probably have some extra-wordy scientific name for it, but Buffy herself was banking on the good old Sunnydale Survivor Syndrome to kick in and work those denial glands overtime.

She even missed slaying.

There were days when the temptation to pick fights with Spike was nearly overwhelming, if only because they gave her a good reason to hit him. It was an impulse she tried hard to control for a couple of reasons. First, she wasn't sure what it said about her that she actually missed violence. Second, the temptation to fight with him was rivaled only by how much she really wanted to stake him. Staking the help—probably not her best idea ever. So she took it out during patrol whenever she happened to run across a random sleeping vamp. Still, that was happening less and less, and patrols were turning into long walks through silent streets, far more creepy than cathartic.

The slowdown of all living things didn't have any effect whatsoever on the weather, of course. Which meant that the night air was turning crisper—well, as crisp as central California ever got—and the wind was cooler at night. It smelled like Christmas, and it made her ache to see pumpkins still left out from Halloween and not a single Christmas light when they made their rounds. Everything felt wrong.

So she researched, and she hunted, and she dragged her unwilling vampire partner along for the ride because if she had to live in misery then he was damn well going to join her there. Besides, he was perceptive—sometimes scarily so. And maybe, just maybe, he'd see something she missed. Deep down she believed that if she just worked hard enough, the answer would become obvious. It had to be. Maybe not as obvious as, you know, kissing someone specific—but there had to be something they were missing. This couldn't just be it.

Part of her kept hoping that maybe the spell would wear off. Most spells did, didn't they? They weren't permanent. Only, there were some spells that kinda were, and that's what really had her wigged. But if Spike was right, which was an irritating habit of his, then whoever had cast this wasn't a bad guy. She wasn't entirely sure that they were a good guy either, but if they weren't trying to hurt anyone then why cast a permanent sleep spell over the whole frickin' town?

She'd wondered if maybe the point had been to put her out of commission, so she couldn't be doing something somewhere else. Only when had she ever been sent out to fix things anywhere else? Giles had mentioned that there was a Hellmouth in Cleveland, but either someone else was in charge of it, or it wasn't any big thing that required her attention. So that seemed kind of silly.

Unless whatever it was was going down in LA. Only then Angel would be looking for her, wouldn't he? Trying to contact her? If Spike could somehow get into town, then Angel would find a way. Provided, of course, that he even knew she was trapped here—and that he hadn't forgotten about her.

Maybe he'd found some new girl in LA and he was forgetting all about Buffy. Worse ... wasn't Cordelia working for him now?

"You all right there, Slayer?" Spike asked.

Buffy jerked to attention. "What? I'm reading, leave me alone."

"Fine, just ... might want to stop mangling that book. You won't force it to give up its secrets. I mean, it's a good thought, but breaking the spine only works with something that can feel it."

She looked down at the poor innocent book she'd been trying to read before her mind had wandered off—Casting Backwards, Looking Forwards: Advanced Non-linear Witchcraft. It was old-looking, probably expensive and hard to replace. Carefully she tried to straighten the binding that she'd accidentally twisted and cracked. Giles was going to kill her when he saw this—though she could probably blame it on Spike. Of course, he might kill her for letting Spike read his books, too. Not really a win-win situation there.

Buffy put the book down and scrubbed her face with her hands. She hadn't slept well the night before or the night before that. She doubted she'd do any better after patrol. There were only a couple of days left before Christmas. Sleeping could happen after the spell broke. Christmas was a time when miracles happened—and Buffy so needed a miracle right about now.

***

Thud.

Spike cracked an eye open and squinted up at the ceiling. Silence, for a whole blessed minute.

He nestled back into his shabby pillow and tried to go back to sleep. He'd been having a lovely dream. He'd been nailing a very naked Slayer to a cross and it had been raining blood ...

Thud. Thud.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, opening both eyes this time in order to better glare at the ceiling. Why hadn't x-ray vision been part of the vampire care package? What was she doing up there? Tai-Chi with elephants? It wasn't even noon for fuck's sake, and he was exhausted. They'd covered twice the ground last night in the same amount of time as she usually allotted for patrols, running him bloody ragged.

He thought he might have actually broken his sniffer, she'd had him smelling at so many doors.

Thud. THUD.

"That's it," he snarled, and tossed back the blankets. He'd stormed halfway up the stairs before he realized that confronting her when he was starkers was probably a dust-worthy offence. Which meant that he had to storm back down and angrily jam himself into a pair of jeans.

BANG!

She better be fighting off demons up there.

He took the stairs two at a time, then checked himself at the door. Who knew what he'd find on the other side? He was hoping for demons or maybe a horde of invading Mongols or something he could either fight or eat, but with the spell still on he was far more likely to find the Slayer having a strop and all the windows open again.

Cautiously, he opened the kitchen door. The room was lit by the softly diffused sunlight coming through the blinds. It looked like she'd left the curtains shut in the dining room as well.

Hoo-bloody-ray.

Feeling a little safer now, Spike sauntered toward the living room and the source of the noise. Up here he could hear her soft swearing and a lot of clatter and mysterious rustling. He was prepared to find just about anything as he rounded the corner and peered into the living room.

He blinked.

Well. Anything but that.

"What in the bloody buggering fuck are you doing?" he asked.

Buffy looked up from where she was rummaging in a cardboard box. Her hair was a mess and her whole face looked thin and pinched. She looked, he thought, absolutely exhausted to boot ... which was why he was having a hard time understanding why she was doing this.

A Christmas tree had been set somewhat lopsidedly beside the fireplace, and ornaments and lights already twinkled among the branches. Garlands hung from the mantle and over the windows. She was holding several long woolen stockings and a hammer, probably about to hang the bloody things from the chimney with care. The room was a mess of tinsel and figurines and decorations.

"Oh, good, you're up," she said. "I need you to put the star on top of the tree. I'd do it, but I'm too short, even when I stand on the stupid chair."

"Have you gone completely barmy? What the hell is this?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Exactly what it looks like, Mr. Grinch, and don't you even think about breaking any of this stuff. My mother is going to wake up tomorrow morning, and she's already going to be sorry about missing Thanksgiving. The least I can do is make sure she doesn't miss Christmas, too."

"Your … mother … is going to wake up … tomorrow," Spike repeated.

Right. He needed to be sitting down for this, or he was going to punch her in the face. Clearly, the spell had finally driven her round the bend. It would be funny, if he weren't suddenly faced with the prospect of trying to solve this with a Bedlamite for a partner. "And what makes you so certain of that?"

The Slayer shot him an unamused glare. "I just am. It's Christmas Eve. Miracles happen on Christmas Eve."

"I've been around a long time, luv," Spike said, calling on all the patience a century with Drusilla had taught him. "And I've never seen a miracle on Christmas Eve."

"Duh. You're a demon. You don't get miracles. Well, unless you count the fact that I haven't staked you yet as a miracle." Her eyes went unfocused and misty. "But I've seen one, so I have to believe that there can be another."

"You've seen a miracle?" Spike shoved a bunch of tinsel and sparkly stuff out of his chair and sank into it. He wasn't certain yet if she was pulling his leg with all this Christmas Miracle crap or totally sack of hammers, but either way it was entertaining.

"Last year." She yawned hugely, then shook her head and started messing about in the box again. "The First Evil was trying to drive Angel crazy. He was—"

"The first what?"

"Evil," Buffy said. "Supposedly it's, like, the Big Bang of Evildom or something—the original Big Oogedy-Boogedy. Mostly it's just a big, fat, liar-head that likes to annoy you to death by talking about itself. It convinced Angel that he wasn't ever going to be able to redeem himself. He was going to watch the sunrise from a rooftop."

"Well, that would have made my world a better place," Spike said. "I'm assuming you intervened, since my soulful sire is still amongst the undead."

"I tried." Her thin shoulders sagged a little, and when she spoke again, it was so softly that only his vampire hearing allowed him to make out the words. "I wasn't enough to keep him here."

Spike frowned. God, she looked forlorn. Somehow, he knew that she wasn't just talking about keeping Angel from a one-way ticket to Dustville, either. He didn't know why Angel had given up panting at the Slayer's heels, but he figured it had something to do with the great poof's incredible self-involvement. The way she seemed to wilt, however—Angel must have really done a number on the girl.

Of course, that's what Angel was good at.

Still, she shook it off, sighed, and went back to rummaging about in the box. "Anyway, I couldn't talk him down. The sun was coming up and ... then it started to snow. The sun never came out. It was like someone up there cared enough to keep Angel around. Ergo, miracle."

"Or, possibly, winter," Spike said, dryly.

"This is California, Spike. I know when William was a kid they probably still thought the sun went around the earth and stuff, but nowadays we know that it's the other way around and that it does not snow heavily in the desert."

"I'm not that old," he said. "And I know how weather works. I just don't think we should be so quick to chalk up a soddin' snowstorm to the Powers That Be trying to keep Angel around. It's not like he's useful or anyth—Ow!"

He rubbed his head where she'd hit him with a heavy wooden statue of St. Nick. At least she hadn't tried to stake him with it. "He's more useful than you."

"See if I put your bloody star up now, Slayer," Spike grumbled.

***

In the end Buffy dragged a stepladder into the living room and dealt with the star problem herself, since Spike flat-out refused to have anything at all to do with her "Christmas crap" as he called it. So she unplugged the TV, put an armload of books in front of him and told him to get with the research.

"I thought there was going to be a miracle?" he said, snidely.

"Shut up, Spike," she said automatically.

There was stuff that needed to be done: the decorations still needed finishing, and she should probably run out to the grocery store. There wasn't much food left in the house, certainly nothing with which to prepare a last-minute Christmas meal. She'd tried to limit her shopping to only necessities so far, even though she'd been tempted for a whole ten minutes to take a couple of pints of ice cream on her last trip to the local grocery store.

Not being able to actually pay for her purchases left her in something of a moral quandary: she'd explicitly told Spike that he couldn't steal from sleeping people, which meant that she probably had some kind of ethical duty to follow the same rule. Still, she had to eat, and she pretty much suspected that Spike had found a way to wiggle around their agreement in order to do a little lifting of his own. Probably not Chunky Monkey, though.

Shoving aside the food problem, there was also the issue of getting the house cleaned up so that her mother wouldn't wake up to a kitchen full of used coffee mugs and a basement that was probably as trashy as the inside of Spike's car. And she needed to figure out something to do about presents—there was that moral quandary again. How could she let her mother wake up on Christmas day without having a single present for her?

Buffy absently chewed a fingernail and stared at the tree.

"There's smoke coming out your ears," Spike said.

She heaved a sigh. Why couldn't she think for five minutes without the Fanged Wonder chiming in with his totally unwanted commentary?

"What are you fretting over, Slayer?"

He was sprawled in the armchair, bare-chested and legs spread so that she was forced to acknowledge his too tight jeans and their precarious grip on his slender hipbones. Deliberately, she looked away.

"Nothing you'd understand."

"Try me," he said. When she glanced back at him, his face was serious.

"Fine. I'm worried about my mother, okay? And ... Christmas. It's, like, this big deal, because for the last few years it's just been me and her for the holidays. And she's going to wake up tomorrow, and there's not going to be a Christmas dinner or ... or presents. She's made sure that every single year there were presents under the tree and now ..."

"So get her a bloody gift," Spike said with a shrug.

"How? All the stores are closed."

"Then make her something; this isn't exactly rocket science." Buffy squirmed under his gaze. Spike smirked at her discomfort. "What? You're going to tell me that you can't make her something?"

"Well, I—It's just ... I'm good at breaking. Not so much with the making," she explained, her shoulders slumping. "I kinda flunked home ec. Though that might have had something to do with the teacher making us hatch evil demon baby egg things."

"Anyone ever tell you that your life is incredibly weird, Slayer?"

Buffy shrugged. "It's all part of the perks of being me, I guess. Super strength, super speed, annoying vampire sidekicks, and a hellmouthy high school."

A grin of epic proportions broke across Spike's expressive face, and he laughed.

Buffy felt like someone had just punched her in the gut. When Spike genuinely smiled, she thought she might be getting a glimpse of what he'd looked like back when he had a soul—he looked so human that it was difficult to remember that he wasn't human at all.

He shoved himself out of his chair, dumped the books on the coffee table, then yanked her to her feet before she'd even realized he was reaching for her. He let her go before she had a chance to protest.

"We're goin' out," he informed her, heading for the kitchen.

"Spike, it's barely noon," she said. "Are you forgetting your little daylight allergy?"

"Got it covered, Slayer," he said as he opened the door to the basement. She stuck her head around the doorjamb and watched him clatter down the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed," he said. Then he paused and leaned around the post at the bottom of the steps so she could see his grin again. Somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, she felt butterflies wiggling in their cocoons. "Unless you'd prefer I went like this?"

Horrified, Buffy slammed the basement door. "So, so much 'no,'" she breathed.

Through the door she heard him laughing. What the hell was he up to? She had stuff to do, dammit. She didn't have time to chase vampires around Sunnydale to see what kind of evil they were up to—only, well, that was kind of her job description. Only, she was trying to make Christmas, and Spike was well on his way to being the nightmare before ...

The door opened behind her with no warning. She stumbled, righted herself, and turned to glare at the now dressed vampire. "Spike," she said, putting on her most serious don't-mess-with-me face, "I've got to-"

"Get your mum a present, right?" His tongue curled obscenely against his upper teeth. "Yeah, I know. I'm helping."

"Helping?"

"Move your arse, Slayer. Don't have all day. Besides, gotta be back in time for your miracle to kick in." He brushed past her, scooped his boots up out of the foyer while neatly avoiding the light falling through the windows, and leaned against the stairrail to stuff his feet into them. There were holes in his socks, she noticed, like he'd been wearing them for ... well, he'd probably had them for a few decades or something. "Are you coming or not?" he asked, reaching for his coat.

Suddenly Buffy was aware that she was still in her ratty sweats and dusty from her last trip up to the attic. "I need to shower."

"You've got ten minutes," Spike said.

"Fifteen," she countered, because there was no way she was going to let the vampire boss her around. He just grinned at her again, which made her fists itch to pound his face in; he had no right to look so ... appealing. A good punch would—

"I'll give you twenty if you let me watch."

Done and done. She punched him in the nose. "Fifteen," she said, and stomped up the stairs, to a chorus of Spike's curses.

***

Fifteen minutes later the Slayer clattered down the stairs, scrubbed, tidy, and smelling of coconuts and soap. Spike swept his gaze from the tips of her pink sneakers to the still damp end of her ponytail, trying and failing to hold on to the burning hatred he had for the chit. Instead he found himself wondering what she'd taste like so soon after she'd brushed her teeth, and whether the wet tendrils of her hair would cling to his skin as he thrust into that pouty little—

"So where are we going?"

"Hell," Spike muttered low enough that she couldn't hear. "It's a surprise," he said, louder. "Do you trust me?"

"Never." With her arms crossed and her toe tapping, she looked every inch the queen bitch.

"Then you'll just have to wait." He glanced out the window, squinting to see through the harsh sunlight, took mental aim, then tugged his jacket over his head and opened the door.

"Spike!" she called, but he darted out and down the walk before she could yank him back in. Sunshine spilled across his flesh, blissfully warm one minute, uncomfortably hot the next. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain sizzling over the tops of his hands and kept his head in the shadow of his duster. Just as he felt the first licks of flames along his skin, he reached the manhole cover to the nearest sewer drain, bent, wrenched it open, and jumped down. Plunging his hands into the ankle-deep water extinguished the fire.

A shadow moved over the manhole cover, then the Slayer peeked down at him, the light turning her hair into a golden halo. "A sewer? You were willing to risk your dust over a sewer? I am not going down there."

"Oh, please, like you've never used the sewers to get around before. I know better, Slayer."

"It's stinky," she complained. Spike sniffed experimentally.

"Actually it's not too bad," he said. "And you don't even have my nose. Now quit your whinging and get down here, or I'm leaving without you."

She glared at him—but then she swung her legs over the edge and lowered herself as gracefully as a gymnast. Without thinking, Spike reached up, caught her waist, and helped her down.

Spike froze and stared, wide-eyed, at the armful of Slayer he held pressed against him. For her part, Buffy seemed equally shocked. Her eyes darted from his face to where her hands rested comfortably on his shoulders.

"Let go of me," she said, even though his hold on her was so loose she could easily break it.

Moving with deliberate slowness, he released her, then stepped cautiously back. "All right, then?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes wary.

With a curt nod of his own, Spike studied the sewer system, then headed east, hoping the shadows hid the evidence of his sudden and unwanted response to her. It was getting bloody ridiculous the way he couldn't seem to keep his paws off the girl. Hell, considering how much time he'd spent planning to get them on her a couple of years prior, it was nearly ironic how often she kept falling into them now.

Every time he turned around, there she was, flipping her hair and bossing him about like she thought she owned his arse. It was enough to make any vampire want to tear her throat out ... and yet, Spike found himself enjoying their little verbal battles and whatever occasional physical ones she threw his way. For a Slayer she was scrappy and interesting. Her tenacity was impressive, and even though she acted like she wasn't the brightest bulb, every so often he caught a glimpse of the intelligence she hid underneath the valley girl exterior.

And she was a hot little bit of baggage. There was that, too. It'd been months since he'd last had a woman, so it made a twisted sort of Stockholm Syndrome sense that his cock twitched every time she was near. She was, after all, the only awake and available female, and what man—hot-blooded or cold—could resist that tight, perky little body? She'd dust him, of course, if he ever tried anything, or beat him bloody. But if anything that only made Spike's inner masochist more aroused.

It was sick, he knew. She was the Slayer. Wanting to do anything with her other than decorate her Christmas tree with her entrails and solve that star problem with her head was edging far too close to his wanker sire's territory than Spike liked. If he ever caught himself sulking over his unrequited love for the bitch, Spike was going to stake himself. He would not be Angel Junior. No matter how much it might have pleased Dru, that was one resolution Spike had kept and one that he intended to keep. Lusting after the Slayer was excusable, but he'd be damned before he ever did more than that.

He'd been in such a good mood earlier, too. Now the sewers seemed to reflect his thoughts. They were twisted and confusing, dripping and foul. His boots splashed through a thin layer of watery muck and every so often he had to edge around a spill of light from above. He could hear her grumbling behind him, muttering under her breath about stupid vampires and how unfair it was that he didn't actually have to breathe down here. He ignored her.

When they paused at a fork in the tunnels so he could get his bearings she stomped up to him and crossed her arms.

"Gee, this is exactly how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve. Is this your idea of a fun field trip or something? 'Cause, gotta say, it leaves a lot to be desired. Like daylight, and fresh air, and a nice pointy stick."

"And here I thought I was doing you a favor." Fuck if he knew why he'd had this brilliant idea in the first place. On the other hand, he wasn't stuck in the house for another day and for once they were doing something on his lead, so she could stuff her attitude, for all he cared. Besides, he thought as he took the eastern tunnel, scanning the walls for the almost invisible markings that demons used down here for street signs, he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when they finally reached their destination.

***

It was just like Spike to drag her along on some wild goose chase involving Sunnydale's stinkiest streets. Why he'd brought her here, she had no clue, and she was beginning to question her own intelligence for following him. Admittedly she couldn't just let him roam free, but how was she to know that he'd willingly flambé himself just to get out of the house?

Water dripped somewhere in the distance, echoing hollowly through the tunnels. Their feet splished in the shallow water. Her sneakers were going to be totally ruined after this—maybe she'd take a new pair out of his hide. Spike ducked, avoiding a tangle of something wet and nasty hanging from the ceiling, then disappeared down a side passage. He'd barely paused the entire time they'd been down here, leaving her to wonder exactly how familiar he was with the seamier underside of town.

The tunnels in this section were concrete now, newer and drier. Graffiti covered the smooth walls—most of the details were lost in shadow, even with her eyes adjusted to the low light. All she had to navigate by was the white glow of Spike's hair. He paused near a ladder, then swung himself up it easily, pushing aside a drain cover. A little bit of light penetrated the gloom—diffused, as though they were indoors. With a grunt, he shoved the cover out of the way and clambered out. Then he looked down at her. "Coming?"

"Well, I'm definitely not staying," she muttered, and climbed up after him. They were in a basement somewhere ... only it didn't look like a house basement. If anything it reminded her of that one time she'd hunted down a demon in the bowels of Sunnydale Memorial. Pipes stretched overhead, and crates were stacked deep enough to block out her view of what she sensed was a cavernous space. "Where are we?" she asked.

Spike only grinned. She followed him through the warren of crates, then through a door marked "stairs." Wherever they were had been closed for the night when the spell kicked in, meaning only the emergency lights were still on. Spike led her up a flight, then opened a door with a flourish. "Here we are."

Once, when she'd been very little, her grandmother had taken her with her to church for confession. She didn't remember much about Grandma Summers, except that she'd been Catholic—while the rest of her family had been ... well, not really that interested in it, to tell the truth. But she remembered the cathedral, remembered that big, empty, echoing space. Her shoes had clattered on the floor like tap shoes, tempting her to dance until her grandmother had scolded her and told her to sit quietly on one of the long benches and wait for her. Then Grandma had gone into a little room, leaving Buffy alone in the massive church. It had been so quiet, though she swore she could hear the ghostly echoes of music still playing around her. It was the kind of silence that demanded it not be broken by a noisy little girl. It had been, quite nearly, holy.

This was kind of like that.

Only instead of a cathedral, they stood in the long, hollow darkness of the Sunnydale Mall.

Despite the midafternoon sun beating down outside, the inside of the mall, like the town, was fast asleep. The lights were off, the shuttered storefronts draped in shadows, with only the signs to give away their identities. Otherwise they were just a line of barred openings. A little bit of sunlight penetrated the gloom at the far end, where the main doors opened onto the parking lot, but the interior was a vampire's playground, even with the threat of a few scattered skylights.

"Merry Christmas," Spike said.

"This is where you wanted to bring me? The mall?"

He shrugged. "Well, seemed a brilliant idea at the time. You wanted to find your mum a gift, so here we are."

"But it's closed," she said. Really, that should have been obvious.

"So? Now's the best time to get those holiday bargains."

"I think you mean holiday steals." Buffy scowled. "Spike, I can't shoplift Christmas presents."

"Sure you can," he said. "Not like anyone's looking or going to answer any alarms. Which, honestly, takes all the fun out of it. No challenge. But you're an amateur so ..."

"You're disgusting."

"So I've been told. Now, where shall we start?" He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, clearly thrilled to be getting his evil on.

"You swore not to steal," she said. "It was part of that truce thing, remember?"

Spike's grin was sly. "I swore not to steal. You didn't. And it's not like you haven't been doing a little larceny of your own this whole time. Blood from the hospital, groceries from the store, little sandwiches and things—"

"That's totally different, and you know it. That was food. Survivally stuff. This is ..."

"For your mum. So she won't wake up tomorrow and fret because Sunnydale's the town St. Nick forgot."

"She wouldn't mind," Buffy said. "She'd just be happy to be awake."

"No ..." Spike said. When had he moved around behind her to practically whisper in her ear? "But you would. All that empty space under the tree ... tsk. What a shame."

"This isn't going to work," Buffy hissed, ignoring the prickling on her neck. "I'm not going to shoplift Christmas gifts. It's wrong."

She felt him shrug behind her. "Suit yourself," he said. Then he wandered down the long, shiny corridor, whistling Jingle Bells. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't planning to leave, so she had to jog to catch up with him.

"What are you doing?"

"Exploring," Spike said. "After all, we came all this way. Might as well."

"Spike—"

"Think of it as patrol, Slayer. Who knows? Maybe we'll find that Ethan chap. That'd be a bloody miracle."