Secret Santa (Fanfic)

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Title: Secret Santa

Author: EllieRose101

Season: Four

Rating: PG

Story Bio.: The Scooby Gang decide to do ‘Secret Santa’ one year, but there’s an odd number of people, so they are forced to include Spike. What wonders will unfold when he gets allocated the Slayer to please this holiday season?

Author Note: This is my first time taking part in Seasonal Spuffy, so I hope I’m doing it right. At least with the tags and things. I’m not really going with the theme, though I’m sure someone’s probably done this idea somewhere before. (Not being very used to the site, I haven’t found a way to navigate the archive very well, other than by date, so please forgive me if this is too similar, or doesn’t fit at all or whatever.)
Anyway, here goes nothing…

Secret Santa

Sat in Xander’s parent’s basement on what was commonly known in his home country as Boxing Day, Spike was looking around at the Slayer’s pals, wondering just how his unlife had come to this.
If you’d have told him a year ago, or – hell – a month ago that he’d be spending the holidays surrounded by teenagers and the smell of fabric softener he’d have called you a damn liar.
If he had any self respect he’d have dusted himself before running to Buffy for help, but it was well known his self respect was in short supply, and being around Buffy wasn’t as bad as he’d once thought – not that he’d actually admit that, of course.
But Buffy was one thing. Spike still couldn’t stand most of her friends. Sure, Red could be alright, sometimes, but she was still missing her boy, and that meant that she was currently less fun. Not that he held it against her, having been heartbroken himself not so long ago.
Giles talked too much for Spike’s liking, and he had the nerve to chuck him out just so he could shack up with a bird temporarily – which, again, Spike couldn’t really blame him for. Being alone really was a pain in the arse. Plus, the watcher had single malt and not a bad book selection.
Anya was amusing to listen to, most of the time, but she could prattle as well. Xander had no redeeming features whatsoever, as far as Spike could see, though he had to admit – if even only to himself – that he didn’t look far. He had, to his credit, albeit somewhat reluctantly, given him a place to stay, but that place also came with bloody horrible people living upstairs.
The day before, on actual Christmas, Xander’s folks had drank and argued for several hours. It kind of took the shine off bickering for Spike, in an odd way.
Luckily, they were silent now. Probably still passed out, he thought, idly.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Why are you so eager?” Buffy replied, throwing him a wary look.
“’m not!” he insisted, knowing full well he was an awful liar and she’d be able to see right through him.
Truth be told, he hadn’t liked the idea at all when it was first pitched to him. Willow had gone on and on about how he just had to take part, because there needed to be an even number. Much as he wanted to, he didn’t point out that there didn’t actually need to be an even number – not if you sorted the assignments right.
She just probably wanted something to focus on other than her feelings, and also probably felt bad for him, so he let her have her fun. He was going soft, damn it, but he didn’t care.
Willow’s accidental spell a few weeks previous also sweetened the deal. Ever since the day he’d spent engaged to the Slayer, he couldn’t stop his mind – and other body parts – from taking a sudden interest in her.
Now he knew how she tasted, and could feel, pressed tightly against him, he craved it, like he craved blood.
With a great stroke of luck, he had been allocated Buffy to attempt to please, and he intended to win her over. It was easier said than done, though, with not being able to leave the house much, disabled as he was by the chip. The soldier boys were still roaming around, but it probably wouldn’t have made much difference anyway, because he was all out of cash and now had no means of scaring anyone into giving him anymore.
So the gift had taken ingenuity, but he’d got there in the end. He really hoped she liked it. She would bloody have to, if he stood any chance of earning himself another kiss.
Finally, everyone sat down ready to start. Anya got Willow socks, while Willow gave Anya a replica of her old amulet and an irritated look. Xander gave Giles a comic book (“What?” he exclaimed, in response to the watcher’s lackluster reaction. “It’s a book. You like books!”) Giles had got Xander a hideous sweater (“What? You wear clothes, don’t you?!”) and now all eyes were on Spike.
Suddenly, he felt unsure. After all the time he’d spent thinking about the moment he would present his gift and, hopefully, have Buffy be delighted with him, he hadn’t actually factored in that the others would also be paying attention.
What he had wanted for a private moment was now a public affair.
Despite this, he summoned his courage and passed across the box he had neatly wrapped in some tissue paper he’d requested off Willow.
Buffy’s jaw dropped open as she took it, and that gave him pause.
“What’s the surprise?” he asked. “You haven’t even opened it yet.”
Blinking, Buffy admitted that she didn’t actually think he’d hold up his end of the deal. That rankled, a bit, but he had to admit it was fair. Up to now, he wasn’t exactly known for his honor.
“Go on, then,” he encouraged her, while trying to give off the impression that he didn’t really care with his body language.
Carefully, Buffy unwrapped the box, opened it, and found inside a silver broach, engraved with her name.
Her eyes lit up just looking at it, and Spike realized that the look was actually worth more than a kiss.
Clearing his throat, just in case his voice might betray any emotion, he told her that it was made out of the melted down metal of the ring he had originally given her as part of their faux engagement. Once more, Willow had helped him out, by going to the jewelers on his behalf, but he didn’t tell her that part.
“It’s beautiful,” said Buffy, before prying her eyes away from it and finally looking back at him. “I can’t take it.”
Spike’s face fell. Before he could find the words to convey his disappointment and confusion, she went on the say, “I didn’t get you anything. It wouldn’t be right.”
“You didn’t get him anything?” said Willow, who appeared to be channeling annoyance on Spike’s behalf. “Why didn’t you get him anything?”
“I didn’t think he would actually take part,” Buffy said again. “Honestly, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
She tried to hand the box back to Spike, but he wouldn’t take it.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t need anything. Jus’ keep it.”
He was still a bit upset, but at least she had liked the thing, and didn’t try to give it back out of disgust or whatever.
Refusing to let the sentiment be spoiled further, he finally did take the box back. Then, removing the broach with his long fingers, he carefully pinned it to Buffy’s blouse.
She seemed flustered by this. After taking a moment to look wildly around the room, her eyes settled on a batch of Christmas Cookies.
Snatching one up, she placed it directly in Spike’s mouth.
It was hardly a present, but it was a nice gesture all the same.
Taking a bite, Spike smiled and said, “Cheers, Slayer.”
Then, thankfully, conversation resumed around them, and everyone else just kind of got on with their day.
So it hadn’t exactly gone to plan but, all in all, it wasn’t a bad day.
Spike got lost in his thoughts, considering it. It took him a moment to notice that Buffy was still looking at him.
“I really am sorry,” she said, once she’d caught his eye.
“I might let you make it up to be next year,” he joked in response.
“How about I make it up to you now?”
Before he had time to process the question and discern a possible implication behind it, Spike found Buffy’s lips pressed tightly to his.
“Thank you,” she said, when they parted again.
“Merry bloody Christmas!” Spike exclaimed, as he gave in to reckless abandon and pulled her back into his arms, devouring her mouth once more.
Suddenly, he found himself thinking of all kinds of exciting plans for New Year.


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