Christmas Eve, 2003. Los Angeles

It was easy to hate Christmas when you were evil. You were supposed to hate all that good will to all men, and merry this and merry that - it was expected. Your dead, black heart wasn't meant to be touched by the saccharine sweetness of the seasonal specials on the telly or the scrubbed faces of eager children demanding chocolate or the latest toy fad. Caroler’s either got on your wick or stuck in your teeth, and scarves just made it difficult to get a clean bite without a mouthful of wool. Even now with his soul, fighting on the side of light, the whole thing made Spike want to vomit. Okay, when he was alive it was never quite the Dickensian paradise portrayed on a million Christmas cards, but it was nothing like the commercial, crass celebration of consumerism it had become.

Christmas had always been a bad time of year to be a vampire. Not only was there the celebration of all things good to contend with, there was the absence of food. Empty streets meant meagre times for the undead, with no easy pickings - fools all alone at night on the Hellmouth or loners on the edge of crowds that would not be missed. Meals were fought over, prized for their rarity while Sunnydale residents were at home, fighting with the family or filling themselves up to the brim with rich food and drink. Even the homeless, the runaways, the drunks, were safely tucked away in goodwill shelters or soup kitchens well away from a vampire’s rumbling tummy.

It was even harder when you were a reformed vampire-with-a-soul, newly re-corporealized after being a ghost at Wolfram and Hart, AKA Spike. Evil or no, the Law firm was closed for the holidays. So no employees left for him to torment or any of Angel's friends to pester. No one. All at home, enjoying the break while Spike had nowhere to go, no one to be with, only his equally Christmas-phobic grand-sire. Somehow he couldn't imagine them both over at Fred's for Christmas dinner.

So Spike did what Spike did best and went out for a drink. Or six, or seven, whatever - he lost count early on. He had a serious bit of missing Buffy to get done, soaking the loneliness in whiskey until he was numb and was ready to slither to the floor. Time then  to stagger back pissed to bother Angel for a bit. At least he would understand.

He heard the scuffle down the alley before he saw it. He hadn't been expecting a fight tonight, but he was a little sozzled, so what the hell. Spike to the rescue; time to help the helpless, white hat and all that. He loosened the muscles in his neck, rolled his shoulders ready for the fight and plunged in with a battle cry worthy of his evil days.

He didn't expect to see the sight before him, that's for sure. A vamp attack definitely, a roughing up of some wino maybe, but Santa, for it was truly he, being mugged for a sack of presents? No way.  

"Oof!" A youth smacked a hard punch into a corpulent gut, doubling up the jolly gentleman in red, causing the snowball bobble on his hat to flick into a wild arc.

Spike winced in sympathy, even though a punch from a slayer must be fifty times stronger than anything this pumped up miscreant could achieve, then he pile-drove his fist into the mugger's jaw, which collapsed with a satisfying crack.

One good thump was all it took. The force of the blow sent the mugger off his feet and sprawling into a haphazard stack of crates, breaking a few with his momentum. He took one look at Spike's game face and scrambled to his feet as fast as his legs could keep up with him. It was obvious, as he scurried away like a rat, that he wasn't going to put up much of a fight, a vampire was something much further up the underworld food chain than he and he wasn't going to hang around long enough to mess with it.  

"That could've been more satisfying." Spike grumbled, looking at his knuckles as if they should hurt more.  

Santa straightened up slowly and painfully. He was sporting a bruise which would turn into a wicked black-eye in the morning. He was massive, length and breadth, and he towered over Spike, but so did everyone else nowadays. The short-arsed Scoobies were long gone - Spike had always suspected that doughnut poisoning must have stunted their growth.

Anyway, Santa really is a vision in red polyester and white faux fur, all held together by a black belt that strained to keep his stomach in the same time zone. Cover all this with a voluminous white beard, and this was Santa Claus - Father Christmas - classic.  

"Thank you, young…" Santa's voice is big and booming. Jovial as you would expect. A bit like Tom Baker on crack. He paused, confused, as he recognised Spike for what he was. Vampires weren't his usual clientele. "Vampire?"

Spike nodded, not really sure of what to say to the jolly red giant, but not letting it stop him. "Um… So how's it going tonight? Apart from this of course."

Santa shrugged, with only a slight wince. "Nearly over. Only Hawaii to go."

"Nice."

"Yes. I often go there for the odd holiday."

Spike nodded.  "Sounds good." was all he could manage to say to that. The helpless was saved now, why couldn't he just piss off?

Awkward silence, so Spike went to say something to fill the gap. He wanted to ask if Buffy was okay, then thought better of it. Maybe he shouldn't know.

Santa beamed in his rosy-cheeked way. Spike braced himself for a ho, ho, ho, that thankfully never came. "She's fine." he said.

Spike narrowed his eyes, but then relaxed and smiled. Of course Santa would know his girls. It was his job. "Thanks mate." He turned to go. About the right amount of time had passed since the daring rescue now. Time to get back. "Right then, I'll be off."

"I have something for you." Santa handed him a small package that seemed to appear out of nowhere, all gift wrapped in black paper dotted with snowflakes and topped with a big white bow. The gift tag said “Love Fred”.

Spike blinked in surprise - he just didn't get presents.

"There was something else." Santa added.

"Yeah?"

"You saved me tonight. Saved millions of children from disappointment."

Spike grimaced, but he was secretly proud. "Don't make bring up my dinner, Reindeer Boy. Just fancied a fight, is all."

But Santa was wiser than that. He had the ability to look into people's hearts to see if they'd been good or bad, after all. "You've been good all year, Spike, and you saved me. As a gift from me, I will grant you a wish."

Well, Spike knew wishes were dangerous. He spent enough time around Anya to realise that they were often loaded. But this wasn't vengeance, it was a good wish, and there was still enough of the Victorian gentleman in him to realise that it was impolite to refuse a gift.

So what should he wish for? It was certainly tempting to wish for Buffy to finally love him; but then a rare, annoying voice in his head, thought to be his common sense, piped up. It wouldn't be proper like that, and there was no point repeating the past. If she did love him, then he wanted that love to be real, because she saw something in him that was worth loving, and was not just an effect of some spell.

So he thought long and hard, thinking over all the possibilities. Bring Joey Ramone back from the dead? Nah, let him rest. Put John Lydon on I'm a Celebrity, get me out of here? Nah, that was too cruel. Then it came to him. It was perfect and themed for the holiday too.

So he wished.

Back at Wolfram and Hart, the Angel at the top of the Wolfram and Hart tree groaned in pain. The pine needles wedged in his bottom were rather prickly.  

end