Chapter Text
"Yes," cried the vampire. "This weekend, the Night of Saint Vigeous, our power shall be at its peak! When I kill her, it'll be the greatest event since the crucifixion. And I should know. I was there.”
From the shadows of the factory, a voice echoed. "You were there? Oh, please.”
And, perhaps, in a world much more different than this one, a young man, leather duster swaying behind him, might have come swaggering out of the shadows to get right in the big ugly's face.
This is not that world.
"And who the fuck are you supposed to be?" Big Ugly asked, taking in the newcomer's curly beard as white as snow, jolly red cheeks that matched his button up, and red jacket that strained under his arms. "Santa Claus?”
Rosy nose twisted up in mock disgust as he halted his approach on Big Ugly. “Would it kill ya', little mouthwash every couple hundred years?”
That said, his curled moustache twitched in delight as he moved on, purposefully turning his back to Big Ugly and letting his gaze wander around the abandoned factory. The last time he’d squatted in a place like that, the elves had gotten into a strop about tetanus.
“I was actually at Woodstock,” he said, voice mild. “That was a weird gig. Fed off a flower person and spent six hours watching my hands move.”
Of course, that had been when he could hunt with just a wink at a pretty girl, when love had been free and people took drugs to deal with the day. Good times before he had a pack of magical nuisances following him around to make sure he didn’t kill -- apparently murder was “bad optics” for Santa.
Nearly caught up in his nostalgia, he moved out of instinct when Big Ugly rushed at him. The chain screeched as he whipped it from the pulley and chained him to the side of the large, rusted metal cage.
Contrary to his appearance, he wasn’t even out of breath.
“So, who do you kill for fun around here?”
Surely the elves wouldn’t mind if he killed demons to get his spot of violence in. It was, after all, nearly three months until Christmas.
________
Spike could still hear the whelp’s quip,” I’m surprised he fits inside that tub!” ringing in his ears.
“Bloody fat jokes,” he muttered, straining at his restraints. What type of watcher just has iron chains laying around his flat? Then, cocking an eyebrow, Spike stared at the bruises from the handcuffs inside the initiative now made worse by the Watcher’s…. He sniffed and then let out a snicker.
No wonder he tied Spike up with ease.
To make things worse, they’d taken the squalid little telly that was thankfully not playing Christmas shows yet.
Spike was bloody sick of Christmas specials. The Slayer had retreated for supper after spending what felt like hours in the shaded bathroom asking the same questions over and over again and feeding him pig’s blood of all things from a horrid yellow mug.
A jingle echoed from the window where moonlight tried to reach through the blanket his captors had tried to tack up, and Spike’s head snapped up.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned as two elves cut a circle mission impossible style into the Watcher’s window with the laser one of them had designed to look like a christmas light like they were some kind of kitschy Spy operation.
Even after twenty years, Spike could barely tell them all apart. If he cared enough, he might have put in the effort to learn their names. The squat one jumped down onto the toilet, the bell atop his pointed dark green hat swaying with the movement, and the leaner of the two, this one clad in the black Spike had insisted the Special Ops teams needed to wear instead of the dark green they’d been wearing before, crouched down on the edge of the sink by the Watcher’s toothbrush.
Walkie-Talkie in hand shaped like a Gingerbread man — Spike rolled his eyes —, the leaner one reported, “We have visual confirmation on Santa.”
“Couldn’t spring me from the bloody gulag, could you, but you can break into the Watcher’s flat after they’ve had me in the bathroom for a week?” He groused.
When they didn’t move, he jangled his chains at them like Jacob Marley. “Well?”
Crackling came from the Walkie-talkie and both elves leaned in to hear their orders.
“I’m bloody Santa Claus,” he hissed. “You take orders from me! Not Jingle!”
This likely would have worked better had Spike not spent his time denying his role as Kris Kringle. Militant little buggers liked him to be back to headquarters at least two weeks before Christmas. They'd probably kidnap him from the tub in the Watcher's place and he would be on the receiving end of a lecture about punctuality the likes of which he hadn't had since he was a boy.
Maybe it was an elf thing, but the explanation — Really an excuse, but he was evil, damnit! — of "the Slayer and her watcher with a stick up his arse had me chained to a tub" likely wouldn't convince them since he had demonstrated his masterful ability to unchain himself the many times they had needed to restrain him.
Spike was nothing but resourceful.
Even still, his hope was squashed when the elves took one last look back at him as they climbed out of the hole they made and resealed the glass.
“Fucking hell.” Spike leaned his head back against the cool lip of the clawfoot tub. “Shouldn’t’ve made them so self-sufficient. Well, Spike, Ol’ Boy. You’ll just have to get out of this on your own.”
________
Yet, he found himself back in the Watcher’s flat. God, Jingle would never let him live this down. Why the fuck would he not fight tooth and nail to get away?
As he looked at her, it all made sense. Willow’s sarcastic words, power unknown to their speaker, reverberated through reality: And she’s got to go find Spike, who’s really jolly and good and actually Santa Claus, to save Christmas or something like the good little Slayer she is. God, if she needs him that much, why doesn’t she go marry him?
Untied, Spike got down on one knee. Of course, he loved her! She was his perfect match and would be the future Mrs. Claus if he had anything to say about it.
Chuckling a few jolly “ho, ho, ho”s to himself, he slipped one of the rings off his finger and held the silver holly wreath design up to her.
“It's just so.. So sudden!” Buffy sniffled. “I don't know what to say!”
“Just say yes, and make me the happiest man on earth.”
Why had he never considered this before? There were so many factors to think about: theming, setting, those little candle toppers that looked nothing like him. The elves would want the wedding to be a big deal. He owed it to them, anyway.
There would be no more trying to goad people into killing him. Spike made an oath to himself that he would be the best Santa they’d ever seen, all of this new Mrs. Claus.
“How about a daytime ceremony in the park?”
He raised an eyebrow as he resisted the urge to purr.
“Fabulous. Enjoy your honeymoon with the big pile of dust.”
“Under the trees.” Buffy twisted her mouth up and he heard a faint jingle. “Indirect sunlight only.”
“A warm spring breeze tosses the leaves aside and, again, you're registering as Mr And Mrs Big pile of dust,” Spike said, craning his neck around to see if the elves had shown up again.
Jingle had arrived through an open window. Their small and round face was blocked by the stack of albums in front of them, so they tottered around a bit as they attempted to find balance.
“Okay, stop it!” Buffy cried. “This is our wedding and you're treating it like a huge joke!”
“I can help with that,” Jingle piped up, and heaved the albums onto Buffy’s lap, inadvertently hitting Spike’s stomach and causing him to let out an ‘oof’ of pain.
They grinned up at Spike with that knowing glint. “Came as soon as I heard there was going to be a new Mrs. Claus.”
“Mrs. Claus?” Giles asked from the sofa with his hand massaging his temples and the other holding a drink. “Yes,” he mused. “I suppose Spike does greatly resemble Father Christmas.”
________
(Nice) Communication was not one of Spike’s strong suits, and the elves were not very good at listening to him either.
“So,” Joyce said, peering over to her surprise house guest about the size of her fruit bowl or those terrible garden gnomes her sister kept, dressed up like one of the elves at the mall. “Could I get you anything to drink while we talk about… what was it you said?”
“Mr and Mrs Claus,” Jingle beamed. “If you have hot cocoa, please. I was so glad to hear that Santa is finally taking responsibility. He’s been trying to get someone to kill him for years.”
“Oh, my,” said Joyce, the saucepan dropping onto the stove.
Jingle waved their hand to dismiss these ideas. “It’s part of the magic that makes Santa. Some kind of vengeance wish, we think, so that Santa can only be killed by a man who needs to learn about the Christmas spirit. And then the Clause passes on them” They shrugged. “He’s been on the naughty list ever since he was Turned.”
Digesting this silently, Joyce just blinked.
“And, well, there was that time he got into a fight when he was ten or so,” Jingle mused, stroking their small pointed red beard with things. “So he was on the naughty list then.”
“And what does this happen to do with me?”
Jingle blinked. “Well, you’re Santa’s Mother-in-law.”
________
“You could just kill me,” Spike suggested, settling into one of Giles’ armchairs. “You’d make a decent Santa.”
The elves turned bright and hopeful eyes upon Rupert as he emerged from the kitchen with a pot of tea.
“Forgive me if I don’t wish to be Santa Claus for the rest of my life.”
Spike groaned and ran a hand on his face. The elves exchanged looks and huddled up so that the tips of their hats came together to resemble a Christmas tree, blinking and merry even in early December.
“Didn’t this Watcher used to do magic?” One recalled.
“Oh, but humans are so fragile!” The second of the group of five reminded them. They all grimaced. It was true: human Santas always seemed to fare worse than the Supernatural ones. The job just wasn’t made for them.
The leader of the extraction squad, who had been the one to break cover in order to barter for Santa’s release, tapped her tinsel topped shoes on the coffee table and thought it through.
“If I remember correctly,” she mused, “this watcher was on top of another Mage’s Christmas list for the past few years.”
“We cannot give people as presents,” the youngest elf reminded her unnecessarily.
The first pursed his lips and nodded. “No, we cannot, Noelle… but perhaps we can convince this mage to turn our prospective Santa into
something more…” He glanced back at the Watcher, who took a sip of his tea and wiped his glasses to remove the steam from the mug. “Suitable.”
Either way, all the elves agreed. Anything was better than Spike.