I can't believe I'm doing this. I glad I can't see myself in any of the millions of mirrors in this building, 'cause I wouldn't be able to look myself in the face. I'm William the Bloody, dammit! Not only am I a vampire, I'm a selfish, uncaring, deadly, *badass* vampire!
"Can I help you, Sir?"
I set the pile of plastic and metal on the countertop, my fingertips lingering briefly over the titles on the edge of the cases. NOFX: The Decline. Rancid: the new self-titled album. Green Day: Warning. Punk-O-Rama, volumes three through six, and Give 'Em the Boot, volumes one and two. I'm keeping the middle-of-the-road ones like Placebo to give him... hell, if he doesn't like 'em, he can always give them back to me. But if I'm gonna get him anything he actually likes, some of these have got to go. And so I choke back a sob and say those fateful words:
"I'd like to return these."
"Of course, Sir," she says sweetly. "Is there... a problem with them?"
"No," I snap, leaving it at that. What am I supposed to say? That I'm returning these wonderful compact discs because I need money to buy Christmas gifts for my stupid, poncey, anal-retentive- what? My *what*? Special friend? Fuckbuddy? Unlife partner? *Boyfriend*? Bloody hell.
But I adore the bastard, all right? Yes! I admit it! I love the fucking son of a bitch! I love the self-centered, pansy-assed, broody, tiresome, obsessive-compulisive Ponce of Europe. I love the way his eyes follow me around the room even when he doesn't realize he's watching me. I love the way all I have to do is blink and I can tell, by a downward glance and resigned sigh, that I'm about to get my way yet again. I love the way he lets me put my feet on the small of his back and tuck my head in the hollow of his shoulder. And I love the way when he's inside me he makes me dig my fingers into the bedclothes and choke on my own screams and-
"Sir?"
"Hmm? Huh? Whassat?" I say, starting from my mental tryst in the delightful land of Shagging Angelus.
"I said, was that cash or charge?"
NOFX! Rancid! Loud, raucous punk rock! Selfish pleasures! Personal gain! Evil, vampirish self-absorption!
"Sir?"
I close my eyes briefly and imagine the look on his face when he receives a gift that he actually likes. And the mind-boggling sex I'll get afterwards.
And I hold Angel's credit card out silently.
What am I gonna do now? What the hell am I gonna get him? I won't buy him poncey clothes or decor. If I get him alcohol, I'll just drink it myself, and we both know it. I mean, really, what do I have to offer Angelus?
The answer is simple.
Me.
My gorgeous- preferably naked- body and the opportunity to use it after his own pleasure. And with this in mind, I reclaim Angel's no-longer-maxed-out credit card from the salesgirl and head, with a merry grin, towards Spencer's. Ooooh, the Acme Choco Sex Manual. Angel has always enjoyed playing with me and confectionery at the same time. Say are there rum balls in this? No? Damn. Oooh! Black light!
I close my eyes briefly and imagine Angel's marble-white body, glowing under that black light-
Err. Umm. Grrr. Yeah.
"Will that be cash or charge, Sir?"
And out comes the credit card again.
When I'm finished with Shopping for Angelus, the Sequel, I stash the bags in Angel's car and meet him in the mall's plant nursery, where he is currently arguing with his employees about the second tree of the season. Angel has chosen some great, hulking, penis-envy tree that probably won't even fit in the hotel lobby, and he's pulling that "because I'm the boss and I say so" crap on the others, not that it will make any difference. Wesley has chosen a trim, straight, tall, terribly neat tree. If a tree could be fussy, this would be a fussy tree. He's standing next to it, Resolve Face firmly in place. Cordelia wants one of those pre-decorated ones with fake snow, and Gunn's looking around nervously as if he doesn't want to be seen with these crazy white people.
I look up at the twelve-foot-tall evergreen monstrosity that my Sire has picked out. "Angelus," I sigh, "you've *got* to be kidding."
*~*~*~*~*
Cordelia is about to cause a scene here in the nursery over that damn tree covered in pink plastic snow, Wesley looks like he might burst into tears at a cross word, and Gunn's looking for a place to hide. I don't want to hear what my insolent, insufferable, overly opinionated Childe, whose incendiary antics necessitated the purchase of a new tree in the first place, has to say about it. I close my eyes and heave a deep sigh. "Spike," I say darkly, "don't. even. start."
He looks slightly taken aback and I immediately want to kick myself. "Whatever," he says with an abrupt shrug. "I'll be in the car."
When he is out of sight, Cordelia smacks me on the arm. "Good going, Angel," she snaps. "You hurt his feelings."
I bite down on my lip, very, very hard, and ignore her. I turn to my newest employee, who is standing about ten feet off and pretending that he doesn't know up. "Gunn," I say in what I hope is a calm voice, "why don't you pick our Christmas tree?"
Gunn shakes his head wildly and backs up a few paces. The Fearless Charles Gunn obviously doesn't want to get involved in this argument. "Whoa, Angel, hold up. I don't want anything to do with-"
I gameface. I can't help it. I really can't. "Gunn," I snarl, "pick a fucking tree."
He looks around quickly and selects a tree at random. It's ugly. It an ugly tree. And I don't even care.
If Spike has anything to say about it, it won't last long anyway.
He ignores me the entire way home. We finally reach the hotel, where Cordelia and Wesley are given the sacred duty of adorning the second tree with the third set of decorations. I find Spike curled on a couch in front of the television is what was one the hotel's dining room and is now "Spike's TV room."
I sit on the couch next to him and place a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier."
He shrugs off my hand, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. "Ssh," he whispers harshly. "Quiet. This is a classic."
"It is?" I ask in surprise, looking at the screen. Strange, round-headed little cartoon children dance spasmodically with a small black-and-white dog to an obnoxiously chipper little piano tune. "What the hell is this?" I ask suspiciously.
He turns towards me and gives me his "What kind of unbelievable wanker are you?" look.
"What kind of unbelievable wanker are you?" he gasps.
Told you.
"What?"
"You've never seen 'A Charlie Brown Christmas'?"
I sigh. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've celebrated Christmas?"
"How long?"
Some people don't believe in God. Some people don't believe in Santa Claus. Spike doesn't believe in rhetorical questions. "Not since I got my soul back."
He rolls his eyes. "You get your soul back and you stop celebrating Christmas? That's almost stupidly ironic, Angel."
"I know."
"So," he says, reaching for another green-foil-wrapped Hershey's kiss from the dish that he keeps next to the couch, "why now?"
"What?"
"Why celebrate Christmas now?"
I stop and consider this.
I spent most of the Christmas season after I met Buffy recovering from nearly having the life drained out of me- by, guess who, Spike- and I think she went out of town to visit relatives. The Christmas after that was... well, nice. In a... suicidal kind of way. But it was never anything like this- the shopping and the decorating and the eggnog. Truth is, Buffy rarely had time for that sort of thing.
"I guess," I reply slowly, "I never had anyone to celebrate it with until now."
He says nothing in response to this, but finally scoots over and nuzzles his head against my shoulder the way he usually does when he's watching TV.
"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" I murmur, brushing my fingers through his hair.
"Guess so," he concedes grumpily. "Now shuddup."
I point in alarm to one of the cartoon children, who is surrounded by a cloud of dust. "What is *that*?"
"That's Pigpen."
"Well, he's unsanitary."
"Hush, Angel! You'll miss the big speech."
Sure enough, a small animated child appears on the screen and delivers a moving speech about the True Meaning of Christmas. "That Linus," Spike sighs. "Smart little bugger, isn't he?" If I didn't know better I'd swear he'd gotten misty-eyed.
I shake my head in amazement. "You were an agnostic as a human and an atheist ever since, and yet you get all maudlin over this kind of crap?"
"Yeah, well," he begins defensively, when he is cut off by a deafening crash coming from the lobby. Spike looks up in alarm; I simply lean my head back and close my eyes.
"Don't you wanna go see what-"
"No," I reply wearily. "I don't."
Moments later, Cordelia and Wesley appear at my doorway. "Err," says Wesley succinctly. "Err. Umm. Err."
"It's Wesley's fault," Cordelia adds quickly.
*~*~*~*~*
So here we are, back at the soddin' nursery.
"I'm just sayin' it's a bit odd."
"Shut up," he says flatly, lifting up branches to look at price tags.
"Angelus, it's fate. It's meant to be. Vampires aren't meant to have Christmas trees."
"That's funny," he snaps, scanning the remaining evergreens. "So far, none of the carnage has been caused by yours truly. First there was the ornament debacle, which was Cordelia's fault. Then you burned down the second one-"
"Cordelia didn't water it! It just, umm, combusted. It was her fault."
"Spike, don't."
"Wanker," I mutter, lighting a cigarette.
"And then Wesley did- whatever he did."
We're still not sure about the particulars. He says he was blinded by tinsel, tripped over a strand of lights and then, according to Cordelia, "it was all just bad."
"So maybe it's not that vampires aren't meant to have Christmas trees. Maybe it's just that vampires aren't meant to have employees and lovers." He sighs and fingers the needles of another tree. "Not this vampire, anyway."
"Oh, stop sulking." I glance around quickly to make sure there are no witnesses and, coming up behind him, loop my arms around his waist and set my chin on his shoulder. "It's just a tree. We'll get another one. Whole world's full of 'em."
"Our office is probably responsible for the deforestation of entire states by now."
"Bollocks! Besides, what's it matter? Not like we need the oxygen anyway." He smiles at this, in spite of himself.
"Fine. What about this one?"
"Ugggghh! Ugly. I want this one." I point to a tree leaning against the wall in the corner.
"You can't be serious," he says flatly. "That's the most revolting tree I've ever seen."
"What's wrong with it?" I retort, pouting.
"Look at it! It's all... skinny... and unkempt."
"Yeah, I know." I give Angel a rakish grin. "We could call it the Sid Vicious Tree. Decorate it in safety pins and plaid?"
He rolls his eyes and snatches the tree up in one hand. "Miserable little thing."
"Me, or the tree?"
"Both." He pulls out his wallet with a resigned sigh. "Fine, whatever. I give it five days. A week at the outside."