Title: Check and Mate
Word Count: 409
Summary: Buffy versus Christmas and Spike doesn't care.
“Turkey. Check.” Buffy’s tone is brisk as she rattles through her list, each item checked off against the efficient campaign she’s fought against the Christmas shopping. She’s tackling the Christmas preparations as she would any other battle: by taking full control, dominating the task, making sure of the outcome she wants. Winning.
Christmas doesn’t stand a chance.
“Mince pies. Check.”
Spike nods, adding his implicit male agreement with the minimum effort he can get away with.
“Crackers,” she marks her To Do list with her special Christmas pen that jangles with a flurry of miniature snowflake charms. A present from her sister no doubt. “Giles sent us those. So check.”
It has its own rhythm this. Buffy reels off the list. He nods along. Christmas sorts itself out somehow. Easy.
“Tree. You’ll get the tree, right?” she asks.
Spike nods again like a bobble-head. It’s a boring list, agreeing is easier, so he tunes it down to a low level, to a drone in the background while he concentrates on the X Box in front of him instead. He’s a vampire not a Christmas person, whatever Buffy wants to do they’ll do it; as long as they find time for some shagging at some point he’ll be happy, even though this traditional British Christmas she’s planning so meticulously is supposed to be for him.
He doesn’t like to mention he hasn’t bothered with one in a hundred years and the ‘traditions’ she’s looking to include are nothing like the ones he remembers indulging. Especially those he’d indulged through the twentieth century with Dru. Fun times, certainly, but morally confusing as post-soul memories and he doubts his name will ever be very high on Santa’s delivery list. Perhaps he should start some new rituals with his new girl; ones that don’t involve snacking on Santa’s elves at the mall and hopefully will involve lots of sex. With blindfolds and handcuffs maybe.
If he’s lucky, she might even approve of that.
“Cigars and socks…” Buffy continues, unconcerned by the complexities his dodgy past brings to the festivities.
Spike’s brow furrows this time. He looks up, raises an eyebrow. “Cigars and socks?”
Buffy is grinning as she leans down to slide her arms around his neck. She sucks seductively on his earlobe and the carnage of Grand Theft Auto is immediately forgotten.
“Just checking you’re listening,” she whispers, kissing his neck. “Because I need you to help me write out the cards…”