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Workin' in a Winter Wonderland (1/8)
Title: Workin' in a Winter Wonderland 
Chapter: 1/8
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss 
Summary:  Several years post-series, Xander returns to California to go undercover as an elf--and encounters several surprises.
A/N: This fic is complete and I'll post it in its entirety today. Written for the Advent of Spander and dedicated to the lovely hawera who knows that the Wonderland is real. Many thanks to silk_labyrinth  for the very quick beta-ing and to angelstoy  for the wonderful banner and to moscow_watcher  for the icon!

WORKIN’ IN A WINTER WONDERLAND

One

“Your paperwork is all in order, Mr. Harris, but, er, there’s one small problem….” Mr. Foster glanced up from his desk at Xander, then quickly back down at his pile of papers. His round face turned an interesting if alarming shade of purple.

Xander waited a few beats and then took pity on the guy. Mr. Foster seemed nice enough, probably even genuinely imbued with the holiday spirit. Xander gave him his most winning smile. “Yeah, the patch. Nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Foster nodded his head quickly without looking up. “Yes, of course, of course. I didn’t mean to imply there was something wrong…. It’s only, when the children arrive they have certain expectations of Santa’s elves. They expect elves who are silly and jolly and, um….”

“Two-eyed?” Xander said helpfully.

“It’s so important to us that we maintain the illusion, you see. Children today are exposed to many bad things, so many bad things, and we want to keep their holiday joy as pure as possible. We’re very particular. All our Santas have real white beards and real roly-poly stomachs. I’m sure you understand.”

If everything’s so pure and joyful, how come something’s been eating some of these kids’ parents?

Xander asked, but only in his head. Outwardly, he remained smiling. “I do understand. But hey, I bet this is something we can work around. What if I’m, uh, Salty Sam, formerly scourge of the seven seas but now reformed and Santa’s little helper? Kids love pirates. And it’s wholesome, right? A classic story of redemption.”

The manager peered at him thoughtfully. “Salty Sam, huh?”

“We could put a stuffed parrot on my shoulder.”

Mr. Foster chewed on his lip for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “All right. But we’ll have to find a tiny red and white hat for the parrot to wear.”

***

“I’m in,” Xander announced, flopping down onto the couch.

Nobody answered. Of course, he would have been more than a little surprised if someone had, given that pretty much everyone he knew was another continent away. He thought about calling someone—Willow, maybe—but when he tried to figure out the time difference between LA and England his head hurt, and instead he clicked on the TV. He refused to feel sorry for himself. He’d asked for this gig. Not because he had an overwhelming desire to wear bells and striped tights, but because this job meant getting to come home, or at least the closest he’d come to it in a half dozen years. He didn’t yearn for Sunnydale per se, which was good, considering it was just a big crater now, but for Southern California. Palm trees. Smoggy sunshine. Ginormous SUVs. People with whitened teeth, lifted faces, and enhanced boobs. In-N-Outs, Krispy Kremes, and taco trucks.

Besides, this monster, whatever it was, was preying on children, stealing their families away from them at Christmastime. Xander had experienced plenty of shitty Yuletides himself; he hoped maybe he could help a few kids avoid holiday misery.

American television hadn’t improved in his absence, he noted. He flipped listlessly through the channels until his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d skipped lunch. He walked across the room to the kitchenette and opened the fridge, as if food would magically appear there. It probably would, if he were Willow. It must be nice to have magical talents, he thought, not for the first time. It’d come in handy during fights, sure, but it’d also be nice when, say, the laundry was piling up or his car was on the fritz.

He closed the fridge again and sighed. He’d chosen this motel because it was handy, only a few blocks from the Winter Wonderland, and because the rooms were large and had kitchen facilities. But it wasn’t very fancy and there was no room service. No gym, either, and it was too cold to use the pool.

He found his shoes where he’d tossed them earlier and he slipped them onto his feet. Out of habit, he looked around for his jacket, and then he remembered that it was almost 70 degrees outside and he couldn’t help but grin. Back in England, his friends were undoubtedly freezing their asses off. Buffy would be stomping around HQ, scowling and asking whether it ever stopped raining and complaining about her newest pair of ruined boots. Willow would be clutching endless mugs of steaming tea. Giles would just be frowning, not quite willing to admit that he missed California weather. And Dawn would be pointing out that due to the weather, university parties were a lot less interesting in England than they would be back home.

There was a shopping mall right next to the motel. Xander ambled through it, dodging crowds of tourists from Japan and Russia and Australia, trying to decide which American culinary delight would be his. The little Nestle store caught his eye first, so he began with a chocolate chip cookie appetizer. He had a turkey sub from Quiznos as his main course, followed by a venti Frappuccino at Starbucks and a Love It-sized Oreo concoction at Cold Stone Creamery. If he didn’t solve the local demon problem soon he was going to have to find a gym, or at least get in some running.

His stomach more than satisfied, he wandered around the mall for a little while, and then out onto Hollywood Boulevard. The sun had set already but the crowds were still there, people with cameras strung around their necks, their friends and family members kneeling in the middle of the sidewalk to get their pictures taken with Olivia Newton-John’s star. There were the pathetic sods in costume, the Jimi Hendrix imitator, the Spidermen (red and black) and the female Michael Jackson and the Captain Jack and the Spongebob and the Marilyn Monroe. Xander was fairly certain some of the people behind the masks weren’t quite human, but since they didn’t seem to be harming anyone, he didn’t care. He’d long since learned to let sleeping demons lie.

Just a block up was a congregation of street people. A girl with a huge backpack and a yellow dog, a young white guy in dreadlocks with a hand-lettered cardboard sign, a grizzled man with a bunch of beaded bracelets for sale. They smelled like weed. He smiled at them. He always took the presence of homeless people as a good sign—it meant the local nasties weren’t too hungry. The guy with the dreads asked him for some change. “It’s my birthday, dude. Come on.”

Xander pulled out his wallet and took out a couple of ones. The Council had him on an expense account and he was supposed to hand over whatever he earned as an elf, but he figured he could spare a few bucks at least. Besides, people like this made good sources of information—they saw a lot of what happened in the neighborhood. Getting on their good side was wise. “Here ya go,” he said, handing the bills to the kid. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks man,” the kid said, giving him a mock salute.

Xander was going to continue walking, maybe find a liquor store, but suddenly the time difference caught up with him. He’d only arrived the afternoon before. So he plodded wearily back to his room, where he fell asleep with the TV on.

***

The job interview with Mr. Foster had been in a nondescript little office in a squat stucco building a half dozen blocks from Xander’s motel. Mr. Foster had given Xander the address of the Winter Wonderland, but Xander didn’t actually see the place until he showed up for work the first evening. When he did see it, he came to a sudden halt right in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Winter Wonderland occupied a lot between two buildings. It consisted of a festively painted backdrop; ten or twelve trees of various sizes, each covered in decorations and fake snow; a small cottage that was undoubtedly meant to be Santa’s house; and a stage. A long line was snaking out of the cottage, across the white-painted ground, and out onto the pavement. And over it all was a sign: “L. Ron Hubbard’s Winter Wonderland.”

He’d been hired as a Scientology elf.

Xander hovered near the entrance of the Wonderland for a few moments, until he caught the eye of a bulky guy in a red and green pixie outfit and a manic grin. “End of the line’s over there, sir,” he said, pointing.

“I’m an elf. Where are we supposed to change?”

“Oh. Inside that building. Just knock on the door. Security should have your name.”

“Thanks.”

The building turned out to be Scientology headquarters. Sure enough, the skinny septuagenarian at the door had a clipboard and Xander’s name was on it. “M. Timmons” read the guard’s name tag. He unlocked the door and ushered Xander in, then directed Xander down the hall to an unmarked beige door.

The dressing room was crowded as the outgoing shift stripped off their costumes and the incoming shift put theirs on. Xander squeezed his way in and found a locker with “Harris” scrawled on the sticker affixed to it. He checked the paper Mr. Foster had given him the previous day and found the combination; the lock snicked open and inside, in all its glory, was his outfit.

Xander must have groaned aloud, because the guy next to him gave him a little shove on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s not so bad, man.”

“It’s sparkly. It’s sparkly and fluffy and…and glittery.”

“Of course it is. We’re elves.”

“Yeah, okay. But couldn’t we be dignified elves? I mean, who says elves are all with the twinkle? Maybe they wear Levis and t-shirts.”

“You don’t have a problem with the twinkle, do you?” The man lifted an eyebrow. “’Cause an elf changing room in Hollywood’s not really the best place for homophobia.”

Xander snorted. “I am not homophobic. I’m just not really a twinkly kind of guy.”

His new friend shrugged. “Then you’re just gonna have to deal I guess. It’s only for a few weeks anyway.”

“Yeah,” Xander said with a sigh. He stripped off his clothing then. It took him a long time to figure out how to get the tights on, and then the poufy pants kept falling down until he found the drawstring, and it wasn’t at all clear what side of the tunic was supposed to be the front. Finally he slipped the stupid gold slippers on—they curled at the toes but they were actually pretty comfy—and stood in front of the mirror that hung next to his locker, adjusting the pointy hat. There was no parrot in the locker. Maybe Mr. Foster hadn’t found one yet.

When Xander turned around again, there was only one other man left in the room, a latecomer who had his back to Xander and was only now slipping his tight jeans off. He didn’t wear underwear but he had a pretty spectacular ass, and Xander couldn’t help but pause to ogle a little.

Unfortunately, the man must have sensed the ogling. He turned slowly.

The first thing Xander noticed was the smirk on the man’s face.

The second thing he noticed was that he recognized that face.

“Spike!”

At the same moment, Spike recognized him. The smirk disappeared, replaced with open-mouthed shock. “Harris!” Spike said.

They gaped at each other—Spike naked, Xander dressed in festive gold and red and green. With bells.

Spike recovered first. “You’re meant to be in England!”

“And you’re supposed to be dead!”

They stood there, glaring at one another for being completely unexpected, until the bulky elf Xander had spoken to earlier barged into the room. He barely glanced at them. “You guys better get out there. You’re late.”

It wouldn’t do to get fired already, so Xander gave Spike a narrow-eyed look. “You are so gonna owe me explanations later, Bleachboy.”

“Ditto.”

They both nodded curtly and Xander left the room.

Somehow he’d managed not to feel completely ridiculous when he was in that room with a bunch of other elves, but venturing out in public like this seemed wrong, even though he only had a short way to go. He had to pass the line of people and some of them waved and greeted him. The kid with the dreadlocks sauntered by with a smile and gave him a mock salute. A small boy gave him a high five but a trio of twentyish blondes in tight jeans giggled uproariously.

When he made it to the entrance to the Wonderland, a short elf with black hair and caramel skin gave him the once over. “New guy?”

“Yep.”

“Elf name?”

Xander sighed. “Salty Sam.”

The short guy raised his eyebrows. “Oookay. I’m Floppy.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Ha ha. That’s my name—Floppy. I’m in charge of the night shift.” He grinned evilly. “And you get to be on swabbing duty.”

“Huh?”

“You get to clean up the spills.”

“Um…what spills?” Xander hadn’t been aware that Santa visitations were spillful events.

“Pee, mostly. Some of the kids get a little too excited. Or scared. But there’s also the occasional barfer—drunk adults mostly. The other night we had a guy who tried to hide behind Santa’s house and whack off. Cops came and took him away, but not before he got got, um…” Floppy glanced at some nearby kids, “…personal body fluids on the wall and ground.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Well, yeah. That’s why we need a swabber.”

Xander rubbed his face. “Fine. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Stand right outside the door to Santa’s place and look merry. The cleaning stuff is tucked behind that sleigh.” He pointed.

Xander tromped dutifully past Floppy, then past a downright pixieish female elf with hair redder than Willow’s and a cute upturned nose. Her pointy prosthetic ears were very lifelike. “Hi!” she chirped. “I’m Candy.”

Of course you are

, he thought. Out loud he said, “Salty Sam, reporting for swabbing duty.”

That pert little nose wrinkled up. “Oh.”

Apparently swabbers were at the bottom of the elf ladder.

Santa’s house had a front porch where people could get their pictures taken before entering the holy presence. Another elf was stationed there with a tripod—this elf a chubby brunette with rosy cheeks—and she motioned him impatiently to a spot just out of camera range. He peeked into the house as he went by, but saw nothing unusual. Just a standard-issue Santa ho-ho-hoing merrily at a pair of toddlers on his lap and another pair of the ubiquitous elves.

Just after Xander got himself into place, a man in a suit appeared on the stage and introduced a musician Xander had never heard of. Then the musician himself arrived, a young guy who proceeded to croon in Spanish into a microphone. Xander didn’t know if he was singing Christmas carols. Did Scientologists even do Christmas carols? Totally against his will, a tune began winding through his head: Deck the halls with Dianetics, fa la la la la la la la la….

“Argh!” he said, loud enough for the round camera elf to glare at him. So he pasted a smile on his face instead, waved at a scowling thirteen-year-old in goth gear, and looked around for Spike.

His mind was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that Spike was still alive—or what passed for alive with vampires, anyway. He couldn’t possibly fathom why William the Bloody was in LA and dressing up as Santa’s little helper. Was Spike responsible for killing the kids’ parents? Maybe he’d lost his soul along the way. That was possible—Christ knew Spike’s grandsire shed his pretty easily. But even so, this kind of weird scheme didn’t seem much like Spike’s style. Spike was never really one for the nefarious plotting, not even in his Big Bad days. He was more of a striking fangs-first type. Maybe it wasn’t Spike’s plan, though—maybe he was working with other demons. But that didn’t seem very likely. Spike wasn’t much of a follower, really, and the only demons Xander remembered him getting along with for any length of time were nutcase Drusilla and Clem; and Clem liked everyone.

As Xander was lost in these futile thoughts, one of the elves stuck his head out of Santa’s house. “Hey! New guy! Get a mop.”

Xander checked behind the sleigh, which had a giant teddy bear as passenger, and found a small closet camouflaged behind fake snow. Inside of it was a mop and bucket. The bucket was painted festively with images of wrapped presents, and the mop handle bore red and white stripes.

Mercifully, this puddle ended up being only a spilled hot chocolate from the Starbucks across the street. Xander cleaned it up quickly while Santa comforted a sobbing four-year-old, assuring her that spilled cocoa was not a coalworthy offense. Xander knelt beside the kid when he was done cleaning. “Hey, don’t worry,” he said. “I spill stuff all the time. Us elves are very clumsy. Just last week I accidentally tipped over a pitcher of eggnog, and the week before I dropped Rudolph’s bucket of reindeer chow.”

The little girl sniffled. “Really?”

“Really. I bet your Mom and Dad might even get you another cup of chocolate.”

 “With whipped cream?”

“I’m a marshmallow guy myself. You’ll have to talk to Mom and Dad about that one.”

She turned to her parents, who were smiling at him. “Can I?” she asked.

“Sure,” her father said. “You just have to promise to be more careful this time.”

The little girl nodded and, to Xander’s surprise, flung her arms around him. Usually parents would not be pleased about their young child getting physical with the one-eyed man in the weirdo outfit, but this kids’ parents beamed at him and one of the elves snapped a picture. A moment later he managed to extricate himself and fetch his mop and bucket.

That was nice, he thought as he put the cleaning supplies away. That little girl might even have some good Christmas memories of the kind elf. L. Ron Hubbard’s Winter Wonderland might be hokey and strange, but that was genuine happiness he’d seen in that family, and how valuable was that?

He just hoped her parents didn’t get eaten.

Crap.

As he emerged from behind the sleigh he caught sight of Spike. The vampire was standing near the Wonderland’s exit, ushering people out with a surprisingly chipper smile. Spike saw Xander looking in his direction and shook his head in wonderment. Apparently he hadn’t yet worked out why Xander was there either.

The rest of the evening went pretty quickly. Xander was kept fairly busy with his swabbing duties, and when he wasn’t cleaning up he was keeping his eye open for any sign of bad guys or watching Spike. Spike watched him back, seemingly as quizzical about the whole situation as Xander. In between the mopping and the spying and the wondering, Xander saw the visitors come and go—families, couples, and groups of all descriptions, speaking a variety of languages. Some folks were festive and laughing, some grouchy and irritable and tired. Humanity. He spent remarkably little time around normal people, and it was almost like visiting a strange world.

By 9:30 p.m. the line had dwindled, and a little after 10:00 Xander helped the other elves roll a long green fence in between the Wonderland and the sidewalk. They all trooped tiredly back to the building, where M. Timmons again let them in. The male elves went in one direction and the females in another; Santa seemed to have his own private dressing room somewhere.

Xander changed clothes quickly and efficiently in the crowded little room. He saw Spike doing the same. One of the elves from Santa’s house congratulated Xander on a good first day, and then everyone left. Everyone except Xander and Spike, who was now wearing his old uniform: black and black and black, duster and all. His hair was still bleached and slicked.

They regarded each other silently.

“I expect this will go better over a few drinks,” Spike finally said.

“Capital idea.”

Spike led the way out of the building and down the sidewalk. All the Wonderland’s lights had been turned off and now it was just a dark lot. Spike was walking quickly and Xander had to hurry to catch up. They wound their way several blocks to a small, seedy-looking strip mall. Spike waved at a security guard—Xander wasn’t sure in the dim light, but he kind of thought the guard had little horns on his forehead—and then Spike unlocked a battered old Mustang that was painted primer black. He motioned at the passenger side and slid behind the wheel.

Xander thought for a moment. Maybe getting in a car with Spike—the potentially soul-free and homicidal Spike—wasn’t such a smart idea. On the other hand, since when was Xander prone to smart ideas? He got in the car.

They didn’t speak as they drove, but Xander saw that Spike kept sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye. They didn’t drive very far—probably only a couple of miles—before Spike parked the car and got out. Xander followed. They were in front of a big building with gently rounded corners—an apartment or hotel, Xander couldn’t tell. There was no sign.

“Where’s this?” Xander asked a little nervously.

“Poof’s hotel,” Spike said, marching ahead.

Xander had no clue what he was talking about, but he followed Spike into the building, where he found himself in a nice, if slightly past-its-prime, art deco lobby. There was nobody else there, although there was a pile in one corner that looked suspiciously like a bunch of broadswords and spears.

“Interesting choice in décor,” Xander said. “A nice change from the usual ferns and fountains.”

Spike shrugged. “Nicked them from some Byoxanthi last week. Can’t be arsed to find a place for them. Peaches can if he wants.”

And again with the not understanding what the hell Spike was talking about, but Xander walked along behind him, following up a flight of stairs and another and another, until Xander had concluded that the workout he’d been contemplating wasn’t necessary after all. But finally Spike opened a door and they entered what turned out to be a small suite.

“Sit,” Spike ordered, pointing at the room’s sole couch. Xander sat. Spike walked over to a big, antique-looking armoire and rummaged through it, making glass clinking sounds. Xander looked around but saw no signs of mayhem. Just a television—an old one, not a flat-screen—a small table with a lamp and an overflowing ashtray and, up against one wall, another long table, that one piled with books and various small debris he couldn’t quite make out. Through an open door he could glimpse an unmade bed with white sheets and a red bedspread. The place smelled of cigarette smoke.

Spike plopped down on the couch beside him and handed him a glass tumbler. Xander took a cautious sip. Bourbon. He had a bigger swallow and turned to Spike. “Is this your place?”

“Sorry. Haven’t had the decorator in lately.” Spike sounded more defensive than sarcastic.

“Hey, it’s pretty nice digs for a dead guy.”

Spike drank half his glass in one go. “Why are you here, Harris?”

“Which here? Your room? LA? Or is this a more existential here, as in what is my purpose on earth. Or—”

“Harris! I see the years haven’t tamed your tongue any.”

Xander smiled. The truth was, it had been a while since he’d had an actual conversation with anyone. And even if that someone was Spike, he didn’t mind drawing it out a little. “I’m guessing you want to know why I’m in town. And I’ll tell you, but then you have to reciprocate.”

Spike got an odd look in his eyes and took another swig of his drink. “Lay on, Macduff.”

“There’s not that much to tell, really. We got this call—well, Giles got the call, but he shared—that said there was something eating people in LA. And not in the fun way. And that the one link seemed to be that they’d all visited this particular Santa. So I got sent to investigate.”

“Why you?”

“You mean, why not someone more with the superpowers?”

Spike shrugged elegantly. Then he refilled his glass and Xander’s, which had somehow emptied itself.

“The Slayer Army’s spread a little thin right now. We have apocalypses brewing in Oslo and in one of those -istan countries—I forget which—and some sort of important wizard conference in Taipei.”

“So you’re still a Scooby.”

“I guess. I’m mostly errand boy, rounding up stray slayers, collecting mystical do-dads—”

“Fetching donuts.”

“Sometimes. Fixing stuff. I make myself useful.”

Spike tilted his head. “And this time you’re useful in the city of angels.”

“Presumably.” Xander drank more. It was good. “So now you wanna explain why you’re undusty? And an elf?”

Spike grimaced. “’T’s a long story and not terribly interesting. I got resurrected—”

“How?”

“Dunno, really. Magic lawyers.”

“Deadboy’s magic lawyers? I heard about them.”

A bigger grimace. “Yeah. And we fought them and won—at a bloody great price—and now we’re here. Fighting the good fight and all that rot.”

“Angel’s here?” Xander looked around as if the big vampire might materialize any second.

“This is his place, yeah. Right now he’s up north, chasing after this bitch he fancies. I mean a real bitch—she’s a werewolf. Half the time they’re googly-eyed over each other and then one of them has a snit and takes a runner. Was her turn, I reckon. And that left me to sort things when I heard about the poor sods getting eaten.”

“So you figured you’d go undercover as an elf. The world’s first vampire elf. Well, you make a better elf than Angel, I bet.” Xander had a vivid mental image of Angel in tights and bells, and couldn’t help laughing.

Spike must have had a similar image, because he chuckled too. “Old bastard would scare all the children with that forehead of his, and make even jolly St. Nick brood.”

“I bet he would.” Xander waited as Spike filled his glass the third time. He was beginning to feel a little…well, not drunk. Not yet. Just…relaxed. A little fuzzy around the edges. “If you’ve been alivish all this time, how come you haven’t contacted Buffy?”

Spike winced. “I’ve…. She’s better off without me. I’m better without her. She could…could never really love me. I know that.” He looked down at the dark liquid in his glass.

Unexpectedly, Xander discovered himself empathizing. Empathizing with Spike! “Buffy’s pretty complicated. I don’t think she knows what she wants, most of the time.”

Spike looked up at him. “Is she happy?”

“Um…sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. Which isn’t bad, considering the life she leads. Do you want…do you want me to have her call you?”

“No!” Spike said immediately, forcefully. “I want a clean break.”

“Okay.”

They were both quiet for a while, other than the sounds of their throats working as they swallowed. Somewhere outside a siren wailed.

Then Spike’s head snapped up. His eyes were narrowed. “You were ogling my arse!” he accused.

Xander’s face went scarlet and he considered whether he had plausible deniability, then decided he didn’t. “I didn’t know at the time it was your ass.”

“But you knew it was a bloke’s.”

“Well, yeah. We were in the men’s dressing room, plus it’s a very masculine sort of ass.” Impossibly, his blush deepened.

“Did the witch finally do it?”

“Do what?”

“Gay you up.”

“Oh.” Xander chugged his drink. “No. Let’s just say over the past years I’ve come to a greater appreciation of the male form.”

Spike regarded him for a moment. “It’s a spectacular arse,” he said at last.

“Umm…yeah,” Xander admitted. Because it really was.

Spike smiled and poured him another drink.

 Chapter Two