Disclaimer: I don't own BtVs or Angel characters. Joss Whedon, David Greenwald, Mutant Enemy and the WB...all rights. No infringement intended.
Author's Note: I was checking my timeline for this series and realized that The Dhamphir V ended in November, so I was just in time to write a Thanksgiving fic, since it's that time of year. Borrowed a bit from Buffy S4, Pangs, even though at this point, this series is taking place in S2. Also spoilers from Buffy S2 Becoming, Parts 1 &2.
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Sunnydale, California, November 24, 1997
Holding up her head, staring at a mountain of textbooks in front of her, Buffy could only heave a huge sigh. Right before the holiday and every teacher in school had to assign a paper or have a major test. "This just totally blows," she commented to her friends, Willow, Xander, and Spike, who were sitting around the library table with her.
"My mother is going out of town for the holidays. I mean who does business on Thanksgiving?"
"Oh." Xander looked up, as he scratched his head with the end of a pencil. "And here I thought you were referring to the mounds of school work that the Thanksgiving Scrooges gave us. What are the odds that I can finish reading The Merchant of Venice, To Kill a Mockingbird, and All Quiet On The Western Front by tomorrow?"
Xander's question was answered by a snort from Spike, an exclamation of vexation from Willow, and a look of sympathy from Buffy.
"You haven't started any of the reading for Lit class?" Willow asked, her voice cracking a bit. She had known Xander since kindergarten and was appalled at her old friend's study habits.
"Nope," Xander said with no sign of embarrassment. "Too bad there isn't a class in procrastination because I could ace that with my eyes closed."
"Stupid pillock." Spike was heard to mutter, as he made notes from his physics test.
"And you, Buffy?" Willow swallowed her disappointment with Xander. "How are you doing with the reading for Lit class?"
"I read `To Kill A Mockingbird'," she announced proudly. "But then I kind of got stuck on The Merchant of Venice. The book is supposed to be in English, but it reads like Greek to me."
"Americans are such gits." Spike could be heard to mutter again, which earned three protests.
"Hey!" Buffy gave Spike the evil death glare, while Xander chimed in with his own objections.
"And you Brits thinks you're so much better cause you speak the Queen's English, which by the way, what exactly is the Queen's English?"
Looking up from his notes, Spike could only smirk, as he directed his stare at Xander. "You just proved my statement about Americans being gits."
"Listen, buddy." Xander leaned toward Spike threateningly. He knew he had been insulted; he just didn't understand the insult. "Who won the Revolutionary War?"
"Children!" Coming out of the back, Giles heard the last part of the conversation. "Let's not start another Revolutionary War, just keep to your studies."
"I was," Spike said with superiority, "but Git and Whinger haven't even looked at a book yet."
"Hey!" Xander and Willow voiced their disapproval in unison, while Buffy was exclaiming, "who you calling a whiner?"
"She's the whiner," Spike said to Willow, pointing to Buffy.
"I wasn't. . ." Buffy began, but then realized she had been indeed whining. "Well, I have good reason to. On Thursday everyone will be sitting down to a nice Thanksgiving dinner, but me."
"Buffy, we had this discussion about Thanksgiving," Willow reminded her. "It's a sham. It's all about death."
"It's Thanksgiving!" Buffy slouched lower in her chair, a pout on her face. "With turkey, cranberries, and yams. Maybe it's a sham, but it's a yam sham."
"A yam sham?" Spike looked up again from his physics book. "What the bloody hell is a yam sham?"
"Thanksgiving, Spike." Buffy's voice raised a bit. "A traditional American holiday. You should be celebrating it, and," she looked over at Giles, "so should you. You both live in America now, so you should be following our. . . ." She broke off a moment as a thought struck her. "I know. All of us can have Thanksgiving together. I can cook the meal just like my mom does, and all you guys can share it. It'll be great."
"I'm not observing some idiotic American holiday, which marks some obscure tradition," Spike grumbled.
"Spike!" Buffy gave him another evil death glare. "Thanksgiving is not an obscure tradition, and what did I say about you. . . ."
"When in Rome, do as the Romans do," Willow interrupted, quoting the Italian proverb. "And besides, aren't you part American?" She stared at Spike curiously.
"No," Spike said emphatically.
"Oh." Willow's interest was piqued. "Because I thought Angel, err, you dad was American."
"He's not," Spike growled out. He's. . . ." Four pair of eyes stared at him with extreme interest. "He's European," he finally blurted out, trying to recall exactly what Angel had told him.
"European?" Willow was baffled at the vague answer. "Exactly where in Europe?"
"Ireland, err, Germany," Spike temporized. There were vague memories of his Sire saying something about those two countries, but he also remembered mention of Virginia, something he didn't want to admit to his friends.
"O-kay." Xander gave a let's-hear-more, gesture. "Which is it, Ireland or Germany? And if your dad is European how come he doesn't speak with an accent?"
"Because he's lived here in American for," Spike paused, as he did some calculations in his head, "more than one hundred years. . .git."
"One hundred!" Xander, Buffy, and Willow had known Angel's age, but when it was pointed out to them in a real life way, it still shocked them.
"That's totally unfair." Xander's mind flipped to a totally different track. "You've got a living resource that's seen American history first hand. No wonder you got an A."
"Right." Spike gave Xander a scornful look. "It had nothing to do with the fact that perhaps, I studied."
"Guys," Buffy broke in, "back to the original subject, Thanksgiving dinner. Who's in?"
"I'm in." Xander shrugged. "Gives me an excuse to not be home that day."
"Willow?" Buffy asked.
"We-ll," she hesitated a moment, but truth be told, she didn't want to be left out. "I suppose there could be slight yams."
"Giles? Spike?" Buffy looked from one to the other.
"As you say, when in Rome," Giles agreed with some hesitancy. "I guess I can experience the American tradition of stuffing oneself with turkey and watching football."
"Football?" Spike's head jerked up with interest. "There'll be football?"
"American football," Giles clarified, as he and Spike exchanged a disdain-for-American-football look.
"Come on, Spike," Buffy pleaded. "there'll be turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie."
"Pumpkin pie?" Spike immediately forgot his reservations. "There'll be pumpkin pie? Count me in."
**
November 27, 1997, Thanksgiving Day
Setting the grocery bags on the counter of Giles' small galley kitchen, Buffy wiped a hand across her brow. "Man, the grocery store was pretty darn scary. It was more like a riot than a Ralph's. I thought I was going to have to use slayer moves on this one woman who was completely hoarding the pumpkin pie filling."
"Right." Giles looked with dismay at the disorganized mess that had started in his kitchen and was now spilling its way to his small dining area and living room. "And how was patrol last night?" he asked, not knowing what else to say or do. The whole holiday/company scenario was beginning to overwhelm him.
"The usual," Buffy said nonchalantly. Her only concern now was having the perfect Thanksgiving dinner.
"The usual what?" Giles asked, wondering why Buffy never chose to exercise the excellent verbal skills she used when talking about boys or gossiping with her friends, when it was information he needed.
"The usual," Buffy repeated as she hunted through the kitchen. "Giles, do you even own a turkey pan?"
Sighing, Giles realized that finding out anything useful about last night's patrol would have to wait. "The compartment above the sink. Tell me again. . . ." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Why we're not doing this at your house."
"My mom told me that I wasn't allowed to have any parties, while she was gone." Buffy gave him an innocent smile.
"Right," Giles mumbled softly, "because there'll be heavy drinking and drugs at this Thanksgiving dinner."
"Did you say something?" Buffy asked, as rummaged through Giles' kitchen cupboards.
"I said," he spoke louder, "and this is in no way an elaborate scheme to stick me with the cleanup?"
"Giles." Buffy's head popped up from behind the counter. "You really have to get over this suspicious nature you have, and. . ." She wacked a small nine by nine baking pan on the edge of the sink. "Is this what you call a turkey pan?"
Giles opened his mouth to answer but was saved by his front door banging open.
"Got your peas." Spike sauntered in, a bag of frozen peas dangling from his right hand.
"Those are frozen. I said fresh," Buffy reproached, as she walked around into the living room. "So you need to go back to the store, but I'm going with you because I need to get a," she turned to give Giles a look, "turkey pan. Keep your hands off the food," were her parting words.
"Oh," Giles couldn't help but call after her, "I'll try and restrain myself from eating uncooked potatoes and cranberries."
**
"Oh, thank God!" Giles sighed with relief as Angel stepped into his apartment, a bottle of wine in his hand.
Taken aback by the Watcher's enthusiastic greeting, Angel looked around suspiciously. "Is something wrong?" he asked, handing the wine over to Giles.
"No-yes-I. . . " Pulling Angel back outside in the courtyard, he whispered, not wanting any of the children overhear him. "I'm just so thankful to have another adult to talk to. Between Xander and Spike's nonstop bickering and the girls' inane chatter, well. . . ." He broke off, realizing that perhaps he was being a bit indiscreet himself.
"Try taking a road trip with the four of them," Angel said expression deadpan.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course, the famous haunted mansion." Giles recalled the events of just over a week ago. "By the way, Buffy had told me about how the doctor there identified you by na. . . ."
"So you found it," Angel interrupted him, as he called out to a rumbled looking man, wearing a fedora.
"Wasn't hard," Whistler said with a grin at Giles. "Just asked people where the Englishman lived. Here," He shoved a liquor bottle in Giles' free hand, so now the Watcher was standing in his own courtyard, holding wine in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. "I bought the good stuff," he said with a wink.
"And, and, just who exactly are you?" Giles had to move quickly, as Whistler sailed through his front door. "Just who is he?" He turned back to Angel.
"A mooch," Spike spoke up from the couch. "He heard the words, free meal, and he came running."
"That's right, kid." Whistler took the insult in stride. "Free meal made me come running with you right behind me. Actually." he looked over at Buffy, who was standing in the kitchen, a saucepan in her hands. "I couldn't resist having Thanksgiving dinner with the Slayer. It's something I can brag about for years to come."
"Really?" Buffy frowned at the man, she had briefly met at Angel's apartment more than a month ago. "And what kind of friends know about the Slay. . .you're a demon!" She wanted to kick herself for not realizing that when she had met him the first time.
"Yes, technically, I'm a demon, but I'm not a bad guy. Not all demons are dedicated to the destruction of all life."
"Giles, you have a demon in your living room." Buffy looked over at her Watcher, who was still holding a liquor bottle in each hand.
"Actually, two." Whistler pointed to Angel. "But we're what you call, good demons."
"Don't tell me." Picking up a dish towel, Buffy walked around into the living room. "You`re some immortal demon sent down to even the score between good and evil?"
"Wow. Good guess." Whistler grinned again, not at all intimidated by the Slayer. "Name's Whistler and I'm his buddy." He pointed to Angel.
"Not so much a buddy, as an acquaintance," Angel quickly corrected as he sat down on the arm of the couch next to Spike.
"That's gratitude for you," Whistler said with an exaggerated sigh as he sat down on the other arm of the couch, making himself at home. "So who's winning?" He nudged Xander with his elbow, as he focused in on the football game.
Like the first time she met Whister, Buffy found herself not entirely comfortable with him. Making her way back to the kitchen, a frown continued to mar her face.
"It's certainly been an interesting Thanksgiving," Willow stated, looking out into the living room. "And we haven't even had dinner yet."
**
"Great dinner, Buffy." Feet up on Giles' coffee table, Xander was in the prone position, too full of turkey dinner to move.
The Thanksgiving meal had been a success, an odd success, but a success. Now, a few hours later, a not-so-sober Giles, Buffy, Xander, and Willow relaxed in front of the television.
"I suppose I should do a sweep of the town," Buffy said half-heartedly, wishing that Spike had stuck around, so she could have sweet-talked him into accompanying her.
"Take the night off," Giles said with a wave of a hand, as he poured himself another whiskey. The demon, Whistler had been rather an annoying chap, but he had brought a good bottle of liquor.
"Did I just hear you say, take the night off?" Buffy sat up in surprise. "My stick-to-the-book Watcher told me to take the night off!"
""Stick-to-the-book Watcher." Giles sniffed in contempt. "No Watcher with you as his Slayer could stick to the book. It would be an impossibility."
"Did you just insult me?" Buffy asked half jokingly. A part of her knew that it was the whiskey talking.
"No-yes-no," Giles stammered out. "I meant, you have unorthodoxed methods, and it would be silly of me to try to. . .to watch you with a by-the-book approach." He paused a moment, as he realized what he just said. "That didn't come out quite correctly."
"It's okay." Buffy smiled. "I get what you mean, and actually I'm glad you don't make me stick to the book, err, books. I hate books."
"Right," Giles could only agree. "Anyway, if we're to take Whistler for his word, then there shouldn't be too many demons and such lurking around tonight. They'll all be too busy celebrating. . .Thanksgiving." He frowned, not understanding how the demons of the new World would celebrate any holiday. "Never ran into such a situation before. Must be an American thing."
"Never underestimate us Americans," Xander said proudly. "Only we can think up a holiday that even the demons can't resist."
"Yes." Giles reached for the whiskey bottle. "Quite extraordinary."
**
"Where you off to?" Spike asked Whistler, as the three of them left the hospitality of Giles and company, and the fashionably challenged demon headed for his car.
"To the nearest demon bar. I bursting to tell someone, anyone, how I just had a Thanksgiving meal cooked by the Slayer herself. It's something that happens only once in a lifetime, my friends." With a wave and a grin, Whistler jumped into his car and sped off.
"Ponce," was Spike's only comment, as he turned to walk alongside Angel. "So what's the deal with not bringing the wheels? You're not going on a conservation kick, are you?"
"Thought the walk would do us good, especially after you. . ." Angel darted a glare at his son. "Sat around all day, eating everything in sight."
"Hey, just doing as the Romans." Spike recalled the Italian proverb Willow had quoted. "Celebrating the American tradition of Thanksgiving."
"I thought you weren't too keen on Thanksgiving?" Angel asked curiously, wondering what had changed Spike's mind.
"Well, after experiencing it first hand, I realized I was mistaken."
Angel could only raise an eyebrow at such a statement falling out of his son's mouth.
"There's nothing like a national holiday, where all one does it eat, drink, and watch football. No having to buy gifts, no religious rituals, and no singing of stupid holiday songs."
"Childe." Angel put an affectionate arm around Spike. "I think you're starting to catch on to being an American."
"Bloody, no!" Spike exclaimed. Americans were okay, but he was an Englishman, through and through. "I'm not Ameri. . ." He broke off. "Am I?" He remembered all the questions his friends had brought up in the library a few days ago.
"You have a tie," Angel stated. "Your maternal GrandSire was born in the Virginia Colony. That was back in the seventeenth century, when there wasn't an American yet, but she was born on this soil."
"Might have known that any bad blood came from Darla's side," Spike grumbled, when suddenly a thought occurred to him. "She wasn't there at the first Thanksgiving, was she?"
****
Finis