Xander pulled into the driveway and parked. For a moment, he just sat in the car and looked at the house. The fairy lights outlining the door twinkled and shown red-green-yellow lights on the evergreen wreath on the door and bled out over the snow. The genuine, out of recycled materials, eco-tree glistened in the window. So pretty. He looked up at the house, warm and tight against the weather and smiled. “Happy Yule, baby. I told you this would work.” He let himself imagine a warmth and welcome from his home, then got out of the car to crunch through the snow to the side door.

The blast of warmth when he opened the door was almost too much and he was pulling off his scarf as he went into the kitchen. Sniffing appreciatively, he walked over to give Tara a hug. “You’ve been cooking. Smells great.”

“I hope it tastes great. Ten minutes,” she replied with a smile and went back to stirring.

“That includes setting the table, mate.” Spike held up a dewy bottle of beer. “Heard the car,” he added without inflection.

“Thanks,” Xander said. He tipped the beer up to his lips and downed half. “Yeah. Good. I’ll be right back.”

The radio was on—no it was Tara’s computer, a clipped English voice coming out of the speakers announcing something. Then he heard voices singing something classical and beautiful and seasonal.  Huh. Another, smaller, swig from the bottle and he went up the stairs to his room.

Up in his room, as he changed clothes, he listened. Soft voices came up the stairs—Spike and Tara and the radio—and the house spoke its own litany of creaks and snaps and sighs. He stood for a moment in utter peace, the quiet gratitude of a man who appreciates what he has. Then he went into the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

When he returned to the kitchen, Spike gave him plates and napkins. He moved around the table, setting places and deftly avoiding the silver-wielding vampire. Tara was placing bowls of food onto the table making the third part of the dance they practiced every evening.

They sat down and Tara held out her hands for the men to take. Spike and Xander completed the circle then looked to Tara.

“It’s Yule,” she said. “It is the shortest day of the year; the longest night. The pagans lit fires to remind the sun to return, and it always does. Thank you for sharing my holiday.”

Xander brought her hand up to his lips for a brief salute. Spike followed only a half beat behind. “So,” Tara laughed, “eat!”

Spike poured out the ruby wine for them and Xander held up his glass. “To those we love who are not here.”

Tara’s eyes misted over then brightened. “To those we love who are,” she replied.

“To those we love wherever,” Spike finished the toast.

Dinner was delicious and they lingered over the good food longer than usual. It was quiet too, a contented quiet that did not demand conversation to fill it. As he ate, Xander felt that sweet gratitude slide over him again. Here was family—a skewed view of Norman Rockwell, granted—but family still. And he was the patriarch, the head of household. He grinned at that thought. But it was weirdly true; he provided the refuge for them all. What a strange idea.

Spike asked Tara about her day and she talked about her classes. Spike mentioned a new demon, “…but he was just passing through. I encouraged that.”

In the warm kitchen light, replete and content, Tara and Spike both looked happy and healthy—far from the tense, uncomfortable people who’d arrived on Xander’s doorstep.

They’re happy here. Xander felt warm with that thought, savoring it. He knew he had to appreciate it now, something would happen to change this perfect moment. He knew that, something always happened. But he would have this, come what may, all the rest of his life; this golden moment of friendship, love and contentment.

“Guys,” he said raising his glass again. They obediently held up their wine. “Thanks. Happy Yule.”