London, December 2006

It was tradition, certain and unchanging as most of the traditions of the Council of Watchers were. It was also one staff ignored at their peril.

Each year, the reception hall of the Council's headquarters on the Strand were tastefully decorated with Christmas finery and tables laid a few days before the holiday itself so Council staff could mingle and the younger watchers had an opportunity to make asses of themselves before their elders. Stuttering voices and dropped cups were the norm and Giles knew Harry and Mike had a bet on which member of the Council's inner circle would have their suit spilled on first. He was grateful that by the time he'd given up sex, drugs and rock and roll -- well, drugs, anyway -- and taken up his expected place as a watcher, he'd seen and done enough that that sight of aging men with somewhat fixed smiles didn't unnerve him as it did his fellows. He'd always despised this event and had happily escaped it when he'd departed for Sunnydale.

Now, however, he was one of the men the younger watchers approached with trepidation, even if he wasn't a member of the inner circle. The Field Services section was rapidly become the department those starting out in their careers considered; the section's reputation for...unorthodox methods was a lure to those who didn't quite fit the traditional mold. Today, though, Giles was feeling appallingly traditional, staying fairly rooted in one place so those who wished to pay their respects and holiday greetings could easily find him. At least he had the comfort of knowing it was more likely his new Assistant Director would be the recipient of a spilled drink than he as the man seemed to be garnering the most stares and nervous glances. But then, most of these young watchers had never seen a vampire up close.

They certainly hadn't seen a vampire inside the confines of the Council headquarters, dressed in a stylish yet conservative suit as befitted the occasion and who had recently signed on as full-fledged member of the Council.

Leaning over between greetings, Spike whispered, "When can we go? My jaw hurts from smiling."

"Not until after the carolers sing. Then old Berkley will say a few words and we can scatter."

Fortunately, the carolers were moving into position, dressed in the same traditional Dickensian costumes they always wore. Over twenty years and nothing had really changed from the first Christmas gathering he'd attended except where he stood and who he stood with. Nothing exciting or truly amusing ever happened.

Sipping at the obligatory cup of eggnog, Giles consoled himself that the ritual was almost done for the year as the carolers sang out, "Angels we have heard on high/Singing sweetly singing o'er the plains/And the mountains in reply/Echoing their joyus strains."

Spike whispered. "It's obvious they've never heard the Great Poof sing Manilow."

Giles choked on his eggnog.

Note: I doubled checked and the words above are the words used in the current Anglican hymnal. The Episcopal version (Hymn 96, 1983 Hymnal) which inspired this story begins Angels we have heard on high/Singing sweetly through the night/And the mountains in reply/Echoing their brave delight. Not sure why there's a difference between the two.