Fic: Vampily Ever After, Parts 3 and 4
Mar. 15th, 2006 08:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchThis has to be the longest case of writer's block on record. Hence, I am going to apologize all over myself and start this fic with a little story.
In November of 2004, the election was held. Not only did Bush get re-elected, but bans were passed in multiple states concerning gay marriage. I was ticked, and I decided to host a ficathon in response. Thus was born the Slash Wedding Ficathon. I wound up with a lovely Spike/Angel wedding assignment from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stakebait, which I began working on. The first section was posted on time, but as I went into writing part 2, a veritable cornocopeia of things started to go wrong, and inexcusably, it was posted late. And incomplete. I did two other back-up fics for that 'thon, and then ran into an absolute brick wall with the rest of my own assignment I had for my own ficathon.
This has, frankly, been nagging at the back of my mind ever since. I tried multiple times to get past this block, at one point trying not to write anything until I finished the fic, and it just did not work.
Then, hallelujah, came today. My muse showed up. She showed up over a year late, granted, but she showed up.
With huge apologies, massive embarassment, a desire to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and a hope that I will be condemned to writer's purgatory rather than writer's hell when I croak, I present to you the final two parts of the now COMPLETE "Vampily Ever After"
Part 1 link
Part 2 link
Part 3
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help getting a little teary eyed as I see the big apple dumpling nearly plummet to his death off the side of the staircase because he’s so nervous he forgot how many steps there were, only to have his platinum pookie dart forward and grab him at the last second. It’s nice to see those two boys making, well, nice. As I launch into the processional Angelcakes picked, an aria from Aida no less (and I argued in favor of a nice showtunes medley, let me tell you, but Angel wouldn’t hear of it), I get a little misty thinking how these two lunkheads have managed to bash each other around for over a century and then finally, happily came to the conclusion that they were soulmates. True, they didn’t both have souls until relatively recently, but you get my point.
The minister they picked is an… interesting fellow. Not human, of course, but that’s par for this crowd. It’s like the United Nations, only far more colorful in here. The presider does at least look human, though, except for the eyes: they’re a rather attractive shade of teal. Reminds me a little of Groo. There’s the usual rigamarole about commitment, meeting destinies across time, are you here of your own consent, yadda yadda yadda, and I have to admit Spike looks a little drowsy, while Angel is getting downright me-colored. Hope he doesn’t urp all over his intended.
And now the moment of truth: “If anyone here can show just cause why these two…” In the movies, something always happens when they say that—bombs exploding, both literal and metaphorical, dragons eating the groom, whatever—and for just a second, I’m nervously scanning the audience, hoping that Dubya didn’t somehow sneak in the back door, but aside from Harmony hiccupping quietly from having a little too much pre-ceremony champagne, it’s a happy, quiet moment. Whew.
They’re saying the vows now, and darn it all if I’m not getting all sappy again. Angel goes first, and he’s stumbling over words. “Photographic memory” my Aunt Frances. I think he just promised to love, honor, and oy vay. Well, in this relationship, oy vay could very well be precisely what they’re both going to be doing a lot of from time to time. Well, at least he got the ring on his finger right. There we go. And the big paluka looks so relieved that part is over he may just swoon.
And now it’s Spike’s turn to do the mushy stuff. I’m hoping against hope he doesn’t choose to quote Syd Vicious for his vows.
Wait a sec…
He can’t possibly be doing what I think he is.
“I can’t smile without you, can’t smile without you. I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing. I’m finding it hard to do anything, and I feel sad when you’re sad, feel glad when you’re glad…”
Holy heavens spinning wildly out of control, he’s quoting Manilow! Granted, not singing it, but Angel’s grinning like the biggest sap on earth and I may just melt away into a puddle of romantic goo. Half the witnesses are looking at each other in horror, and the other half are crying. Willow’s sobbing. Giles there appears to be firmly in the I Can’t Believe I’m Here for This group. And I know Spike hates that song, which is why this means so much.
Before I know it, the minister has pronounced them officially married, and a cheer rises from the assembled throng. As I belt into a lovely rendition of “A Whole New World,” Spike gives me the evil eye as they process down the aisle, closely followed by Connor and Gunn. What? Angel said no showtunes, not no Disney, and Spike’s the one who broke the oft-repeated Manilow embargo. As they’re going past and out into the reception room we set up in the old section of the Hyperion, I spot a certain dark-haired lass in the crowd just about to follow them out the door. Isn’t that… what the hell is Drusilla doing here?
I hit a bad note on that one. I freely admit it. If Simon Cowell were here, he’d have chucked my keister offstage so fast I’d have broken the sound barrier. Faster than humanly possible, Drusilla’s three feet in front of me, and even over the fabulous piano and guitar combo I’ve put together for this fiesta, I still hear her say in my general direction, “No worries. I’m a good girl tonight!” as she wanders to the reception.
Geez, what poor dopes are sitting at her table?
Part 4
So the wedding’s over, thank whatever. It was sweet, though I’ll deny it to my dying day, and if anyone ever brings up where my vows came from, soul or no, they’re getting disemboweled with a barbeque fork. Was worth it, though, when Angel looked at me all dewy-eyed.
But enough with this sentimental crap. Now it’s time for food, beer, and hard metal.
You know what the fun thing is about sitting at a head table on a raised dias and eating rubbery chicken? Not much, truth be told, but one amusing bit is being able to see the whole bevy of incredibly weirdly ecclectic guests who showed up for tonight. Willow over there, for example, is sitting with Giles, Harmony, Andrew—who I swear I did not invite—and that weird David Hobbit guy or whatever his name is. There’s also a fairly placid looking demon with gold and silver skin. I can’t figure out if it’s male or female, which is a little unsettling, but oddly Willow doesn’t seem much preturbed by that. They’re flirting, no question. Also, Harm seems infatuated with the size of Hobbit boy’s wallet. Love is in the air. That leaves poor old Rupe with Andrew as his conversation partner for the rest of the night. Guess I still am evil since that tickles me.
Then, there’s a collection of various former clients, both demon and human, as well as a variety of complete strangers to me. I think word went out through the non-human community that there were free eats going on, and that sucked ‘em in the door like bugs to one of those zapper things.
But the real gem, no question, is table number five: Lorne, Illyria, Dru, and the Furies (and may I add if they look at Angel that way again I am starting bloodshed). If I strain, I can just make out their conversation. Vamp ears are good for summat.
“I do not understand this concept,” old Bluebell deadpans. “They have been mating for a year. The ceremony is pointless and without merit.”
“Illyria, my little bluebird of everything but happiness,” Lorne chimes in, “you have no romance in your soul at all.”
“This ‘romance’ you speak of is simply the primitive reproductive urge to spawn more of your lowly, snivelling species before you die in your brief span of time allotted to you, preventing you from being wiped out. Also, I believe the thing you call Hallmark plays a role in it.”
I snorted. I admit it. Angel’s looking at me, and I flick my gaze over to them and back.
“What the hell is Dru doing here?” he asks, and yeah, he’s obviously stuck a stake in his coat pocket because he’s reaching for it on instinct.
“S’okay, luv. She’s on best behavior tonight. Wants to wish us well is all.”
“Oh.”
That seems to satisfy him, but I can tell he’s joined me in a bit of eavesdropping now, and really, who could blame us.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” my girl asks Illyria, giving her that slightly open-mouthed look of disdain she does so well. The Furies seem to be bright enough to let them well enough alone. They’re just hovering in mid-air and packing away the appetizers like they were sumo wrestlers instead of airy-fairy whatsits. It’s always the petite ones that can pack it away.
“I get out regularly. I do not understand your line of thought.”
Dru draws closer to her, and normally Illyria’d have had her neck snapped right quick after that move, but she’s playing fair and just whispering in her ear.
“They’re both dead, dearie. And they’re both boys. They can’t make babies, so your little theory about love falls all to pieces, mmmm?”
And Illyria is blinking. Rare that happens at all. Score one for my princess.
“Nice one, Dru,” Lorne says, patting her on the back affectionately.
And she’s giving him an appraising look.
“Pretty color,” she says, staring at Lorne’s green skin. “You remind me of Kermit. Daddy was a puppet once, you know.” And she’s turning to Illyria. “I never much liked the Smurfs, though.”
That was Angel snorting that time.
Round about now, though, the cake’s being served, and damn it all if Angel wasn’t right about the caterer. Triple chocolate cake. I swear, even when I hadn’t a soul, I might have preferred living on this stuff. Course, I’d wind up weighing roughly the same as a fully loaded barge, but it might have been worth it. S’right good, and you know what they say about chocolate being an aphrodisiac.
The music starts up. Angel’s got the DJ playing all sorts of tosh; he seems to have chosen his music from the files of AM radio. It takes me a while to get him to get his arse on the dance floor, but once we’re there, we sort of melt against each other and the rest of the party fades into a blurry watercolor. It hasn’t really hit me until now. Rest of our lives, him and me, together. I slip into the feeling of it with a contented sigh, and let the music just sweep over me. I must be getting soft in my old age because there is no way in hell I would ever have thought I’d have some kind of personal revelation on a dance floor while swaying to something by the Carpenters. I can’t decide whether to be horrified at the nonce I’ve become or just let it go.
Eh, you only get married once.
I’m just about to express my eternal devotion to the lummox by slipping my hand down to cup that sweet backside of his, several hundred witnesses present or not (really, if they haven’t figured out what we’ll be doing for the next dozen or so hours, they’re in need of serious therapy and the Playboy channel, so what’s the use of being demure?) when someone taps me on the shoulder. This had better be important.
“What?” I snap.
“Whoa, Spike, take it easy. I just thought you might want to notice what’s going on over there,” Connor says, gesturing to a darkened corner of the floor.
I’m gaping.
Angel’s gaping.
Connor looks a bit appalled.
“They’re both consenting adults,” I finally manage to squeak out as I watch Lorne and Drusilla doing an incredibly erotic version of the Lambada that involves a good deal of groping on both of their parts. It’s definitely not the music that’s inspiring it, either. “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and moves not seen since Johnny and Baby just don’t go together naturally. Damned if they don’t look happy, though. S’what matters, innit?
“She’s not… you know… whammying him or something?” Connor says, grimacing.
“Nu-uh,” I say. “You can’t do what they’re doing right now and maintain eye contact. Angel? Angel?”
He’s just sort of staring, and his mouth is hanging open.
“That is disturbing.”
I start giggling. I admit it. It’s a full on, high pitched giggle. I reach up to kiss Angel, just out of the pure delight at how bizarre and wonderful and perfect everything is.
“Upstairs, now,” he mutters in my ear.
I couldn’t agree more. As we head out the door with considerably more than average speed, I can’t help thinking that this is the moment when the floor will open into a yawning pit of flame, a demonic army will break down the doors, and a group of cyborg ninjas created by Wolfram & Hart will crash through the ceiling. And yet, blessedly, for once, the end of the world doesn’t appear imminent. The music dies away as we race pell-mell up the hotel’s steps.
I still have the incredibly ugly, red-and-purple plaid, individual toes socks that are my wedding present to Angel and his perpetually cold feet scrunched up in my tux pocket, waiting to save me from the horror that is his supernaturally freezing toes in bed. Somehow, though, tonight I don’t think I’m going to mind.
In November of 2004, the election was held. Not only did Bush get re-elected, but bans were passed in multiple states concerning gay marriage. I was ticked, and I decided to host a ficathon in response. Thus was born the Slash Wedding Ficathon. I wound up with a lovely Spike/Angel wedding assignment from
stakebait, which I began working on. The first section was posted on time, but as I went into writing part 2, a veritable cornocopeia of things started to go wrong, and inexcusably, it was posted late. And incomplete. I did two other back-up fics for that 'thon, and then ran into an absolute brick wall with the rest of my own assignment I had for my own ficathon.This has, frankly, been nagging at the back of my mind ever since. I tried multiple times to get past this block, at one point trying not to write anything until I finished the fic, and it just did not work.
Then, hallelujah, came today. My muse showed up. She showed up over a year late, granted, but she showed up.
With huge apologies, massive embarassment, a desire to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and a hope that I will be condemned to writer's purgatory rather than writer's hell when I croak, I present to you the final two parts of the now COMPLETE "Vampily Ever After"
Part 1 link
Part 2 link
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help getting a little teary eyed as I see the big apple dumpling nearly plummet to his death off the side of the staircase because he’s so nervous he forgot how many steps there were, only to have his platinum pookie dart forward and grab him at the last second. It’s nice to see those two boys making, well, nice. As I launch into the processional Angelcakes picked, an aria from Aida no less (and I argued in favor of a nice showtunes medley, let me tell you, but Angel wouldn’t hear of it), I get a little misty thinking how these two lunkheads have managed to bash each other around for over a century and then finally, happily came to the conclusion that they were soulmates. True, they didn’t both have souls until relatively recently, but you get my point.
The minister they picked is an… interesting fellow. Not human, of course, but that’s par for this crowd. It’s like the United Nations, only far more colorful in here. The presider does at least look human, though, except for the eyes: they’re a rather attractive shade of teal. Reminds me a little of Groo. There’s the usual rigamarole about commitment, meeting destinies across time, are you here of your own consent, yadda yadda yadda, and I have to admit Spike looks a little drowsy, while Angel is getting downright me-colored. Hope he doesn’t urp all over his intended.
And now the moment of truth: “If anyone here can show just cause why these two…” In the movies, something always happens when they say that—bombs exploding, both literal and metaphorical, dragons eating the groom, whatever—and for just a second, I’m nervously scanning the audience, hoping that Dubya didn’t somehow sneak in the back door, but aside from Harmony hiccupping quietly from having a little too much pre-ceremony champagne, it’s a happy, quiet moment. Whew.
They’re saying the vows now, and darn it all if I’m not getting all sappy again. Angel goes first, and he’s stumbling over words. “Photographic memory” my Aunt Frances. I think he just promised to love, honor, and oy vay. Well, in this relationship, oy vay could very well be precisely what they’re both going to be doing a lot of from time to time. Well, at least he got the ring on his finger right. There we go. And the big paluka looks so relieved that part is over he may just swoon.
And now it’s Spike’s turn to do the mushy stuff. I’m hoping against hope he doesn’t choose to quote Syd Vicious for his vows.
Wait a sec…
He can’t possibly be doing what I think he is.
“I can’t smile without you, can’t smile without you. I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing. I’m finding it hard to do anything, and I feel sad when you’re sad, feel glad when you’re glad…”
Holy heavens spinning wildly out of control, he’s quoting Manilow! Granted, not singing it, but Angel’s grinning like the biggest sap on earth and I may just melt away into a puddle of romantic goo. Half the witnesses are looking at each other in horror, and the other half are crying. Willow’s sobbing. Giles there appears to be firmly in the I Can’t Believe I’m Here for This group. And I know Spike hates that song, which is why this means so much.
Before I know it, the minister has pronounced them officially married, and a cheer rises from the assembled throng. As I belt into a lovely rendition of “A Whole New World,” Spike gives me the evil eye as they process down the aisle, closely followed by Connor and Gunn. What? Angel said no showtunes, not no Disney, and Spike’s the one who broke the oft-repeated Manilow embargo. As they’re going past and out into the reception room we set up in the old section of the Hyperion, I spot a certain dark-haired lass in the crowd just about to follow them out the door. Isn’t that… what the hell is Drusilla doing here?
I hit a bad note on that one. I freely admit it. If Simon Cowell were here, he’d have chucked my keister offstage so fast I’d have broken the sound barrier. Faster than humanly possible, Drusilla’s three feet in front of me, and even over the fabulous piano and guitar combo I’ve put together for this fiesta, I still hear her say in my general direction, “No worries. I’m a good girl tonight!” as she wanders to the reception.
Geez, what poor dopes are sitting at her table?
So the wedding’s over, thank whatever. It was sweet, though I’ll deny it to my dying day, and if anyone ever brings up where my vows came from, soul or no, they’re getting disemboweled with a barbeque fork. Was worth it, though, when Angel looked at me all dewy-eyed.
But enough with this sentimental crap. Now it’s time for food, beer, and hard metal.
You know what the fun thing is about sitting at a head table on a raised dias and eating rubbery chicken? Not much, truth be told, but one amusing bit is being able to see the whole bevy of incredibly weirdly ecclectic guests who showed up for tonight. Willow over there, for example, is sitting with Giles, Harmony, Andrew—who I swear I did not invite—and that weird David Hobbit guy or whatever his name is. There’s also a fairly placid looking demon with gold and silver skin. I can’t figure out if it’s male or female, which is a little unsettling, but oddly Willow doesn’t seem much preturbed by that. They’re flirting, no question. Also, Harm seems infatuated with the size of Hobbit boy’s wallet. Love is in the air. That leaves poor old Rupe with Andrew as his conversation partner for the rest of the night. Guess I still am evil since that tickles me.
Then, there’s a collection of various former clients, both demon and human, as well as a variety of complete strangers to me. I think word went out through the non-human community that there were free eats going on, and that sucked ‘em in the door like bugs to one of those zapper things.
But the real gem, no question, is table number five: Lorne, Illyria, Dru, and the Furies (and may I add if they look at Angel that way again I am starting bloodshed). If I strain, I can just make out their conversation. Vamp ears are good for summat.
“I do not understand this concept,” old Bluebell deadpans. “They have been mating for a year. The ceremony is pointless and without merit.”
“Illyria, my little bluebird of everything but happiness,” Lorne chimes in, “you have no romance in your soul at all.”
“This ‘romance’ you speak of is simply the primitive reproductive urge to spawn more of your lowly, snivelling species before you die in your brief span of time allotted to you, preventing you from being wiped out. Also, I believe the thing you call Hallmark plays a role in it.”
I snorted. I admit it. Angel’s looking at me, and I flick my gaze over to them and back.
“What the hell is Dru doing here?” he asks, and yeah, he’s obviously stuck a stake in his coat pocket because he’s reaching for it on instinct.
“S’okay, luv. She’s on best behavior tonight. Wants to wish us well is all.”
“Oh.”
That seems to satisfy him, but I can tell he’s joined me in a bit of eavesdropping now, and really, who could blame us.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” my girl asks Illyria, giving her that slightly open-mouthed look of disdain she does so well. The Furies seem to be bright enough to let them well enough alone. They’re just hovering in mid-air and packing away the appetizers like they were sumo wrestlers instead of airy-fairy whatsits. It’s always the petite ones that can pack it away.
“I get out regularly. I do not understand your line of thought.”
Dru draws closer to her, and normally Illyria’d have had her neck snapped right quick after that move, but she’s playing fair and just whispering in her ear.
“They’re both dead, dearie. And they’re both boys. They can’t make babies, so your little theory about love falls all to pieces, mmmm?”
And Illyria is blinking. Rare that happens at all. Score one for my princess.
“Nice one, Dru,” Lorne says, patting her on the back affectionately.
And she’s giving him an appraising look.
“Pretty color,” she says, staring at Lorne’s green skin. “You remind me of Kermit. Daddy was a puppet once, you know.” And she’s turning to Illyria. “I never much liked the Smurfs, though.”
That was Angel snorting that time.
Round about now, though, the cake’s being served, and damn it all if Angel wasn’t right about the caterer. Triple chocolate cake. I swear, even when I hadn’t a soul, I might have preferred living on this stuff. Course, I’d wind up weighing roughly the same as a fully loaded barge, but it might have been worth it. S’right good, and you know what they say about chocolate being an aphrodisiac.
The music starts up. Angel’s got the DJ playing all sorts of tosh; he seems to have chosen his music from the files of AM radio. It takes me a while to get him to get his arse on the dance floor, but once we’re there, we sort of melt against each other and the rest of the party fades into a blurry watercolor. It hasn’t really hit me until now. Rest of our lives, him and me, together. I slip into the feeling of it with a contented sigh, and let the music just sweep over me. I must be getting soft in my old age because there is no way in hell I would ever have thought I’d have some kind of personal revelation on a dance floor while swaying to something by the Carpenters. I can’t decide whether to be horrified at the nonce I’ve become or just let it go.
Eh, you only get married once.
I’m just about to express my eternal devotion to the lummox by slipping my hand down to cup that sweet backside of his, several hundred witnesses present or not (really, if they haven’t figured out what we’ll be doing for the next dozen or so hours, they’re in need of serious therapy and the Playboy channel, so what’s the use of being demure?) when someone taps me on the shoulder. This had better be important.
“What?” I snap.
“Whoa, Spike, take it easy. I just thought you might want to notice what’s going on over there,” Connor says, gesturing to a darkened corner of the floor.
I’m gaping.
Angel’s gaping.
Connor looks a bit appalled.
“They’re both consenting adults,” I finally manage to squeak out as I watch Lorne and Drusilla doing an incredibly erotic version of the Lambada that involves a good deal of groping on both of their parts. It’s definitely not the music that’s inspiring it, either. “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and moves not seen since Johnny and Baby just don’t go together naturally. Damned if they don’t look happy, though. S’what matters, innit?
“She’s not… you know… whammying him or something?” Connor says, grimacing.
“Nu-uh,” I say. “You can’t do what they’re doing right now and maintain eye contact. Angel? Angel?”
He’s just sort of staring, and his mouth is hanging open.
“That is disturbing.”
I start giggling. I admit it. It’s a full on, high pitched giggle. I reach up to kiss Angel, just out of the pure delight at how bizarre and wonderful and perfect everything is.
“Upstairs, now,” he mutters in my ear.
I couldn’t agree more. As we head out the door with considerably more than average speed, I can’t help thinking that this is the moment when the floor will open into a yawning pit of flame, a demonic army will break down the doors, and a group of cyborg ninjas created by Wolfram & Hart will crash through the ceiling. And yet, blessedly, for once, the end of the world doesn’t appear imminent. The music dies away as we race pell-mell up the hotel’s steps.
I still have the incredibly ugly, red-and-purple plaid, individual toes socks that are my wedding present to Angel and his perpetually cold feet scrunched up in my tux pocket, waiting to save me from the horror that is his supernaturally freezing toes in bed. Somehow, though, tonight I don’t think I’m going to mind.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-16 03:01 am (UTC)Best line ever?
I think he just promised to love, honor, and oy vay.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-16 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-16 11:20 pm (UTC)I love all the cameos from each character! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 03:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-17 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 03:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-17 10:07 pm (UTC)::dies laughing::
That was great fun. I'm glad you finished it and posted the links for the first parts. :-)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 03:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 06:39 am (UTC)Wonderfully done!!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 04:32 pm (UTC)