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bookishwenchAuthor: Meltha
Rating: We’ll go with a mild FRM for a little language, just to be safe
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through the entire Buffy and Angel series
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Angel and Spike are getting married. Oh, come now. You know it had to happen eventually!
Author’s Note: Response to the Slash Wedding ficathon, run by yours truly. This is for stakebait, who requested Angel/Spike, Drusilla’s reaction, Buffy’s reaction, Connor’s reaction, no Kennedy, and no Fred. This is part one, to be continued.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Vampily Ever After
Part 1
I never, not in a thousand years, expected this to be happening. Any of it. If you’d asked me that last day in Sunnydale, “Spike, old pal, where do you see yourself two years from now?” I’d have given you any number of answers: dead, shagging the Slayer, following the Slayer around and begging for scraps, driving Angel insane, drunk—any of ‘em would have been something I could see
If you’d said, “Nope, you’re going to be getting married to your dear old grand-sire,” I’d have laughed in your face, punched your face, then laughed some more as I went to Willi’s to brave whole new levels of the word “drunk” to get the image out of my head.
But things happened I didn’t expect. I wound up working alongside Angel, and damn me if it wasn’t actually fun to have someone to spar with again. Then there was that Circle of the Black Thorn deal, and I was pretty sure I was going with option one on that Where I’ll Be in Three Years list. Having hell show up in front of you, track you down, and press you against a wall is bad enough once in your life, but if you’ve a brain in your head, you don’t expect to come out of it twice and still be kicking.
I hadn’t planned on the Powers stepping in, though. I still don’t understand who this Whistler bloke is who showed up, but things sort of froze-like, and the next think I knew, he was explaining that Angel had passed the last test, whatever that meant. He still didn’t get his Shanshu. Signed it away, poor sod. But they made it so his soul is fixed in good and tight now, so no more bleeding Angelus to show up and bring merry hell down on us all, thanks be to whoever.
Then the demons just disappear, went back wherever they came from, I guess. Gunn’s standing there with a completely repaired gut, Illyria’s making a face that’s close to a pout over not being able to killmaimdestroy everything in sight, and Angel’s looking at me like I’d turned plaid. Wondered for a second if I had. I’ve had odder things happen to me.
“What?” I asked.
Next thing I knew, I was smack against the brick wall of that alley, being kissed damn near senseless by an extremely overly exuberant Angel. Gunn seemed slightly perturbed, as I recall, but more than that, I distinctly remember not bloody well caring about anything other than the man who was apparently trying to Hoover my tonsils out and finding out whether any of the rooms in the Hyperion had a decent mattress. Nothing like post-battle, post-Apocalypse aversion, post-several months of bickering foreplay to whet your appetite for a good, old-fashioned snog up against a wall in the rain. That was heaven, right there, and to hell with the rest of the world.
So, nearly a year has passed since that unexpected interlude, and unbelievably, here I am, wakin’ up to my wedding day… an actual, honest to goodness wedding. Angel’s a right little romantic at heart, wanted the flowers and the cake and the music, which is all well and good, but I’ve already told him if I hear one note of Manilow we are getting a divorce faster than he can say “Mandy.” I’ve groused and whinged and just plaid old bitched at him about every last froofy detail he’s agonized over.
I’ve loved every minute of it, and he knows it.
And now my eyes are drifting open and I’m looking around my very, very empty room. For some unbelievably odd reason, Angel wanted us to spend the night before the wedding in separate rooms. Daft. I considered using the phone in here to give him a jingle and get him so worked up he’d rip the door off the hinges getting at me, but there’s no phone in here. Cheapskate. So I wound up spending my last bachelor night all by my lonesome because he wants to “increase the anticipation.”
My anticipation has never needed any increasing, thank you very much. It’s a good-sized anticipation if I do say so myself, and I’ve never had any complaints.
Last night alone, though. Never have to wake up to an empty bed again. Just Angel’s extremely cold feet. I know we don’t have any natural body heat, but his toes could be used to chill drinks. However, I do believe I’ve found the cure for that: my little wedding present to the big lunk.
Lie here just a second more, staring up at the ceiling, and yeah, I admit it, I’m grinning like a flaming idiot. It’s not every day in the week you get married to someone you’ve loved, hated, loved, hated, and loved again for over a century. Sweet, sweet day.
At last I move my arse out of bed, landing with a bounce on the floor. Yeah, I’m a 150-year-old kid. What of it? I swat the alarm clock that’s been blaring annoying Muzak at me until it shuts up. Wedding takes place just after sundown, so I’ve got all of an hour or so to get ready yet. I grab a quick shower in the vacant bathroom. Only things in here are my toothbrush, comb, shampoo and gel. That was the extent of my overnight bag. Didn’t even like moving those out for the night of the shared bath we’ve got. Everything looks so lonely sitting on the shelf by itself.
I must be spending too much time with Angel. I’m brooding over the loneliness of my toothbrush. Next thing my hair will go straight up.
As I’m lathering, I spend a good few minutes thinking of Sweetums and what he must be doing about now. Most likely chewing his nails to the cuticles and snapping at random people for completely inane reasons one minute and apologizing all over himself the next.
God, I love that man.
Out of the shower and toweled off like a good boy, I go back in the bedroom and start dressing. My tux is hanging in the closet. Angel sprung for actually buying these. Nice, really, to have something to wear that’s both black and suitable for evening wear in places other than the local punk clubs. Also, as an added bonus, if one or both of us happens to rip off a few buttons later, well, no deposit lost, now is there?
Socks on, check. Pants on, check. Shirt buttoned, check. Shirt tucked in, check. Coat on, check. Ring in pocket, check. Shoes on, check. Tie… tie… where’s the damned tie?
“Oh, thanks, Dru,” I say as she hands me my tie from where she’s standing in the back of the closet.
Tie on, che… what the fuck?
“Dru?” I ask, staring at her. “Why are you in my closet?”
“Silly,” she says and tweaks my nose. “There was no room for me in the nightstand.”
Well, I’m blinking. That’s about the extent of what my brain can come up with at the moment. Can’t think of a single intellegent reply to this whole situation: my ex-girlfriend appears out of nowhere on my wedding day. As bad as that might be for most blokes, the whole problem with her possibly deciding to eat half the reception adds a new level of difficulty here.
“I’d like to get out now,” Drusilla says demurely.
“Oh, uh, sure, pet,” I say, motioning her into the room.
“You know, they say closets are for clothes, not people,” she says as she sits down on the only chair in the room, “but that one is quite comfortable if you don’t have to breath at all.”
“Just how long have you been in there?” I ask, still reeling a bit. Well, really now, wouldn’t you be a bit out of sorts?
“All day,” Dru says off-handedly, smoothing her skirts. She’s wearing lilac silk today, a rather pretty little party dress. “You still snore, by the way.”
“I do not!” I say, offended.
“Just as you say,” she says in a placating tone, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Damn. Nice of Angel not to gripe about that, though. Have to make it up to him later.
“Yes, well, it’s good of you to drop by and all, but I’m a bit busy today,” I say quickly, hoping I can defuse the situation.
“You and my Angel are getting married,” she says, nodding her head seriously. “I know.”
I was afraid of that.
“Didn’t you know where to send my invitation?” she asks, polite as you please.
“Your… wha?”
Alright, not particularly articulate, but to the point.
“My invitation! I had to wait for the raindrops to whisper to me that you and Daddy were going to be wed, and I was all the way in Burma at the time,” she says crossly. “I had to take a steamer to America for weeks to get here in time, and the rats were most unsatisfactory. They tasted of mothballs.”
“Well, we weren’t really sure how you’d be taking it,” I say, stammering a bit.
“William,” she says, temper evaporating, “do you know that I love you?”
Oh no. Not this. She’s not going to pull the come-back-to-routine. “Yes, princess, I know, but Angel and I are…”
“Shush!” she says, putting a finger over my mouth. “And you know I love Angel, too.”
Let’s see… a century of “Angelus is my darling,” “Angelus is the naughtiest, wickedest, sweetest morsel in all the world,” “Angelus is perfection rolled in chocolate drops,” all of these usually when we were shagging? I think I get the point.
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“Then why wouldn’t I want both of you to be happy?” she asks, turning innocent eyes to me.
Well. That’s unexpected.
“I love our family, pretty Spike,” she says, and she’s standing now, putting a hand on my cheek. “I’ve always loved you both, and I’m very, very happy you’ve finally realized that you love each other as well. It took long enough.”
“Hey!” I say at her last little grumbled sentence.
“Now, now,” she says soothingly. “I’d not be anywhere else in the world than here when the two boys I love most are about to be wed… well, so long as I’m wanted.”
I can’t help it. She’s the sweetest little nutcase in existence. Well, except for the frequent evisceration and tendency towards massive slaughter of innocents, but no one’s perfect. Still, that does bring up a point.
“Can you be a very good girl?” I ask seriously. “Everyone here today is a friend of Angel’s or mine. We’d both be very upset if someone wound up swinging from the chandelier by their intestines.”
Dru makes a little face, but she raises her right hand. “I promise not to hurt or bite or kill or do anything naughty until after I leave the city,” she says.
She’s done a lot, but Drusilla’s never lied to me, and somehow it’s kind of nice to think that there’s going to be someone here who’s known us a good long while. Not like I’m having her give me away at the altar or any such, but, well, family should be here on this day, I suppose, and if Dru’s anything, she’s family.
“Alright, then,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re officially invited. I’ll let Angel know you’re here so there won’t be any trouble.”
“Oh, good,” she says happily. “I even brought a gift!”
“Um, not so sure that’s a good idea, Dru,” I say. Oh, hell. This could be bad.
“Don’t fret. I bought it from that Martha Stewart lady’s catalogue,” she says, nodding. “She seems nice. I figured Daddy wouldn’t like a wedding present that screamed.”
“Good choice,” I say. Note to self: make certain old Martha hasn’t branched out into selling candied kids or some such. “You run along, now. Make sure no one tries to stake you on accident. If Connor gives you any trouble, you tell him I said you’re okay, right?”
“Is he the blue one?” she asks, head tilted in confusion.
“No, that’s Illyria,” I say.
“The green one?”
“No, that’s Lorne,” I say, and I have to admit, this is a little amusing.
“The one with the purple stripes?” she asks, grasping at straws.
“That’d be the caterer,” I say. Hey, Louie the Grospnechk makes a mean triple chocolate wedding cake. I think it’s all the extra hands. “Connor’s the one that smells like Angel.”
“Oh, his little boy!” she coos. “Yes, he’s very big for four years old, isn’t he?”
You know, what frightens me is that actually makes sense.
“Thanks for coming, Dru,” I say, and I do mean it. Granted, having her stand all night in the closet with my tuxedo was a bit odd, but then really that’s about par for the course with her.
She pats my hand tenderly, and there is most definitely a draft in the room or an eyelash in my eye or some such rot to explain the reaction that gets.
“I’ll see you at the wedding, dearie,” she says as she leaves the room. “It promises to be most pretty.”
Well… now that was…
“Oh!” she says, popping her head back in the room. “Tell Angel if the two of you should ever like to play games for three, I’m quite agreeable so long as there are whips!”
With that, she’s gone. Good old Dru. Right round the bend and so certifiable she’d qualify for her own asylum, but after how easy she gave her blessing, damn if she isn’t more sane than some.
Unfortunately, I am now confronted by my bowtie. This is one of the reasons I hate tuxes.
First off, men shouldn’t wear bows of any kind, and bowties are not an exception. Make me feel like I should be skipping rope and sucking on a lolly. Second, since men shouldn’t wear bows, there is absolutely no reason we should ever be expected to be able to tie them. Stupid thing is hanging limp around my neck, and I can’t even look in the mirror to see exactly what’s gone wrong. I’d chuck it, but, well, it’s important to Angel, I suppose. Henpecked already.
That’s it. Time to call in the reserves.
“Charlie!” I call… alright, bellow… down the hallway. “Get in here before I decapitate myself!”
“Geez, Spike!” he yells, jogging towards me, and, oh, look, his tie is absolutely perfect. Wanker. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Stupid tie won’t tie! What’s the use of something that can’t even do its own name, yeah? A tie should tie,” I say, and I’m aware I’m babbling, but I think Angel would prefer that to me decimating half the hotel in frustration.
“I ain’t talkin’ about the tie, bleach for brains,” he says, giving me that Look. You know the one. The How Dumb Are You Look. I swear, someday his face is going to freeze that way. Still, he’s grabbed the tie and is doing something with it, so maybe this’ll work out okay.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing much,” he says, and the Look has intensified into I Am the Only One on this Block with a Brain, Aren’t I? “It’s just that I bumped into Drusilla on the stairs and damn near slayed her ass before she said you said she was okay. You tellin’ me you invited your ex to your wedding?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “She was in my closet. And yes, she is invited. She won’t cause any trouble.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to know half I know ‘bout you and Angel and closets and coming out of ‘em and Dru being in one just does not surprise me anymore,” Gunn says, and it feels like the bloody thing is tied.
“It straight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Gunn says, smirking. “Kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“Har har,” I deadpan. “Everything going to plan?”
“Pretty much,” Gunn says. “Lorne’s all set up, guests are arriving, and the punch bowls are very clearly labeled as human and non-human.”
“Wait… does that mean that the one marked ‘human’ is for humans to drink or made out of human?” I ask.
He stands there for a second, and I swear his shoulders droop like a kid who just struck out in Little League.
“Aw, man,” he says. “Okay, maybe not so clearly labeled. I’ll fix it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Charlie boy,” I say. “Anyone from Sunnydale show?”
“Giles is down there along with Willow. She’s already sobbing into a handkerchief at,” and here Gunn puts on a falsetto and bats his lashes for emphasis, “’how beautiful it all is!’”
I laugh. How the hell can you not? Good old Willow, who’s re-souled my groom-to-be twice at this point. I owe her. I guess I can go through the day without making fun of her penchant for crying at weddings.
Well, I might make it through part of the day.
“Everything else going pretty well down there?” I ask.
“Illyria wanted me to ask you something,” he says, then frowns. “Okay, she ordered me to inform, more like.”
Uh-oh.
“She wants to walk you down the aisle so she can give you away,” Gunn says with a roll of his eyes. “She said, and I quote, ‘He is my pet. I should decide how to dispose of him.’ Still gives me the creeps.”
“Just her way,” I say, though he’s right, of course. “Course, her idea of walking down the aisle probably involves me being turned arse over teakettle over her shoulder and shoved at Angel like last week’s roast beef, so I do believe I’d prefer to skip that bit of the ceremony if possible.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll work on it. Last I saw, she was staring at a cocktail napkin,” Gunn says, and his mouth quirks. “She said that I shouldn’t interrupt their conversation as I couldn’t possibly understand the depths of their understanding.”
“Seat her next to Dru,” I say on sudden inspiration. I pity anyone else at that table.
“Say, not a bad idea,” Gunn says, nodding. “Lorne’s at that table, too. He should be able to tell if Dru’s planning on wiping us all out or something too. So… it’s almost showtime. Better get a move on. Oh, and Angel sent you up a boutonniere.”
It’s a red rose. Poofy, yet somehow deeply touching. I manage to pin it on without sticking my thumb, which is nigh on a miracle considering I’ve somehow developed the shakes in the last minute. Deep breath. I don’t care that it’s optional for the likes of me. My knees have just turned to pudding. Not Jell-O. I can’t stand that stuff. Nice, butterscotch pudding. I’m internally rambling. It’s a sign of just how nervous I’ve become that I briefly consider walking back into the room and checking myself in the mirror.
Right. I’m off to the lobby for the grand entrance down the staircase. I just hope to bloody hell I don’t trip.
TBC
Part 2 found here.
Rating: We’ll go with a mild FRM for a little language, just to be safe
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through the entire Buffy and Angel series
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Angel and Spike are getting married. Oh, come now. You know it had to happen eventually!
Author’s Note: Response to the Slash Wedding ficathon, run by yours truly. This is for stakebait, who requested Angel/Spike, Drusilla’s reaction, Buffy’s reaction, Connor’s reaction, no Kennedy, and no Fred. This is part one, to be continued.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Part 1
I never, not in a thousand years, expected this to be happening. Any of it. If you’d asked me that last day in Sunnydale, “Spike, old pal, where do you see yourself two years from now?” I’d have given you any number of answers: dead, shagging the Slayer, following the Slayer around and begging for scraps, driving Angel insane, drunk—any of ‘em would have been something I could see
If you’d said, “Nope, you’re going to be getting married to your dear old grand-sire,” I’d have laughed in your face, punched your face, then laughed some more as I went to Willi’s to brave whole new levels of the word “drunk” to get the image out of my head.
But things happened I didn’t expect. I wound up working alongside Angel, and damn me if it wasn’t actually fun to have someone to spar with again. Then there was that Circle of the Black Thorn deal, and I was pretty sure I was going with option one on that Where I’ll Be in Three Years list. Having hell show up in front of you, track you down, and press you against a wall is bad enough once in your life, but if you’ve a brain in your head, you don’t expect to come out of it twice and still be kicking.
I hadn’t planned on the Powers stepping in, though. I still don’t understand who this Whistler bloke is who showed up, but things sort of froze-like, and the next think I knew, he was explaining that Angel had passed the last test, whatever that meant. He still didn’t get his Shanshu. Signed it away, poor sod. But they made it so his soul is fixed in good and tight now, so no more bleeding Angelus to show up and bring merry hell down on us all, thanks be to whoever.
Then the demons just disappear, went back wherever they came from, I guess. Gunn’s standing there with a completely repaired gut, Illyria’s making a face that’s close to a pout over not being able to killmaimdestroy everything in sight, and Angel’s looking at me like I’d turned plaid. Wondered for a second if I had. I’ve had odder things happen to me.
“What?” I asked.
Next thing I knew, I was smack against the brick wall of that alley, being kissed damn near senseless by an extremely overly exuberant Angel. Gunn seemed slightly perturbed, as I recall, but more than that, I distinctly remember not bloody well caring about anything other than the man who was apparently trying to Hoover my tonsils out and finding out whether any of the rooms in the Hyperion had a decent mattress. Nothing like post-battle, post-Apocalypse aversion, post-several months of bickering foreplay to whet your appetite for a good, old-fashioned snog up against a wall in the rain. That was heaven, right there, and to hell with the rest of the world.
So, nearly a year has passed since that unexpected interlude, and unbelievably, here I am, wakin’ up to my wedding day… an actual, honest to goodness wedding. Angel’s a right little romantic at heart, wanted the flowers and the cake and the music, which is all well and good, but I’ve already told him if I hear one note of Manilow we are getting a divorce faster than he can say “Mandy.” I’ve groused and whinged and just plaid old bitched at him about every last froofy detail he’s agonized over.
I’ve loved every minute of it, and he knows it.
And now my eyes are drifting open and I’m looking around my very, very empty room. For some unbelievably odd reason, Angel wanted us to spend the night before the wedding in separate rooms. Daft. I considered using the phone in here to give him a jingle and get him so worked up he’d rip the door off the hinges getting at me, but there’s no phone in here. Cheapskate. So I wound up spending my last bachelor night all by my lonesome because he wants to “increase the anticipation.”
My anticipation has never needed any increasing, thank you very much. It’s a good-sized anticipation if I do say so myself, and I’ve never had any complaints.
Last night alone, though. Never have to wake up to an empty bed again. Just Angel’s extremely cold feet. I know we don’t have any natural body heat, but his toes could be used to chill drinks. However, I do believe I’ve found the cure for that: my little wedding present to the big lunk.
Lie here just a second more, staring up at the ceiling, and yeah, I admit it, I’m grinning like a flaming idiot. It’s not every day in the week you get married to someone you’ve loved, hated, loved, hated, and loved again for over a century. Sweet, sweet day.
At last I move my arse out of bed, landing with a bounce on the floor. Yeah, I’m a 150-year-old kid. What of it? I swat the alarm clock that’s been blaring annoying Muzak at me until it shuts up. Wedding takes place just after sundown, so I’ve got all of an hour or so to get ready yet. I grab a quick shower in the vacant bathroom. Only things in here are my toothbrush, comb, shampoo and gel. That was the extent of my overnight bag. Didn’t even like moving those out for the night of the shared bath we’ve got. Everything looks so lonely sitting on the shelf by itself.
I must be spending too much time with Angel. I’m brooding over the loneliness of my toothbrush. Next thing my hair will go straight up.
As I’m lathering, I spend a good few minutes thinking of Sweetums and what he must be doing about now. Most likely chewing his nails to the cuticles and snapping at random people for completely inane reasons one minute and apologizing all over himself the next.
God, I love that man.
Out of the shower and toweled off like a good boy, I go back in the bedroom and start dressing. My tux is hanging in the closet. Angel sprung for actually buying these. Nice, really, to have something to wear that’s both black and suitable for evening wear in places other than the local punk clubs. Also, as an added bonus, if one or both of us happens to rip off a few buttons later, well, no deposit lost, now is there?
Socks on, check. Pants on, check. Shirt buttoned, check. Shirt tucked in, check. Coat on, check. Ring in pocket, check. Shoes on, check. Tie… tie… where’s the damned tie?
“Oh, thanks, Dru,” I say as she hands me my tie from where she’s standing in the back of the closet.
Tie on, che… what the fuck?
“Dru?” I ask, staring at her. “Why are you in my closet?”
“Silly,” she says and tweaks my nose. “There was no room for me in the nightstand.”
Well, I’m blinking. That’s about the extent of what my brain can come up with at the moment. Can’t think of a single intellegent reply to this whole situation: my ex-girlfriend appears out of nowhere on my wedding day. As bad as that might be for most blokes, the whole problem with her possibly deciding to eat half the reception adds a new level of difficulty here.
“I’d like to get out now,” Drusilla says demurely.
“Oh, uh, sure, pet,” I say, motioning her into the room.
“You know, they say closets are for clothes, not people,” she says as she sits down on the only chair in the room, “but that one is quite comfortable if you don’t have to breath at all.”
“Just how long have you been in there?” I ask, still reeling a bit. Well, really now, wouldn’t you be a bit out of sorts?
“All day,” Dru says off-handedly, smoothing her skirts. She’s wearing lilac silk today, a rather pretty little party dress. “You still snore, by the way.”
“I do not!” I say, offended.
“Just as you say,” she says in a placating tone, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Damn. Nice of Angel not to gripe about that, though. Have to make it up to him later.
“Yes, well, it’s good of you to drop by and all, but I’m a bit busy today,” I say quickly, hoping I can defuse the situation.
“You and my Angel are getting married,” she says, nodding her head seriously. “I know.”
I was afraid of that.
“Didn’t you know where to send my invitation?” she asks, polite as you please.
“Your… wha?”
Alright, not particularly articulate, but to the point.
“My invitation! I had to wait for the raindrops to whisper to me that you and Daddy were going to be wed, and I was all the way in Burma at the time,” she says crossly. “I had to take a steamer to America for weeks to get here in time, and the rats were most unsatisfactory. They tasted of mothballs.”
“Well, we weren’t really sure how you’d be taking it,” I say, stammering a bit.
“William,” she says, temper evaporating, “do you know that I love you?”
Oh no. Not this. She’s not going to pull the come-back-to-routine. “Yes, princess, I know, but Angel and I are…”
“Shush!” she says, putting a finger over my mouth. “And you know I love Angel, too.”
Let’s see… a century of “Angelus is my darling,” “Angelus is the naughtiest, wickedest, sweetest morsel in all the world,” “Angelus is perfection rolled in chocolate drops,” all of these usually when we were shagging? I think I get the point.
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“Then why wouldn’t I want both of you to be happy?” she asks, turning innocent eyes to me.
Well. That’s unexpected.
“I love our family, pretty Spike,” she says, and she’s standing now, putting a hand on my cheek. “I’ve always loved you both, and I’m very, very happy you’ve finally realized that you love each other as well. It took long enough.”
“Hey!” I say at her last little grumbled sentence.
“Now, now,” she says soothingly. “I’d not be anywhere else in the world than here when the two boys I love most are about to be wed… well, so long as I’m wanted.”
I can’t help it. She’s the sweetest little nutcase in existence. Well, except for the frequent evisceration and tendency towards massive slaughter of innocents, but no one’s perfect. Still, that does bring up a point.
“Can you be a very good girl?” I ask seriously. “Everyone here today is a friend of Angel’s or mine. We’d both be very upset if someone wound up swinging from the chandelier by their intestines.”
Dru makes a little face, but she raises her right hand. “I promise not to hurt or bite or kill or do anything naughty until after I leave the city,” she says.
She’s done a lot, but Drusilla’s never lied to me, and somehow it’s kind of nice to think that there’s going to be someone here who’s known us a good long while. Not like I’m having her give me away at the altar or any such, but, well, family should be here on this day, I suppose, and if Dru’s anything, she’s family.
“Alright, then,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re officially invited. I’ll let Angel know you’re here so there won’t be any trouble.”
“Oh, good,” she says happily. “I even brought a gift!”
“Um, not so sure that’s a good idea, Dru,” I say. Oh, hell. This could be bad.
“Don’t fret. I bought it from that Martha Stewart lady’s catalogue,” she says, nodding. “She seems nice. I figured Daddy wouldn’t like a wedding present that screamed.”
“Good choice,” I say. Note to self: make certain old Martha hasn’t branched out into selling candied kids or some such. “You run along, now. Make sure no one tries to stake you on accident. If Connor gives you any trouble, you tell him I said you’re okay, right?”
“Is he the blue one?” she asks, head tilted in confusion.
“No, that’s Illyria,” I say.
“The green one?”
“No, that’s Lorne,” I say, and I have to admit, this is a little amusing.
“The one with the purple stripes?” she asks, grasping at straws.
“That’d be the caterer,” I say. Hey, Louie the Grospnechk makes a mean triple chocolate wedding cake. I think it’s all the extra hands. “Connor’s the one that smells like Angel.”
“Oh, his little boy!” she coos. “Yes, he’s very big for four years old, isn’t he?”
You know, what frightens me is that actually makes sense.
“Thanks for coming, Dru,” I say, and I do mean it. Granted, having her stand all night in the closet with my tuxedo was a bit odd, but then really that’s about par for the course with her.
She pats my hand tenderly, and there is most definitely a draft in the room or an eyelash in my eye or some such rot to explain the reaction that gets.
“I’ll see you at the wedding, dearie,” she says as she leaves the room. “It promises to be most pretty.”
Well… now that was…
“Oh!” she says, popping her head back in the room. “Tell Angel if the two of you should ever like to play games for three, I’m quite agreeable so long as there are whips!”
With that, she’s gone. Good old Dru. Right round the bend and so certifiable she’d qualify for her own asylum, but after how easy she gave her blessing, damn if she isn’t more sane than some.
Unfortunately, I am now confronted by my bowtie. This is one of the reasons I hate tuxes.
First off, men shouldn’t wear bows of any kind, and bowties are not an exception. Make me feel like I should be skipping rope and sucking on a lolly. Second, since men shouldn’t wear bows, there is absolutely no reason we should ever be expected to be able to tie them. Stupid thing is hanging limp around my neck, and I can’t even look in the mirror to see exactly what’s gone wrong. I’d chuck it, but, well, it’s important to Angel, I suppose. Henpecked already.
That’s it. Time to call in the reserves.
“Charlie!” I call… alright, bellow… down the hallway. “Get in here before I decapitate myself!”
“Geez, Spike!” he yells, jogging towards me, and, oh, look, his tie is absolutely perfect. Wanker. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Stupid tie won’t tie! What’s the use of something that can’t even do its own name, yeah? A tie should tie,” I say, and I’m aware I’m babbling, but I think Angel would prefer that to me decimating half the hotel in frustration.
“I ain’t talkin’ about the tie, bleach for brains,” he says, giving me that Look. You know the one. The How Dumb Are You Look. I swear, someday his face is going to freeze that way. Still, he’s grabbed the tie and is doing something with it, so maybe this’ll work out okay.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing much,” he says, and the Look has intensified into I Am the Only One on this Block with a Brain, Aren’t I? “It’s just that I bumped into Drusilla on the stairs and damn near slayed her ass before she said you said she was okay. You tellin’ me you invited your ex to your wedding?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “She was in my closet. And yes, she is invited. She won’t cause any trouble.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to know half I know ‘bout you and Angel and closets and coming out of ‘em and Dru being in one just does not surprise me anymore,” Gunn says, and it feels like the bloody thing is tied.
“It straight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Gunn says, smirking. “Kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“Har har,” I deadpan. “Everything going to plan?”
“Pretty much,” Gunn says. “Lorne’s all set up, guests are arriving, and the punch bowls are very clearly labeled as human and non-human.”
“Wait… does that mean that the one marked ‘human’ is for humans to drink or made out of human?” I ask.
He stands there for a second, and I swear his shoulders droop like a kid who just struck out in Little League.
“Aw, man,” he says. “Okay, maybe not so clearly labeled. I’ll fix it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Charlie boy,” I say. “Anyone from Sunnydale show?”
“Giles is down there along with Willow. She’s already sobbing into a handkerchief at,” and here Gunn puts on a falsetto and bats his lashes for emphasis, “’how beautiful it all is!’”
I laugh. How the hell can you not? Good old Willow, who’s re-souled my groom-to-be twice at this point. I owe her. I guess I can go through the day without making fun of her penchant for crying at weddings.
Well, I might make it through part of the day.
“Everything else going pretty well down there?” I ask.
“Illyria wanted me to ask you something,” he says, then frowns. “Okay, she ordered me to inform, more like.”
Uh-oh.
“She wants to walk you down the aisle so she can give you away,” Gunn says with a roll of his eyes. “She said, and I quote, ‘He is my pet. I should decide how to dispose of him.’ Still gives me the creeps.”
“Just her way,” I say, though he’s right, of course. “Course, her idea of walking down the aisle probably involves me being turned arse over teakettle over her shoulder and shoved at Angel like last week’s roast beef, so I do believe I’d prefer to skip that bit of the ceremony if possible.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll work on it. Last I saw, she was staring at a cocktail napkin,” Gunn says, and his mouth quirks. “She said that I shouldn’t interrupt their conversation as I couldn’t possibly understand the depths of their understanding.”
“Seat her next to Dru,” I say on sudden inspiration. I pity anyone else at that table.
“Say, not a bad idea,” Gunn says, nodding. “Lorne’s at that table, too. He should be able to tell if Dru’s planning on wiping us all out or something too. So… it’s almost showtime. Better get a move on. Oh, and Angel sent you up a boutonniere.”
It’s a red rose. Poofy, yet somehow deeply touching. I manage to pin it on without sticking my thumb, which is nigh on a miracle considering I’ve somehow developed the shakes in the last minute. Deep breath. I don’t care that it’s optional for the likes of me. My knees have just turned to pudding. Not Jell-O. I can’t stand that stuff. Nice, butterscotch pudding. I’m internally rambling. It’s a sign of just how nervous I’ve become that I briefly consider walking back into the room and checking myself in the mirror.
Right. I’m off to the lobby for the grand entrance down the staircase. I just hope to bloody hell I don’t trip.
TBC
Part 2 found here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-12-19 09:01 pm (UTC)Best. Line. Ever.
My anticipation has never needed any increasing, thank you very much. It’s a good-sized anticipation if I do say so myself, and I’ve never had any complaints.
I'm also very fond of the double take on Dru in the closet, and the color coded guests, and Connor being big for a four year old.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-20 11:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-20 07:54 pm (UTC)Note to self: make certain old Martha hasn’t branched out into selling candied kids or some such.
*snerk* Doesn't sound so far-fetched, does it?
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-21 08:27 am (UTC)Plus, Angel snogging Spike after the Big Battle? What self-respecting vamp, upon hearing the news of his freedom, wouldn't immediately try to Hoover out Spike's tonsils? Heeeeeeeeeeeee.
Congrats!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:17 am (UTC)What self-respecting vamp, upon hearing the news of his freedom, wouldn't immediately try to Hoover out Spike's tonsils?
Heck, who wouldn't Hoover his tonsils out, period? :)
no subject
Date: 2004-12-21 12:08 pm (UTC)Bwahahaha! Please, please tell me this is covered in the next part?
I love this whole fic; there are almost too many great things to mention. The lonely toothbrush brooding and fear of his hair going straight up, Whistler and TPTB saving the day, Angel's cold feet, Dru-in-the-closet because there was no room in the nightstand!, color-coded guests and ambiguious refreshments, and best of all--the thought of Dru and Illyria conversing at the reception!
I heart you!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-24 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-14 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-17 09:46 pm (UTC)“No, that’s Illyria,” I say.
“The green one?”
“No, that’s Lorne,” I say, and I have to admit, this is a little amusing.</i>
Hee! I'd never thought of them that way. But Drusilla would. :-)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-18 05:48 am (UTC)“Seat her next to Dru,” I say on sudden inspiration. I pity anyone else at that table. LMAO!
Off to read more.