Author: Meltha
Rating: very mild R
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Meltha
Spoilers: Through the entire series of Buffy and Angel
Distribution: Fanfiction.net and the Bunny Warren. If you're interested, please let me know.
Summary: Spike and Angel are getting married. You knew it had to happen eventually.
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

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.