Waiting on a Friend - Part Twelve - The Party
DISCLAIMER: References are made to songs by the Stones, Elvis Costello, and Leadbelly.
He was married. He was home. He was insanely happy. Looking at his watch, Giles said, "Half an hour til we leave for the festivities, wife. What should we do until then?"
Anya kissed him, then pushed him down into one of the study chairs. "We have time for a round of champagne. Spike, you can come help me in the kitchen."
"Don't have to ask me twice, Mummy." He grinned when she smacked at his arm. "Now, now, bride. What you need is a little alcohol."
"What she needs, honey, is a little less attitude from you. Go on and help," Buffy said. He made what Giles would consider an 'Ooh, matron' noise, then followed dutifully after Anya.
Giles took a deep breath. He was married. He was home. He was insanely happy. And the young woman over whom he'd watched for so many years stood by the door. They had barely had time to chat this past week, he realized. "Sit down, dear girl," he said, and closed his eyes.
He heard her nestle down in the leather chair beside him, and he held out his hand. She grasped it tightly, then said, "So what are you thinking about, married guy?"
Without opening his eyes, he said, "I was thinking that a year ago I was cold, friendless and depressed, in a little flat in Bath. I didn't know who I was any more. I felt guilty about leaving you and the others to fend for yourselves in Sunnydale, even though I had no place there. And I hopelessly loved a woman I thought was going to marry someone else, a younger man whose trust I couldn't betray by saying anything about my feelings."
Buffy's answer was soft. "A year ago I wanted to be back in the grave. I was neglecting Dawn, I was abusing Spike, and I couldn't see anything that was going on right in front of me. With Willow, or with Xander." Her breath caught, and Giles opened his eyes to see her staring at their clasped hands. "Since then we've lost Tara and, really, any chance of the Scoobies being what they were. But you know what? Even with all the losses and the pain--" and she smiled brilliantly, a flash of the happy girl he'd first known-- "I'm so glad to be here now."
He couldn't speak at first. He leaned over and kissed her forehead instead, then whispered, "I am too, dear girl. I am too."
Then she laughed at him. "No, you don't get the significance, Giles! Usually I have to die to have an epiphany like this!" At which he flung a cushion at her.
He was married. He was home. He was insanely happy.
***
"You look happy, Anyanka," Spike said as he followed her into the kitchen.
"Spike, I am happy. No, I'm beyond happy. Happy is far behind me in the dust," she said. "Now look in the fridge for champagne, please."
He opened the door and peered in. Without moving to fetch one of the bottles, however, he took a deep breath and said, "I respect your courage, Anya. Really do."
She pulled several champagne flutes out of the glass cupboard, then put them gently on the counter. He looked up to see her running her index finger around the bowl of each one, testing the balance. "I know why you think I'm brave, Spike. But you're brave in exactly the same way."
He got out a bottle, stood, then accepted the towel she handed him. As he worked the wire cage off the top, he said, "We don't have much bloody time with them, do we." He deposited the cage on the counter, then got to work on the cork, towel wrapped to lessen the final impact.
"No. Not nearly enough time with our mortals," she said softly. The cork made a gentle pop, and he filled two glasses with the fizz and bubbles. She wiped away a tear, then picked up a glass. He mirrored her movement.
They looked at each other, smiling, remembering another time they'd drunk together. Spike clinked his glass to hers. "Anyanka. To love, happiness and friends."
"And you're a good one, Spike. To love, happiness and friends. And to more time."
"Happiness is more time." Spike sipped, tasting salt-tears with the sweet-dry liquid.
***
"Happy Christmas, Mr. Kemp!" Dawn shouted, as she walked away with Wesley. The river-taxi driver waved his gift bottle of champagne at them in farewell, then disappeared into the little shelter on the pier.
Wes tucked Dawn's arm through his as they strolled back down the Embankment. The sun set early in December, and the streetlamps and twinkling bridge lights sent a magic glow into the night. The wind off the Thames was cold, though, colder than when they'd last been out, and he ducked his head into his collar.
He'd had his share of cold this week, he thought, remembering his parents' home and his encounters with Lilah. But he'd been trying to edge into the warmth of a new family, of a new Wesley. It was difficult to get warm. He looked out at the Thames, barely visible, gently flowing as it was supposed to. The river had reclaimed its level after destruction; maybe he could do the same.
For some reason, a snippet of an old song came into his head, and he sang softly, "Sometimes I live in the country, Sometimes I live in the town, Sometimes I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown..."
Dawn pinched his arm through his overcoat. "And what's that depressing crap you're singing, Wesley?"
He smiled at her. "Just a song. I don't know what made me think of it."
"Well, if you ever are stupid enough to jump in the river and try to drown, I warn you I'm totally making a Door or Bridge or something to get you out. I mean it, Wesley. But it'd piss me off, so don't mess with me."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss Summers." Then, possessed by a spirit of happiness so rare he almost couldn't identify it, he caught one of her hands in his and put his other arm around her waist. "Do you know how to waltz, Dawn?" When she raised her eyebrows at him, he said, "Well, let's see."
Singing "Good night Irene, Good night Irene, I'll see you in my dreams," he spun them around, then started to dance. She threw back her head and laughed, then clutched him closely, only tripping once or twice. They twirled down the pavement as he hummed, the river stretching calm behind them, the busy Embankment road in front. When they reached the zebra crossing, he spun her away and sang again, "I'll see you in my dreams."
She stood there under the light of the streetlamp, glowing at him. "I can't imagine a nicer start to the party, Wesley. You should dance more often."
***
The Small Hall rocked with the party-sounds of people eating and enjoying themselves. Anya took her last bite of dessert, then sipped at her coffee. Jez had done a wonderful job with the dinner-- and no one, not even her friends from the City, had commented on his demon skin. She thought that the superlative nature of the salmon he'd served might have something to do with it.
And now it was time to dance. She leaned over to Rupert, who hadn't let go of her hand for the past two hours (which had made eating a happy challenge) and now was joking with Spike. "Sweetie, shouldn't we get everything started?"
"I suppose." He kissed her gently, swirling his tongue inside her mouth. "Hmm. Is that Colombian coffee I taste?"
"Stupid husband. I have no idea." She smiled at him. "Now go on."
Giles got to his feet, then tapped his dessert fork against his water glass. The sixty guests-- Watchers, a few of Anya's clients and colleagues, the odd demon or two, and their crazy family-- finally hushed enough to pay attention. Anya was so proud of him; he looked so, well, Rupert standing there. "I'd like to thank you all for coming. We're almost ready to begin the second part of our evening."
Anya nodded at Jez, who had popped his floppy-eared head through the side door at that point. He waved to the various humanoid waiters, who began passing out flutes of champagne to all the guests. Giles continued, "It's probably not a secret by now: we have invited you all here to share in the celebration of my and Anya's wedding." The room erupted in applause, and he had to raise his hand to quiet them before he added, "We just want to say--"
"Sit down and wait your turn, mate!" Spike said, jumping to his feet. Giles just stared at him, until Spike shoved him back down into his seat. "Old man is completely ignoring proper protocol-- not that anyone from the Council will be bloody surprised at that." A gale of laughter came from the Watcher side of the Hall. "I had the honour of being Giles's best man at the wedding this afternoon, and as any fool would know, that means I get the privilege of making the toast. Raise your glasses, please."
Anya craned her head to look at Buffy and mouthed, "Did you know he was going to--?" Buffy rolled her eyes, as if to say "He's uncontrollable," then smiled up at him.
As soon as everyone had collected their champagne, Spike lifted his own glass high. "Giles and Anya have had a difficult road to get to where they are today. When they first met, it's fair to say that they didn't get along, as often happens with the best of couples." Buffy slapped his leg at that, and he shot her a lightning grin. "In fact, they were the direct instruments of change in each other's lives." Rupert caught Anya's hand and squeezed; she held on tightly. "What is so special about my friends Giles and Anya is that as change has happened, they have embraced it. They have become stronger because of it, and their willingness to grow and love has made them unstoppable. I am proud to present to you all, the bride and groom: Anya and Giles."
As glasses clinked and the room filled with the sounds of sipping and applause, Rupert leaned over and kissed her. His lips were so warm, so firm. Then he whispered, "I swear I'm going to dust the little twerp."
"Nobody buys that act any more, Rupie. We all know you love him."
"Doesn't mean I won't stake him. Tosser."
Spike cued the DJ, then said, "Who here wants to skip the ritual blather from the groom?" At renewed heckling and applause, he shouted, "Then I recommend we start the dancing, with a song very meaningful for the happy couple." And at a snap of his fingers, the first notes of Elvis Costello's "Every Day I Write the Book" filled the Hall.
Anya grinned and pulled her stunned husband to his feet. "Come on, darling. I want to dance with you all night."
***
Spike hadn't let her stop dancing for hours. Well, there was that break forty-five minutes ago, Buffy amended, when Giles had led all the male Watchers (including Wes, if she wasn't drunk and imagining things) in a truly horrifying group "gator." And it took a lot to horrify the survivor of multiple apocalypses, she thought.
She looked around the Hall. For most of the night Dawn had been dancing with a very cute teenaged guy-- Kadir Cumberbatch, little brother of Imran-- but now she was sitting down, curled up against Wes. Giles and Anya were slow-dancing. Which wouldn't have been so odd, if the song wasn't some loud, banging tune by the Who.
Family all present and accounted for, she thought she deserved some quality time with her honey. She went up to Spike, who'd taken a two- second breather to say something to Imran, and said, "Hey, baby. Can we take a walk outside?"
"'Course, my Queen. Whatever you want." She knew he'd say that.
They went out of the Small Hall, then out of the building and onto King's Road. Buffy shivered when the December wind hit her, and she said, "Spike, I'm cold."
He raised his scarred eyebrow. "Why am I guessing the right answer is not to go get your coat but to give you mine?"
"Because you're not a complete idiot?" she said sweetly.
He sighed, but shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She started to snuggle in, but-- "Wait, love. Let me get a ciggie first." He fished around in the suit pocket for a rather long time, but she knew her guy; he was just trying to cop a feel. Eventually, his cigarette lit to his satisfaction, they locked fingers and started walking east toward Sloane Square.
The night was clear, chill. Dozens of people crowded the streets around the pubs, the restaurants, the cinema. She cast a quick look at Spike, who was illuminated by white street-light and flashing colours from the shopfronts: all wavy hair and posh clothes, overlaid with a rebel's smoke rings and that uncanny power in his gliding walk.
He and all his contradictions were hers.
"Love, you might want to check across the street," he said, casually picking at a piece of tobacco on his tongue.
She knew that Moo Guy tone. Yep, there was a stupid fledgling vampire, perhaps one of the last the Brompton Cemetery gang had turned, doing a wannabe-predator thing after a solitary walker. "Is there a stake in your jacket?"
"Buffy, what do you take me for?"
They sprinted across the traffic, dodging a night-bus and a couple of insanely mini-cars, so they could reach the stalky guy. Buffy went up to the fledgling. "Say, do you actually know what you're doing here?"
The vamp went into game-face, stepped out into the light-- then onto the stake. Dust on demand, Buffy thought. So much for her relaxing stroll. Sighing, she said, "I guess we should go back, Spike."
Uncomplainingly he draped an arm around her shoulder and turned her back toward Chelsea Town Hall. The simplicity of his devotion struck her hard, and later she decided she couldn't be responsible for what happened next.
She pulled him into a shadow-pool between the lights, deep illusion of privacy on the crowded street. He went with her, smiling, and after crushing out his cigarette he slid both arms around her waist. "What's on your mind, love?"
"I've been wondering something. I've been wondering all day, actually. When are you going to ask me to marry you?"
If she hadn't been a Slayer, her ribs would have been crushed by his arms tightening around her. His voice was rough-smooth, barely controlled. "Would you repeat what you just said? Think I just went deaf."
If she could have gotten an arm free, she'd have punched him across the street. Possibly across the river. Instead she gritted out, "I. Said. When are you going to ask me to marry you?"
Then, even in the shadows, she saw his face. She recognized that expression. She'd seen it before-- when she'd invited him back into her house and her life; when she'd come back from the dead; when she'd first slid down upon him and taken him inside, where she hadn't known he already was; when she'd first said she loved him. That face told her everything she wanted to know.
As he tipped his head back into half-shadow, however, the light caught a wicked sparkle in those blue eyes. In the most cultured, stuffy tones she'd ever heard, far worse than anything Giles or Wesley had ever come out with, he said, "My beloved, I fear you've forgotten. I already proposed some three years ago, and was accepted. And since I've never received my ring back-- oh my dear, I always just assumed-- oh my goodness, you don't think I'd have done all those dashed improper things with you if we weren't betrothed, do you? I'm shocked. I'm--"
She whipped him around and pinned him against a convenient brick wall. He laughed deep in his throat, then gave that tongue-out grin that was sexy and annoying in equal measure. "Okay, William. I get it. You may continue to consider yourself engaged."
And she kissed him. Around them traffic snarled, people dodged. A blast of cold London wind tossed their hair together, as tangled as their tongues.
Buffy had never felt so warm in her life.
--THE END--