The Last Dance
Yay weddings! I love weddings! So this is on the "first dance" prompt. Enjoy!
Buffy was exhausted, he could tell, and warm and soft, leaning against him in piles of tulle and lace. He held her masochistically tall heels in one hand, dangling by their straps over his thumb while the rest of his hand splayed against the small of her back and they swayed gently, the heavy dress rustling against the floor as her bare feet made faint noises like the passage of colored lights over them both. She sighed. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”
Spike rested his head against hers, full of the unfamiliar scents of new cosmetics and some special hair-spray from the salon. The tables were mostly empty. Xander was making the rounds with a trash bag. Willow was asleep, drooling delicately onto an ice-blue party napkin, one arm outstretched in front of her, fingertips resting on her maid-of-honor bouquet.
Spike remembered her peaceful face not-so-peaceful at all when the floral arrangements had come in that morning with ‘hideous’ (her word) sprays of grass all around them, when Buffy had asked for ‘tiny clusters of forget-me-nots in lacy clouds of baby’s breath’.
There had been a frenzied picking-out of grass, which Spike had had to oversee, since the boutonnieres hadn’t come in at all and they had to carefully pluck a flower here, a flower there.
Everyone had been frightened of Buffy’s reaction, after she had melted down earlier in the week over a particular confetti being sold out at the local hobby store. Spike had gotten a nasty bruise stopping her from tearing down the store. And then she’d panicked over Spike having a bruise on his face during the wedding, but he’d healed in plenty of time.
Honestly, Spike was amazed at the peacefulness of this moment, after all the panic and planning, to just be holding his warm and sleepy bride and swaying together while Xander tossed the carefully-chosen-and-hand-made lace centerpieces in a plastic sack.
The music cut out and the DJ wished everyone a safe trip home. Buffy pulled back, looking forlorn. “This was our last wedding-dance.”
“No, love,” he drew her hand back up to his shoulder. “It’s our first.”
She looked confused a moment, but then smiled and settled back against his chest.
Spike smiled. Buffy was fluent in shmaltz, and didn't make him feel less of a man for speaking it.
And they didn’t need music, anyway.
Buffy was exhausted, he could tell, and warm and soft, leaning against him in piles of tulle and lace. He held her masochistically tall heels in one hand, dangling by their straps over his thumb while the rest of his hand splayed against the small of her back and they swayed gently, the heavy dress rustling against the floor as her bare feet made faint noises like the passage of colored lights over them both. She sighed. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”
Spike rested his head against hers, full of the unfamiliar scents of new cosmetics and some special hair-spray from the salon. The tables were mostly empty. Xander was making the rounds with a trash bag. Willow was asleep, drooling delicately onto an ice-blue party napkin, one arm outstretched in front of her, fingertips resting on her maid-of-honor bouquet.
Spike remembered her peaceful face not-so-peaceful at all when the floral arrangements had come in that morning with ‘hideous’ (her word) sprays of grass all around them, when Buffy had asked for ‘tiny clusters of forget-me-nots in lacy clouds of baby’s breath’.
There had been a frenzied picking-out of grass, which Spike had had to oversee, since the boutonnieres hadn’t come in at all and they had to carefully pluck a flower here, a flower there.
Everyone had been frightened of Buffy’s reaction, after she had melted down earlier in the week over a particular confetti being sold out at the local hobby store. Spike had gotten a nasty bruise stopping her from tearing down the store. And then she’d panicked over Spike having a bruise on his face during the wedding, but he’d healed in plenty of time.
Honestly, Spike was amazed at the peacefulness of this moment, after all the panic and planning, to just be holding his warm and sleepy bride and swaying together while Xander tossed the carefully-chosen-and-hand-made lace centerpieces in a plastic sack.
The music cut out and the DJ wished everyone a safe trip home. Buffy pulled back, looking forlorn. “This was our last wedding-dance.”
“No, love,” he drew her hand back up to his shoulder. “It’s our first.”
She looked confused a moment, but then smiled and settled back against his chest.
Spike smiled. Buffy was fluent in shmaltz, and didn't make him feel less of a man for speaking it.
And they didn’t need music, anyway.