~ LEGENDARY L’AMOUR ~
Author:
Zuriel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing:
Angel and Buffy
Disclaimer:
No profit, no gain, just fun. No beta, any errors mine.
Word
Count: 3,048
Summary:
Long awaited events, finally realized.
A
tribute, dedicated to the Couple We Love and to IWRY on its Tenth Anniversary.
**
~ LEGENDARY L’AMOUR ~
Everyone
is talking about this day - the first of tropical warmth, signaling a long hot
summer, they hope - although it’s the afternoon’s ceremony that really has them
all atwitter.
And
could there be a more fitting backdrop to the new beginnings being celebrated
today than the awakening from dormant, bleak winter to the blossoming of
earth’s vibrant greenery, and with it hope renewed and reborn in a dazzle of
activity. Bees buzzing, zipping from flower to flower, birds overseeing the
festivities, perched on ringside-seats in trees at the edge of the beach,
singing chirpy, cheery tunes, and colorful butterflies, flitting and prancing
about, while friends gather in the Pacific breezes. The occasional seagull
soars overhead, vocalizing his approval for this extraordinarily special event,
where most everybody is in fancy dress, though formality is not required.
The
sun squats, ablaze, in a cloudless, blue-as-the-sea sky, gleaming in all its brilliance
on this momentous day longed for in countless dreams, after years of
togetherness that no man could put asunder, though they damn well tried hard
enough, peppered with pure joy and heavily seasoned with utter despair, through
times of immeasurable angst and distress, pathos and pain, wedged between
hearts that pined, bled for each other, and through all the trauma and drama, through
heartbreak and ecstasy, their sacrificial deaths to save the world, a glimpse
of Heaven, a century in Hell, and places in between – through all of it, they
never once stopped loving each other. Forever tethered by destiny or fate, if
one believes in such things, but definitely souls mated, for better, for worse.
The
bride-to-be, a radiant vision of loveliness, stands, slightly nervous, in her
pale pink satin, ankle length, strapless dress she spent hours searching for,
because he’d casually hinted she looked stunning in pink, her sun-drenched,
golden hair in loose waves caressing her tanned bare shoulders, lips stained Diva
Pink, worthy of a princess, and so what if it cost more than she’d ever spent
on lipstick, she had a right to splurge, her cheeks blushing a delicate shade
of rose, enhancing her wide, hazel eyes, voted, hands down, her best feature,
sparkling with fervent anticipation.
All
of her friends are here, she notes, except the one who’d begged off,
harrumphing “Bollocks!” and “Bloody hell, no way I’ll watch you get
hitched to the poof,” puffing on a cigarette as he’d stalked off, mumbling
and rambling about drowning his sorrows in a whiskey bottle, maybe writing a
tragic little poem about how much his life sucks, as the words, “sore loser,” came to her mind. But
there’s one very important person missing who would make this day positively
perfect, and with a tear poised in her eye, she thinks of her mother. “Look at me, mom,” she whispers under her
breath, “Did you ever think I’d be this
happy?”
While
at the opposite end of the beach is the tall, dark and handsome groom, standing
aloof in the shadows, though he doesn’t need to, except it’s been such a century-long
and necessary habit he can’t seem to break, still looking over his shoulder,
thinking the hounds of hell are close by, apt to nip at his heels, just to
remind him from whence he came, because he’s not used to this mortality yet. He
steals a furtive glance at her, as blown away as the first day he’d laid eyes
on her outside her high school, a smile lighting up his recently-tanned face,
captivated and enraptured by her beauty, yet worrying at the last minute if
he’s good enough for her, only he’s not that damned, cursed thing anymore, and those
troubling issues he’s endlessly brooded about were never really concerns in her
eyes, as she’d repeatedly declared. He thinks about how far he’s come; never
imagining such good fortune would ever grace his guilt-ridden soul, while considering
whether he should change his name back to Liam. But then she calls him “honey” or “hotness” if she’s feeling especially amorous - and he likes those
better, although, he chuckles to himself with a bemused grin, he can’t actually
use either of them on his driver’s license.
Taking
a panoramic sweep over the sand and the sea, the milling guests and his
beloved, he’s overcome by the magnitude of this breathtaking moment, still bewildered
that he really does have breath that can be taken away, thanks to The Powers
That Be, who honored their word, which he never really believed would happen,
yet here he stands, and it’s all real, and he’s got a shiny, happy future, as
the spirits above whisper “get on with it,”
nudging the betrothed to the altar before either gets cold feet, which anyone
with half a brain knows is ridiculously impossible, which proves the PTB aren’t
that omniscient, if there ever was a doubt.
For
a moment, though, his mood turns melancholy, saddened by the absence of his
friends, his team, for he likely wouldn’t be here at all if it hadn’t been for
their support, never giving up on him, even when they should have, giving him
flack when he needed it, and a shoulder to lean on when he felt the world
conspired against him, which was nearly all the time, and he hopes they know,
wherever they are, how much they mean to him, always in his heart, always with
a pang of guilt that will never go away.
Then
it’s her turn to ogle him when he’s looking the other way, a catch in her
throat, thinking what an amazing hunk of goodness he is in the rented tuxedo
he’d grumbled about wearing, because he’d said with a scowl, he looked like a
penguin, whereupon she’d insisted with those full, pouty lips he simply can’t
resist, and so to appease her, he’d kept the silly thing on, despite the
discomfort of itchy wool trousers and a too-tight cummerbund, which earned him
a sweet-as-honey kiss, with a promise he’d never have to wear one again, fact
being, she’d said with a lascivious grin, she much preferred his birthday suit,
and he’d laughed, promising anything she wanted in return, and as no surprise,
she’d answered, “All I want is you,
always.”
Her
thoughts drift to The Night It Happened, remembering vividly, how that quiet
evening had erupted into a blinding flash of unearthly brilliant luminescence,
with trumpets blaring, she swears, how shocked he was, how she’d hugged him
tight, and with tears in her eyes, whispered, “I love you, whatever you are,”
whereupon giggling ensued, and with wild abandon, they’d indulged in spirited,
congratulatory sex, without scary consequences, thank you very much, during
which she soaked up the warmth of his touch and listened to the faint
thump-thump of his heart pressed against her chest, as they kissed long, wet
kisses, eating each other up in unparalleled euphoria.
Just
thinking about that night is giving her goose bumps and tingly twitches below
her waist, and she nearly swoons, desiring to rip that tuxedo right off of him,
but there’s this formality standing in her way, and whether she likes it or
not, she’ll have to subsist on delicious memories for the time being.
A
hush falls over the crowd as music begins. No one can tell where it’s coming
from, but it sounds heavenly, like Cherubs strumming angelic harps, and the
music is just everywhere, on cue, pleasantly mellifluous, appearing to hover in
the air on motes of fairy dust, while Xander oversees the seating of guests,
and Willow and Faith, giggling at being a little old for this, sprinkling
flower petals along the path as the two lovebirds stroll up to the rose-covered
arch, whereupon Giles gives away the bride, and Dawn, the Maiden of Honor,
stands beside her big sister, with Connor as Best Man next to his dad, as the
beaming pair clasp hands and speak their vows, exchange customary rings, and,
finally, to cheers and applause, kiss passionately to seal the deal, though
neither cares about tradition, for nothing about them is conventional, yet finally
acquiescing to friends who had begged them, for once, to just do it the
old-fashioned way, commenting it really won’t hurt you to be normal for a few hours, will it?
The
Happy Couple turns to face their guests as out of the same enigmatic neck of
the woods where the music came from - and those present not in the least
startled, having accepted long ago that strange things happen whenever these
two are - flocks of doves suddenly appear, cooing and darting off in all
directions, a fluttering bevy of excitement, while all in attendance cheer some
more or whistle, tossing handfuls of rice overhead, as pink and white balloons arrive
on the heels of the doves, bobbing in the air, while passersby stop, pausing to
watch the spectacle with ooh’s and ah’s and grins, for the joining of lovers
renews their faith that all is right in the world, that even in the throes of
discontent, economic woes, rising crime, and the threat of war - or, heaven
forbid, an apocalyptic disaster - love still conquers all.
Mingling
with their guests afterwards, and breathing sighs of relief that no one – or
nothing, to be specific – crashed the ceremony, the bride grips her husband’s
hand, exuding charm and poise she wears so well when she’s not fighting the
forces of evil, coyly fluttering her eyelashes at the congratulations heaped
upon them, while the groom accepts handshakes and accolades from those who
never really thought they’d bear witness to his transformation, truth be told,
while those who know him well believe he deserved this a long time ago, but,
well, what can you expect from a bunch of fickle powers who aren’t remotely
trustworthy, so all considered, it’s miraculous they took time out of their
shuffle-boarding of life and came to their senses long enough to redeem him
properly. Its significance is stunningly unique and unprecedented; a well-earned
gift bestowed upon him for turning his life around, for showing the world a
monster can change, with the right mission, the right girl and a fluffy soul.
The
music stops for a moment then begins anew, only this time it’s the haunting
refrains of an Irish folk tune that fill the air, plucked from lively, ghostly
fiddles and those mysterious harps, as the married couple kicks off their
shoes, embracing in a spirited dance, giggling when they slip and trip in the
sand, while everyone watches, many with happy tears, for this is his song, a
song long overdue, as he takes her as his, to have and to hold from this day
forward.
And
it wouldn’t be right if the music didn’t honor her, having accepted, with her
own soft-spoken vow, his oath to love and to cherish her all the days of his
life, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part,
and they change pace, swaying and spinning in a slow waltz when the music
switches to a modern, romantic ballad, with several people singing along in
hushed voices, for her song is infamous, and anyone who’s ever been in love for
five minutes knows by heart. The passionately poetic lyrics speak of deep, heartfelt,
sometimes heart wrenching yearning, a Romeo-and-Juliet love, defying all the odds
and naysayers, that exists and triumphs for no other reason than two hearts
will it so.
Congratulations,
toasts and the couple’s solo dancing aside, the honored guests gather round the
reception table, piled high with food and drink, or dance barefooted in the
squishy, shifting sand, time to let loose, pomp and circumstance forgotten, as Lorne
relaxes after his officiating duty is behind him, strolling among the guests in
his hot pink leisure suit, chuckling and chatting like a magpie, who’d offered,
after hurriedly acquiring the proper credentials on the internet, to conduct
the ceremony non gratis, because, hell, he can’t charge these two sugarplums,
and it definitely helped that the groom offered, in lieu of payment, to let the
thrilled Pylean belt out a hearty rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, because he’d always wanted to sing it in
front of a live audience, although envisioning it would be at a baseball game,
but what the heck, these people qualify as alive, for the most part. And though
it’s not the sort of music in keeping with the occasion, not what the guests
expected, evidenced by their blank stares and sideways glances, nevertheless,
they catch his contagious enthusiasm, even as the shrill high notes abuse their
ears and cause throbbing headaches, they agree he sings it with cacophonous
gusto, loud enough to wake the dead, if nothing else.
And
while they’re surrounded by all these well-wishers who seem pleased as punch to
be included in their nuptials, she can’t stop thinking how some of them argued
she was crazy-mad to fall for He Who Can’t Be Trusted, who turned on her, don’t
forget, as if she could, but that wasn’t his fault she’d reminded them with
angering, glowering eyes, and still they’d said, mark my words, his nature
can’t be ignored, he’s bound to disappoint you, if he doesn’t kill you first,
whereupon she’d loudly and vehemently proclaimed they could shove their
opinions where the sun doesn’t shine, smirking as she’d watched their faces
dissolve into sulky indignation at her overly prideful audacity, heard them
muttering she’s got a lot of nerve talking to us like that - clearly in denial,
she is, they nod in agreement - whereas we, on the other hand, are not blinded
by his sneaky charm, we can see the writing on the wall, little girl. She’d
interrupted them, enraged, lashing out with an inventive diatribe of what she
thought about their snooty, pious attitudes, haughtily brushing passed them,
walking away with her head held high. For a moment she’d love to point them out
and rub their noses in the sand, or at the very least scowl and sing-song, “I told you so,” but she reasonably
refrains, happiness overriding her vindictiveness, and well, it’s really just muddy
water under the bridge now.
To
an encouraging round of clapping, Willow approaches the center of the crowd,
waving a smoldering bundle of herbs, murmuring a ritual blessing to ward off
evil things in this marriage, yet everyone knows the couple attracts evil like
magnets, and they’ll be back patrolling before a fortnight passes, no rest for
the weary or newly wedded. Together they’re a formidable, fearless pair, taking
on everything evil, anything with fangs and funky foul odors, slimy skin or shaggy
fur, big red eyes or beady black orbs, if it howls and growls, grunts and roars
or screeches like a banshee. And the town, being duly grateful and relieved,
owes them this celebration for keeping the unclean uglies at bay, for there
wouldn’t be a town fit to live in, if it wasn’t for these two.
After
more dancing and mingling, eating and drinking, conversing and laughing, well
into the waning daylight, and the customs having been endured, the blissful couple,
anxious to get away, says a hasty and heartfelt goodbye, adios, and thank you
for coming, with more hugging of shoulders and kissing of cheeks, with snickers
and joshing that too much time in bed will make you lazy and fat. They laugh
and wave, running off amid last minute shouts of don’t do anything I wouldn’t
do, though it’s common knowledge, they will
do things no one else will.
And
when the frivolity had run its course, and the sun slowly sank into the jaws of
the horizon, when the doves were long gone, the balloons nowhere in sight, likely on their way to China or maybe Hawaii, the weary guests
arrived home to their beds, thinking what a terrifically grand time they’d had,
remarking “Didn’t they make a lovely
couple?” - while hidden away in a remote location where they won’t be
disturbed by man nor beast, Angel and Buffy relax after the wedding-night nookie
lasting for hours, but who’s counting, certainly not them.
Murmuring
sweet nothings when they aren’t kissing, they lie cuddling in each other’s arms,
sublimely sated, but already dreading the moment this serenity must end,
knowing it has to, dammit, because the world is still in trouble, and who are
they kidding, they can’t give up the good fight, not while the world trembles,
while the lost souls and the hopeless ones cry out in misery, not while
innocent victims are preyed upon by bumpy-faced monsters and fire-breathing
demons, all the people they have to save and protect, because that’s what they
do better than anyone, and honestly, no one is volunteering to take their
places, you can bet on that.
But
in this blessed union of two inseparable souls, there is more at stake – and
not the pointy ones – meaning she’ll
watch him like a hawk, though he’ll grumpily insist it’s not necessary, which won’t deter her in the
least, and he’ll play guard dog, fussing and fretting over her, which will
annoy her to no end, but he’ll do it anyway, for it’s been this way from the
first moment they met, except now they have this new fragile future they will
desperately fight for, as long as they both shall breathe, the daily struggle
to keep this life together never desired so much as now.
So
after all is said and done, exactly nothing has changed. No breath is taken not
filled with a sense of apprehension, no heartbeat felt in absolute, peaceful
repose, mortality being unpredictable and fleeting, and even as the darkness continually
threatens their lives, as they pound and stomp on nefarious bones, they’ll say,
if asked, every second is worth the trials and tribulations that have plagued
them from day one, for when you love so completely, when the person you adore
with all your heart and soul, who takes your breath away with a loving glance
or smile, who turns your knees to jelly with a kiss - the one you can’t live
without - there’s nothing greater or
more precious, in this world or beyond, than having your paramour love you back
even more, reminding you every single moment of every single day why you fell
in love.
~
end ~
November
2013