The Wedding Dance

By magista

Spoilers up to Wrecked

Her dress was a deep, periwinkle blue, with just a dusting of glitter that accented her every move with light. The graceful folds of the neckline hung from narrow straps, just dipping low enough to reveal the beginning swell of her breasts. His fists clenched involuntarily as he remembered how perfectly her small breasts had fit his hands. Letting his gaze travel lower, he watched the fabric slide smoothly over the curve of her hips. The slit in the long, straight skirt revealed an expanse of firm, golden calf as she walked towards him. Rhinestones on the strap encircling her narrow ankle winked at him insolently, mocking him – reminding him that they and not he were permitted close to her.

Spike, you wanker, he thought wearily to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and fingers, only you could manage to be jealous of her clothes. Still, since she'd been avoiding him for weeks, he would take what he could get and be grateful.

"So remind me . . . how did I let you talk me into this again?" Buffy asked, near politely. Spike wondered if the effects of her voice on his body should properly be termed an 'eargasm'. Just the memory of her passion-roughened voice crying his name . . .

"Earth to Spike, come in Spike." Buffy waved a small, impeccably manicured hand in front of his face. "I asked you a question."

Spike raised one brow in a manner he hoped conveyed just the right amount of insolence and disinterest.

"Heard you the first time, pet. And you can't blame this one on me. I learned a long time ago that it never pays to argue with the bride's plans for her wedding day – particularly when said bride is an ex-vengeance demon. When she says certain members of the wedding party will dance together at certain times, then all must bow before her will." He turned to glance at the small dance floor that had been cleared near the back of The Magic Box. Turning it into the location for the reception had been suprisingly successful (and a financially sensible choice, as Anya would no doubt have mentioned). Xander and Anya were completing the last few measures of their own dance with reasonable, if somewhat mechanical skill.

"Still, could always be worse. She could have picked 'Wind Beneath My Wings,'" he said, gently twitting Buffy about their own magically induced wedding plans of two years previous. It earned him what even he considered to be a well-deserved jab in the ribs.

"Spike, you are such--"

"A pig. I know. Heard it a few times now. Come on love, we're up."

He had argued with Anya on this, though. If he was going out there in front of everyone with his Slayer in his arms, then it wasn't going to be to any piece of 90s electronic romantic pap. He would get to choose the music, thank you, or she and Xander could bloody well try to whistle up another groomsman. Anya had acquiesced with surprisingly little argument. Spike didn't want to think about what that might mean.

Buffy had accused him more than once of being stuck in the 80s, and it was true that he preferred the hard, loud sounds of the Sex Pistols or the Clash, or practically anything, to the moronic shouting of 'modern' music. But sometimes, as now, a fey mood overcame him, and he found himself recalling the elegant strains of his youth – his human youth. The piece he had chosen wasn't nearly that old, of course, just a simple piano solo – a slow, melancholy ragtime piece called 'The Graceful Ghost'. As he found himself to be persona very non grata in Buffy's life right now, he fancied it rather appropriate.

He'd even gone so far as to see the lads he dubbed 'the Nerdly Trio', in order to obtain exactly the version of the tune that he wanted – George Winston's. A few more threats to their collection of 'sci-fi' junk, and they'd downloaded the mp3 file and burned it to a CD for him to pass to the DJ. So copyright infringement rated pretty low on his 'big bad' scale – a bloke had to keep a hand in somehow.

As the first few chords began to drift through the room, Buffy reached up reluctantly and clasped her hands loosely behind his neck. Startled, he looked down, and realised that she probably had no idea what it meant to dance. Really dance, not just hop in place, flailing limbs. He reached up to disengage her arms.

"Sorry, love. This isn't the high school prom where you just dangle yourself from my neck and we sway vigorously in place." He could have bitten his tongue the moment the words left his mouth and she turned her face away. She had seen Angel, then, lurking in the shadows near the front of the store. Since he certainly wouldn't have been on Xander's list of invitees, he must have been one of Anya's, for whatever reason. Ex-demon or not, conscious or not, the girl still had a talent for twisting the knife.

Spike sighed, and dredged his earliest memories for the instructions once given by his dancing master – what was the poncy little bastard's name again? – Meems, that was it. Master Meems had had the dubious pleasure of trying to instil gentlemanly virtues into a crowd of aristocratic ruffians. Now Spike found himself echoing Meems's words to Buffy more than a century later.

"Here, put your left hand on my shoulder – not around my neck. My right hand goes here, in the small of your back," and he suited action to words. "Now, put your right hand in my left – no," he said, as she attempted to interlace her fingers with his, "just rest the palm of your hand against mine." Now they stood near, but not touching, about six inches apart.

"Keep your arms firm, not stiff. Do you feel the frame we've made?" Buffy nodded. "Good. Now when I want you to move toward me, I'll pull forward with my right hand. When you should move back, I'll push with my left and shoulder. Just pay attention to those signals, and someone with a Slayer's reflexes shouldn't have any difficulty.

"Oh, and Buffy? This is no place for girl power. You either let me lead, or it doesn't work. Ready?"

At her nod, he swung her gracefully out onto the dance floor. After a few gentle turns, successfully executed, Spike felt her relax and he smiled, settling in to enjoy the experience for as long as it lasted.

**********

Buffy was taken aback at how simple it seemed, now that they were actually dancing. She had worried that being close to Spike would overwhelm her again, after she had decided to break out of the addictive, sick fascination that he held for her. Until this moment, she had managed to avoid any close contact with the vampire, so his transformation for the evening surprised her. Instead of his usual tattered-jeans-and-shabby-T-shirt look, he wore an elegant suit that seemed a century out of step with fashion – and probably was, Buffy reasoned. A stiff white collar stood upright about his throat, with no tie. In place of regular buttons on the shirt, tiny gemstone studs sparked blue fire, nearly the colour of his eyes.

No, don't think about his eyes. Still . . . she knew his body could only ever be at the temperature of his environment, so why did his hand on her back seem to burn her through the thin fabric of her dress? And why did it have to be so easy to lean into his arms and let him lead her about the floor?

Her reverie was broken suddenly as Spike reached up and took her left hand from his shoulder. Once both her hands were in his, he turned her about until his arm was around her waist and they were side by side, promenading. Just as she was reconciling herself to this new, closer position, not wanting to create a scene, he released one of her hands and turned her under one arm in a slow pirouette. She had no trouble anticipating his movements. It was all rather . . . exhilarating, Buffy decided at last. She had no idea that some of the moves she used in fighting vampires would adapt so well to dancing with one. Maybe she would have to change her business cards. The sheer whimsy of the thought finally made her laugh out loud.

Suddenly the music slowed, and Spike drew her back into both his arms again – but closer than before. His eyes never leaving hers, he seemed to swirl her even more dramatically about the floor. Buffy's breath began to come more quickly from the exertion, but Spike, with no need to breathe, kept a steady rhythm across the floor. Buffy felt her skin begin to flush, and knew that if the dance didn't end soon, she'd drastically betray her resolve to keep Spike at a distance, and would end up drawing his blond head and pale mouth down to hers . . . in full view of everyone present. She nerved herself to break away, Anya's plans be damned.

**********

Buffy's laugh eased some of the chill in Spike's heart. Maybe once the dance was over they could find a quiet space together and try to mend some of the rift between them. She knew that he loved her, and he just wanted her to admit that she felt something for him. It didn't have to be love – he'd settle for 'annoyed affection' – but he needed time to make her realise that there was nothing wrong about her attraction to him, even without a redeeming soul. Though in Angel's case, he thought, it really hadn't been much of an improvement. There was so much he wanted to do for her; so much he wanted to teach her. Yet if he had learned only the one thing from his time with Dru, it was that he couldn't make anyone love him.

The piano solo slowly wound its way into the last few measures. Time enough for one more slow, seductive dip and a last pirouette. Then Spike drew Buffy back to him so that he was behind her. One arm, then the other, wrapped tightly around her waist. As the last few notes sounded, he dropped his head until his lips barely brushed the bare skin of her left shoulder.

Buffy tensed at this intimacy, and brought her arms up to break his hold, driving one elbow into him as she pushed away. She whirled to face him, eyes blazing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed.

Stunned, Spike retreated. Where the bleeding hell did that come from? He wanted to growl, but wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"Nothing. I'm doing noth – I'm getting a sodding drink, that's what I'm bloody well doing!" Spike stalked off towards the bar, angrily tearing open the high collar of his shirt as he went. Stupid bitch! Why can't she make up her mind? The last thing I needed tonight was more hot-and-cold running Buffy!

Spike tossed a few crumpled bills on the bar. Disdaining both his change and the offer of a glass, he snatched up the bottle and headed for the door, only to be intercepted by a hand on his arm before he could make his escape. The identity of his captor was nearly the last straw, and it was all he could do to avoid letting himself change.

"That was quite the performance you put on out there," Angel said coldly.

"Move aside, Peaches. You are, without a doubt, the single last person I wish to be having a conversation with right now."

"I'm just warning you, Spike," Angel said, gripping Spike's upper arm with painful strength. "If I ever hear that you've done anything to Buffy, I'll be back here to take care of you myself."

Idiot. If you actually understood something of the source of the Slayer's power, you'd be asking if I wanted protection. "Sod off, you stupid git! You don't know anything about what's between us." You don't know that I'm the one she comes to when she needs someone to listen. That it was my name she screamed, every time I pleased her . . . "She sure as hell doesn't need you lot protecting her." And you – still have stupid hair. Poof.

"Just see that you treat her right." With one last vicious squeeze of Spike's bicep, Angel released him. Spike laughed coldly in his face. He ached to treat Buffy properly, to the limit of his abilities, but she wouldn't let him near.

Free at last, he pushed open the door. After a long swallow from his bottle, Spike rummaged in a pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. He exhaled a long stream of smoke into the night air, and leaned back against the bricks of the nearby alley.

**********

Buffy smoothed her dress and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed the interplay between her and Spike. Only a few of Xander's co-workers seemed to have seen, and the comments she overheard were all jokes at Spike's expense, anyway. None of her friends had seen – Xander and Anya seemed to be deep in – conversation, I hope, but that gesture looks kind of rude. Willow was under the stairs, speaking brightly in too loud tones to a group of young women, and holding yet another drink. Tomorrow. I just can't deal with that tonight. No sign of Tara, but it was still difficult for her to be near Willow, so she might have left early.

"That was so harsh!"

Oh god. Dawn. Buffy turned to face her sister.

"Spike's like, totally in love with you! I can't believe you did that."

Buffy let her anger with Spike drive her words to Dawn. "Listen just once in your life, Dawn. Spike's a vampire, a soulless monster. What you think is love is just some sick obsession he's developed for--" doing a slayer. "I doubt he has any idea what love really is."

When she answered, Dawn's voice was trembling, but her words were clear. "I didn't even exist two years ago, and I know what love is. You and mom-" her voice broke, "loved me. Even if I wasn't real."

Buffy felt cold. Nothing was easy anymore.

"It's not the same. It isn't. You were created, and given a soul. We were given the memories and we did – we do love you. But Spike was killed when he was sired as a vampire. And when you die, you lose your soul, so--" When you die . . . oh god . . . "—he's not really . . ." I'm not real . . . He has to leave . . . No one can know . . .

But if he was capable of some parody of emotion, could she ask him to leave? Would he, if he – loved – her, leave Sunnydale for her? So she didn't have to face him (herself) any more?

Buffy turned away from Dawn, and clasped her arms about herself, trying for warmth. Unbidden, one hand strayed to her throat where his lips had touched. So many vampires had tasted of her, yet his touch had avoided their marks, left no scars. What about on my heart? No more . . . I can't take any more.

As she moved to the door, she saw on the floor a point of blue fire. Without thinking, she bent and retrieved it – one of his shirt studs. He must have lost it when he . . . left. Why do they always leave . . . He's going to leave me too . . .

Someone was talking to her, a familiar voice. A scent, a hand on her arm . . . she easily broke the hold and pushed out into the night.

**********

"Hello, Slayer. Come to push the stake a little deeper, have you?" Spike emptied his beer and tossed the bottle into the street with a satisfying crash. Buffy winced, and realised that coming outside after him had not been the best decision she had ever made, though she didn't know anymore what else she could have done.

"Spike, this . . . whatever there is between us . . . no more. It just has to stop. It's just wrong."

"You've got a pretty narrow definition of wrong, Goldilocks. In case you haven't been paying attention, young Nancy-boy just married himself an ex-demon today. The lady tortured and tormented blokes for over a thousand years. Makes me look like a prancing amateur, she does." He took a deep drag, then expelled his next words as harshly as he did the smoke. "Oh, but I forgot, she's human now, got herself a nice little soul, so all is forgiven.

"And let's not even mention Angelus . . ."

"No, don't . . ." Buffy murmured, but Spke continued, unheeding.

"For over a hundred years, the guy's the scourge of most of Europe – another one with the torturing and killing – you name it, he's probably done it to someone, somewhere. Curse him with a soul and he's all Mr. Mopey, all sackcloth and ashes. Loses it in a moment of happiness – courtesy of the Slayer herself, no less – and hey! It's back to the fun and destruction. But wait!" Spike punctuated his words by stabbing the air with his cigarette. "Let's just pop another soul out of the ol' soul-o-mat in the sky, and he's a character out of a 19th century French novel again – you know, interesting and doomed. Plenty of tragic looks all 'round. You can even date the bloke again – pity about the 'no-shagging' rule, though – and what's a few bodies here and there matter in the face of true love?"

Buffy grabbed Spike by the lapels and slammed him back against the bricks. "Shut up! Just shut your damn mouth! You don't know anything--" Her anger tied her to the world again.

His face twisted with rage, Spike broke her hold and shoved her roughly away. He advanced on her slowly, and Buffy was transfixed by the venom and loathing in his voice. "Then there's Spike. Poor Spike, he's got no soul, so when he tries to do some good, because just maybe, he's found some per-- some reason worth doing good for, he's clearly just got some nefarious plan that we haven't uncovered yet. Better stake him, just to be sure. Oh wait! He's harmless now. Can't hurt poor impotent Spikey, now, can we? 'Cos we've got souls, so we don't do that kind of thing. Besides, he might occasionally be useful to us."

"You're drunk," Buffy whispered hoarsely.

"No, I think I've finally come to my senses, thanks to you."

"It's not like that--"

"Oh? Do tell then, precious. Exactly what is it like?" he demanded.

And Buffy had no answer. The agony she had felt over Angel's descent, 'death' and return had torn her heart out. And yet she couldn't face the possibility everything Spike had said was true. Was that really the only distinction between them? That Angel had a soul? Buffy suddenly felt as though she'd been cast into a strange land with no idea of the landmarks to help her find her way home.

Spike continued speaking, though less vehemently, as though resigned to her opinion of him. "At least I know what I am. You . . . you're still the little girl lost, aren't you? Don't know what you are or what you want. That night . . ."

Buffy didn't need him to specify what night. She flushed deeply as she remembered what they had done . . . what she had wanted to do. That part of her still wanted to do . . . She almost physically thrust the thoughts away, and lost the thread of Spike's words in the process. ". . . took you to a place you'd never been before. And you liked it there. That's what really scares you, isn't it? That we might be more alike than you want to admit. Something in you craves what I have to offer.

"I saw your true face that night, Slayer. I know." All through this speech, Spike's voice had become lower and lower, until she had to strain to hear him.

"What would Rupert say now, Slayer, if he saw you hiding your face from the past, avoiding the truth this way? You're the one who's changed, but you're still mooning over some teenager's dream of what a boyfriend should be--"

"You are so not my boyfriend, Spike," Buffy grated, trying desperately to regain ground and focus.

"You're right, pet. I'm not your boyfriend." Spike leaned forward, his face only inches from her own. "I'm your lover," he whispered roughly. Buffy's eyes widened, and she drew back sharply. "When are you going to realise that I really am the only one for you?"

Buffy returned with an attack. "I don't know, Spike. Would that be when I admit I'm a monster just like you? Because I came back wrong?"

Spike looked away for a moment, and when he turned back his face was cold.

"And am I the only one who's chosen words for their power to wound?" he asked, the anguish clear now in his voice, "or am I still just convenient to you? Still beneath you?" And now it was Buffy's turn to look away. Until Spike took her face between his hands and drew her back.

"Understand me." He bit off every word. "I don't know what it is this damn chip detects that it doesn't find in you. I don't know what happened to you. I worked with your bloody scooby gang every day of the summer that you were . . . gone . . . and they didn't even tell me they were trying to bring you back – or what the price was – because they knew I wouldn't let them risk you. I'd have found some way to stop the whole bleeding lot of them before they could bring you back, if I'd known."

Spike's eyes were wet, but they suddenly filled with a terrible hope. "But what if what they got back was more than they asked for? You don't know what you are, or what's to come . . . what power . . . I know I'm not making any sense . . . can't you just let me help . . ." his voice trailed away incoherently.

Buffy closed her eyes and swallowed, hard. Let me help. Rhymes with 'I love you', right? Much of the anger and fear she'd lived with since that terrible day in the fall seemed to drain away, to be replaced with . . . what? Something I'm not ready to name. Not yet. But . . . I

think . . .

Sensing the change, Spike released her and essayed a tentative smile. "It's just this simple, love. I'll never lie to you, and I'll never pretend to be anything more that what I am."

It didn't seem like much of a declaration of love, but something in Buffy's heart resonated to his words. It had been months before she had learned that Angel was a vampire, and then only because he had lost control of his demon, not because he had wanted her to know. Parker had been a lie from the beginning. And Riley had only admitted being involved with the Initiative when it had become clear that she knew much more than he was willing to reveal. Spike . . . had no secrets from her, and promised none.

"If it helps," he added with hope, "I'll also never pretend that you can't kick my ass across the room any time you want – since we both know from experience how true that is." Buffy almost laughed at this admission, and again, had to reflect on her past choices. Angel had always tried so hard to protect her, even after leaving Sunnydale, and Riley had always seemed somewhat defensive when faced with her Slayer strength. Parker – now he could have used a good ass-kicking, she decided at last with a grin.

Finally, Spike took her hands in his cool ones, running his thumbs over the faint scars on her knuckles. His voice was much softer. "And you – won't have to pretend that you've never been terrified of what you might be or what's happened to you.

"I've changed too, you know. Didn't want to, at first, but it happened all the same. Started with this bleeding chip in my head, and ended the day I found myself over your . . . body . . . begging someone – anyone – to take me instead so you didn't have to be dead."

He snorted, suddenly overtaken with black humour. "'I am not the man I was'," he declaimed in a terrible Ebeneezer Scrooge accent. "Next thing you know I'll be standing on my head come Christmas morning. Except for me, the spirits took a lot longer than just one night." Seeing Buffy's confusion, Spike only smiled again. Then he dropped to his knees before her, pressing his face into her hands.

"Buffy . . . my love . . . my –" Slayer goddess was the phrase that his mind offered him, but a bloke should never seem too worshipful, gives them delusions of grandeur, it does . . . "It's a strange, twisted knight you've won to your service, to wear your favour on his sleeve. But I swear to you, I'll never desert you and I'll never betray you."

She couldn't think, move or even breathe, only look down at the . . . man . . . kneeling in front of her for the – she resolutely vowed to consider only those times they had both been fully clothed – for the third time in her life. The first time, they had both been the victims of one of Willow's spells gone wrong as he had proposed to her. The second, affected by a musical demon, he had declared himself her willing slave.

Now, it seemed, there was nothing left between them but the truth. They had come to the end of themselves at last. No spells, no demons had wrung this admission from him. Buffy looked deeply into the new small, still place within herself, to see if she had the words, or dared an equal honesty to reply.

And at long last, she found the words. Maybe frivolous, or foolish, or the deepest truth she had ever spoken. "Spike," she said gently, lifting one hand to his hair, "I still have your ring." Never threw it out, though until now I never knew why. Spike looked up, not comprehending. "You know, from a couple of years ago, when . . . I keep it in a box of treasures. On my dresser . . ."

Spike rose suddenly to his feet, his eyes alight.

"I don't really know why I--" Buffy continued, until his mouth descending on hers blotted out all traces of coherent thought. Grasping at him with equal fervour, she pushed him back against the alley wall. I am real . . . I am loved . . . I do belong . . .

**********

"Dawn, have you seen Buffy?" Anya's voice was plaintive. "It's time for me to throw my bouquet, and I really need to have everyone present to properly complete the ritual."

"Umm, I think I saw her go outside a while ago, maybe for some air? I'll go look for her, okay?" Dawn moved to the front window and peered into the night. In the shadows of the alley mouth, she saw a slim blond vampire, plastered all over with elegant blonde Slayer. Oh good. Maybe this means Spike will be able to visit again. He's such a hottie.

Deliberately making as much noise as possible, Dawn opened the door to the Magic Box and called out into the darkness.

"Buffy? Anya's ready to throw the bouquet!"

"I'll be right there, Dawn. Just . . . getting some air."

Coming up for air is more likely, thought Dawn with a grin.

**********

Buffy hurriedly straightened her dress, then reached up to wipe the lipstick from Spike's mouth. Everything seemed new and a little too bright. She was afraid that if she walked back in, everyone would see through her, now transparent as glass.

"Do I look presentable?" she asked.

"Do you really expect an unbiased answer?" he retorted.

"Hey! Whatever happened to 'I'll never lie to you'?" Buffy teased.

"I won't. And right now I'll tell you the truth that I find my poor senses overwhelmed by your glamour."

"A lot of help you are," she laughed. "Are you going back inside?"

He shook his head. "I think it would be best if I waited here a bit."

"Right. Wish me luck with the bouquet-slaying."

**********

Another cigarette later, Spike finally returned to the door of the shop. Dawn was hovering just inside the doorway, and he offered her a friendly arm.

"Evening, Niblet. What've I missed?"

"Well, Willow caught the bouquet, and everybody's kind of still all confused about that - Buffy didn't even try, I guess, 'cause it would be really unfair, you know, with her Slayer skills and all, and oh look! They're doing the garter next. You should get down there!" she rattled off all on one breath.

"Oh no! Not me."

Dawn released his arm and pushed him forward into the crowd of single men jostling for position. Spike looked for Buffy and rolled his eyes in supplication. Buffy just laughed and threw up her hands, admitting herself to be powerless over the younger girl's actions. Help, I've been kidnapped by an enthusiast! Spike thought, just before Anya's blue, lacy garter flew between reaching hands and snapped solidly against his chest. He put up a hand involuntarily and grabbed it before it fell. Good-natured groans sounded all around him, and Spike just looked dazed.

He rejoined Buffy and Dawn at the side of the room. "What in hell's name do I do with this, pet? Unless you'll let me practice taking it off--" he leered comically.

"Spike!" exclaimed Buffy, with wide eyes and a pointed glance sideways to where Dawn stood, drinking in every word of this exchange.

"Oh Buffy, don't be such a prude," Dawn sighed. "I'm old enough to already know everything about--" then, on seeing both their faces, stammered, "Umm, I'll just get some more punch, I think." She abruptly about-faced and strode off to the bar.

"So, Slayer. You wanna dance?" Spike enquired at last.

How is it that so many questions can be embodied in just three words? Is it possible to choose which I'm answering?

"Yes," she said simply. To everything. I don't know where we're going, or how long I've got, but I'm going to enjoy the trip while I'm here.

Linking hands, the returned to the dance floor. As they took their positions, Spike spotted Angel across the floor. Spike flipped him the bird behind Buffy's back with a cheerful grin, then pushed all thoughts from his mind in order to better concentrate on the woman in front of him. Life in Sunnydale on the scenic Hellmouth surely made no promises to anyone about their futures, but he was determined theirs would last as long as he could make it.

The music began again, and they began to dance.