Chapter Text
Spike stared at the wedding invitation for a long time.
Turned it over in his hands, to make sure it wasn’t fake, or a trap of some sort. He wouldn’t put it past Harris.
But no, the fancy font stared back at him, real and unblemished. It had been typed out, a lovely pink gold, and he suspected they had gotten Red’s help on it. She was still a computer whiz after all, no matter how much Spike had sneered otherwise in the past.
He had known about the marriage. How could he not? Neither of the happy couple was willing to shut up about it now that it was finally out in the open, like they were making up for lost time.
So yes, he’d been aware of the hypothetical future that was underway. But he’d hadn’t even been sure it’d happen, what with Harris’ crippling anxiety and the constant life and death scenarios their group often seemed to fall into by the week.
It was hard to imagine an actual wedding happening, amidst the demons and the dying and so on. And besides-- even in the event of an actual wedding-- Spike had assumed he wouldn’t be invited.
Either because Harris was convinced he was a soulless bastard of a vamp--something Harris had never been ashamed to remind him, loudly and in public-- even if it had been a long time since one of those outbursts--or because of their…. history.
And he wasn’t talking about the year of hatred and murder attempts—or those months in that hellish basement, tied up in the Watcher’s apartment. Or even the strange not really dynamic he’d harbored with Anyanka for centuries, of a vengeful push and pull.
No, it was their sexual history.
Because, somehow, despite the trio of mutual disgust and taunts thrown, Spike had been invited into the oh so happy couple’s bed before. Once. Twice. More than that.
He’d never really gotten used to the invitations, and he hated it. Oh, the sex was great, sure. He got why she never shut up about it now, it was certainly one of Harris’ better traits.
Spike was pretty sure at this point he was immune to sexual embarrassment-- or any sorts of regrets when it came to sex. And yet he tended to go for the same sort of people-- the same sorts of sexual situations. He knew what he liked, and he knew what he could get. However, these two were...a strange exception.
In several ways! For one, there being the two of them—Spike had only tended to humor those sorts of situations when Dru was there-- then there was the fact it hadn’t even been his suggestion in the first place. No, it’d been the couple who’d approached him with bold smiles—with a request that followed suspiciously close to Harris’ splitting in two incident.
Finally, there was the length of their series of escapades, their sort of not really relationship that they’d never really spoken aloud.
Having a one-night stand once was fine. Twice was fine too. It was, again, great sex.
But more than that was a pattern. And Spike wasn’t a fan of patterns.
He and Buffy had tumbled in and out of a pattern before. Literally. Fight, fuck, the whole one two. It had been everything he ever dreamed of and a nightmare all at once.
Because it was never just a pattern with him. His heart never listened to him, didn’t care how ridiculous an attachment was to form. To a depressed, suicidal, self-destructive Slayer. To a soon to be married couple.
And there lay the real problem.
He l-- he had...feelings. Unfortunately . It turned out tumbling into the couple’s bed, time after time had consequences, in the end. And those consequences managed to somehow, beat out his obsession with the Slayer on the scale of Are you fucking kidding me?
He knew how it worked! How it always worked! What it’d been with Buffy, what it was with them. He was convenient.
An undead sex toy.
A great undead sex toy, thank you very much, but a sex toy all the same. Something to be used. Used and discarded, come morning. As the Slayer gathered up her clothes and wrinkled her nose, glared at him with utter hate and disgust in her eyes. Left him alone, still laying in the wreck they had created.
And yet. The new couple was never cruel enough to throw him out onto the street after the fun was over. No, in fact, they wouldn’t wake him up at all. He’d come to all on his own, to a quiet bedroom with the curtains already carefully drawn and the smell of something cooking in the kitchen.
He’d never gotten used to those mornings, to getting dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and swaggering into the kitchen with as much late morning confidence as he could manage, to see one of them-- or two of them, depending on the day of the week-- cooking. For them, for him.
It wasn’t warm blood-- not usually-- they didn’t always keep it in their fridge, but Anya said she’d consider making it a permanent feature with a surprising amount of seriousness. Enough that Spike felt strange complaining on the mornings where it wasn’t there. It took all the fun out if his digs became genuine advice after all.
The food wasn’t ever as bad as expected either.
Neither of the lovebirds was the best of cooks. Harris was used to eating prepackaged foods and whatever pathetic sandwich he could throw together on the go, as Spike remembered from his basement days. The man certainly wasn’t a picky eater. And Anya had known how to cook, once, as she loved to remind them, but it’d been centuries since she’d been that model wife, and she hadn’t ever bothered to try again, until recently, that is.
Because while she’d thrown away that old instruction manual, she was yet to be a wife once more, and she’d declared that ordering every night would be abysmal for our finances, sweetie . So now she was trying again, and not one to be outdone, Harris was too.
Spike was caught in the thick of it, of course. He wondered if they tried when he wasn’t over. How much of it was showing off, and how much was just genuine habit. Maybe they settled for cereal normally. This assumption required them to care what he thought though, so he doubted it.
Besides, a few weeks ago, Anya had told him proudly that they’d been buying recipe books, taking turns testing them out, to varying results. He’d teased her for it, the demon in domesticity, but his toothy grin had been a little more tender than he’d intended. A little more fondly amused than cruel.
And perhaps just a little in love. Just a little.
And there was that third secret hypothetical hand. What did it mean to invite your sort of sextoy, your sort of teammate, your sort of lover, your sort of (former) enemy to your wedding? To your two-person, very traditional, very exclusive wedding?
Invite him to sit, lurk, in the back row of whatever building it was, to watch as they gave their overly cheesy vows, looked at each other with blinding love and affection, and ended it all by making out in front of him. And not in that good sexy, ‘ meant for Spike specifically to watch’ way. Just the upset, unwilling audience member way.
Though he wasn’t sad, of course. Just annoyed. Irritated, even. This invitation was proof of their belief that he’d finally softened up, lost his fangs. Inviting him to a wedding .
…. So, this had to be a punishment then, right? A dig at Spike, the funny harmless, pathetic vampire. Or maybe his shagging skills just hadn’t been up to snuff. In which case, fuck them, he had centuries more experience, and he gave excellent head.
Better than Harris, at least.
Well , he snorted at the thought, if it was a punishment, from them personally or the general dickish Cosmic Powers, there was nothing to do but take it like a man.
A man who'd show up to their bloody wedding, dressed to the nines and with some attractive no-one on his arm, with the thin hope of making them feel an ounce of jealousy.
***
Unfortunately, now that Spike had decided he was actually attending the stupid thing, there were things to do . He waited until it was his unofficial turn to patrol with Harris before he talked to him about the whole thing.
And by talk, he meant wait till Harris wasn’t overrun with vampires, and he had at least one free hand. (the other busy clutching the axe he was far too attached to)
Then he thrust the untouched invitation back into Harris’ hand. The brunette tensed at the sudden intrusion, before bringing it up to his eyes, to squint at it better in the dark. Then his expression turned ridiculously incredulous.
“This is my wedding invitation.”
“Yeah.” Spike agreed, lighting a cigarette. “Glad you noticed.”
“Why are you giving me my wedding invitation?”
He glanced over at Spike, thick eyebrows raised, like he was waiting for the punchline. Then his expression changed, in a way Spike wasn’t entirely sure how to describe. His jaw slackened, and his eyebrows dropped. He seemed to have reached some sort of conclusion, though fuck if Spike knew what it was.
“Is this your way of saying no?”
His voice was casual, light. His eyes looked a little less casual.
Spike rolled his eyes. “It’s my way of saying yes, idiot.”
“Oh.” said Harris, eloquently. His expression changed again, mouth twitching as if he was resisting a smile.
Then he frowned. “Do you...not understand wedding invitations? Is this a weird vampire thing?”
Spike scoffed. The American barely-more-than-a-teenager man was accusing the British former Victorian gentlemen of not knowing his decorum. As if Spike’s rudeness was anything short of incredibly deliberate.
“Of course I get them.” he answered instead, short and impatient. “Just thought it’d be easier this way. Less of a hassle.”
“Right.” Said Harris, who now sounded distinctly bemused. “This is definitely the easy way.”
Then their patrol was interrupted by a snarling vampire, fresh from the ground, and their conversation ended there.
But Spike still noticed how Xander stuffed the invitation back into his pocket with uncharacteristic gentleness, that earlier almost smile tugging at his lips again.
***
Spike knew that wasn’t the end of it. The couple knew he was coming now, crashing their perfect event with his presence, so now he needed to prepare said presence for the day in question.
Which meant his physical presence of course. More specifically, his outfit.
He wrestled with the embarrassment and frustration that came from wanting to buy something new, something special, guaranteed to turn eyes in his direction for days. Ideally a mix of terrified and lustful eyes. Unfortunately, that meant going out of his way to find this supposed new special outfit.
He decided to bring the werewolf along for the trip.
Or more like, Oz caught Spike on his way out of the crypt, a blanket already wrapped around the vampire’s steaming form, and offered to drive him wherever he was going.
And because the werewolf was one of the most tolerable members of their group, and because Spike would rather not collect burns along with his new outfit, he accepted.
He climbed into the back of the van, adjusting his blanket so it served as a makeshift seat instead.
“Comfortable?” Oz inquired, hands on the steering wheel. He was using the tone of voice Harris always complained about being hard to read. Spike was pretty sure he was being genuine at the moment though.
“As much as I can be.” he muttered back.
The werewolf had dyed his hair once more, as he was prone to doing every few weeks, this time an acid green that hurt Spike’s eyes to look at. Oz would always listen to their color requests for his hair, smile fondly amused, but also always ended up doing his own thing in the end.
Willow had propositioned red to match her, but Oz had argued it’d be too confusing. As if they really looked that alike, aside from their shorter statures.
Oz pulled out onto the street. “I should really tint these windows. Or just cover them with a sheet.” He scrunched up his nose. “Like we did with the Glory escaping van.”
“And look how well that ended up.”
With a road trip from hell, a half dead watcher, a full dead slayer, and months of misery.
“Point taken.”
Oz’s eyes flickered back in his direction.
“Still. I owe you.”
Spike huffed out a laugh. That was a very generous way of putting it.
It wasn’t Spike’s choice that they ended up Initiative cellmates, or that he was part of the team to break Oz back out, in the end. Though sure, he’d accepted Oz as a cryptmate for over a year, but that was only because the werewolf had volunteered to pay rent.
On the other hand, tinted windows certainly wouldn’t hurt.
“So where are we headed?”
Where am I headed, you mean , he wanted to snark. But he was already being driven, and honestly, a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.
“The mall.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Oz didn’t ask. Another plus for the werewolf.
***
Thankfully, the Sunnydale mall wasn’t too crowded, probably on account of Spike choosing a school day to shop. It meant there weren’t too many witnesses to watch Spike sprint into the building, a heavy blanket over his head—in a significantly embarrassing fashion.
No one except Oz, of course, who was respectfully silent as he jogged inside to catch up to the vampire who threw the blanket scornfully at Oz with a huff. The werewolf caught it easily, despite the lack of warning, shoving the bundle under his arm.
“So. In fear of being confused, I’ll ask again, where are we headed?”
Spike sighed in defeat and braced himself for an uncomfortable explanation. “Clothes shop.”
“Okay.” Said Oz simply, not fazed in the slightest with that answer. Once again, Spike had underestimated the werewolf’s decency. “Any specific store in mind?”
“No.” Spike admitted. Store names tended to fade out of your head if you could steal anything you could get your hands on—clothes included. Plus, for outfits, he always had the option of his victim’s clothes, ignoring the bloodstains.
He thumbed the collar of his duster in satisfaction.
Still unfazed, Oz nodded. “Guess I’ll pick then. What’re we buying?”
Spike scoffed at the question. “None of your business.”
Instead of retorting, Oz just gave him a look.
Grumpily, Spike gave in. “……A suit.” He muttered, avoiding eye contact.
Spike refused to glance back at the werewolf to see what expression he was sporting, but he had a feeling his eyebrows were raising with realization, mouth opening slightly. Everything coming together in his head as if he knew Spike oh so well.
“For the wedding.” Oz said, as if it wasn’t even a question.
…Maybe he did know Spike a little.
“Got it.” He said to Spike’s lack of response. “I know just the place.”
And without even a request for the blond to follow, he started making his way single-mindedly across the mall. Spike followed after him anyway, though not without grumbling to himself.
He noticed Oz made sure to steer them clear of any small crowds, and he wondered whose sake the gesture was for. Despite being part of a band, crowds being something that came with the work—the werewolf wasn’t a big fan of them. Maybe it was another consequence of the Initiative, maybe he was just like Angel, an introvert at heart.
Or maybe he was doing it out of some strange urge to help Spike. As if the vampire couldn’t handle crowds. Sure, it was a right shame he couldn’t take a bite out of any of them, and sure, the Initiative definitely hadn’t strengthened his liking of crowds—but that didn’t make this sort of gesture necessary.
Of course, it was also completely possible this was a completely accidental gesture, and Spike was reading too much into it.
Eventually, Oz made his way into a store with clothed mannequins in the window display sporting a variety of outfits, and Spike followed him inside. He didn’t bother to check the store’s name because, honestly, it still didn’t matter. As long as he managed to get a good suit out of it, he was satisfied.
The store was practically empty, but every display was pristine, which was a good sign. No cracks in the walls or other concerning property damage. And this was Sunnydale, so that was really a feat.
Oz pointed out a corner of the store, near the changing rooms, with racks and racks of suits of varying colors, along with another one or two suited mannequins.
“Not bad.” Spike smirked, heading over to the racks in question. He started to thumb through the available fabrics, checking the colors. Blue, Green , Pink? Who the hell was going to buy a pink suit?
There were too many obnoxiously bright colors available, ones that Harris would be far more inclined to wear than him. And just because he was trying to seduce Harris did not mean he had to become him.
On his other side, Oz leaned on the display counter, looking even shorter than usual with the posed mannequin as comparison. “Need any help?”
Spike scoffed, glancing over at him. “As if I’d take fashion advice from you.”
Currently, the werewolf was clothed with too tight black pants that were ripped at the knees—in a way that hadn’t come from pre-bought cuts, but genuine tears that were a result of especially wild patrols. As well a dark blue shirt that just said Shirt in plain font that Spike was pretty sure was Comic Sans.
To top it all off, said shirt was mostly covered by the oversized buttoned up flannel that Spike was absolutely sure was Harris’. Not just because he recognized the shirt, but because 70% of Oz’s clothes these days were borrowed or given to him by various scoobies.
Which, again, while possibly comforting for the werewolf, said a lot about his nonexistent fashion sense. Mix and match scooby fashion really wasn’t the best look, though Oz often managed to pull it off anyway.
As usual, Oz didn’t even blink at the blatant insult. “Touché. What color are you looking for?”
Spike sniffed as he thumbed through even more displeasing suits. “Black, definitely. Or maybe red.”
“Both, then?”
“Well, yeah, obviously, that’d be great. But—” He turned his head at the sound of rustling fabric to see Oz pointing at the mannequin above him with one hand and grabbing a suit jacket from beside him with the other.
For the first time since their arrival, Spike actually fully processed the outfit said mannequin was wearing. A black suit jacket and pants, with a deep red button up shirt underneath. The fabric was slick and shiny, and even from this distance, he could tell the shirt was silk.
It was perfect.
Spike’s face must have lit up, because Oz’s lips quirked in a half-hidden smile, and he was handed the suit jacket and pants before he even had the chance to swear his approval.
Spike eyed the clothes approvingly. Just as he’d thought, solid silk. It felt great, looked great—now he just needed to make sure it’d fit him.
“I’ll be back.” He said offhandedly, heading off towards the god knows where changing rooms this shop was bound to have. He didn’t check to see if the werewolf was following, he knew he wouldn’t.
He pulled back the curtain of the changing room once he found it, halfheartedly closed it behind him and started stripping. The changing room wasn’t too big, about the size of a big desk, with just enough room for a little chair and a completely useless wall mirror.
Spike made sure to fold his clothes out on the little chair set out for customers, since he certainly wasn’t wearing the suit out.
It would be a wedding only outfit. Maybe he would burn it after.
He pulled on the pants, noting with satisfaction how well they fit—and of course Oz knew his size, somehow—before starting to make his way through the button up shirt. He was halfway through the buttons when there was a knock just outside the changing room.
“Everything alright in there, sir? Need anything?”
The voice was feminine and overly cheerful. An employee.
Spike didn’t even bother to button up the shirt the rest of the way—he ripped open the curtain, vamp face on and teeth bared, and snarled in the women’s face. “Fuck off .”
To her credit, she didn’t scream—though her eyes went very wide, and she stiffened in fear. She pulled herself together quickly though, nodded fervently and started to back away. “Of course, sir, sorry for the intrusion!”
Once she was a meter or two away, she turned on her heel and marched very quickly to the other end of the shop. Despite himself, Spike’s vamp face dropped, as his snarl turned into an impressed smirk. She must have been a longtime resident.
There were no more interruptions after that, and the vampire was free to put on the rest of the suit and, with a small frown at his temporarily left behind clothes—went to go find Oz.
Just as he’d expected, the werewolf was right where he left him. As he caught sight of Spike, his tired neutral expression shifted into an honest smile, which was a good a sign of approval as any.
Still, Spike asked. “Well?”
“You look good.” Oz praised. “Very evil.”
Spike’s grin widened. He had no idea what Harris was talking about—Oz certainly had a way with words. Or maybe, he was good at getting right to the point.
“Brilliant. I’ll be back in a minute, be ready to motor.”
And once again, he left to go change. He was even quicker this time, and was back minutes later just as he’d promised, suit tucked under his arm and duster right back where it rightfully belonged.
“Off we go then.” Spike prompted. “Mission accomplished.”
Oz raised his eyebrows. “You have cash on you?”
Spike snorted. “You think I’m paying for this?”
Spike did, in fact, not pay for it, and the werewolf didn’t stop him. Neither did the curly haired cashier, who simply glanced the other way, and Spike would pay good money to bet their fellow employee had warned them of him.
Still, a suit was a suit, and that was his biggest task for the wedding over and done. Now all he had to do was camp out in his crypt for a month, staying inside and not interacting with any so-called scoobies unless strictly necessary. Easy.
***
“Nice place.” Said Spike sarcastically, hands in his pockets.
“Shhh!” hissed Willow, as if there was anyone around who was listening to them, or even cared what they were talking about.
The ‘Nice place’ in question was the lodge that had been picked out as the official Wedding venue. A strange, tacky building, with stuffed deer heads and far too many rooms that were not quite closets.
They hadn’t even been sent to visit on official wedding business, Red had just been curious about the mysterious venue, and Spike had had nothing better to do with his day.
…And wasn’t that the story of his undead life?
He leaned in close to inspect the stuffed deer head. Its eyes were dark black pits, even more soulless than him. Spike wondered if the place was cursed, or if the interior decorator was just that bad.
At his side, Red made a face. She was trying so hard to take the moral high ground here, but Spike could tell easily that she was as unimpressed as he was.
“Why couldn’t they have just picked a nice synagogue?” she whispered forlornly.
As a matter of fact, Spike knew why. Both Harris senior and Anya’s family had been distinctly unhappy at the idea of a Jewish wedding, despite Xander’s own heritage on his mother’s side.
From what Spike understood about the whole thing, that was enough to make Harris a full Jew—but apparently his father didn’t see it the same way. But he’d also heard that Harris had managed to convince them to include the glass breaking in the ceremony though, and despite himself, Spike was impressed at his determination.
Anya was embarrassed by her family’s view, though she also mourned the lack of demonic and Norse traditions that would be present at their wedding. Spike had gruffly responded that maybe he should just marry them himself, in some demonic church in the middle of nowhere, and Anya had smiled in that full faced way of hers.
In the end, the lodge was the best middle ground for the two families and the couple, the least religious place they could find, which was both strange enough for the Jenkins and cheap enough for the Harrises.
He didn’t say all that to Red though, he had no intention of showing his hand like that. Instead, he just shrugged.
“Bad taste runs in the families apparently.”
Willow clicked her tongue in disapproval, a habit Spike was pretty sure she’d stolen from the Watcher.
“It probably wasn’t Xander’s fault.”
“Well, I’m certain it wasn’t the ex-demon’s.”
They exchanged looks.
“The parents.” They settled on together.
They made their way further through the lodge, past empty pots that needed flowers and long tables that needed cloths. That was another current flaw of the lodge, it was completely undecorated. Without any dress up, it didn’t look nearly suitable enough for a proper wedding, especially for the happy couple.
“What flowers do you think they’d like?” Red wondered out loud. “Sunflowers?”
“Roses.” Spike answered easily. He’d heard enough about the planned wedding cake to guess what Anya was fond of. And though from what he’d heard, Harris didn’t have the fondest memories of those flowers, he still appreciated their look.
“Aren’t those a little cheesy?”
“Because everything about Harris screams proper?” Spike scoffed.
She gave a little inclination of her head which Spike took as a win.
“Do you think they could use flower language? Ooo!” her eyes brightened, “Do you know flower language? It was Victorian, right?”
Spike did know flower language. He debated lying about this fact in an attempt to save his bad boy reputation. But honestly, he was pretty sure he’d lost any fear from Red long ago, the least he could do was impress her.
“Yeah,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, as they continued to make their way down the lodge hallway. They were probably headed towards the ceremony room at this rate.
Willow clapped her hands together in excitement, her eyes sparkling almost literally with excitement. “That’s so neat! What flowers would you pick for this wedding?”
The question threw him so off-guard he nearly stopped in his tracks. Spike searched his brain for appropriate flowers, and listed off instinctively, “Red roses, Lily of the Valley, Orange Blossom…. Gardenia and,” he chuckled to himself. “Geranium.”
Red looked at him expectantly, smiling wide. “And what do they mean?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Love, marriage, all that stuff. It’s all pretty simple, actually.”
Still, her impressed expression didn’t waver. Spike was almost embarrassed by her sheer open admiration of such an old, useless piece of knowledge.
He picked up the pace, pushing open a big wooden door, only to arrive at—
“Oh! It’s the ceremony room!”
And so it was.
It wasn’t decorated yet either, simply two big areas of plain white chairs, lined up in rows to face the small podium in front of the room. There were black curtains pulled back on the walls, exposing long windows that took up a good portion of the walls, several meters off the floor.
Even more empty flowerpots littered the sides of the room, sadly bare, and the podium looked odd without a flower arch or people on it. Rather desolate, with only the counter for the priest to lean on present.
It was a strange room to see so empty, one built for people and ceremonies, now quiet and completely devoid of life.
After a quick glance to the hallway behind them to make sure they weren’t being watched, Red pushed her way past him and into the room. Amused, Spike followed, as the door shut behind them.
“Now this is more like it!” Willow praised, waving her arms out to indicate the whole room. “Big, classy—wedding appropriate.”
“Bit sad.” Hummed Spike. “All quiet like this.”
Though of course, it’d be packed full on the wedding day in question. Between both of the couple’s extended families attending and the sheer number of guests planned, Spike had a feeling too much quiet would be the least of their problems.
Red tilted her head to look back at him. “You think? You’re probably one of those glass half empty vampires. Always seeing the negative!”
“I guess that makes you a half glass full witch, then.”
She stiffened. Around them, the temperature seemed to drop.
“I’m not a witch anymore.”
Spike watched her carefully. If he was feeling a little cockier, he might comment on the fact that it was pretty witchy of her to change the room’s temperature along with her emotions. But he wasn’t an idiot. Practicing or not, Red was not a witch to be messed with.
“Right.” He said instead. “Slipped my mind.”
The room stayed cold though, as she stared at him far too heavily. Unconsciously, he shivered.
Then her expression dropped. “It’s fine, it’s what everybody’s thinking anyway. I can tell.”
He barely resisted making a mean-spirited telepathy joke.
She sat down on the edge of one of the aisle chairs with a sigh, and Spike realized with a jolt of fear that he’d accidentally triggered genuine emotion out of her. Was it too late to leave?
“Xander says he isn’t angry, but he still won’t look me in the eye since…” she trailed off.
Of course, it was easy enough to guess what she was referring to.
The collective memory loss had been a big enough event that ironically, they wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon.
“And Tara….” her face crumpled further, and if possible, the room got even colder. Spike was pretty sure that if he was still breathing, he’d be able to see his breath in front of him.
“We haven’t talked in weeks.” She confessed quietly. “I’m pretty sure she hates me. She definitely doesn’t trust me. None of them do.”
She gave a little hiccupy laugh that sounded on the verge of tears. Her fists were curled in her skirt, pulling the fabric in tight folds that would surely have to be ironed out.
“They trust you more than me.” She spat. “And I can’t blame them!”
Spike bristled at those words. “Now that’s going too far! Don’t throw me under the bus too!”
Red looked up at him in astonishment. Just as he’d suspected, her cheeks were blotchy red, and her eyes were tear rimmed. He’d caught her on the edge of a full flooded breakdown. So, before it could get any worse, he sighed.
“Xander isn’t angry. Trust me, once he likes you it’s impossible to get him really mad.” His lips twitched at that. That was something he knew all too well. “And for someone like you, someone he’s known since he was a tyke? I think you could kill someone in front of him and he’d still be whipped for you. Platonically.”
Her cheeks went a little red at that, and he wondered if there was a story there. Had she killed someone before? Little Red?
Instead of asking that, he continued, putting his hands in his pockets. “And yeah yeah, the witch is upset. You fucked around with magic, worse, you betrayed her—twice! No wonder she wants some time apart. But it’s not your problem anymore. You can’t make them forgive you. And if you did, it’d defeat the point. Right now, your only problem is what you do with yourself.”
“Get worse, get better. Do whatever you like. Wipe all our memories for the fun of it, leave and never return. Or maybe you could try and change.”
He looked away, uncomfortable with her earnest expression. “If you keep trying, maybe they’ll trust you eventually. Maybe they won’t. You’ll manage.”
He grinned. “And if you ever want some tips from a bloke who spent weeks chained in a bathtub cause no one trusted him…. well, you know where my crypt is.”
Willow was silent for a long moment, the only sounds in the ceremony room her wet breathing. It was hard to tell if what he’d said had helped or hindered. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered with the speech. Wasn’t that more of a Slayer thing?
Though…was it his imagination, or was the room getting warmer once more?
Finally, after what felt like forever, she wiped her face on her sleeve, and gave him a smile. There was no trace of her earlier rosy cheeked excitement, but she was smiling, which was probably a good sign.
“And you wonder why everyone trusts you.” Red laughed tiredly. Her eyes were still swimming with unshed tears.
Spike grimaced. “Stop saying that. I’ll leave you here to cry alone if you keep that sort of talk up.”
The supposedly-former witch pushed herself out of her chair with a determined nod. Already, she was perking up again. Clearly, she had experience. “Got it! No trust for Spike!”
As she spoke, Red started to make her way back towards the wooden door, giving the ceremony room one last approving glance. “We should probably go before someone yells at us. Or makes us pay them for the visit.”
Quick as a flash, Spike was beside her. “Wise move, pet. Let’s blow this joint.”
And they hurried out of the now warm again lodge, grinning together.
***
A week before the wedding was planned to happen, the Watcher returned from England.
Xander had confessed to Spike one patrol that he didn’t think the man would come at all.
“I was never his favorite”, he’d explained, hands in his pockets. “Buff was.”
Then, as if he’d sensed that was too much vulnerability for a conversation with Spike, had added on, “Which, hey, Slayer Watcher thing, I get it.”
Personally, Spike had been sure the man would jump on any excuse to leave England and return to Sunnydale.
Despite how much Giles complained about the town’s too bright weather and lack of quiet days, Spike knew the Watcher appreciated the excitement, and had grown used to the constant sunlight. Rain got old fast anyway.
Besides, that was ignoring the man’s clear attachment to all of the scoobies, something they all seemed oblivious to, including the Watcher himself, somehow. It was agonizing to watch, the idiocy only people who cared far too deeply for each other were capable of.
And sure enough, it had been only a day or two after Giles’ invitation had been sent out that he called the Magic Box phone to let Anya know he was attending, and that he'd be arriving a week in advance.
The gang was abuzz with excitement after that, Buffy going on extra patrols as an excuse to work out all her hyped-up emotions. It was almost cute.
Privately, Spike wondered if the Watcher was just here for the wedding, or if he was finally coming back to stay.
He didn’t bother asking out loud though. Anya would be the only one worth having that conversation with, the bluntest and most objective, and she was too stretched thin with wedding planning to take time to talk with Spike one on one on the subject.
Still, despite his mute amusement compared to the rest of their bright cheeriness, he still came with them to the airport. He refused to carry a sign though. There were limits to his generosity.
The whole gang was practically there with him, too. The slayer, Harris and Red were essentials, accompanied by the werewolf, the witch, Dawn and the ex-demon. Soldier boy had been offered to come as well, but he’d been busy.
Riley had probably just been too awkward to accept. Honestly, Spike was still surprised he himself had been invited to come as well. He was even more surprised that he’d accepted.
Still following that decision to its root was just asking for trouble, so Spike busied himself keeping an eye out for the Watcher instead.
His first thought upon spotting the man in question was that he looked haggard. The vampire suspected the cause of it was a lack of sleep and proper eating in England. Without a bunch of overinvested teenagers to pester him constantly, he seemed to have fallen back on older, less healthy living habits.
Giles still smiled at the sight of them though, warmly, as Buffy and Xander hurried over to grab his suitcases in an unspoken race, and Red ran in for a hug.
Anya and the witch were close behind, the werewolf at their heels. Spike followed at an even slower pace, making sure no one could mistake him for excited in any way.
No, he just happened to be here at the same time as the Watcher.
Giles caught sight of him as he was giving Buffy her hug, with one of her hands still clutching his bag’s straps. His eyebrows went up subtly, extra wrinkles seeming to appear out of nowhere, but that was the depth of his visible emotions.
Unlike the rest of his little gang, he was actually capable of reigning in his reactions. It was one of the things Spike appreciated about him.
With a quick glance down at Buffy, he looked back up at Spike and gave him a minute nod which the vampire was not in a mood to decode. There was none of that protective anger he remembered though, that the Watcher was so quick to show around him, so it was probably an improvement.
He’d been a little curious of how the Watcher would treat him, what with his…tumultuous relationship with his Slayer that she might have warned him about, but apparently either she hadn’t, or he wasn’t angry.
It was probably the former.
The Watcher had initially offered to stay in his own apartment-- from what Spike had overheard from various phone calls-- but something in Buffy’s voice had compelled him to stay at her place once more.
She never had been great at hiding her emotions. Or maybe that was just a Spike thing.
Still, the Summers place was bound to be crowded, what with Red, the sisters, and now Giles staying over.
For once, no one was upset that Tara was no longer living there.
In fact, for the duration of his stay, the Watcher had even offered her his own apartment to stay in, which, eager from a break from the more crowded dorm rooms, Tara had accepted gracefully.
She was rooming with the werewolf and Soldier boy, who were both between places. Riley was no longer camped out in his hospital bed all day—having overcome the worst of his condition-- but he also didn’t feel comfortable in a now quieter dorm room that brought nothing but bad memories. Which made Giles’ place the best to hide out at for the time being.
And Oz had taken one look at Spike before declaring that he would also be fine staying at the Watcher’s apartment. The werewolf had always been too insightful for Spike’s liking, and he had no interest in finding out what had prompted that decision.
Eventually, after every scooby had gotten their chance at a hug-- Spike unincluded of course-- they started to lead the way back out of the airport. Buffy made sure to stick close to her former Watcher’s side as they walked, eagerly asking for the details of his flight.
The Watcher was surrounded by a crowd of young adults as they walked, and Spike wondered amusingly if folks were assuming he was some high up government official, one that needed a group of bodyguards to protect him.
Spike walked ahead of the crowd, hands in his pockets, humming a tune. He had no plans to help with the bags, or even to join the group. That went without saying.
“You look lonely, it’s sad.” said Anya, who was suddenly at his side.
Smart as she was, she also hadn’t offered to carry any bags, leaving that sort of work to the “pony” that was Buffy, as she’d once called the Slayer. Therefore, her arms were free to cross as she raised her eyebrows at Spike, as if somehow he was the embarrassing one here.
As if all the others weren’t busy cooing over their not quite father just a few steps away, her almost not yet husband included.
“‘M’ not lonely,” he retorted. “Just not interested in the sugar sweet scooby reunion.”
“Uh huh. Right.” she nodded patronizingly. “Because you don’t have a habit of denying any forms of attachment while looking longingly at said objects of affection. Like some sort of undead feline.”
Thankful that his cheeks couldn’t go pink, he smirked. “You’re one to talk. Mrs. Former demon who definitely isn’t fond of any of Harris’ little friends.”
She hmphed but managed not to look at the friends in question. Mentally, he corrected his earlier assumption. The Watcher wasn’t the only one capable of reigning in his expressions. To be fair, she had centuries of practice.
“I’ll greet them if you do.” He proposed, grinning.
She gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he was doing, but simply sped up her pace so he had to speed walk to keep up. She was surprisingly quick for someone with such short legs.
Amused and smothering a laugh, he hurried to keep up.
***
One of the wedding things that was to be planned was the catering. More specifically, the source of the wedding cake. Sunnydale had a surprising number of successful bakeries, what with the high death rate and all, ones the scoobies were fully aware of.
And if they weren’t satisfied with local places, they could always call out of town. He was sure Angel could find them a place, if they were really desperate.
But from what Spike had managed to piece together from overheard conversations, Anya had decided on none of these options in the end. Instead, she had asked Tara if she was willing to bake their wedding cake.
A wild question to ask of the witch, with or without the context that she was experienced in magic.
Willow had been hurt at first, he’d heard, when she’d thought they were relying on magic for something so mundane, after being so desperate to stop her from using magic herself.
The temperature of the room hadn’t shifted though, despite her distraught expression, so he’d counted it as a win.
But no, Anya had quickly explained that she’d tasted Tara’s homemade goodies before, as gay as that sounds , she’d added on musingly, and that they were delicious.
They’d all been surprised at the request-- with the exception of a bemused Xander who had been the one to initially accept the request cheerfully-- and even more surprised when the request was accepted by Tara.
“I haven’t baked something so complicated in a while.” She’d explained bashfully. “It should be fun.”
Still, the wedding cake in question was huge and complicated, so it’d been decided that Tara would be given several scooby assistants.
Oz was a given, as her current roommate and kitchen sharer. He hadn’t even needed to speak, simply nodded when they’d asked for volunteers.
Spike, on the other hand, was a surprise, even to himself. Why had he volunteered? In all honesty, he had been curious to see her skills in action, and also hoping to prevent the potential awkwardness that would come from Red attempting to volunteer herself.
Besides, he barely got to talk to Tara, which was a shame.
So here he was, leaning on the Watcher’s kitchen counter with arms crossed, watching Tara mix ingredients as Oz examined her old handwritten recipe book. The apartment was pleasantly warm for the time of year, teetering on the line between cozy and cramped, what with the possessions of three people scattered about.
Tara, of course, was determined to occupy as little space as possible with her various magic books and clothes neatly tucked away. And Riley had had organization forced into him from several years of military life, so his outfits were dutifully folded in his corner of the apartment. However, Oz was more naturally messy, and contributed enough mess to make up for their combined order.
Spike thought the whole thing was quite funny, and noted the various records stacked on the kitchen counter with no small amusement.
Oz made a surprised noise, eyebrows raising as he read.
“Hm. That’s a lot of sugar.”
“It’s cake.” Spike retorted for Tara, who was currently measuring the vanilla. He could smell it from the other side of the room, sickeningly sweet.
He caught the quirk of her lips in the corner of his eye, and it made him smirk.
“You could be helping, instead of c-c-c—” she paused for a breath, then tried again. “i-instead of complaining so much.”
“I’m better at complaining.” Oz deadpanned; eyes glued to the recipe book.
“Besides,” Spike added, enjoying his role as devil’s advocate, “You get annoyed whenever we try. Clearly you’d rather handle it yourself.”
Tara shot him a look that was an excellent mix of amused and chiding.
She held out the vanilla bottle. “You can help put this away.”
Oz took it from her without looking up and deposited it in front of Spike wordlessly.
Spike huffed. “Should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
He was comfortable where he was, with his too big T-shirt advertising a beach he was pretty sure he’d never visited and his comfortable jeans, and he would much rather stay slouched over on Giles’ kitchen stool then get up at all.
Still, he stood up to head over to Giles’ spice cabinet, which was woefully lacking in his opinion. Of course, his taste buds were far older and deader than the Watcher’s, but that was no excuse. They were both British, after all.
Spike was pretty sure Tara agreed with him, he’d seen how much she liked to spice her chicken. Giles didn’t even follow the Scarborough Fair formula.
“Parsley…sage…rosemary…and thyme.” Spike hummed to himself.
He reentered the kitchen to Tara’s laughter, and he couldn’t resist showing his surprise.
“We’re joking now? Without ol’ Spike?”
As Tara reached for the container of eggs, she exchanged a look with Oz that made Spike instantly suspicious.
“Hold on. Are we joking about ol’ Spike?” he sniffed, sitting back down again.
“Just making a bet.” Oz said, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. Spike narrowed his eyes at the werewolf pointedly, but unsurprisingly, Oz didn’t budge under his gaze. The man was silently stubborn like that.
Instead, Oz tilted his head back towards Tara, ignoring Spike like a bastard.
“So. Tara. Wedding plans?”
Tara cracked an egg over the bowl carefully. “mm. Avoid Willow. Avoid the families. Enjoy the cake.”
She set the empty eggshell on the counter and picked up another.
Spike thought about Willow again. Sometimes it was hard to connect the image of that little redheaded girl, the one who’d sobbed in the quiet lodge and looked so desperate for comfort, for praise—and that woman who’d bled and screamed to bring Buffy back from the dead, no matter the cost.
But of course, weren’t those two sides of her inseparably linked? The loneliness, the desperation to help—the desperation to be loved . Willow and the people she had left—people who had left her. People had been left.
Spike knew from centuries of experience how dangerous Magic could be, so he could see where Red’s struggles came from-- but still. After so many tears and tense conversations with her former girlfriend and the happy couple on the subject of Magic… He’d expected better from her.
That was a lie—from what he’d seen from her over the years, it wasn’t surprising at all that it’d ended up like this. With Magic with a capital M popping up again and again as a solution to every problem--big and small-- in her life.
Somehow, she still didn’t understand that Magic wasn’t just a tool—it was alive. It understood intent. Or even then—that it shouldn’t be used to mess with memories.
He shuddered at the memory of the Randy incident.
At this point, all he could hope was that she’d internalize his lodge speech—the warning to change herself instead of changing others to fit her own needs.
Unaware of the direction his thoughts had headed, Tara cracked the second egg over the bowl just as easily. “What about y-you?”
Oz thumbed the corner of her recipe book with a quiet, thoughtful smile. “Eat. Stare. Play with the Dingoes.” His smile curled. “Also avoid families. Maybe Riley too.”
That choice was less a consequence of Riley’s actions, but more his inactions. He’d been a bystander to what was probably the biggest nightmare of the werewolf’s life— a big statement for a Sunnydale resident-- and it was probably difficult to separate the man from the monster of the organization. Though of course, Soldier Boy had helped him escape in the end—but it still stung.
Spike understood that struggle—he still couldn’t resist the way his hands trembled when he smelled disinfectant, and other hospital themed smells. That too clean, too sharp scent never failed to make him grimace instinctively.
He then noticed belatedly that both the Witch and the werewolf were looking at him expectantly. Had he somehow said something out loud?
“Spike?” Oz prompted. “What’re you planning, wedding wise?”
Oh. It was just that ridiculousness. Again, his cheeks wanted to flush, but found themselves unable, thankfully.
He inspected his fingernails and lied. “Bring a girl.” (If he could manage it)
“Camp out at the bar.” (the bar he would never dare touch if he wanted to try and get near Xander afterwards)
He bared his teeth a little as he picked at a piece of dead skin at the edge of his nail. “Maybe burn down the place if I get bored.” (As if he would. As if he could)
Neither Oz or Tara looked genuinely concerned at his words, so either they just didn’t give a fuck either way, or they didn’t believe him.
“Nothing big then.” Oz said, in what Spike was pretty sure was sarcasm thanks to past experience with the werewolf.
Spike scoffed in response. “It’s a wedding, not a…” he struggled for the right comparison. “—bloody ball. I don’t need big plans.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “The whole thing is simple enough, just have to show up. ‘Not a big deal.”
He didn’t miss the way Oz’s eyes flickered back in Tara’s direction, eyebrows raising subtly in an unspoken Are you seeing this shit? Way that Spike instantly hated. There was something here he was missing, and he loathed being out of the loop.
“ What .” He hissed.
Tara looked away once more, mixing the batter. There was a pregnant pause before she stuttered out slowly, smile audible. “I-I-Is that your shirt?”
He blinked once, twice. Then he looked down at the shirt in question, eyebrows knitted together, cataloguing its appearance. Too big. Weird beach he’d never visited. Distinctly tacky. No memory of ever getting it.
His stomach dropped as he was hit with the realization—this was Harris’ shirt. Suddenly this whole conversation made a sickening amount of sense.
He buried his head in his hands and croaked out a strangled fuck amidst their laughter.
Somehow, he managed to stay there for the rest of the afternoon, despite his furious embarrassment—at least they didn’t bring it up further.
***
Surprisingly, it was Giles who volunteered to help transport the finished cake to the Summers household.
He’s been expecting Buffy to volunteer out of a desperation to escape her static days, and had already been mentally gearing himself to make sure he was out of the way at the time.
But no, it was the Watcher who came inside on the day in question, keys in hand as he swung the door open.
Giles clucked his tongue in that funny annoyed way of his, hand still on the doorknob. His gaze went to Spike, unimpressed. “Unlocked.”
“You’d prefer to be stuck outside?”
Giles closed the door behind him and locked it, as if he wouldn’t need it open again in only a few minutes. “I’d prefer my home wasn’t easily accessible to the entirety of Sunnydale’s demon population, yes.”
“Not really your home anymore though, is it?” Spike countered, taking a sip of his warm mug of blood. Oz had traded the blood for cake delivering duty, and Spike had been embarrassingly quick to concede.
He made sure to savor it now as he glanced over the Watcher, who was dressed in a ratty sweater and jeans. Spike wondered again how long he’d end up staying, really.
Giles did seem to be settling surprisingly quickly in Sunnydale with his less polished outfits and his constant presence at the dinner table, from what he’d heard from the Bit, both good signs. Still, the man would need a stern talking with his not quite adopted teenagers to make a non-self-loathing inspired decision.
Not that Spike cared, of course.
He drained the last of his mug in one big gulp, appreciating both the copper tang and the way the Watcher didn’t hide his wrinkled nose of disgust.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Spike rose to his feet. “Alright, let’s get a move on. I’ve got plans.”
That was a boldfaced lie, but still, he refused to sound pathetic in front of the Watcher of all people. Giles’s quirk of his lips, the barely hidden twitch on his face, told the vampire he probably wasn’t convinced.
“Right, of course.” Said Giles anyway, following Spike into the kitchen.
The finished cake was taking up the vast majority of the fridge, huge as it was, three tiers of chocolate and vanilla goodness. Giles made an impressed noise as Spike opened the fridge and he caught sight of Tara’s creation for the first time.
The witch had outdone herself in the end, her three-tiered confection topped with roses made out of red frosting and white cream. In the center of the top layer of the cake was an elaborate, separately baked, fake human heart, which Spike knew was filled with a bright red raspberry sauce.
The red icing was spread over the sides of the cake in an illusion of dripping blood, frozen in place. Overall, the cake was a beautiful, macabre creation, and Spike, despite himself, absolutely loved it.
“Anya’s design?” Giles asked, visibly amused.
Spike shrugged halfheartedly, “Pretty sure it was a team effort, actually.”
As if he hadn’t been there to listen to them discuss possible cake options, from the ordinary to the extreme—Xander was both scared and impressed at the sheer degree of flavors Anya was able to name. They made a game of it eventually, guessing which flavors were real—combining Spike’s demon knowledge with Xander’s love of cake.
In the end, they’d settled on a heart and roses—as realistic looking as possible, and while Spike didn’t know the whole story behind the choice, he knew there was one. Something personal.
Giles gave him a searching glance at that, one he did his best to ignore.
Instead, he reached into the fridge for the platter, pulling it out as carefully as he could. “Tara mentioned a spell?” he said, in a thinly veiled attempt for a non sequitur. Giles nodded as he took the other end of the platter, supporting its weight.
“Yes, yes. Let me just….” He mumbled something under his breath that Spike was pretty sure was Latin, and a thin purple veil seemed to fold over the cake, shimmering slightly. It looked like a giant soap bubble, one only visible at certain angles.
Spike also knew it was intended as a miniature force field, one that’d protect the cake from losing its shape in the drive—or perhaps even falling over in the first place. He wasn’t too sure about that second one, and he had a feeling neither Giles nor Tara would appreciate him testing that aspect of the Magic.
“Off we go then,” Spike grunted, as they started to slowly make their way out of the kitchen.
The journey out of the Watcher’s home was filled with blessed silence, no attempts at conversation, and Spike contemplated whether or not he felt like hanging around the Bronze later that night.
Unfortunately, no sooner had they placed the cake in the backseat, and buckled their seatbelts—Spike doing it with a grumble and a glare from Giles—did Giles open his mouth and ask with a world-weary sigh—
“So. Anya and Xander.”
Spike side eyed him suspiciously. There was a bad feeling forming in his gut, one that told him to get out of the car as quickly as possible. Giles dashed that half-formed plan quickly though, as he pulled out of his parking space and started to head towards the Summers’ place.
“What about them.”
“You are…. attending their wedding, I believe.” Giles grimaced inexplicably, like there was a bad taste in his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve been sexually involved with them for over a year.”
“Yeah.”
Spike then froze, belatedly processing the question he’d just been asked, and the answer he’d given. If possible, Giles managed to look even more distinctly unhappy, new wrinkles appearing out of thin air.
“I mean—”
“Spike, I am unfortunately far too aware of your sexual history. There’s no point in lying.”
The Watcher’s hands fidgeted slightly on the wheel, a twitch, and Spike suspected if he wasn’t currently driving a car, he’d be taking his glasses off to clean nervously right about now.
Spike’s brow furrowed in confused annoyance. “How—” Then he remembered one of his lovers wasn’t known for her tight lips. “Oh, Anya .”
“How I found out is none of your business.” Giles sniffed.
“Actually, I’d rather think it is, since it’s my sex life we’re so casually discussing.”
“Yes well, you’re not the only one affected by this…. relationship.”
Spike made a face. “Don’t call it that .”
Giles continued unbothered, “Both Anya and Xander are also a part of this relationship. And while I have the feeling Anya could very well handle herself with her centuries of experience in taking revenge on men who have scorned her, Xander….”
Spike started to understand where this conversation was headed. “You think I’m gonna hurt them-- him.”
“No,” Giles corrected. “I think you won’t.”
His glasses shone with an unnerving light. Spike watched him warily and resisted the urge to tap his fingers on the dashboard.
“I think you wouldn’t dare hurt either of them, not if you like your skin where it is. I’ve always wondered what the slow pouring of holy water does to a vampire. Or perhaps standing in a fine mist?”
Spike’s eyes widened incredulously. “Are you threatening me?”
“I think you’re smart enough to answer that question yourself, Spike. Oh look, we’re here.”
Sure enough, Giles pulled the car to a stop directly in front of the Summers’ house, completely ignoring Spike’s still shocked expression. He wasn’t sure whether he was amused, intimidated, or impressed, honestly.
Part of him was insulted at the idea that he wouldn’t hurt the couple—and part of him was insulted at the idea that he would . His demonic pride and his affection and possessiveness for the couple were wrestling in his head, and he had no idea what to say.
Now that the car had stopped, Giles finally removed his classes, pulling out a handkerchief from a previously invisible pocket of his pants.
“Are we clear then?” his voice was a rumble in his throat.
Spike knew instinctively that now was not the time for jokes—that it was very possible Giles was concealing a stake in that same invisible pocket. That a wrong answer might wind up with Giles alone with a pile of ash.
So, he bit down on the humiliation, his warring feelings, and answered with grit teeth.
“Crystal.”