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Christmas Eve 2010
Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
Late afternoon/early evening

“Your juice is on the folding tray, Madam.”

Buffy Summers politely thanked the Drishlac demon who served as Angel’s steward and left the bathroom, padding across the sinfully plush carpeting of her bedroom to the opulently gilded, old-fashioned vanity chest in the corner opposite the tall king-sized bed.  As she sat before her vanity and reached for her wide-toothed comb she caught a quick glance in the heart-shaped glass of the manservant arranging her nightdress, an elegant peignoir set of luxurious washed silk, silvery white embroidered with white flowers and a touch of sequined applique.  Her other clothing was already laid out on the bed, ready for her to don it.  The white satin ball gown with its puffed sleeves, slim bodice and full skirt and the hardware to go under it: a merry widow, stockings, panties.  Her shoes, veil, and gloves remained in boxes to protect them from being scuffed or soiled until she was ready to put them on and go downstairs.

There was something so bizarre about this white wedding Angel had urged and hired people to arrange for them.  The long ribbon-trimmed veil with its delicate blusher and the soft flowing lines of the peignoir all suggested innocence and virginity.  In truth, Angel had lain beside Buffy every night for the last two years.  Not one inch of her body was unknown to him, not one opening was a stranger to his most intimate kisses, his skilled fingers, his insatiable cock.  He was her lover in the purest sense of the word and she was his.

Angel had told her this was their new beginning, the only fair shot they’d ever had.

“Buffy.”

She glanced in the mirror towards the corner to the opposite side, past the bathroom entrance to her bedroom door.  Her look lightened and she smiled a little.

“Come in, Connor.”

“Father wanted me to bring this to you.”  The young man moved slowly.  An untutored person would have mistaken him for being timid, but Buffy knew and understood his tense caution.  Connor was a hunter and killer of demons and supernatural bogeys, like Buffy herself.  His movement was that of a cat, slowing searching, gaining as much information about a potential adversary as he could before he actually approached it.  Buffy smiled.  There had been some times when he’d seen her darker side, and she didn’t blame him for his caution.  “He could not bring it himself, he says it’s tradition.”  The slender young man held out a worn-looking leather jewelry case.  Slowly, he placed it on the left corner of the vanity.

“It’s an old wives’ tale–bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”  Buffy spoke wryly, trying to sound casual. *This is so stupid!* she thought. *All this pretense and ceremony stuff!  Angel’s eighteenth century morals raise their ugly head!* She almost wanted to laugh, but she was scared her soon-to-be stepson would be frightened by it.  Connor’s eyes held a fine tension and concern for her.  “So, what is it?”  Buffy fumbled with the old-fashioned catch on the case and finally managed to open it. 

The enormous pear-cut emerald gleamed on it’s velvet bed, winking up at her like it was alive. The stone was the size of a small chicken’s egg, suspended on a richly gleaming platinum link chain.  The jewel was oversized, really too large for Buffy’s petite form and features.  It was too fantastic and ostentatious for the simple lines of her satin ballgown.  Buffy would wear it anyway.  Angel would want her to. 

As she drew the heavy pendant from the scarred old box, Buffy discovered a small white card beneath it.  She picked it up to read Angel’s scrawled, slightly crooked handwriting.  He must have written it in a hurry, perhaps just before he sent it with Connor:

*To my best beloved, emeralds for fidelity.*

Fidelity.  Neither of them had offered that to each other.  Or hadn’t they?  Not physically, perhaps, but had anything either of them had done in bed with other partners compared to the connections they’d shared for so long?  Angel had slept with Darla and fathered a child on her, but he hadn’t loved her.  None of Buffy’s partners had been men she’d chosen for love’s sake.  Affection, erotic attraction, desperate need for somebody’s arms around her...

(*I’m using you.  And it’s killing me.  I’m sorry, William.*)

“It’s beautiful.”  Buffy found her voice.

“He wants you to wear it tonight,” Connor told her.

“Yes.  I know.”  Buffy repressed the urge to laugh at Connor’s formal language.  Their eyes met in the mirror and her throat went dry as she realised how unnaturally she loved him when she barely knew him.  He looked nothing like his father, favoring his vampiress mother, Darla, with rich blue eyes and fair hair.  His ruddy lips were full and sensuous, nothing like Angel’s thin cruel mouth.  He was quiet, taciturn and nervous, as otherworldly as Angel had ever been, though.  Buffy felt desire flooding her mind as she thought of embracing the stocky young man, curling her body around him and coupling with him mere feet away from the bed she shared with his father.

A delicate cough brought the woman back to her senses.  Ephraim had finished fooling with her clothes and stood halfway towards the bedroom door.

“Will you require anything else, Madam?  Shall I ask Miss Anya and Dr. Burkle up now?”

Anya and Fred, her bridesmaids.  She was lucky to have them.  Willow wasn’t there today, would probably never be Buffy’s friend again.  Buffy didn’t blame her.

Thank God for the Drishlac demon and his empathic abilities! Buffy clenched her fingers tightly around the comb.  Her impulse towards Connor was dangerous.  It wasn’t really the serious young man she wanted, anyway, her attraction was purely chemical. *Angel’s blood.  Angel’s DNA.  Angel, the only man you ever wanted for keeps.*

“Yeah, send them up in a minute,” Buffy replied steadily.  “Connor, see you downstairs.”

Not one for many words, Connor nodded and left the room silently.  Buffy took the cut-glass tumbler of cranberry juice and gulped it thirstily.  The tart sweet liquid spilled over her tongue and Buffy closed her eyes, savoring the simple pleasure of taste.

That had been close.  Too close.  It was just as well their wedding was tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christmas Eve 2008
The Hyperion Hotel’s Second Holiday Gala in Los Angeles, CA
About 7:00 p.m.

“Hello.  Angel.”

“Buffy.”

She was so damned beautiful.  If anything, she was lovelier than she’d been when they were in love.  (*Were in love, who are you kidding?*)   Had she grown a little taller, or were her heels a little higher?  She wore a “naked dress,” a micro-mini sheath of smooth silk dyed to match her skintone covered in black lace and her pumps were black suede, the sculpted heels decorated with rhinestones.  Her fragrance, the natural aroma of her blood and body chemistry blended with a subtle vanilla-spice perfume, enfolded Angel, made him joyously drowsy as though they basked in a comfortable afterglow when all they did was look at each other.

Buffy felt it, too.  It was amazing, the fire between them even after a six-year absence from each other’s lives.  She smiled at him, a smile with rare warmth she had seldom used once Angel and she had parted company years ago. 

“You really look fantastic,” she told him.  And it was good fantastic.  His white-tie ensemble was professionally tailored to flatter his already delectable form.  His face and body hadn’t changed one whit from the picture she carried in her heart.  It creeped her out a little bit.  He was exactly the same as he had been when they’d loved each other a decade ago.  She knew she had changed, her face had lost its last bit of teen roundness, and the faintest laugh lines were beginning to surface at the corners of her eyes.  It was scary, to realise that Angel would always look as he did when she had first loved him while she got haggier.

“Wot’s up, Peaches?  Well, well, well!  The Scourge of Europe is an innkeeper now!  Very posh.”  Spike and a slender young woman with piercing eyes and a white-blonde pageboy stood behind Buffy and Angel realised he was holding up the receiving line for the hotel’s guests who’d paid good money to be part of the festivities.  He nodded and made a courtly gesture towards Buffy to enter the reception room.

“Hello there!”  The white-blonde girl introduced herself cheerily.  Her manner seemed strangely practiced, almost mechanical, as though greeting people was something she rehearsed.    “I’m Anya!  Spike and I are friends and sometimes we sleep together.”

Angel blinked at the pretty girl’s brashness and Spike’s mouth curled into an amused sneer.  Soul or no soul, he liked teasing his grandsire.  Spike led Anya into the huge ballroom without another word, leaving Angel to receive the guests behind them.

The next fifteen minutes were an eternity for Angel as he smiled and exchanged meaningless pleasantries with strangers he cared absolutely nothing about.   He knew re-opening the Hyperion Hotel was a mistake but it had seemed like a good investment and an interesting project to take his mind off of his failed marriage to Cordelia Chase.  He left the guests in the hands of his general manager as soon as he could to go seek out his former love.

She was dancing with Spike and Angel stared at them jealously as they moved together in comfortable intimacy, smiling at each other.  They were chatting a little bit and Angel heard bits and pieces of their conversation over the band’s jazz version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”  Buffy was feeling guilty over her pleasure in Dawn’s decision to live with their father in Europe.  Spike assured her she wasn’t a bad person to be glad to have some privacy and a life of her own; after all, she was still very young.  They both thought Angel looked incredibly well and the hotel surpassed all their expectations with its opulence. 

Their conversation didn’t bother him, Angel realised, it was the casual way their bodies brushed and their easy comfortable manner with each other.  He and Buffy had never had that, the aura between them had always included tension and some little fear.  Even before Angelus had been released when Buffy’s love reversed the curse that sealed Angel’s human soul in his vampire’s body that dark dynamic lay between them, an intruder to their love.  Buffy had never been comfortable with him, Angel knew.  She’d been excited by him, his otherness, his strength, and she’d been every bit as fascinated with him as he was with her.

*”A vampire in love with the Slayer...That’s rather poetic...”* Angel smiled grimly at the memory of Rupert’s words.  Poetic, yes, romantic and erotic and tragic.  Happy?  Some of the time.  Comfortable?  Never.

Buffy stepped backwards and her heel slid dangerously on the smooth cypress floor.  Angel tensed, ready to move to her side in a heartbeat and catch her precious body before she went down.  But Spike’s arms were already there, one hand supporting the middle of her back, the other hugging her under her rump as he drew her neatly upwards and placed her  back on her feet.  It happened so gracefully people probably thought it was some sort of suave dance move they’d perfected.  Buffy actually laughed at her near-miss and Spike teased her about her shoes.

Damn silver-tongued bastard!  Angel would march right over there and wrest his woman (*She’s not really mine!*) out of Spike’s arms and beat Spike senseless until his own mother wouldn’t recognise him.  He’d drag him out into the courtyard and bludgeon his skull with a wrought-iron chair imported from Spain until bone shattered and broke to mix with blood-clumped white hair.  He wouldn’t decapitate him, he’d just beat his neck until his head came off.  He would–

“Angel?”

He turned away from the dancing couple and gave Wesley a tight-lipped smile as his colleague and partner at Angel Investigations gestured from a medium-sized table where he was seated with Anya and Cordelia.  Angel’s pretty brunette seer gave him a reproving look as he headed towards them and the vampire felt guilty for his unseemly outrage.  After all, he had given Buffy up years ago, he had no right to be so jealous of her friendship with Spike.

“Quite a pair, those two,” Angel heard Wesley remark about them when he was halfway to the table.

“Buffy and Spike?  Oh yes!  They used to have sex a lot,” Anya replied with blithe frankness.  “But they don’t anymore, now they’re just friends who don’t have sex.”

Wesley’s smile was brittle and insincere.  Angel could see it through reddish clouds dancing in his normally excellent vision.  The vampire bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“I’m sorry, should I not have said that?”  Anya asked.

“That’s generally not what *I* talk about at evening parties.”  Cordelia tossed her head and gave a properly offended "Queen C" snort.

Anya nodded thoughtfully, searching for a better conversation topic.  Her eyes lit up as an appropriate thought occurred to her and she turned to Wesley.

“You’re really *very* nicely shaped, Wesley,” she complimented him.  “I bet women love having sex with you.”

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