Author – Mrs. Vertigo
Email - avitalkeshet@hotmail.com
Website - none, sorry
Rating – PG
Sex – not tonight honey, I have a headache
Type – drama (?)
Violence – no
Pairing - the usual (W/T)
Spoilers – none, this is AU.
Disclaimers - Joss Whedon, ME, blah blah blah, (you know them all) owns all characters involved. I’m just a juvenile delinquent.
Feedback - I’d greatly appreciate it. Please send any to the email address listed above.
Distribution - go ahead, just let me know first
Summery – just a little moment in time before… “Dearly Beloved, we’ve gathered here today to celebrate the union of…”
-----
Tara Rosenberg
That sounded very, very strange.
Tara McClay Rosenberg?
Nah. Never. Much too long, goofy even, and it made ‘Rosenberg’ sound like a prostate.
Tara McClay.
Familiar. So familiar it was devoid of any meaning; simply a word to acknowledge her existence. McClay was a name read in class and her ID and finally - or firstly, or both – on a rough marble block in her hometown cemetery, Audrey McClay. Mommy. A McClay woman, a McClay Witch, a McClay demon. The name had so many contexts, but all had been her mother’s. To be a McClay woman meant to know your place, because you were also a McClay demon. At first Tara had thought that to be a McClay witch defied the demon, but like someone had once told her, where do you think that power comes from?
No. That was a lie; the power came from within herself and not from the demon. She had known that since she was twenty. The demon was a legend, a family hoax. The McClay lie.
McClay did not mean Tara. It meant something bigger, something that had lived on for generations, which had rules and strong ropes of duty to tie together many people. If you were a McClay, you knew your place in the world, you knew you were loved.
You knew you owed them.
But it was all over now. They couldn’t reach her, couldn’t punish her and certainly couldn’t keep her from doing anything she wanted to do. Oh yes, even attach the name McClay to a homosexual marriage. That’s a good one.
Willow McClay?
Willow, a McClay woman, a McClay demon? Never. If anything, Willow was a sprite. A fairytale goddess with flames for hair. There would be no connecting the sweeping energy of Willow with the McClay discipline.
Tara Rosenberg.
Still strange, but not as impossible. Actually, it was kind of catchy. And what was it, that weird fuzzy warmness she felt at the thought of sharing a name with Willow?
Oh yes, that was pure pleasure.
------
“Oh!” Willow gasped as Tara scribbled through the form. “Why did you write ‘Jewish’? Don’t I count as Wicca now? I think I am, don’t you think I am? Am I not Wicca enough for you? And should I be? Cause My mom would kill me if she found out I wrote ‘Wicca’ for religion. She’ll disown me. You can’t write Wicca! Under no circumstances whatsoever can you specify my belief system as Paganism. Nope, a single deity is all I need. Write ‘Jewish’! I mean, please?”
“Ok,” said Tara, having long finished filling out Willow’s half of the form.
“Oh look!” The redhead continued almost immediately, gazing over Tara’s shoulder. “They have ‘spouse’ written instead of ‘husband’ or ‘wife’. Very considerate. You just have to specify sex. Because it’s all legal and, oh, wait, did I just say ‘specify sex’?”
“Yes.” The blonde nodded, examining the bored official behind the tall wooden desk from the corner of her eye. “So what?”
”Yeah, so what! Ya know, people should be able to go around saying things like ‘specify sex’ to each other without needing to be all secretive about it. I mean, it’s the City Hall for cryin’ out loud, the local stronghold of democracy as we know it and that means guarantied freedom of speech for all, even a pair of gypsy-looking lesbian witches! Oh boy, did I just call us ‘lesbian witches’?”
“Willow, honey,” Tara paused, weighing her words carefully. “Are sure you want to finish that mocha? It’s your third and frankly, I’m not really sure you’re in great need of a sugar or caffeine rush just right now.”
“No, no! We’re getting married and refreshments are indispensable. Oh. God. We’re getting married. What are we gonna do for the party? I can’t be planning my wedding party right now!” Willow paused, breathless, and sipped on her tall-ice-mint-chocolate-chip-double-cream Mocha to calm herself. “This is a lot to think about, I mean, I don’t know what color flowers I want, do you? And do we have a Huppa wedding? And the dresses? Oh, Tara, we can’t have matching dresses, that would be so lame.”
“Ok,” Tara agreed as she finished filling out the empty spaces. Name: Tara McClay. Sex: female. Date of Birth: November 17, 1980. Citizenship: American. Autograph, etc... She glossed over the form, noticing the only empty space left for her to fill was at the bottom. She smiled, and wrote.
“Just Rosenberg?” Willow hovered over her shoulder, her curls dropping onto Tara’s face, tickling. “Not McClay Rosenberg, or McRosenberg or something? I mean, not that that sounds better. Actually, that’s sounds kind of new age-y and lame but I don’t mind, I mean, I wouldn’t want you to do something you don’t want to do and if you do do would have to keep doing for the rest of your life. I mean, I really haven’t thought about it, I guess. I’m so inconsiderate, I’m sorry, Tara baby, I’m really sorry, you don’t wanna marry me, I’m a bad wife already. I’m a bad, bad person! How could I not think of that?”
Tara straightened her back slowly, locking the gaze of a very distraught Willow. She reached her hand out to the redhead, to entwine their fingers in what had become a private sign of sorts since the first time they had done it, back in college. “Willow, you’re not a bad person, and I do want to marry you. But I don’t think that’s the point here.” She paused, steeling her voice for what’s to come. “Willow, do you… I mean, are you sure you want me to give this form to the guy behind the c-counter?” I can do it if she says no, Tara thought determinately, I can just crumple this piece of paper and throw it in the garbage. I won’t die. It’s just formality anyway, we’d still be together. I won’t die if she says no.
“Oh!” Willow’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then back down in a frown. “I mean, sure I’m sure! How could I not be sure!? Being not-sure means me not marrying you and by god and all things holy that cannot be! I’m just double jumpy on account of a triple caffeine-adrenalin-sugar rush, don’t mind me, I mean, Tara… I just don’t want you to carry my name around for the rest of your life just ‘cause we didn’t think it through.”
Tara smiled, clutching her intended’s hand lightly. If only she had words for the waves of euphoria inside her head, because a good description of her current happiness would leave anyone weeping. But she never had words, not really. “I’d love to carry your name around, Willow,” she said.
The redhead took a steadying breath, grinned, then answered quietly in her little-girl voice. “So, it’s not an issue?”
“No, its not. The Huppa, however, I don’t know about that.”
“Hey, its tradition,” Willow teased in return, indicating that they were on safe ground again. “Jewish tradition anyway. But you know what, you’re right. Since we’re both Wicca most of the time anyway, why don’t we put our money where our mouth is and have a decent celebration? You know, full moon, bonfire, sky-clad dancing?”
Tara’s mouth flowed into a smile. “I’m sure Xander would oblige. I don’t know about Buffy, though.”
From behind the counter the bored official shot them a narrow eyed look and gestured at the nearly-forgotten form. “Are you all done with that?” he prompted dryly, disturbing their banter.
“Oh,” said Tara. For a second her gaze raced; from Willow to the man, than to the paper in her hand, then to again to the man and finally back to the redhead. The unspoken question was clear. Are we sure, Willow? This is it?
Sure we’re sure, Willow smiled with a tiny twitch of the eyebrow. And he’s a rude little fellow, this guy.
Tara nodded with relief. “Yeah,” she answered, and handed the form back. “It’s all filled out.”
The man exhaled, mundane and indifferent. He glossed over the paper, stamped it, scribbled a few words of his own and typed something into the computer in front of him. Then he spun his padded chair, opened a few drawers, picked a few more papers, filled some out and attached them to the first form, stamped the others and returned them to another drawer. Finally he pushed the drawers closed again and spun back, settling in his chair, and looked at them.
“So,” Willow asked gently after a while, “are you all done with that?”
“Yeah…” he nodded slowly, his voice only a touch away from offensive.
“Oh!” Willow’s hand tightened around Tara’s. “So we’re, I mean, she and I, I mean, like – “
“Yeah,” he sighed and leaned forwards to place his elbows on the desk. “Pardon my manners, I forgot my lines. Missis and Missis Rosenberg, by the power vested in me by the state of California and the holy Mother Democracy, I now pronounce you Wife and Wife.”
For a second Tara wondered on how she should react to this. Should she frown at him? Should she laugh with his joke? Should she simply act on her impulse to jump to her feet, fling Willow into her arms and race to the car? Either way might come off wrong and cause a misunderstanding, and, being Tara, she simply opted for her usual choice; practicality. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” his pursed lips formed a smile for the first time. “You may kiss the bride.”
Edited by: xita
at: 10/14/02 6:28:14 pm
cute little piece! definitely loved it. will there be a continuation? 
-Viv- 
