The Look

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If he thought too hard about what was about to happen, his easy going smirk would show how nervous he was. Hands moved from loosely clasped in front of him to being stuffed into his trouser pockets, shuffling his feet while he waited. His heart beat hard against his chest, filling him up to his ears. George couldn’t focus on anything for too long.

Who knew how ridiculous he’d feel when this day finally came. Certainly not George! A soft laugh escaped, a couple seconds too late, to a joke his mate let off while they stood there. His eyes glossed over the crowd to his parents, and finally stopped on Amelia. His terrified, overbearing smile softened, easing itself into something more normal. She was squirming and trying her best to get off her Uncle’s lap, and he couldn’t blame her.

So far, she’d been passed along all the grandparents. It looked like she might get sent back to the start. He could appreciate her easily distracted mood. For the countless time in the last few minutes, George picked off invisible dust and straightened his jacket, tie, collar, the little flower pinned to his lapels.

Then a hush came over the crowd, and he looked up, standing up with his hands once again lightly clasped in front of him. All the arguments over color and suits and whether he was allowed to wear fun socks or plain jane ones, all of them dissolved in the wake of her.

It was enough to make his stomach flip and flop and back again. Eyes roamed over her, but he couldn’t focus on anything but her face. George grinned stupidly wide. Waker, no, no, his bride. The bride that put all others to shame. She wasn’t running away from him, she didn’t laugh in his face when he asked her to marry him. Despite her supposed intelligence, here she was. He was the luckiest guy on earth.

When she reached him and her father handed her hand over, his eyebrows jumped and he gave her an appreciative whistle. “You look beautiful, love.” He couldn’t help slipping it in before the priest called their attention to the ceremony; his cheeks were flushed with excitement and slight embarrassment. Amelia let out an indignant grunt as she fought to slither from Phillip’s two armed hold. She wanted to be with her mummy.

As the doors began to open, Waker anxiously expected the painful brightness of a sunny afternoon after a trip to the cinema. That pupil-dilating sort of light that overwhelmed. Instead, her ever-keen eyes adjusted easily to the packed benches, the calming cream hues, the clear path before her. Her dad her squeezed her arm encouragingly. The scene was warm, perfumed with the fragrance of flowers that George’s mother had suggested (the perfect wedding flowers, really), and there was encouragement— rather than judgement— on every face that now stared. The scene was like George’s smile, magnified, perfectly framed. An extension of the real, thing. Her favorite thing.

And suddenly, she knew she could do it.

Her own nervous smile spread across her face, she bunched her cheeks as wide as Amelia’s as she looked at him. She began the practiced walk, those first, fateful steps. Even with the boost of confidence that the audience and George gave her, Waker could feel her stomach turning like it had the night he’d proposed, way up in the sky, with almost nothing beneath them.

Though she’d practiced in the heels and dress by staring at a point on the wall, it was impossible not to take in George… to throw covert glances at the crowd, search for Amelia. Her dad, like an anchor or crutch or both, kept her steady. Waker knew if she looked at him, she'd burst into tears and ruin her mascara.

Everyone they loved, liked (or at least worked with, or were tied to by blood) was seated there. There were an especially huge number of Carters, generations of familiar features, disarming smiles, bright magic and strong fertility. Waker didn’t even mind the lithesome brunette in the mini dress or the hairy wizard beside her, those hints of trouble at the reception to come. (To be fair, she had never met Frank Pratt, and did not know the direwolf was the couple’s sweet half.)

Even Emily smiled at her, gave her a thumb’s up as she passed. And there in the row in front of her was Amelia, leaning over her uncle’s shoulder so expertly that she was nearly in the lap of the cowboy behind Phillip.

Waker’s grin widened, and she resisted internal urge to reach out and make sure the baby didn’t fall. Or seal her fate as a bull rider. She could trust Phillip. He was her in-law, nearly.

And her Mum, on the other side of the aisle, couldn't have looked prouder, for a reserved pair of doctors for whom magic was still at odds with reality. She felt her heart pound as her dad beamed down at her.

Finally, she looked back at George, who was suddenly quite close. Waker could feel her cheeks matching his, their color rising. When she stopped, her father gave her another squeeze and gingerly let go of her arm. Waker felt her heart jump as she stood there, alone for the moment. But then she was able to grasp George's hands, and she felt relief and a new surge of anxiety wash over her. “You look like a trophy,” she murmured back.

As they began, echoing the priest carefully in the otherwise quiet room, it was tears and not a blush that needed to be held back.

As they said those final words, the ones that bound them, Waker’s eyes did go wet. But before the tear could fall, or take any careful wedding makeup with it, she was kissing him, getting his lips wet and a little salty, nearly pulling back to apologize, then thinking better of it and grinning— laughing— as her arms came up and laced around his neck. “I love you,” she said, nearly drowned out by cheers.

He didn’t look around while they listened to the vows. He didn’t see Amelia finally find herself, content, in Emmylou's date’s lap. He didn’t see the direwolf squirming from Laney’s hidden hands. He didn’t notice his brother smile or his mother wiping away tears. George was oblivious to everything around them. He even had a hard time focusing on what the priest was saying. All the practicing in the world still hadn’t prepared him for this.

However... there was nothing quite like hearing Waker say “I do.” It was an accumulation of the nearly three years he’d spent getting to know her. The ups and downs, the wrongs and how they fixed them, the growth they had both done since Hogwarts. From passing classes and graduating to getting a real career going and starting a family, life had forced George to grow up quicker than he’d expected.

And along the way, there was careful, list making Waker Lane Nolan. The unlikely book worm and Head Girl who stole his heart. As far as he was concerned, she could keep it. She’d done wonders with it so far.

So when she said “I do,” George felt his own eyes go unexpectedly blurry. If for no other reason than he was so grateful for her. That he loved her. That this was going to be set in a legal document. Forever and ever. This was it, and he was so excited about it. She had made him a better version of himself, and she continued to be strong in ways he would never understand.

When the priest told him he could kiss his bride, George beamed and grinned, clearing his throat with the hoots and cheers. He winked at Waker before leaning in, arms holding her against him as they had their first kiss (as husband and wife, of course). “I love you, too.” He laughed with her, bouncing up eyebrows in warning before he swept her up in his arms, careful of everyone around them, careful most of all of the long train of her dress. That was going to get messed up later...

The flash of a camera brought his attention back to the crowd. “We did it!” Another round of cheers and clapping ensued, and George started to carefully make his way down the aisle with his beautiful bride.

Waker was so caught up in those words, her favorite three words from George’s lips, the ones that never got tired, that she hardly registered the beaning behind his eyebrows. And, to be fair, he could have meant anything. George was good at using his brows, his eyes, that dangerous mouth of his to catch her off guard.

Before she knew it, she’d been caught in the lengths of white material as her legs threatened to upend her wide and embarrassed blushing bride cheeks. Ever gangly, and not half the showboat George was in front of crowds, Waker had not considered that she might spend any of her wedding without both feet on the ground. (She’d practiced in her heels enough to make a baby cry. Dutifully, Amelia had.) Definitely not after their adventurous, sky-bound engagement.

“George!” Her favorite protest. Lace-trimmed arms scrambled to anchor themselves around his neck. Waker avoided looking at her parents in this moment. At least her dress was long enough to keep the packed rows of cheering friends and family from seeing any bits or bobs to which they certainly were not privy.

But as she realized that no one was laughing or gasping, as she realized that the pink in her cheeks was all on her, her startled expression softened into the same delighted humor she’d felt a moment ago, when when they’d been kissing in front of everyone. If there was a time to let loose, it was now, at their wedding (while their baby was on the verge of crowdsurfing.)

“Yeah, we did it,” she agreed in a murmur, that was drowned to all ears but his by the exuberance of those throwing confetti. Tugging his bow-tied neck closer with the crook of her arm, she kissed his cheek in a lingering, pouty smile. “Amelia had better not catch the bouquet.”