Transitions - Ch. 21

Buffy hadn't wanted to leave Giles alone, but when Celeste retrieved her suitcase and started up the stairs, she felt like she had to follow, just to be polite. The stairs were perfect, too, the same way the kitchen had been perfect, and Sebastian's study had been perfect. At least she guessed it was: she'd been a little too distracted by the sight of her (and here was a thought that was weird on so many levels) demon-possessed future son-in-law to pay really close attention.

Okay, so maybe giving Giles and his son a little solo together time was the right thing to do at this point--but she still didn't have to like it.

"Is there something behind us?" Celeste asked. "You keep glancing back."

"Uh-unh. Just..." Buffy didn't know how to say it, and she knew if she did it would sound more than just a teeny bit weird, but she had a bad feeling. Not even her Spidey-sense, really. Just badness. Maybe she was tired, or maybe it had creeped her out worse than she thought, seeing Sebastian the way he'd been. Not that she'd ever say that to Sebastian's wife.

They'd reached the upstairs hall, and were standing outside yet another shiny white door.

"I don't know if this is your usual way, Buffy," Celeste told her, as she opened the door and switched on the lights. "But I've put you together in one room. Bastian said you might prefer separate sleeping arrangements, but he is, at times, rather a fuddy-duddy, and I thought perhaps not."

Buffy started to smile--was fuddy-duddyism a Giles family trait?--then stared into the room in horror. "Oh, no, I can't sleep here!"

Celeste's eyes widened. She had big eyes already, with a little bit of an exotic slant to the corners. In some ways she reminded Buffy of Kendra, only taller and thinner--model-tall and almost model-thin, but in a nice way, willowy instead of bone-skinny. And, of course, about a hundred per cent higher on the elegance scale. Buffy also suspected that Celeste owned way more than Kendra's one shirt--in fact, she probably had a wardrobe that would make Cordelia drool with envy. All in all, Celeste was pretty much the opposite of what she pictured when the phrase "minister's wife" came to mind.

"I just can't, Celeste," Buffy said.

"Really?" Celeste gave her a funny look. "I'd assumed...oh, dear, I have put my foot in it. Most dreadfully sorry. You must think me a heathen."

Buffy finally tumbled to what the older woman meant. "Oh, no, not that...I..." She blushed. "Together is good. One room. Great. Perfect. On the plane I, uh, thought...wow." She swallowed, dry-mouthed. "I thought one room would be really nice. I just didn't want us to offend you. Because we do. Some people. The stewardess gave Giles a mean look." Oh, God, now she seemed to be channeling Willow. Buffy took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

The Delacoeurs'--and Buffy had to remind herself that that was her hosts' last name, no matter how much she wanted to think of them as Gileses--guest-room was the most beautiful bedroom she'd ever been in, with walls a perfect shade of yellow, and touches of blue and white and kind of a salmony-color that she wouldn't have thought went with each other, but did. Whoever put this room together would've sneered at Martha Stewart.

"I, um, just meant I couldn't sleep here because it's too nice. I might break something, or get it dirty. Or something."

"They're only things, Buffy." Celeste kicked off her pumps and flopped down on the bed. "Things can be replaced, or cleaned, or mended. Come here, love." She sat up, cross-legged, wrinkling the spread.

When Buffy came close, Celeste put both hands on her shoulders. "In our house, we want you to sleep in the prettiest room, and I, at the very least, want you and Rupert to be together. Is that understood?" She pulled Buffy forward, hugged her warmly and kissed her cheek. "Look at you; you're like sunlight, my dear! Like sunlight from heaven. One only has to look at Rupert to see how he adores you." Smiling, she studied Buffy's face.

Buffy tried not to squirm or blush or glance away. Celeste seemed completely genuine, and it made her feel warm inside. He'd been kind of out of it, but Sebastian seemed to like her too--it was looking like she'd gotten herself worked up and scared about Giles's family for nothing.

"I never cared for Eva," Celeste added. "Eva was far too gloomy. And all the rules one had to follow--she couldn't touch this, she couldn't be around that. Good Lord, it got tiresome. One never liked to ask her over."

"Giles's ex-fiancee Eva?" Even though Buffy had never met the woman--what she couldn't help thinking of as the "other woman"--she still kind of hated her. Which was unreasonable, she knew, but there it was. If nothing else, she could dislike Eva for hurting Giles. For running out on him, when he was only trying to help Moira and Helena. She hoped against hope that she'd never do that kind of thing--desert someone who needed to help out a friend. "What was her deal?"

"Oh, she had some sort of tiresome psychic ability--she touched things, and saw what they were, or came from, or some such bollocks--excuse the language. Couldn't just put on a bloody pair of gloves, could she? And one was always meant to be aware of her terrible affliction, or gift, or whatever she liked to call it. Oh, I do sound like quite the cow, don't I?"

"Back home we say 'bitch,'" Buffy told her, then realized what she'd said and clapped her hands over her mouth.

Celeste laughed. "Or that. At any rate--" She took Buffy's hands in her own warm strong ones. "I'm awfully glad you've come. Rupert's a lovely, lovely man, and I'm glad that he has you. But enough of that!" Celeste patted the bedspread beside her. "Come up here, do, love, and talk to me. I want to know you better, and I shan't desist 'til I've heard your life's story."

"Did I do this?" Sebastian demanded, aghast, as he examined the gouges in Giles's palm. All four were shallow, but they stung annoyingly, providing a sharp counterpoint to the ache in his other hand.

Giles shrugged, shifting a little in the kitchen chair--it was not an uncomfortable chair, normally, but just now he felt its woodenness acutely. "Truly, Seb, they're nothing. Don't fuss."

"Ever the stoic, eh, Dad?" Sebastian glanced up into his face. "You look dreadful."

"As do you," Giles answered.

Both smiled slightly, aware that in doing so they shared a more-than-similar expression. As one, they glanced at the ceiling.

"What do you suppose...?" Both began, then stopped, laughing softly.

"Please. Continue," Giles said.

"I only wondered what the two of them are up to? Was it safe to let them go off together?"

"Best not to ask." Giles laughed again. "In a matter of moments, Buffy will know more about you, and Celeste more about me than is comfortable for either of us to contemplate. Best to imagine them engaged in some harmless activity, such as varnishing their nails.

"I thought Celeste never knew about me," Sebastian said. "My position with the church. I never wanted her to know--feared, really, that she'd look at me differently, oddly."

"Celeste is a remarkable woman, just as she was a remarkable child. I think, perhaps, that you ought to have been candid with her, Seb. She's well aware of the world as it is."

A vision from eighteen years past returned to Giles suddenly: a jet newly arrived from Jamaica, a little girl in a school uniform and plaits disembarking, terribly small amongst all the adults. He remembered seeing her walk up the ramp toward him, head held high, not weeping, though she'd looked so terribly alone he'd wanted to embrace, and comfort her. Seeing that brave, small face, and the shine of withheld tears in those great dark eyes, he'd been glad that, in this, he was only an errand boy, not her Watcher. Try as he might, he'd never been able to understand how her parents let her go--how any of the parents released their daughters into such a dreadful calling. Joyce Summers's reaction seemed, to him, far more natural.

The Slayer at that time, Giles recollected after much thought, had been named Serai. Peter Hobson had been her Watcher. A year later, Lourdes Montoya had been Called, and eight months after that, Helena Penglis. Had Helena succumbed any time in the following ten years, Celeste would have become the Slayer.

Amongst his other duties at the Compound, he'd been assigned to oversee her English lessons, and it had amused him how rapidly Celeste picked up his own accent. She'd always been a quick study.

"Every day I thank God that she wasn't chosen," Sebastian said. "How do you bear it, knowing that your Buffy must--?"

"One mustn't think in those terms," Giles answered quietly. "Buffy has accepted her calling, and I--" He watched his son's face. "I would defend her with my own life."

"You have done, haven't you? Or nearly." Sebastian gave him a searching look. "Dad, you look as if you've had the life half drained out of you. You look exhausted. And that--" He gestured toward Giles's hand, in the now-stained sling. "You'd best let me see. I'll need to change the dressing, at least."

Sebastian rose and left the room. "When will you tell me what's happened?" he asked, upon returning, fresh bandages in hand.

Giles shrugged, smiling. "When I remember more clearly, Seb. Just now it's all a bit hazy, really. Nothing to be concerned with, however."

"You've become a better liar in recent years," Sebastian answered. "I nearly believed you."

A momentary silence fell. Both of them, Giles thought, felt the inclination to move toward safer ground.

Sebastian glanced at the broken window. "How on earth did Buffy wriggle through there? It would hardly fit a cat."

As if summoned by the mention of its species, the large ginger tom Giles had seen Buffy hold earlier jumped up onto his lap, seeming to instantly shed an inordinate amount of pumpkin-colored fur onto his trousers. Giles sneezed violently, and groped for his handkerchief.

"Oh, sorry, Dad--I'd forgotten. Plato, get down from there."

The tomcat dug in its claws for greater purchase, and launched itself toward another chair. Fur wafted in a cloud behind it.

"Dreadful beast," Giles said sourly.

"Celeste's pride and joy," Sebastian chuckled, then sobered again. "As for Buffy--"

Giles gazed at his son, not wanting to hear any words of criticism. He loved her, and that was that. He wished to hear no condemnation. "Sebastian--" he began.

"No, no, hear me out. I can see how she loves you...now. But, Dad, how will she feel ten years on?"

Giles turned from him to gaze out the broken window. An afternoon breeze touched his face, scented with all the essences of an English summer, perfumed with the fragrance of Celeste's flowers. "It was lucky the flat sold," he said, not wishing to pursue the subject. "Gives me a bit of freedom, whilst I decide."

"Yes, it fetched a nice price," Sebastian agreed, allowing himself, momentarily, to be diverted.

"It was a nice flat. I appreciate your handling the details--the paperwork, and so forth." Giles could hear the bees humming their way between the abundant blossoms. He concentrated on the sound to keep his mind occupied as Sebastian changed to bandages on his right hand. The ache increased as his son unwound the supporting cocoon, and despite Sebastian's gentleness, the entire process hurt dreadfully.

"Good Lord, Dad!"

"It's healing. Looks unsavoury just now, of course, but I'm told I'll get back the use of it--with a bit of therapy."

"The full use, Dad?" Sebastian asked.

Giles shrugged. They sat in silence, Sebastian working quickly and intently. The ache eased as bandages and splints were restored.

"You're quite good at that," Giles told him. "Thank you."

"I suppose one's meant to answer, 'My pleasure,' but I find it hard to do so. I worry about you Dad. I know a bit of what you and Moira do, but I begin to understand that you haven't been entirely candid. You've not been honest about the dangers."

"Sometimes, Seb, one must fight for what one loves, and what one believes in." Giles gazed into Sebastian's haunted green eyes, thinking how he might say the same words to his son--and perhaps would, later, when he wasn't so tired. "Just now, I'd like to go upstairs, have a bit of a lie-down. You should get outdoors. It's a lovely day--have a walk with your wife in the sunshine."

"Oh, of course. Dreadfully sorry. And...our visitor?"

"Ought to be safe where it is, for the moment." Giles got to his feet, barely managing to stifle a yawn. "Perhaps you might take it to that pillock Tompkins, at some point? One expects he'd be overjoyed."

"You mean my esteemed colleague, the Reverend Mr. Tompkins, Dad?" Sebastian smiled slightly. "Yes, that would be best, I suppose."

Giles experienced a sudden desire to embrace his son, but felt awkward doing so. Instead, he squeezed Sebastian's shoulder lightly. "Are you all right, Seb?"

Sebastian shook his head, glancing away as his eyes brimmed with tears that he would never allow to fall. "I feel...I can't even say. Defiled. Unclean."

"But that's not the half of it," Giles said quietly. "Is it, son?"

"Go to bed," Sebastian answered. "I'll be a bit steadier when you wake. I promise."

"If there's any...difficulty, you will please wake me?"

Sebastian nodded, and turned to one of the cupboards. Giles watched him as he fetched a broom, and began to sweep up the glass and cat-hair. Apparently, their discussion had ended.

He met Celeste coming down as he climbed the stairs. She touched his arm and wished him pleasant dreams, then whispered, "Rupert, I do so like her."

"I'm glad of it," Giles answered.

"I've put you in the yellow room."

"Ever the perfect hostess, Celeste." Giles smiled at his daughter-in-law. It wasn't much of a quip, but it would have to do for now. That was the name of her television programme: The Perfect Hostess.

Celeste laughed. "Well, Rupert, it is more or less my job. Did Seb tell you that they've started selling me in the States? Now you'll be forced to watch."

"Wouldn't miss it," he answered, smiling. In truth, he actually enjoyed Celeste's programmes, what he'd seen of them, though he could not imagine living--having the time to live--quite so perfectly. He'd been appalled, at first, when he'd caught himself using tea-bags to brew his tea, but now it seemed second nature. He could hardly remember cooking anything, a real meal, at any rate, since before Christmas.

"You lie with great sincerity." Celeste leaned to kiss his cheek. "Have a good sleep, Rupert."

"Thank you for your hospitality, my dear. I mean that with the greatest sincerity."

"Thank you for helping my husband." She gave Giles's arm a brief squeeze. "I'm taking him out for a walk, and I intend to harangue him mercilessly. The tosser."

Celeste swept off down the stairs. Sebastian, Giles thought, had best beware.

Buffy awaited him, sitting cross-legged in the center of the large bed, a pensive expression on her lovely face. "Why wasn't Celeste called instead of me?" she asked.

"She was too old by then. Twenty-four."

"Will I get to retire at twenty-four?" Buffy asked him, then shook her head. "No, Helena didn't. How old was she, really?"

"When Helena died, she was twenty-seven."

"And she was crazy by then. Will that happen to me?"

"I shouldn't think so," Giles answered, his heart quite literally made to ache by her questions. "Helena was rather isolated. In part, she sought out that isolation. You have your friends, Xander and Willow, and your mother. You have--" He tried to catch her sad eyes. "You have me."

"Helena had Moira," Buffy reminded him.

"That's true." Giles sank into a chair, watching her. "But you are a very different person to Helena. There's more in your life."

Buffy looked down at her hands. "I went hunting for Faith. I was gonna let Angel kill her. We fought, and I stabbed her--and as much as I hated what I'd done, I was still gonna drag her off to him, so he could drain her. I was so scared that he'd die. God, Giles, what kind of person am I? If she hadn't jumped off the roof, I would have done it."

Shocked, Giles regarded her in silence.

"That's what I used to get Mayor Wilkins. I told him what I'd done, and that I'd liked it. So he'd chase me, and you could blow him up." Buffy's slight body began to tremble. She began to fumble with the ring on her left hand, struggling to twist it from her finger. "So, do you hate me now? You always told me not to kill people. You told me what was allowed and what wasn't, but I did the bad things anyway."

Giles crossed the room to her at once, stopping the frustrated motion of her hands, drawing her to him. "The voice you heard," he told her, Buffy's face pressed to his chest, his arm round her shoulders while Buffy's own arms tightly encircled his waist. "The voice the demon used--that was Randall's."

"It sounded like Ethan."

"The first voice, Buffy, the one that called me a murderer, was Randall's. He didn't merely die when Eyghon possessed him. The spell got out of control, as I've told you, but that was Ripper's fault--"

Buffy pulled away, looking up into his eyes. "You talk about him like another person."

"I thought he was," Giles admitted. "I've never been certain. But he was me--he was, at any rate, inside me."

"Freaky," Buffy said. Giles wished, desperately, that he could read her look.

"Eyghon began to tear Randall apart, and he screamed. My God." Giles's knees felt weak, and he would have fallen if Buffy hadn't held him. "His skin just...the only word I can think of is 'shredded.' I tried to say the spell on my own, but nothing happened. Ripper had called the Wild Magic, and the cellar was burning.

"There was a sword on the altar," Giles told her in a low, dead voice. "I took it in my hand. Look--" He showed her his palm. "You can still make out a shiny patch or two, from where the hilt seared me. I took the sword in my hand, and I killed him. I never meant to do it. I never meant him to be hurt at all."

"Oh, Giles," Buffy said, almost too softly for him to hear. "He wasn't just some guy. You loved him, didn't you? I can hear it in your voice."

Another great flood of memory struck, and Giles fell, Buffy only just managing to catch him, so that he came down upon the bed instead on the hardwood floor.

"God!" he cried out, in agony, unable to feel even her touch--if, in fact, she still touched him.

In a little while, it eased. He became aware of Buffy stroking his hair, murmuring to him softly. She lay facing him on the bed, her lovely sapphire eyes watching as she waited for him to recover.

Giles thought of how kind she was, in her heart, and how desperately he loved her. They were neither of them untouched by darkness--she far less than he was. What Buffy had told him of Faith only filled him with pity.

He blamed Angel. For so many things, he blamed Angel, who had once, in an odd way, been his friend--or so Giles had imagined.

When he returned to the States he intended to seek out the vampire. They'd have words. Only words, Giles told himself.

Though in his heart he wished, with a cold but fervent desire, that he might drive a stake into Angel's fashionably-clad chest and watch his dust twist on the wind.