Transitions - Ch. 24

It had been the sort of day Wesley had never even dared to dream of having--the sort of day other chaps might expect as their God-given right, but he could not. To be awakened in a comfortable bed, after sufficient sleep, by the warm, sweet, lingering kiss of a beautiful woman who loved him. To enjoy a leisurely shower beneath a good, hard, steady spray of water that did not turn chilly halfway through, or reduce itself to a halfhearted dribble--and to have the aforementioned beautiful woman join him just as he had fully awakened, and touch him in the most exhilarating places, until he was quite carried away.

Wesley was thirty-two years old, and he knew that life was not always crushingly, miserably unhappy--but he'd never realized, before, its full sweetness.

He'd sat across the table from Moira at breakfast, and when they'd dealt with their eggs and toast, and she'd cleared away the plates and wiped up the crumbs, they sat companionably together in their robes, sharing a pot of strong tea, strewing leaves of the Los Angeles Times and the Sunnydale Gazette across the table and onto the floor. Moira studied the papers with concentration, wearing a pair of rather attractive reading spectacles, but Wesley, in truth, could not give the news his full attention. Instead he found himself watching his companion--the way the sunlight brought fire to her auburn hair, the way her expression shifted as she read.

After a while, Moira glanced up and caught him staring. Wesley gave a guilty smile, but her answering smile was warm and full of meaning. He could scarcely breathe.

"What should you like to do today, my love?" Moira asked him, in her low, rich voice.

One thing sprang to mind immediately. He'd only just had her in the shower--or perhaps, to be more accurate, she'd had him--but God help him, he wanted her again. Perhaps right here in the kitchen, amongst the strewn newspapers. He could picture it so clearly, the thought made him ache. Good heavens, was he detined to become some sort of sex fiend?

Moira gave a quiet laugh, as if she'd heard his thoughts.

Again, that unruly portion of his anatomy stirred. In the past, when he'd thought of making love--if he thought of the act at all--Wesley's imagination had taken him only to narrowly proscribed places. One performed such acts in the dark, on a proper bed, in something quite properly described as the missionary position, with one's lawfully-wedded, not-particularly-exciting wife, for the purposes of continuing the family line. Pleasure wasn't meant to enter into it, only duty.

He and Moira had been near the bed once--he'd sat on the edge, whilst she had knelt before him, and had stroked his belly, his thighs, his...organ with her hands and her tongue. Just when he'd felt he must soon explode, she took him inside her, into the warmth of her mouth, keeping him just at the edge for so long that lights of various colours had begun to flash in his vision, and when he'd come, he'd actually lost consciousness for an instant or two.

Moira rose from her chair and moved anti-clockwise round the table, the silk of her robe shimmering about her body. She pulled at the belt of Wesley's robe--he wore nothing beneath it, and when it fell open he was entirely revealed.

"Rather an enthusiastic fellow, I'd say." Moira smiled again, regarding him.

Wesley drew her closer, setting her astride his thighs. With the pleasant weight of her on his lap, he rubbed his palms in circles over her breasts, so that her nipples stood upright, little peaks beneath the fabric of her robe. He loosened, but did not untie her belt, only slipped his hand inside to her right breast, whilst his mouth sought the left. Her skin tasted sweet and clean, without the slight saltiness it would gain later in the day. Her chest vibrated with little purring sounds of pleasure. His manhood pressed against her with increasing firmness, until Moira raised up and let him inside.

Wesley suffered a brief moment of concern that the kitchen chair would not stand up to the strain, but all such thoughts fled his mind as Moira began to move against him, at first with pleasurably agonizing slowness, then faster and harder, until his entire body burned with the friction of her flesh against his. At climax, he arched up out of the seat and would have upset them both were it not for Moira's excellent reflexes and balance. Her thighs clamped about his hips, holding him to her, holding him inside her, deep in the moist heat of her, while his spine seemed to contract and his seed shot out of him in spasms so violent they were nearly painful.

He subsided into his seat, gasping and shuddering. Moira cradled his head against her bosom, stroking his hair. "There, there, my dearest," she told him tenderly, and Wesley realized that, between his gasps for air, he wept--though whether with sorrow or with joy he could not tell. Perhaps it did not matter. All that mattered was that he should be there with her, his beloved. That he should be happy, and cared for, and that she recognized the extremity of his need, and did not mock him.

"All right, then?" Moira pulled apart from him a little, gazing down into his unshielded eyes as she stroked the hair back from his brow. Three years with her, and he'd never realized what a kind person she was, how caring--but perhaps they'd both been different within that other world of the Watchers' Compound. Wesley knew that he could never return there, not to save his immortal soul.

"I thought we might have a look round the garden today," Wesley said, quite as if he hadn't just been shagged silly in a kitchen chair.

Moira's mouth quirked into a grin, and then she began to laugh, kissed him again, then laughed more. "Yes," she chuckled. "The garden's a bit neglected." Carefully, she rose off him, and stood, her hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. Wesley reached round behind her, cupping her bum in his hands, stroking the firmness of it through the silk, parting the folds of her robe with nose and chin so that his cheek lay against the bare flesh of her belly.

Smelling the fragrance of her, the essence of her, a thought occurred. "Emmy, did you--"

"Did I what, Wesley?"

"Were you...er...ahem. Fulfilled?"

"Fulfilled?"

Again, Wesley felt her fingers in his hair. So soothing, that touch. Somehow, it always made him feel trusted, and cared for, and loved. Now, though, he suspected that he'd been selfish--twice, this morning, he'd had his pleasure, and returned nothing.

Moira bent and kissed the top of his head. "Ah, that. Yes, dear, it was lovely. You may have been distracted."

"Distracted? Yes, I suppose I might." Wesley looked up into her kind, amused faced. "You would tell me, wouldn't you, if I...er...failed to live up to expectations?"

"Yes, dear." Moira repeated.

When Wesley shut himself into the bathroom to complete the day's second set of ablutions, he could have sworn he heard laughter in the bedroom, but when he emerged, Moira appeared perfectly sober. She'd washed in the other lavatory, and dressed herself in a white singlet, a pair of short denim trousers just long enough to hide the scar on her left thigh, and pair of plimsolls with white socks. She looked cool and charming. The place on her throat where Helena had bitten her was nearly healed.

"You look delightful, Moira," Wesley told her shyly.

Moira smiled and drew on a pair of good, tough gloves. Wesley found his own gloves and a pair of secateurs in a kitchen drawer, and the two of them went out to tackle the overgrown garden.

His injuries limited Wesley to a bit of gentle pruning, but beyond that he found himself increasingly distracted by the sight of Moira at work, bending and stretching, firm muscles shifting beneath tanned skin. It wasn't a large garden, and by midafternoon she had the worst of the brambles had been cleared away, and the trees and plants trimmed back to something resembling tidiness. At that point Moira returned to the house, emerging a quarter hour later dressed in a sleeveless knit frock that buttoned down the front, a picnic basket in one hand and a large vacuum flask in the other.

She spread a plaid blanket beneath the roots of the orange tree and motioned him to her. Wesley reclined in the shade, his back against the trunk. Moira sat facing his left side, her long legs tucked up beneath her. Together, they drank the lemonade from the flask, and ate the sandwiches Moira had prepared, then fed one another strawberries from a little basket. Licking the sweet juice from Moira's long fingers, Wesley was overcome, yet again, with a complex mix of contentment, gratefulness, and desire.

Kissing Moira's throat, fumbling with the small buttons that closed the bodice of her frock, he could not help but whisper, "We must stay here forever. We must always be just so." All had been so quiet, he'd nearly forgotten that their new home lay within the shadow of the Hellmouth.

Moira's hand slipped down Wesley's cheek to his jaw, raising his face to hers. She kissed him deeply and completely. Her other hand pressed to his chest, just over his heart. "I promise," she said, "If I ever leave you, my love, I will always return."

Buffy was having a complicated dream, one that struck her as bad, even though nothing particularly bad happened. She dreamed about her dad, that he was sitting in one of those tacky hotel bars having a drink with Moira, who was wearing a really sexy little black dress--the kind of dress that, if she'd worn it in real life, would have shown all her scars and grossed people out.

Buffy! she said to herself sternly in her dream, That's not nice. But she knew it was true. The only place Moira would have worn that particular dress was in a dream.

The dream-Moira told her dad that they were going to go outside and see the swimming pool, and then they were going to share another drink. When they got there, the pool was full of blood, and Moira said to Hank, in her cool British voice, "Well, love, what did you expect?"

Dimly, Buffy felt a hand on her forehead, stroking back her hair. She heard a gentle voice call to her. She wanted to wake up. Gratefully, if a little blearily, she opened her eyes.

Giles sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his expression concerned, but not deeply so. He was already completely dressed, except for his tie, which was draped around his neck, the ends hanging against the front of his butterscotch-colored vest. His shirt was pale blue, and his tweed jacket was mostly gray and charcoal, but with little hints of butterscotch and blue. It was one of the nicer outfits she'd seen him wear, and it made him look reliable, and comforting--but then, that was Giles for you. His eyes appeared amazingly green that morning, and she wondered why. She was going to have to keep a chart of what the different colors meant.

"Bad dream?" he asked sympathetically.

Buffy nodded. "Moira and my dad were having a drink in a bar, then she took him outside to show him the swimming pool, only it was filled with blood. Dumb, huh?"

"A swimming pool of blood would be alarming," Giles said in his usual comforting voice. He looked a little tired, and Buffy wondered how much sleep he'd gotten after she came back upstairs. Maybe he could nap on the train.

"It was." Buffy shoved herself up against the headboard. "Uh...what time is it?"

Giles checked his watch. "Half past nine."

Buffy yawned. "Late."

"You were up late. I didn't like to wake you, except that you began to look so miserable." He caressed her cheek. "Did you want to sleep a bit more, or shall I make us some breakfast?"

"You mean Celeste hasn't made brunch for twelve?"

"Buffy," Giles cautioned, then laughed. "Actually, she's left all the ingredients, with some extremely strict instructions. She and Seb will join us tomorrow in Salisbury, for the funeral. I shall have to meet with mum's solicitor, and have a look round the house--I suppose it must be sold now."

"What about your stepfather?"

"He may do as he likes," Giles answered, with something fairly close to anger. Buffy touched his hand, and Giles looked away, then back at her. "Sorry."

"Some bad memories, huh?"

"Merely to be in the same room with that man...to act with civility toward him..." Giles ran his hand over his face, then fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses. "The house has been in the Giles family for better than two centuries. Father left it to us, to Marianna, Clarice and I. It never belonged to mum." He put on the glasses, shielding his eyes.

Buffy watched him, seeing the tiredness, and the dread, clearly now. She wished she was smarter about that kind of thing, about knowing the right thing to say, about how to be strong for him. She wondered if Giles knew that the news about his mom had come down from the Watchers' Council, and decided now wasn't the right time to tell him. Instead, she pulled him in for a kiss, then let him go and fixed his tie.

Giles managed to conjure up a little smile as she did so. "Forgive me," he said, "For being so preoccupied."

"Hey, no prob. I'm gonna catch a quick shower, throw on some clothes, then we'll eat breakfast and be ready to go. Okay?"

Giles gave her another smile, slightly more enthusiastic than the one before. "Lovely."

Buffy sang enthusiastically in the shower, toweled dry, and dressed in clothes that she hoped would be appropriate for meeting stuffy museum people: she put on nylons, and shoes that she'd be able to walk in, and a dress with tiny blue-and-white checks and a random pattern of daisies. The dress came to mid-thigh, and had short sleeves. The neckline wasn't too low. Buffy stared at herself in the mirror and thought she looked presentable, if a little girly. She rolled her hair into a French twist--that helped, and dug out a cardigan. She made sure all her other stuff was packed and ready to go.

Giles smiled at her when she came into the kitchen. Sebastian was there too, in his pajamas, looking rumpled and grumpy and unshaven. Buffy gave his cheek a kiss in passing, at which Sebastian grunted. Definitely not a morning person. She poured tea for him and Giles, and a glass of milk for herself.

Sebastian grunted again when she passed him his cup, but this one sounded grateful.

"Where's Celeste?" Buffy asked.

"Off filming something, I believe," Giles answered.

"Portobello Road," Sebastian muttered.

She wasn't sure what got into her, but Buffy put her arms around his neck, "I think someone needs to go back to bed."

Without a word, Sebastian drained his teacup, then got up and slouched out of the kitchen.

"You're very familiar with my son," Giles said, easing the omelette he'd been cooking onto a plate.

"We bonded last night over TV and gingersnaps." Buffy slid into the place Giles had set for her at the table, then asked anxiously, "You don't think he was offended, do you?"

"I think it was a bit of good advice." Giles set something that looked like a letter-holder full of toast onto the table in front of her.

Buffy took a piece. Stone cold. She got the feeling it was supposed to be, that the letter-holder thingy had been created for the purpose of making your nice toasty-warm toast cold as quickly as possible. Weirdness. At least the omelette was hot, and since Giles--as she already knew--was a decent cook, it tasted yummy. Buffy couldn't believe how hungry she was. She ate enthusiastically, while Giles sipped his tea and watched her.

She'd scarfed down her portion, plus a couple pieces of the stone-cold toast, when she realized that Giles hadn't joined in. Buffy cut off a piece of the omelette and served it onto his plate. Giles poked it with his fork, as if expecting the omelette to crawl away on its own.

"C'mon," Buffy told him. "It's nummy. Eat up while it's hot."

Without much enthusiasm, Giles took a bite, chewing slowly. Buffy buttered a piece of cold toast and put in on his plate. Just then, the front doorbell rang, and Buffy went to answer. A delivery guy stood outside with a large, flat box, addressed to her.

"Oh!" Buffy said. "Am I supposed to sign?"

The delivery guy gave her the papers on a little green clipboard, and Buffy scrawled her name. From the shape of the box, it was either clothes, or a big sheet cake--and from the weight and the slithery feeling of whatever was inside, Buffy would have bet against the cake. She thanked the guy and he touched the bill of his cap, which made Buffy feel as if she ought to curtsey or something, but she didn't. She carried the box inside.

When she got back to the kitchen, Giles had cleared his plate, and sat once more with his teacup, reading the paper--or pretending to read. When she asked him if he'd eaten, he made a noncommital, "Mmn," sound. She stole a peek in the garbage, then realized the sink had a dispos-all.

"I just don't get you, these days," she told him.

Giles sipped his tea, and set down the paper. He had one of his innocent looks. "What's in the box?"

Buffy moved Sebastian's empty teacup to the sink and set the package on the table, easing off the lid. Inside lay the most beautiful charcoal-gray suit she'd ever seen, with small black-suede covered buttons, and black-suede piping around the scalloped edges of the pockets and lapels. There was a note from Celeste tucked into one of the pockets

"Dearest Buffy," it said.

"I wanted to get you something as a welcome to the family--I'm only sorry, given the sad occasion, it couldn't be something prettier. There will be some dreadful, stuffy people at Clara's funeral, and I want you to hold your head up and shine amongst them like the treasure you are.

All my love,

C.

XXX"

"Oh," Buffy said. She felt misty-eyed.

"Celeste?" Giles asked, leaning over her shoulder.

"You know," Buffy said, "I really love your family. How can you stand not to be here with them?"

"Perhaps," Giles told her, stooping down to kiss the top of her head. "Because I love you even more."