Transitions - Ch. 30

With those cold eyes watching her, Buffy had a hard time paying attention. All she could tell, really, was that a priest much younger than Father Brounslow said a lot of words, some of which were in Latin, and all of which sounded soothing, and that they were required to get up and down from their knees a bunch of times. The kneelers were hard and cold, and Buffy couldn't help but think that if she found them that way, they must have been especially hard for people the aunts' age, or for Giles's mom, if and when she'd gone to church here.

If you were really, really old and/or decrepit, were you still expected to kneel? Maybe not. She couldn't imagine nice Father Brounslow getting mad at you if you couldn't quite make it down there.

One thing that would have been funny--if it weren't a funeral--was that obviously the whole pew-and-kneeler arrangement had been set up in the days when people were way smaller, so it worked okay for shorties like her, or Mrs. Parker, or for the aunts. Celeste seemed to be eternally graceful, and manage all right, but Buffy kept expecting Seb and Giles to get stuck--there simply wasn't room for their arms and broad shoulders and long legs.

The Watchers, of course, didn't take part in the service, not even whichever of them was evil Mr. Stanley. He own wife's funeral, and he didn't even bother to take part. That made Buffy hate him even more than she already did.

Buffy was used to hymns that went on a little too long, and had kind of awkward words, and that no one really knew the music to but sang anyway. Instead of those, a pair of boys, no older than eight or nine years old, came out--in the same kind of little white dresses over red robes that Giles must have worn here when he sang here as a child. She expected them to sing all off-key and kidlike, but all of a sudden the most amazing music came from their mouths. If she'd been asked before, she'd have said it wasn't the kind of music she didn't like, but the truth was, it reached inside her and made her heart hurt. It was the first church music she'd ever heard that sounded like it was really meant to talk straight to God. The words were in Latin, and all she could make out was one, "Requiem," which she knew meant the song was a prayer for someone who died.

As the little boys sang, a huge sadness engulfed Buffy suddenly, and she looked up at Giles. She saw his eyes closed, tears leaking slowly from under the lids, and wasn't sure then if it had been the music that hit her, or if, for the second time that day, she'd felt what he felt. By this time he had both arms over his chest, holding himself tightly, as if something even more terrible might happen if he let go. She realized he was grieving not only for his mom, but for his dad, and his sisters--maybe even Jenny. Maybe--Buffy glanced again at his sad, tired face. Maybe for Randall too. It was the kind of music that made you miss everyone you'd ever lost.

One thing she knew about Giles, had known from the first year she'd known him--he didn't care about people halfway. He wasn't easy to get close too, and he didn't often show his emotions, but when he loved he did it with everything he had. She had proof enough of that in the things he'd been through to save her.

Buffy wanted to take him in her arms and hold him, her touch soothing away a little of the misery, but she kind of thought that wasn't appropriate in church, and not a good idea, at any rate, with all the bad guys looking on. Why had they come anyway? Why did they have to be there, and ruin things? They couldn't just lurk outside like normal evil people?

The song ended, and Father Hemmings started speaking again. From his accent, she thought he might be Scottish--he had kind of a Sean Connery voice. He'd started to talk about Giles's mom, doing the best he could, because there wasn't that much to say. At first Buffy enjoyed the pleasant sound of his voice, and amused herself by looking at all the stained glass windows that she could see without being obvious about it and turning her head. Sunlight poured through all the different-colored panes, throwing jewels of brightness across the stone floor. She thought about how interesting Willow would have found it, even though she was Jewish, being in this beautiful old building, hearing the music.

Next to her, Celeste made a little gasping sound and put the back of her hand to her head. Buffy reined in her attention and looked up at her new friend. Celeste looked like someone had added a bunch of extra milk to her cafe au lait coloring.

"You okay?" Buffy whispered, then something hit her too. The room spun around a couple times before it held still again. She glanced at Seb and Giles: they seemed oblivious. Mrs. Parker, too, and the aunts behind her. Buffy was going to put it down to something like her ears still being screwed up from flying when it hit again. Celeste clutched tight at her hand, and Buffy made a sound of her own, which made Giles open his eyes and pay attention. He reached past her and Celeste both to poke Sebastian's shoulder, and his lips moved, though not in a prayer.

Across the aisle eyes narrowed. One or two of the Watchers leaned forward in their pews. Father Hemmings stopped his eulogy and gazed down on the congregation, obviously confused.

"For shame," came Father Brounslow's quiet, Giles-like voice. He walked briskly down the aisle, all the way to the coffin. "Do you believe God winks at evil deeds? Do you think that you may, with impunity, carry on such acts within his holy church? We have come to mourn the passing of our sister Clara, and such times allow only reverence, and piety, and quiet reflection."

His small, plump hands rested on the lid, as if he meant to defend the casket from all comers. "All of you," he continued, "There will be no magic here."

The dizzies didn't go away, then, but at least they didn't get worse. Celeste had her hand up by her throat, and she kept swallowing. When six big guys from the church came to pick up the coffin, and people started trailing after, she headed the other way, fast, out through a little side door. After a brief squeeze to Giles's hand, Buffy headed that way too.

She found Giles's daughter-in-law in her knees beside a bush, tossing cookies for the longest time ever. For several minutes Buffy felt like she was going to lose it too, but she fought down the feeling, even though she still felt a little wobbly.

When Celeste got done, Buffy handed her the wad of tissues she'd dug up from the bottom of her purse. Celeste wiped her mouth, looking shaky but better.

"What happened?" Buffy asked her. "Do you think they were really doing bad magic stuff in there? To hurt us?"

Celeste climbed to her feet, using Buffy's arm to steady herself. She brushed twigs and leaves off her skirt and her knees. "Blast, now I've put a ladder in my tights! Have you any nail varnish, Buffy?"

Buffy shook her head. "Not with me. Aren't you worried?"

"Men! They would have to schedule the bloody funeral for noon." She turned her leg to see the run in her nylons--it was really only a teeny one, nothing like a ladder at all.

"Aren't--aren't you worried?" Buffy couldn't believe how casual the other woman was being. They'd had magic done on them that made them sick, and Celeste took it like it didn't even matter at all.

"Worried? Buffy, we're expecting a baby. I have to be sick every day at this time, have done for the past month, though my doctor tries to assure me there's only a fortnight more to go with that nonsense. I was only afraid I'd not make it through the service, and would read in the Daily Mirror tomorrow, 'Perfect Hostess Vomits in Church.'" She smiled, still looking a little bit pale, but poised as ever.

"What was Father Brounslow talking about, then? I thought the bad guys had given us the Slayer flu."

Celeste shrugged, took a tin of mints from her purse and popped one in her mouth. "Why, were you feeling unwell?"

"I got dizzy, kinda."

The older woman gave her a look. "Must I give Rupert the lecture about being careful? You're far too young, my dearest, to be having a child. Not to mention the impact such a thing would have on your work--or, for that matter, on this new love of yours."

"No, Celeste, we're careful. Except--"

Celeste gave her a look.

"Except this morning we weren't." Buffy felt mad at herself. No precautions. Not one. She hadn't even thought about alarming Giles with one of the green condoms--and he'd been so distracted by all the stuff going on, he hadn't thought either. They'd just gone at it like bunnies...and it had felt so wonderful. So good. She really needed to see her doctor. "But that would be too soon, for anything--"

Celeste stretched, working out the kinks. "Lord, those pews! My back positively throbs."

Now that Celeste mentioned it, Buffy's back hurt too, and she was getting a headache. Whenever she moved, dizziness buzzed around her. Celeste felt her forehead. "Perhaps you are falling ill, love. Make Rupert take you home."

"No, I'm okay," she said. "It's his mom's funeral, and he came all this way. I'm fine. You should make Seb take you."

"Wouldn't hear of it." Celeste tucked a stray strand of hair into her own French braid. "Let's find our boys, shall we?"

Buffy found Giles at the graveside, where Father Hemmings, looking like he'd just received a major wiggins, was nervously reading an extremely depressing passage from the Bible.

Giles stood on one side, and a handsome old man on the other. The old man was tall, and broad-shouldered, a big guy even in comparison to Giles. His eyes were the palest shade of blue she'd ever seen, like a Husky-dog's, his hair thick and silver. His eyes snapped and sparkled, and he looked happy, horribly happy, the way Angelus had looked when he was doing his worst. Weirdly, the old guy reminded Buffy of Lothos, the first major vamp she'd ever killed, way back in her L.A. days--only fit and trim, not gone to seed at all--which meant he looked like an older version of that Dutch actor that she and Will had liked so much in the movie Ladyhawk.

Celeste put her arms around Sebastian, hugging him close to her as they stood side by side. Buffy wished she knew what was up with Giles's son--he looked so sad and tired compared to two days ago. Had it been the thing with the demon-in-a-jar? Had that depressed him, or was there really just some kind of flu going around, that he'd caught, and passed on to her? Buffy felt terribly tired too. She took Giles's arm, and couldn't help but lean her head against him, almost dozing while the priest finished his depressing passage.

Giles threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin, then Mr. Stanley, almost as if it was a challenge. And then it was all over, and people started drifting away, though one of the church ladies announced that tea and cake would be served in the social hall. The funeral-people and the other church ladies seemed inclined to join her, but no one else did.

"Meet you later," Celeste mouthed to Buffy, and in the company of the aunts, she and Sebastian strolled away.

The extraneous Watchers vanished into the shadows, leaving Giles and the presumed Mr. Stanley facing each other across the open grave.

Buffy wanted to yell at him for looking so happy, when her Giles was so obviously upset--but maybe that was the way he'd always been. Maybe he was the kind of sick old dog who got his happies from other people's misery.

"Rupert," Mr. Stanley said in a cheerful voice, that somehow still managed to convey what he thought of you: that you were nothing, that he wanted to hurt you--and that he could do it so easily that you'd never know what hit you. "All the way from America! And Buffy too. The Hellmouth's closed, has it?"

"It's being looked after." Giles's voice sounded flat and dead, but when Buffy looked up she saw Ripper in his eyes. He wanted to kill this man, she could tell. Literally wanted to kill him.

"By whom?" Mr. Stanley raised an eyebrow.

"It seems to be rather quiet, just now," Giles answered.

"Yes, I heard you had a spot of bother," his stepfather answered, smiling. "Helena Penglis, wasn't it? We'd all thought her dead."

"She was dead," Giles answered. Buffy could feel his fist against her hip, clenching and unclenching.

"But to return to my previous question, to whom have you entrusted the Hellmouth, Rupert?"

"To the man you sent to replace me." Suddenly, Giles turned away. "I am no longer ten years old, and I've no desire to row with you over my mother's grave. My God, man, she was your wife, and you had your goons work evil magic at her funeral. Does none of this strike you as going beyond the pale? Haven't you the least remorse?"

Mr. Stanley's voice dropped. "Speak to me of remorse, will you? You broke her heart, Rupert. All those acts of defiance, against her, against me."

"Well, you certainly dealt with that, didn't you?" Giles sounded bitter. "Those drugs you got your man to give me--all they accomplished was to put the better part of me to sleep, so that I couldn't control him. I might have stopped..."

"'Him,' is it?" Mr. Stanley asked with amusement. "Nearly an old man, now, Rupert, and you yet persist in that fairy-story? This is no 'him,' there has never been. Only you. You were a weak, cruel, despicable boy, and you've grown into a weak, violent, incompetent man."

Almost against his will, Giles turned. "I'm not Ripper."

Mr. Stanley looked down on him, smiling. "So you say. What are you then? Poor Clara--she'd lost her lovely daughters, and then to see her only son..." He shook his head. "Her only son, of whom she remained foolishly fond, as mothers will--" His face took on a look of phony sadness; Buffy really wanted to break his nose. "You defied her at every turn, attempted to drive a wedge between us, ran from home...ah, Rupert, the list runs on and on. Did you know I had to call in nearly every favor I was owed merely to get you a place at Oxford, and once you were there, what occurred? You ran again. Speak to me of evil magic, will you?--Rupert, you conjured demons. You defiled and then murdered poor young Randall Sinclair. You were, and are, a disgrace to your lineage--an utter failure as a Watcher, a bad son to your mother, and now this..."

Buffy felt a chill as his cold blue gaze traveled over her body.

"Now this," Mr. Stanley concluded softly, as if it was some kind of curse.

"You've put your own spin on all of it," Giles answered, but his voice sounded close to breaking.

"As you will." Mr. Stanley turned to go, then back again, as if he'd just remembered something. "Ah, nearly forgot to mention. You've defied us--rather bad form, that. An example must be made, I fear--for the good of future generations."

"An example?" Buffy said, hating the way her voice shook. This guy gave her more than a wiggins.

"Yes," Mr. Stanley said, smiling again. "We will take...everything."

Giles's head snapped up. "What--?"

"Everything you love, everything you care for, will be taken. Plan all you like, fight us if you will."

"I shall," Giles answered softly.

"Only remember this: we never fail." Mr. Stanley brushed an imaginary speck of lint from the sleeve of his perfect suit. "Never, Rupert. At the most, our purposes are only delayed."

Slowly, confidently, he walked away.

Buffy found herself shaking. Giles wasn't shaking, but he looked dead, shocked and dead, no color in his face at all.

"Did he mean that?" she asked him, "Or was he just yanking your chain?"

"Hmn?" Giles shook himself, but even paying attention he didn't look any better. "Oh, yes, he meant it. There's precedent. It's called the Extremum Malorum--the Highest Evil."

"You guys have names for everything."

"Yes." His green eyes gazed at her sadly. "Yes, we do."

Giles took her in his arms, holding her close. Buffy could feel his heart, thumping rapidly, his skin colder than usual as, in what her biology teacher had called a "flight or fight" response, his body pulled all his blood inward.

"I shall never let them hurt you, Buffy," he murmured into her hair. "Never, my love. Never."