Transitions - Ch. 35

Asleep, Buffy appeared simultaneously ethereal and beautifully of this world, a tiny figure tucked up in the big bed, peacefully aslumber. She'd not even woken when, at midmorning, Giles had cradled her in his arms to convey her from Church House in Salisbury proper, out to Moira's hired car, and thence to Appleyard.

As he'd carried Buffy from Church House, Moira had given him one of her looks, yet spoken not a word. Giles found his old friend's ferocious independence both admirable and rather saddening: she did not unbend. It seemed she could not, in any part of her nature, find the trust that might allow her to place herself in the hands of another, to let another care for her, not merely emotionally, but physically as well.

He remembered, after Prague, standing outside the door to his bathroom, listening to her deep, choked, tortured breathing as she attended, herself, to some necessary medical function that he might have helped her with easily. He'd wanted so terribly to help her.

Giles wondered if Wesley noticed that part of her nature, and whether it troubled him.

For many years, he'd scarcely been different himself. He'd kept that stiff upper lip, hid his emotions: frustration, pain, joy. All that had changed now. He had Buffy, who'd seen him at his best, at his worst, and at all stops in between. It was no weakness on her part that she'd let him care for her, only a reflection of the new bond, the trust, between them.

The depth of Buffy's slumber alarmed Giles at first, but he could detect no further sign that her illness had returned. She'd merely survived an ordeal, and her body, with the wisdom of nature, retreated into deep sleep to heal itself. He wished that his own body would be so wise--after his midnight visitation, he'd been unable to return to that blessed state.

Understandably so, Giles supposed.

Buffy had been correct in her assessment: the encounter had given him closure of a sort, though his mother's warning--that he must be wary of her return--continued to trouble his mind. Giles expected that he understood her meaning only too clearly, and the thought filled him with a soul-deep weariness that not even the peace of Appleyard could dispel. That, and he'd a most abominably sore throat.

With all the tenderness he could muster, Giles tucked Buffy a bit more securely beneath the covers, then left her. He needed to shower and shave, to restore some semblance of orderliness to his person. The quantity of silver that showed in his beard lately distressed him, and without the concealment of his glasses his eyes looked tired and wary. Small enough price to pay, Giles supposed--a bit of weariness for the life of his beloved, though Moira had given him quite the dressing-down with regard to that particular spell, and in front of Willow and Xander, too.

That she had done so irked Giles no end, and he found it difficult, even now, to let go of the irritation. If she'd words for him, she ought to have delivered them privately, decently, behind closed doors, in the time-honoured British way.

During the journey out to Appleyard, they'd quarreled bitterly, a row conducted, on his part, in the harsh whisper which was all he could produce of a shout, whilst Moira responded tersely, in a clipped, crisp, infuriatingly even tone.

"What did you wish me to do?" he'd demanded, in his barely audible rasp. "I knew you'd arrive shortly. I only needed to purchase a little time."

"And had my flight been delayed, or the traffic been especially heavy on the motorway? How much life-force do you believe you've left to you at this point, Rupert?"

"Enough, it seems. Both Buffy and I are, after all, still present and accounted for."

"You treat your life as if it's nothing." Moira's voice dropped to a dangerous lowness. "And you always have done. My God, Rupert, you can't actually believe the lies you were taught as a boy."

"This has nothing to do with anything I was taught, by my father, Horace Stanley, or anyone else. It wasn't I who..." Giles began, than stopped himself. Unforgivable to remind her of that dreadful night, less than a fortnight past, when she'd lost the vestige of her Slayer Helena forever. Moira had nearly thrown her own life away, and would have done, if not for Wesley's intervention. She'd have let Helena turn her, an outcome too terrible to contemplate.

Moira stared straight ahead, her knuckles white on the wheel. She'd an old-fashioned ring on her left hand, Giles realized. Not at all the sort of thing she wore, usually. Except for the amulets or talismans she occasionally used as part of her work, Moira's taste tended toward the stylized and the modern.

"That was uncalled for," she said, after half a mile had passed.

Resistant to the last, Giles continued to think in miles, feet and inches. He also mourned the passing of guineas and shillings--he lived, he supposed, mostly in the past.

"As were your comments," he responded, removing his glasses to rub his brow. "Em, what in hell would you have me do?"

Moira said an extremely rude word to him in Latin, and Willow gave a little gasp.

"Display a modicum of sense for once in your life, perhaps?" she replied, and it had deteriorated into shouting after that, until Xander spoke up from the back seat.

"This week on 'People We're Glad Aren't Married,'" he said, in a parody of an announcer's voice, "We have Mr. Rupert Giles and Ms. Moira Bannister-St. Ives. Lifelong friends, their hobbies include saying mean things and screaming at each other in front of other people."

Moira said another rude word; in Cornish this time.

"Em..." Willow said. When Giles glanced back at her, her eyes were wide, her expression skittish. "Giles..."

"C'mon, guys," Xander said. "Kiss and make up."

Moira glared straight ahead through the windscreen. Giles stared through the side window, watching the stone fences and the rippling fields flash by. He hadn't meant, honestly, to quarrel with Moira, but his stubbornness was such that he could not take back a word he'd said.

"Ooh, tough crowd!" Xander continued. "Okay, let's translate. Giles, Moira just said that she loves you, and she'd go crazy if something happened to you. The right thing to answer is, 'thank you, Em, I love you too, and I'll try to be more careful next time, though I can't promise.' Moira, Giles was saying, 'You scared me just as much two weeks ago, and I'm having a hard time getting over that, even though you're my best friend, and I really, really appreciate your flying all the way over here to rescue me and my honey. I knew I didn't have to worry, because your timing is nearly always perfect.'"

"And then Em says," Willow added softly. "'I'm sorry I scared you before, and it won't happen again. I care about you so much I'd fly five times as far to help you.' Which is sweet. So, hug hug, kiss kiss, you can be all made up now."

"They're far wiser than we are," Giles said, still unwilling to look at his friend. Buffy shifted against him, and gave a soft sigh.

"One might certainly say so," Moira agreed.

Giles rinsed his razor under the tap, and with a slow exhalation, released the last of the irritation that had knotted his stomach and made his jaw clench. Xander and Willow had indeed been correct, and he owed Moira an apology. He knew she'd reservations about leaving the Hellmouth unguarded. And, odd as it seemed, she obviously missed Wesley. Wesley, of all people!

Giles shook his head, then reconsidered. He hadn't seen the younger man often in the past fortnight, but in those encounters, Wesley had seemed quite another person: steadier, more mature, happier. Perhaps that had been the root of his insufferable behavior: he'd been an unhappy young man, and now that he'd found a measure of contentment, he'd become the better for it--although he still seemed to subscribe to a standard of neatness that any other mortal might find daunting. Strangely, he appeared to make Moira rather happy as well, as she had, perhaps, not been for many years. Yes, he indeed owed her an apology.

Descending to the kitchen, Giles found his oldest friend instructing Xander in the art of breadmaking, whilst Willow sat cross-legged in a kitchen chair, fashioning tiny, apparently human figures from coloured clay.

"Fold the dough toward you--just so--then push down with the heels of your hands. Yes, Xander, exactly."

"Whoa, it's alive!" Xander glanced up from his kneading. "Hey, Giles!"

"Hi!" Willow told him. "How's Buffy?"

"Rupert," Moira said, but she smiled as she pronounced his name, allowing Giles to know he'd been forgiven.

He opened his mouth to return their greetings, but all that emerged was a small, alarmed squeak, resembling that which a frightened mouse might make. Giles tried again, and was rewarded, for his efforts, by a faint harsh gasp that sounded like the final breath of a dying man.

Willow abandoned her clay. "Poor Giles. I'll make you some tea."

Giles squeaked at her, meaning 'thank you,' as he took a seat near the window. Willow turned her back to conceal her amusement, but he wasn't offended--he knew how humourous he must sound, and he smiled at Willow when she returned with the tea, her face brightening with an answering light. Her small hand lingered on his shoulder.

He attempted not to grimace at the nearly-overwhelming flavour of the honey and lemon she'd added. In such matters, Willow tended to have a liberal touch.

"I know you think it's icky," she told him, "But try to ignore the taste--it's good for your throat, okay? And no talking all day, 'cause I'll nag you otherwise. See? Resolve face."

"Ya better listen, Giles," Xander told him. "She knows no mercy."

Giles shook his head and leaned back in his chair. He watched them, these beloved friends, filled with a warmth that far outweighed his irritation at being consigned to silence. What a summer this had been, so far--one threat after another, and then the frustration of first being without words to say, and now to be without the voice to say them. Perhaps not even realizing what she did, Willow rubbed his back gently.

Why had he such a need to spoil these rare, peaceful moments with worry? They arrived infrequently enough. Buffy was saved--that alone should be sufficient to fill him with thankful joy. That he could sit in this comfortable kitchen, warmed by the sunlight that shone, obliquely, through the four-hundred-year-old windows, ought to give him at least a bit of gratitude for the quiet, for this respite, however brief it turned out to be. He glanced up at Willow's rapt expression, noticing her slight smile as she watched the two bakers.

In the center of the room, over the table where their friends worked, the copper pots hung from the rafters gave off a mellow glow, and the kitchen smelled pleasantly of yeast and of the myriad of herbs hung from the drying rack--Aunt Flora had been wildcrafting again. Xander was laughing with unrestrained delight, responding to Moira's attention with an enthusiasm that almost saddened Giles, telling as it did how infrequently the boy had received approval from any adult source. He, himself, might have been the better scholar, but Moira was a true teacher--she put him to shame. He resolved to do better with Xander in the future.

Moira, in turn, rather surprised him with her behavior toward the boy. She'd a far more maternal air than Giles had ever, previously, seen from her--far more motherly, in fact, than any she'd displayed toward Sebastian. Seeing them together, one might almost mistake the two for mother and son: they'd the same height and angularity, tempered, in Moira's case, by her natural power and grace. They'd a similar cast to their features as well, though Xander was dark, and Moira fair. Giles realized that he had never seen the boy appear so carefree.

"They had bonding," Willow bent down to whisper in his ear. "Xand got so airsick on the plane. Em likes to take care of people, huh?"

Giles nodded, and Willow slipped away to return to her work. The small figures she molded must be the preliminary to some sort of ritual, but as it was to be conducted under Moira's watchful eye, Giles felt no fear for the outcome of the magic. The young Wicca practiced what he assumed were the accompanying words in a soft, careful voice, Moira gently correcting her occasional misspeaking.

Except for the lack of Sebastian and Celeste, all he loved best in the world existed here: this house; the surrounding countryside, his native soil; his aunts, like a trio of beneficent fairies from some antique story; the precious, unpredictable woman he loved, now peacefully asleep upstairs; this boy and girl who were, perhaps, as close to a loving son and daughter as--barring his dear Seb--he could ever ask to be given; this woman who had been his first lover and now stood as replacement to the sister he'd lost--for in many ways Moira strongly resembled Marianna, as she might have been.

"Giles, you're smiling," Willow said, her sweet face alight.

Giles gestured at the little figures and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I was going to show you! They're us!" She arranged her tiny people in an orderly row. "The spell says to make them from clay, but I asked Em and she told me it was okay to use Fimo instead. It's a protection spell. You know. Badness-be-gone. Sorta like anti-voodoo dolls. So the evil hits them instead of us. Only--" Willow glanced down at her people sadly. "I kinda feel bad for them, because they turned out adorable." She held up one that appeared to be dressed in grey. "Look, Giles, I gave yours a little tweed suit."

Giles laughed, unable to help himself.

Willow gazed at him sternly. "No laughing, either."

Suddenly, a thought seemed to occur to her. "It was okay to tell Giles, wasn't it, Em? 'Cause I guess I already did, and Xander too--but you don't mind, do you?"

"That is a family spell," Moira answered, and for a moment Willow looked apprehensive, but Moira continued, "And Xander and Rupert are certainly family."

Giles sipped his alarmingly-flavoured tea, and watched, and loved them. The thought came to him, unbidden--where was Horace Stanley's soul, that he could willingly harm these people? They would not be harmed. He swore it. So far as he had life, and strength, and ability, the Council would not hurt them.

Xander and Moira had rolled their dough into long loaves, and set them to rise a final time. As Moira was wiping the flour from her hands, and Xander clearing off the table, Moira's digital telephone let forth a shrill, insistent bleating. She hurried to fetch it from the bag she'd slung carelessly to the floor beside the fireplace.

"Hullo?" Moira said, perching on the edge of the hearth, long legs crossed. "Oh, my dear, you sound-- No, no, of course not-- Celeste-- Please, Celeste--"

Giles straightened in his chair, questioning her with his eyes. He knew that his moment of peace had ended.

"No, my God, dearest, stay where you are. Rupert and I will be up directly. No, you must do as the doctors say. Yes, that's it, think of the baby. Oh, my love, I am sorry. Of course. Of course. Yes, we'll say an hour."

When she rang off, her eyes had become hard, less like emeralds, or some forest colour, more like chips of flint or coal. She replaced the small telephone carefully in her handbag.

Giles leaned forward, willing her to speak, his heart constricted with fear, a coldness spreading over him. Sebastian was dead--that's what her dreadful look meant. Sebastian, his son, whom he would have died for, had been killed, by THEM.

He forced a single word through his abused vocal chords, his voice resembling that of a demon. "Moira."

She shook her head, one long fingered hand pressed against her mouth.

"MOIRA," Giles said again. Swirling lights of different colours began to flash before his eyes. The teacup slipped through his senseless fingers to shatter on the stone floor. Willow came to him at once.

"Giles, I'm sure it's nothing bad. Well, okay, bad. But not BAD bad. It'll be okay. Won't it?"

His old friend at last caught her breath. "Celeste's been ill. She's in hospital. She nearly lost the baby."

"Oh!" A small, soft sound, from Willow.

"He's dead. My son's dead." Giles at last forced the words through. His voice sounded horrid, and evil. He couldn't see, couldn't feel. Only Willow's soft, restraining touch held him upright.

Moira gave him a look. "Our son, Rupert."

Xander took a seat beside her on the fireplace, and with an unexpected gentleness, put her arm around her. "Uh, I don't think he meant anything by that, Em. Maybe not the best time to get into it?"

Moira glanced at the boy, and seemed to pull herself together, into her ususal cool briskness. "At any rate, he isn't dead. Celeste told me that he hasn't been home. He's missing. She said that he was acting rather oddly on the journey down, but she hadn't thought much of it--and then when she returned from the studio, she couldn't rouse him. Now he's vanished. His Grace's office tried to find him, and couldn't. And, Rupert--the lead jar's missing as well."

Giles hadn't heard the better part of what she'd said. Only the first, the news that his son wasn't dead, had the power, at that moment, to move him. Sebastian, he thought. Sebastian.

"What do you want us to do?" Xander asked. "Come with, or stay here with Buffy?"

Giles glanced up, at last recovering himself. Yes, Buffy would have to stay here--she wasn't yet well enough for strenuous action. He should have to leave her, be apart from her, his light, his hope. If he woke her, Buffy would insist on accompanying him--therefore, he must not, now, wake her.

"Stay," he told Xander. "Stay," he said to Willow. She'd never met Sebastian, only spoken with him on the telephone, and yet tears still brightened her soft green eyes. Giles found himself standing, without any memory of having risen.

"You'll be careful, right?" Those eyes implored him. "Right, Giles?"

It wasn't his throat that prevented Giles from answering. He crossed the room, and began to search through the drawers for pen and paper. In the end, he scrawled a brief note on the back of a recipe for trifle. When he looked up, Xander blocked his way, holding out a jacket like a talisman against evil.

"No stupid risks, right G-man?" the young man asked him quietly. "None. Got it?"

Giles looked down on him, taking note of the dark eyes that, like Willow's, implored him, the determined set of Xander's jaw.

"I mean it," Xander said. "For Buffy's sake. It'd kill her to lose you. For real. I mean it."

Giles shrugged. What could he say? Torn between his sweet love, and the son to whom he owed so much...how could he predict his own behavior?

At last, he merely nodded, and moved past Xander to take Moira's arm. She stood hugging her capacious bag to her chest, as if for comfort. In response to his look, Moira nodded.

"Yes, Rupert, I can drive. We'd best be off then."

"What about stuff?" Willow asked. "Don't you need to pack?"

"Whatever we need, we'll borrow from Celeste and Sebastian." Moira stumbled a bit, stepping over the threshold, and Giles steadied her. "Really, I'm fine." She began to search through the bag for her keys, until Xander returned to the kitchen and fetched them. "Oh, yes, thank you, Xander."

The boy, awkwardly, gave her a brief embrace. Willow patted her arm. "Be careful."

Willow next wrapped her arms around Giles's waist, pressing her face to his chest. "You be extra, extra careful, Giles," she whispered.

For the second time in less than a fortnight, Xander embraced him as well, muttering, "We've gotta stop making a habit of this. Take care of your kid, okay?"

When Giles pulled back, he saw something strange and sad in his young friend's eyes--a look of, oddly enough, resignation. A withdrawing, as if a lead curtain had come down between them.

"Xander," he somehow found the power to say.

"What?" Xander's shoulders moved, in a quick, nervous gesture. His head bowed.

Giles touched the boy's arm, making Xander glance up, sharply, at him.

"You are every bit as much my son as Sebastian." There, it was out, the words that must never be spoken, the wall of reserve torn down utterly. For a moment, Giles misgave--that had been the meaning of Xander's look, surely? A bit of jealousy that, with Sebastian, there would be no place for him?"

For a moment, Giles almost felt compelled to take back what he'd said, and then he saw Xander's eyes fill with tears. The boy rubbed them, roughly, with his fingers.

"You just had to say that, didn't you," he muttered. "You just had to."

By which he meant, Giles knew, that the sentiment had been accepted. Xander and Willow moved together, holding hands, just as they had in the old days, before all the trouble. As he and Moira sped away, Giles turned around to watch them, missing them dreadfully, even before they'd dwindled from his view, missing even more, were such a thing possible, his precious Buffy.

"We must focus, Rupert," Moira said quietly.

Giles nodded.