Transitions - Chapter 62

Giles leaned back against the ancient oak, listening to the murmur of voices from the other side, and to the whisper of the wind in the leaves overhead. He knew the time had come to depart from his native country once again--not that moment, perhaps, but soon. Time, too, that he must leave his aunts, his friends from the museum, his daughter-in-law and--hardest of all--his dear son.

As always, Giles wasn't sure if the leave-taking or the uncertainty troubled him more--the fact of needing to say goodbye, or the reality that this goodbye might, perhaps, be the last one they ever shared.

Giles reached beneath his glasses to rub his eyes. They--he and Moira--had yet unfinished business in London, work that oughtn't be delayed much longer. First, the Council must be dealt with, and then the old Hellmouth beneath the streets of Whitechapel, that had so recently been brought nearly to life again.

Perhaps leave-taking will prove the least of our worries, he thought, then chided himself for his pessimism. They would accomplish what they set out to accomplish--why should they not?

Giles watched Buffy's face as she conversed with her mother on the telephone--quite a long talk they shared, one that made his beloved's expression shift from brightness to tears with the rapidity of wind-blown clouds scudding across the sun. Giles didn't suppose Joyce would ever really like him again--the vast sea of Joyce's blame lay between them, along with islands of emotion too complicated in their very nature to explore.

No, friendship would not be possible. Yet he hoped, for Buffy's sake, that Joyce would not hold him in enmity: that she would discover, somewhere inside her essentially generous heart, the ability to a find at least a certain acceptance of their love.

"Your Buffy's a good person, Dad."

"Hmn?" Giles started violently, Sebastian's voice jolting him from his reverie. "Oh, Seb. Yes." He sought his son's eyes. "Yes, she is."

Sebastian squeezed his shoulder lightly, and Giles felt swell within his heart a nearly-overwhelming, unexpressible love for the young man. How should he ever be able to bid his son farewell? What if he never again saw Seb, or dear Celeste, or their child?

His grandchild, Giles realized, with a strange combination of joy and horror. He felt himself far too young to be a grandfather, and the mere thought terrified him. He could already hear Xander's future mockery.

"Now, that's an odd expression you're wearing, Dad." Sebastian laughed.

"I just realized, I suppose for the first time, that you're soon to present me with a grandchild."

"Feeling a bit young for it?" His son gave another soft laugh.

"Rather," Giles answered. "And poor Buffy will be the world's youngest grandmother."

"She asked me to look out for you, you know," his son informed him.

"Look out for me?" Giles glanced at Sebastian, confused.

"Should something befall her."

"Nothing will befall her. Nothing." Giles's jaw tightened. "Nothing will befall any of you."

Seb gave his shoulder another squeeze. "Of course not, Dad. I merely found it...I suppose one might say touching. She truly is a remarkable girl. Not merely for what she is--but for who she is. One can see why you love her."

Giles looked into Sebastian's green eyes, so much like his own, and read the kindness and acceptance there. "I hope that you know--" he began, then paused, his throat having tightened to the point that he could no longer speak. "It means the world to me, Seb, to hear you say that," he concluded at last.

"The vicar of the Anglican Church in Sunnydale is set to retire, you know," Sebastian said, seemingly apropos of nothing, as he leaned back against the oak's knotted trunk. "Reverend Mr. Markham, I believe he's called. Returning home to Somerset, His Grace tells me, to grow dahlias."

"I don't know the man," Giles answered.

"No, I don't suppose that you would. Where is it that you get your supplies of holy water? From the Roman priest?"

"Father Velasquez. We've an understanding."

Sebastian smiled. "I don't suppose you'd ever thought of converting?"

Giles rubbed the swirled black tattoo on his left arm with the fingertips of his bandaged hand, saying nothing. What could he possibly say?

"There is such a thing as forgiveness, Dad," Seb told him quietly.

"Perhaps," Giles answered, unable to find a better answer. He watched Buffy shut off the telephone and bounce back toward them, beaming even as she dried her tears on the backs of her hands. "But there's all I know of heaven, Sebastian."

"Heathen," Sebastian answered, but kindly, with humour.

"You all right then, Buffy?" Giles said, offering her one of his handkerchiefs--he could be absolutely reliable in that, at least, he supposed, smiling slightly.

Buffy dried the last of the tears, then came to lay her cheek against his chest, shutting her lovely eyes. Giles wrapped his arms round her slender body, his hands low on her back. It was one of their familiar ways, and yet the sheer comfort of it, the absolute perfection, continued to astonish him. He could not have loved her any more. To do so would have been impossible; his heart could not have encompassed the emotion.

"I'm of the good," Buffy answered, her voice humming against his skin. "How 'bout you guys?"

"I was just about to tell Dad that we're coming to America. I'll be taking over Mr. Markham's position at the Anglican Church in Sunnydale."

"Oh, the old guy?" Buffy answered. "I guess it's about time he retired." Her face burrowed a little deeper against Giles's shirtfront. "Mmn, Giles, you smell nice. We went to a couple funerals there. Oh, and a wedding, once. The minister guy seemed like a sweetie, but, you know...ancient. Is Celeste gonna come with, and squash Martha Stewart like roadkill?"

"Buffy!" Giles said, but couldn't keep from laughing. "Ancient as I am, do you mean?"

"Oh--" Her eyes sparkled up at him. "Maybe a little older." She rubbed her cheek against his chest again, affectionate as a kitten. "This is a major happy, you realize?"

Astonishment fought with jubilation for supremacy in Giles's heart, and he couldn't help but agree. He'd never thought. Never, in a thousand years, had he thought either that Buffy should come to love him so dearly, or that he and Sebastian should no longer be apart.

"So when the baby's born..." Buffy, sharing his laughter, stood on tiptoe, drawing Giles down for a quick kiss. "Well, you know, Rupert sweetie, you already own the granddad sweaters with the leather patches, so you can at least dress the part. I, on the other hand--" She pulled away, still grinning, one arm draped round Giles's waist--delighting, obviously, in teasing him. "I just want you to know, Seb, that your kid is not calling me grandma."

"I wouldn't expect it," Sebastian answered, with mock seriousness, "Except, of course, on formal occasions."

"Don't hold your breath." Buffy laughed again. "I'm beyond happy you guys are coming," she continued. "You know that, right? We're so much gonna be a family."

"Who's to be a family?" Celeste emerged from round the other side. "I was just preparing to cut the gateau, and didn't want you to miss the event, my dears."

"We are to be," Giles answered, continuing to hold Buffy close to his side, snuggled up against him delightfully, her slightest touch making him prickle with desire. "A family, that is."

"What's a gateau?" Buffy wondered. "Wait, I know! I took French. A cake, right?"

"Very good!" Celeste gave her radiant smile. "Though I suppose I must learn not to call it so, if I'm to be an American."

"Nah, you'll have everyone in the U.S. calling it what you do--see if they don't." Buffy's answering smile was no less bright. "Perfect Hostess."

"Vampire Slayer," Celeste answered, and the two trilled laughter, leaving Giles--and obviously Sebastian as well--to wonder if they'd been left out of some private joke.

"Ooh, I ate soooo much!" Buffy exclaimed. "Celeste, you're too good a cook! I'm gonna end up weighing nine million pounds. Can I pass, for now?"

"And I as well," Giles said, smiling at Celeste, who smiled back with an expression that said she read him only too well.

"But my Bastian wants some, I can tell," Celeste murmured, catching hold of her husband's sleeve, stretching just a bit to kiss him, with no self-consciousness in the least. "Bastian has a sweet tooth."

Sebastian shrugged, smiling--aware, no doubt, that he would shortly be dragged off to meet his fate, yet willing to meet that fate cheerfully. "We'll see you in a bit, then, shall we?"

"Yes," Giles gave a slight nod, his eyes already locking with his beloved's. "In a bit. I wanted to show Buffy the Sacred Grove."

"In a little while, then," Sebastian told him.

"Yes," Giles answered. "In a little while."

He took Buffy's hand in his, gazing down into her eyes, as she gazed up into his with an expression of utter trust and acceptance. Their feet made no sound on the soft grass, and even without hurrying they walked swiftly across the softly rolling countryside. Giles felt young again, younger than he had even as a youth, younger than he had since boyhood, in those days when he'd walked the neighboring countryside in Augustina's company. He felt not merely loved, but completed by love, and the memory of that experience, was something that could never be taken from him.

"Did you enjoy your ride?" Giles asked.

"Loved it!" Buffy answered. "It was just...like flying."

"Duck your head a bit." Giles lifted a branch, and then they were inside the grove, where a tiny stream bubbled, and the grass was lush and studded with wildflowers. The trees grew in a perfect circle around them. Why this was, he'd never known--only that they always had, and that it seemed right that the trees should be so.

"Oh!" Buffy exclaimed. "Oh! It's...Giles, is it really, really sacred?" She paused, gazing up at him, her pupils dilated despite the sunlight.

Giles said nothing, only took hold of her singlet shirt and drew it over her head. Though the summer air was warm around them, Buffy shivered, gooseflesh rising in her skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked her.

Buffy's small, pink tongue ran over her lower lip. "No..uh...no. The opposite, really."

Giles reached down to unfasten the front clasp of her peach-coloured brassiere. Released from their imprisonment, her firm breasts scarcely swayed, even as he slipped the unneeded garment down her arms and cast it aside.

The sunlight fell across Buffy's skin in gold and pale-green dapples, and she looked to him, in her perfection, exactly like a woodland nymph from some ancient tale. Her hands rose eagerly, bunching the fabric of his own shirt, and he bent over, to speed its removal.

Giles took off his last pair of spare glasses, and put them for safekeeping in the fork of a tree.

"My turn?" Buffy asked him.

In answer, Giles knelt before her, working the snap and zip of her jeans, easing the stiff fabric down over the gentle curve of her hips. Buffy raised one foot, then the other, stepping free of their encumbrance, and Giles tossed the discarded trousers aside. Her knickers were green silk, the colour of the leaves. He slipped his hand between her legs, stroking her through the soft fabric, her heat and her moistness increasing with his touch.

Buffy shifted a little, her stance widening, then slid down against him, straddling his thighs, her bare chest silken against his, her lips seeking Giles's own hungrily. Her tongue delved into his mouth: she tasted, with wonderful sweetness, of strawberries.

The heat and pressure of her body against his nearly drove him mad, especially when she began to move, her sex rubbing him through the thick fabric of his breeches.

"Buffy!" Giles gasped.

With her Slayer strength and agility, Buffy had him on his back in seconds. She lay by his side, her body fitted to his, bending again for a kiss. Her fingers pulled down his zip in the same instant, slipping inside his opened trousers. Giles shut his eyes, breathing in her scent, awaiting with anticipation her next move, loving the thick coolness of the grass against his back, the soothing burble of the stream in his ears, the small, deceptively-gentle hand that stroked him until he positively ached for release.

Buffy's touch withdrew. She moved to a position atop him, lying against his chest, her perfumed hair whispering across his skin. Giles stroked down her back, cursing, silently, the awkwardness of his right hand, even as he cupped her bottom, caressing its firm roundness.

Buffy gave a murmur of pleasure, snuggling even closer.

"You wanna finish getting undressed now?" she asked him, in a sleepy, playful voice.

"Might be wise," Giles answered, sitting up with her still in his arms, then rising, Buffy's supple legs wrapping round his waist. He could hold her easily; she weighed nothing.

He nudged back her head, kissing her mouth, then her throat, even over the terrible mark Angel had left on the otherwise smooth perfection of her skin, a mark she was likely to carry with her to her grave. He kissed her again, as if the completeness of his love for her might somehow take away the scar--but he knew it would not. It never could. For what seemed the millionth time, he felt a surge of anger. His muscles tightened.

"It's all right," Buffy said, sliding down. Her sapphire eyes gazed up at his, filled with emotion. "Giles, it's all right. Really."

Giles laid his hand over the scar and stooped, once more, to kiss her. Buffy's arms encircled him, her hands spreading out across his shoulders, as if she wished to hide from view the marks that he, too, had taken at the vampire's hands.

For a long time they stood just so, knowing one another's thoughts so well there was no need to voice them.

At last Buffy said, "We're going back soon, aren't we?"

"Yes, very soon I should think, now, " Giles answered.

"I wish we could stay here forever," she told him. "Don't you?"

"We'll return," he told her. "Someday."

"Soon?"

"Yes, my love," Giles answered, not knowing if what he told her was true, but speaking the words nonetheless--words they both wanted, and perhaps needed, to hear. With their lives as they were, it was crucial to plan, to look to the future. "Yes, Buffy, as soon as you like."

Buffy's look said she wished he spoke the truth. They both could wish, and pretend, all they liked--and yet the Hellmouth still, inescapably, awaited them. She lay down, on her back, in the grass, her expression changing to that familiar one of comfort and trust. Quickly, without further thought, Giles divested himself of his remaining clothing, and after suitable precautions, positioned himself over her, looking down into that lovely young face.

"I'm sorry you have to leave home again," she told him.

You are my home, love, Giles thought. You are my home.

"That doesn't matter," he told her, entering the warmth of her body.

They made love slowly, beneath the whispering trees, and every touch, every caress was like a leave-taking, though Giles could not have said why it was so. At the end, Buffy wept, and he held her in his arms, stroking her hair, soothing her with small meaningless sounds, as one might soothe a child.

But she was not a child, his Buffy--she only wept for him, in his place, where he could not.

In the end, they slept, still holding one another, inside the sheltering grove, like the first couple, innocent, at least for that short time, of all the evils in the world.