Tribulations - Ch. 28

I don't belong, Joyce thought, the unspoken words bringing a half-hidden sense of loss into the foreground of her mind again. She felt like a stranger, even though she'd known--or at least known of--three of the other people in the room for more than three years. The fourth, Buffy, she'd loved since the moment a nurse put the squirming little red-faced bundle into her arms more than eighteen years before, saying to her, "Here's your daughter, Joyce. Isn't she beautiful?"

And she had been--even bald and toothless and red as a tomato, she'd been the most beautiful thing Joyce had ever seen. She'd felt as if her heart had been taken away forever, that from that moment forward it would always, at least partly, be Buffy's heart, and Joyce herself would be forever helpless to change that, even if she'd wanted to.

Yet there sat Buffy and Rupert on the sofa, holding hands, their bodies so close together she couldn't have slipped a postage stamp between them. Joyce knew that her daughter still loved her, but a daughter's love was different from a mother's--a daughter's focus was always turned toward freedom, toward a separate, adult life, toward the man she loved. Joyce had been the same herself, twenty-plus years before, and she wondered if her mother's heart had broken the way hers broke now--if that had been the real reason Iris McAfee had disapproved so completely of Hank, not because he was such a bad man, as men went, but because he was the one who stole her greatest treasure away.

Joyce stared at Rupert--well, really, glared at him--until he looked up at her. For a minute, his expression showed nothing but confusion, and she wondered what her own face actually displayed, then his green eyes got sad, and his face took on a look of sympathy. Despite all that British repression he was easier to read than any man she'd ever known: those eyes gave everything away. She knew then exactly what she'd let slip, and that he'd understood it and felt sorry for her. But what could he do, really? He wasn't going to give up Buffy just because Buffy's mom got in a snit.

It all made Joyce feel ashamed of herself, and helpless, and useless.

There sat Xander next to Rupert with his knees tucked up to his chest. The boy looked serious, but no longer sick and lost, the way he had when he'd staggered across her doorstep. One glimpse, and Joyce almost hadn't let him in. She's almost taken him for some kind of monster, and left him outside, to be the prey of God-knew-what. Once inside, she hadn't been able to help him, though all her maternal instincts called out for her to do just that. The boy had to come here to get any kind of help at all. He'd had to come here to Rupert.

Her unreasonable resentment flared again as Rupert said something softly and Buffy looked to him, love and trust shining in her eyes--the same love and trust that had shone there when Buffy was a child, and her faith was absolute, when she believed that her mommy could do no wrong. Those days were long gone, no getting them back, any more than she could get back Hank, or the other million things she'd lost along the course of her life. Still, Joyce wished badly that she could turn back the clock, glue the pages back onto the calendar until it was, say, 1986 again, and Buffy believed in her, and Hank loved her.

The others had moved closer together, while she, without even being aware that she was doing it, had ended up farther away. They'd started talking about Wesley again--Mr. Wyndham-Price. Joyce hadn't known the man, not really, but he'd deserved better than that, the same way Hank, whatever his faults, had deserved better. The way even that terrifying woman, Moira, had deserved better. Joyce didn't even know why Moira had scared her, but she had, and if Rupert, who'd known her better than anyone, said they couldn't stop her, Joyce felt inclined to take him at his word. So she sat and watched them make battle plans that didn't include her, until finally she couldn't stand it anymore.

"I'm going," she said softly, not sure anyone could hear, or cared anyway.

Buffy glanced up. "Ooh, Mom, my bad. I'm sorry." Buffy's blue eyes shone at her with real affection, and Joyce knew that, partly, she was just being silly, that of course her daughter cared about her, that she hadn't meant to leave Joyce out.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said softly. "I--" Joyce didn't know, really, what she meant to say, and so her words simply ground to a halt.

Buffy looked at her with sympathy. "All this Council of War stuff--pretty boring, huh?"

"I'm just tired," Joyce answered. "Just tired." She didn't know what else to say. Sadness pulled at her heart like a big lead weight, and what she really wanted to do was shut herself inside her car and cry, the way she couldn't cry here.

"You wanna go home?" Buffy asked her.

Joyce nodded. "I...please. Yes, please."

"I'll walk you to the mommobile, 'kay?" A quick glance, a barely detectable shake of Rupert's head, and Buffy, who'd begun to rise, sat back down. "Or not." Her forehead creased.

"Willow's done a spell," Rupert told her, in his soft persuasive voice. "It's healed us, but only within the confines of my flat, I'm afraid. We're trapped, rather."

Joyce felt another bolt of unreasoning irritation, but she forced herself to nod, and to say she understood, even though she really wanted to rail at him for endangering her daughter yet again.

"I'll walk you out, Ms. Summers," Xander offered, obviously trying to bolster his feelings of manliness, though his voice remained on the shaky side.

"You're sure, Xander?" Rupert asked him kindly.

"Yeah--" Xander stretched and climbed to his feet. "No big."

Rupert got up to, going to the large chest over by the kitchen passthrough. He rooted through its contents until he found a crossbow and large bottle of what Joyce could only assume must be holy water. Buffy took a cross from one of the many little tables and pressed the longer end of it into Joyce's hand.

"See? You're all set now. I know it's hard, Mom, but try to get some sleep, 'kay? Don't worry about me."

"I'm your mother," Joyce answered. "I can't not worry."

Buffy smiled, and rose on her tiptoes to kiss Joyce's cheek. "I know. But don't. And thank you for not freaking."

Joyce gave a small, tight laugh. "Don't think we're not going to have a discussion later, young lady."

"That's my mom." Buffy laughed wholeheartedly. "Call when you get home safe. Promise?"

"I...promise."

Buffy walked her to the door. Xander, still looking close to panicked, walked her to her car.

Joyce slipped behind the wheel, but didn't start the jeep right away. Instead she watched Xander duck his head, fidget, swallow, start to talk, then stop himself, until she could hardly stand it.

"It's okay, Xander," she told him at last. "I don't blame you."

"I'm not usually. Not...usually." His dark eyes pleaded with her, and Joyce thought of Xander's own mother. She'd run into Betty Harris now and then in the supermarket, and found her chatty--a little too chatty, and a little too...well, too something. Like she was trying too hard. She'd talk about the contents of her cart, "I'm going to make some nice fruit punch for Xander," or, "My little boy Xander just LOVES these." She always smelled of wine and too much perfume, she could never quite push her cart in a straight line--and her shirts always had long sleeves and high collars, even on the hottest days.

And her little boy Xander's eyes nearly always looked haunted.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked her.

Joyce nodded. "How about you?"

Xander's eyes welled, but he blinked back the tears. "Fine," he told her fiercely. "I'll be fine."

"Me too," Joyce answered.

"Lock up," Xander warned, and shut the driver's side door for her.

Joyce nodded, even though he'd already turned back. She watched him climb the stairs to Rupert's apartment, then head down again, his shoulders hunched as if he was being forced to carry some heavy burden--which he was. They all were: Xander, little Willow, Buffy, Rupert...

She hadn't prayed in a long, long time, but she said one for them then, tears trickling beneath the closed lids of her eyes. "God, please take care of them. Please take care of them all."

It always amazed Sebastian how smoothly things went when he traveled with Celeste. Other people had trouble getting reservations, or had to endure such things as ill-mannered ticket agents or lost luggage. He'd experienced enough of that in his younger days: even with his adoptive father's status as a diplomat there had been muddle after muddle, things lost, connections missed, service people who couldn't be bothered. Not so with Celeste. They made the journey from their house to Heathrow in record time, the woman behind the counter seemed only too willing to help, and before Sebastian knew it they were on their way down the concourse to their flight.

He couldn't quite fight a sense of unreality--in fact, out-of-balance as he felt, it all seemed rather like a dream. They'd risen quite early to make this connection, but Sebastian couldn't force himself to believe he'd awakened at all. He wondered if he appeared rumpled, as well as confused, or if his wife had sorted that out as well.

In what seemed another blink of the eye, he found himself seated in First Class, aboard a British Airways 747, with Celeste by his side.

"See, now, that wasn't so bad, Bastian," she said to him, and smiled, with that wonderful radiance that had first drawn him to her--literally, as the cliche went, from across a crowded room. There'd been a party, a drinks party, a charity affair, the men in evening wear, the women in sparkly little frocks. Celeste had been the center of attention, laughing, confident, young men quite as rich as he, as handsome as he, hanging upon her every word. She'd looked so very lovely in her low-cut black dress, a simple strand of pearls around her throat, creamy against the golden-brown perfection of her skin, a small baroque cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. She'd gestured as she spoke, and the movement of her hands through the air had struck Sebastian as the loveliest thing he'd ever seen--that is, until her great, warm, brown eyes locked with his own.

She'd ended the evening in his arms, dancing on the terrace, and he'd felt how strong she was, and how confident, and how much she needed to be loved not merely for her beauty but for that essential part of herself he'd seen shining in her eyes. He wondered, sometimes, what she'd seen in him. Whatever it was, he could only feel thankful--that she'd loved him then, and still, that she seemed perfectly willing to face all the horrors of the world at his side. That she could take all of the oddness of his life in stride.

He only wished he had a voice to say the words to her.

Instead, Sebastian took her fine hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed the palm. Celeste glanced up, her eyes meeting his as they'd done a million times, and he read no slackening of their fire, no disappointment, no regret.

"I love you more than my own life," he mouthed, and Celeste read the words on his lips. Her other hand rose to stroke his cheek, then slid behind his neck to pull his face down to hers. She kissed him tenderly, her lips tugging softly at his upper lip, and Sebastian felt something melt inside him, as it always melted. He raised her hand to his heart, letting her feel the beat of it, even as Celeste's lips smiled against his own.

They parted slowly, reluctantly, their eyes holding the gaze unbroken.

"I feel the same, Bastian," Celeste told him softly. "Whatever happens, I'll always feel the same."

Still holding her hand, Sebastian sat back in his seat. A sensation of peace washed through him, and of rightness. They'd been through a rough time, and there might be rougher times ahead, but each obstacle would be faced, and overcome. He turned to touch his wife's only slightly-mounded belly, feeling--either through his fingers, or his LeFaye senses, he couldn't rightly say which--the faint stirrings of their child within her. Their firstborn would be a little girl, he knew, and already wondered what she'd look like, what she'd BE like--would she have Celeste's practicality and warmth, or his love of books? Would they look at her as see parts of themselves, and of each other, or would she be entirely her own person?

"We'll be all right," Celeste said softly. "You'll see."

Sebastian nodded, matching her smile with his own. There were together, and complete--and everything would turn out fine as a summer's day.

There were books spread out all over the couch, the floor and the coffee table, none of which told them anything. Even Willow was starting to lose her temper, and Giles had gotten up more than ten minutes before to make tea, but hadn't come back.

How long did it take for water to boil, anyway?

Buffy watched Xander glance toward the kitchen for the fifth time before she finally tumbled to the truth. The awareness of what must have been going on, combined with the length of time it took her to get it, didn't exactly make her feel good about herself.

"Guys," she said softly. "I'll be back in a few."

"Take your time," Xander told her, just as quietly.

Buffy nodded. Giles wasn't in the kitchen--but then she hadn't expected him to be. Normally she would have looked for him next in the little courtyard downstairs from the back door, but now, under the curse-and-spell deal, even that would be forbidden to him. There only remained one semi-private place that he could be.

She tiptoed down the hall and rapped gently on the bathroom door. "Giles?"

"Just a moment," he called back to her, his voice sounding a little congested, the way she knew it would be. Water ran inside, then the towel bar squeaked. Finally, the door opened.

"I'm sorry," he began. "Did you need--?"

"I needed to see if you were okay," Buffy answered, watching the grayness pass through his eyes, revealing his grief. "Only I see that you aren't. And why should you be?"

Giles looked down on her for a minute, then stepped back, sinking down on the edge of the tub, his shoulders slumped. "I didn't expect, somehow..." He brought a trembling hand up to cover his mouth and his eyes got too bright, though of course no tears fell. She'd known that they wouldn't.

Buffy slipped into the small room, shutting the door gently behind her. "We always expect you to just keep going, but that's not fair." She moved closer, laying her hand gently on the back of his bowed head, stroking his hair. The softness always amazed her--it was so much silkier then she expected, like a boy's. "Moira was your best friend. She's been part of your life for...well, for almost your whole life. How could we expect you to just be emotionless answer-guy?"

Giles made an inarticulate sound, and Buffy stepped closer still, until his damp cheek rested against her chest. Her arm circled his shoulders, holding him with as much of her strength as she could use and not hurt him. Giles didn't move at all, except that his breathing was ragged and sounded painful. His arms moved around her waist, tightening around her with the force of his desperation.

"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered to him. "I'm so sorry that you have to face this, on top of everything else. And I promise you, cross my heart, that I'll...umn...when it comes down to it, with Moira, I'll take care of her for you. I mean...at the end. You won't have to be the one to do it."

She knelt in front of him, taking his face between her hands, gazing up into his reddened eyes. "I PROMISE you, Giles."

A not-quite-but-almost smile flickered over his mouth one second before he bent down to kiss her. Buffy tasted salt on his lips and knew exactly what he felt, and what he'd been doing, all alone here by himself. She touched her tongue inside his upper lip, taking in the saltiness, then pulled away. "I know it embarrasses you," she told him, rubbing her thumbs over the lingering moisture on his cheeks. "I know you're supposed to be tough, British, stiff-upper-lip guy. But don't you know that you don't have to face these things alone? That I'm here for you, when you hurt, or when you just need someone to hold you?"

Giles ran his fingertips over her hair, touching his thumb to Buffy's own lips as he shook his head.

"I am." She lowered her hands to his thighs, just above the knees, squeezing a little to emphasize her point. "Whenever you need me, I'm here, Giles."

"I know," he answered, in a softer version of his usual voice. "Believe me, love, I do know, and it's one of the wonders and the joys--the greatest joy, in fact--of my existence. And, still, sometimes I cannot believe..."

"In me?" Buffy asked, remembering all the times she'd let him down, and knowing he had every right, really, not to trust her.

"In you? Oh, Buffy, if there's one thing, one person, I'm absolutely certain of, it's you."

Buffy felt her own eyes sting as she looked up into his again, and saw the tenderness there, along with the complete, unshakeable trust she'd never quite feel certain that she'd earned.

"Love," he said, even more softly, "It's myself I can't ever quite believe in."

"Oh, Giles." Buffy sat back on her heels, still looking up at him. "You're so..." For the life of her, she couldn't think how to end the sentence. Instead, she reached around his middle and hugged him again, totally forgetting about the bruises, until he gave a grunt of protest and she pulled back again, resting a gentle hand over the spot where he wouldn't admit the ribs were cracked. "You're SO Giles. If you won't believe in yourself, let the rest of us do it for you?"

His mouth quirked into a little smile. "You always make me feel better, Buffy, even when I'm ready to sink into the depths of despair. It's still impossible, love--you know that, don't you? I've thought round and round the situation, and still can't come up with any answer but that we shan't be able to fight her."

"No, that's gotta be wrong! Giles, you taught me--" Buffy rubbed his chest gently with the palms of her hands. "You taught me that everyone and everything has a weakness. Why should Moira be different than that?" She gave him a grin brighter, and more optimistic than what she felt. "She's not so tough."

Giles gave a small shudder and his head lowered again, his face pressing to her shoulder. "Oh, Buffy," he whispered. "Oh, God, Buffy, I simply can't believe she's gone."

Buffy knew how he felt, and wished there was something, anything that she could say to comfort him, but she also knew she was out of her depth, and the words wouldn't come. Instead, she held him close, rocking a little, until he straightened again, to look at her with one of those familiar, calm, Giles-expressions. When he did that, Buffy knew he'd discovered, somewhere in that seemingly endless supply of strength he hid inside himself, the determination to go on.

"That's it," she whispered. "That's my Giles."

He lifted her to her feet without saying anything, then held her small hands in his own big ones, looking up at her for a minute with those kind, sad green eyes she'd grown to love so well.

"We can do it,"Buffy told him.

Giles bent to kiss her hands, then straightened, rising to his feet. "The others will wonder what's become of us," he said. "Let's see to that tea, shall we?"

"You really are amazing," Buffy answered.

Giles shook his head and smiled down at her. "Love, I only do what I can--and you inspire me."