Transitions Ch. 65

They'd seemed destined for an uneventful journey between Salisbury and London, and for the first half hour, Moira and Rupert had sat across from one another in a nearly-deserted railway compartment, discussing the differences between the Gaelic languages, ancient and modern, like a pair of stodgy University dons. In time, however, conversation lagged, and Rupert gave her one of those vulnerable looks of which he, on rare occasions, was entirely capable--despite what others might think.

"Are you nervous at all, Em?" he asked her.

"Heavens, Rupert, of course not. Why should I be?" Moira replied, knowing the moment the words left her mouth that Rupert would have heard through the lie--her native Cornish accent clearly overlay the pristine tones she'd been taught at Oxford, and that only happened at times of stress.

They'd made a habit in recent years, she and Rupert, of concealing vast amounts from one another--or, rather, she had. Rupert, remained, in all essentials, as he'd been for the majority of his adult life--a man of apparent self-contained quietness, endless reserves of passion hidden beneath a facade of seeming calm.

The fact was, Moira admitted to herself, that she'd shamed herself during her last years with Helena. She nearly blushed to think that she, Moira Bannister-St. Ives, Lady LeFaye, who'd prided herself on her own independence, had come to depend so completely upon another human being. She'd felt so near, so often, to the madness, and Rupert had provided her only lifeline out of that morass.

Now, on this train, her old friend appeared to be fighting an ever-increasing desire to pace or fidget. He glanced up at her, now and then, as if he wished to ask some question he could not yet bring himself to voice. Moira herself stirred restlessly, trying to find, in the rolling green hills of Wessex flashing by their compartment window, a peaceful focus. She suffered misgivings--though whether those misgivings resulted from mere apprehension or were entirely justified, Moira couldn't tell.

She had been a Watcher, or in training to be one, for most of her own adult life, and still felt a superstitious dread at the thought of violating their sanctuary, the Compound.

Now Moira watched Rupert force himself to sit still. A book lay open on his lap, but he no longer so much as pretended to read. His face held a pensive expression, but thanks to her ministrations, Moira was pleased to note, the swelling seemed to have subsided drastically. The bruises appeared days, rather than hours, old.

"Does it trouble you, Rupert?" Moira gestured, indicating the injuries.

"No, no, it's nothing." His expression, which most others would have perceived as carefully neutral, held a deep sadness.

She ought, Moira considered, to have left Rupert behind at Appleyard--a place he loved--with his family and friends, with his lively young intended. He'd already suffered too much in recent weeks, and she'd no call to bring him into this situation, one which, at the very least, was bound to turn unpleasant.

Rupert moved slightly in his seat, shutting the book without having glanced at its pages. A sudden deep impulse seized Moira: she longed to sit beside her old friend and enfold him in her arms, to share one of those deep, warm kisses with him, that they'd so often exchanged in past days--all during their later years at Oxford, and through their Watcher candidacy. She tended, at times, to forget how impossible they were as a couple.

Much as Moira adored her sweet Wesley, Rupert might have been said to be more her type, both physically and by nature. Even as a troubled girl she'd loved those clear, changeable, green eyes; that smile that might be sweetly tentative, or could warm his entire face; those lovely hands.

The eyes, Moira reflected, that had appeared tired and wary for what seemed weeks now, the smile that only truly brightened for Buffy or, more rarely, for Seb. Hands that first the vampire Angelus, in the previous year, then the horrid remnant of her once-beloved Helena, so cruelly injured. Moira felt the corners of her mouth turn down.

"What is it, Em?" Rupert asked, alarmed, no doubt, by her expression. "You've the oddest look."

Moira laughed softly. "Just thinking how dead lovely you are, Rupert dear."

He blushed gratifyingly. "Em--"

Moira laughed again. "You know how I've always fancied you, Rupert--even when you're looking every inch the barroom brawler.

He touched the taped bridge of his nose tenderly, then gave a bit of a smile, understanding her meaning perfectly. "We have seen rather a lot of mileage, haven't we, Em?"

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. "Did you wish to tell me what actually befell you last night?"

His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "No, Em. Not particularly."

"A..." Moira lowered her voice. "Vampire?"

Rupert glanced out the window, running an index finger through a thin film of condensation on the glass. "I stopped by the house last night."

"Church House? Where your mother lived?"

Her old friend did not, recognizably, frown, but a certain sorrow came into the lines of his face.

"Your mum was there," Moira said in a flash of insight. "She'd been...?"

"Turned." Rupert covered his mouth with a hand that trembled slightly, then rubbed at the bruised place on his jaw. "I...er...accomplished what was necessary."

Submitting at last to her earlier impulse, Moira shifted across the narrow aisle that separated their seats to take a place close to him. She laid her own hand over his bandaged one. "Oh, Rupert," she said after a time, "I am so very sorry."

He glanced out the window again; Moira could see his face reflected dimly in the glass.

"I've been through this, with Buffy," Rupert told her softly. "Talking. It's no use, really. I shall...I shall simply have to work through it, in my own time." He turned back to her, his expression once more controlled, pleasant, alert. "We've work to accomplish, after all."

"Yes," Moira answered, "There's always the work."

They gazed at one another, both understanding quite well what was meant by those words, what was always meant. Rupert turned his hand so that they touched palm to palm, and his fingers closed gently around hers.

"There's no doubt we'll make it through," he told her.

Moira, suddenly uncertain, forced a smile. "No, Rupert," she responded. "There's no doubt whatsoever."

But her misgivings only grew as their train pulled into London proper. The exact hour of their arrival might not have been foretold, but it would not precisely come as a surprise: the Watchers would expect them. Every instinct she possessed told her to expect a bitter reckoning.

Buffy walked up and down the narrow aisles, feeling her pores open in the moist air, breathing in the smells of dirt and greenness and a hundred different types of flowers. "I can't decide, Seb," she said. "What do you think?"

Sebastian stopped with a red rose in his hand, and Buffy's stomach did a weird twisting thing. Red roses reminded her of Jenny Calendar, and to see Seb, who looked so much like his dad, standing there with one in his hand took her straight back to that bad, bad night the Spring before.

"What is it?" he asked.

Buffy shrugged. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Sebastian finally clued in to what she must be thinking, and stuck the rose back into its plastic holder. "Ah. Her."

"They just remind me of Ms. Calendar, and you remind me of Giles, so together--instant wiggins." To give herself time to get it back together, Buffy bent to smell a spicy red Carnation. "How about these?" Since everything else had gone so weird, she'd wanted to make the gesture of leaving something at the cemetery for Giles's family. Maybe it didn't mean anything...but then again, maybe it did.

"Lilies are more traditional, I suppose," Sebastian told her. "Or perhaps Gladioli."

Buffy shook her head. "Do I look traditional?"

She knew she didn't--it was a bright, sunny day, almost hot for England, and she'd decided to hell with what everyone else wore, why not put on one of her miniskirts and tank tops? What were they going to do, burn her at the stake? When she'd come downstairs, Celeste had laughed and said she admired Buffy's aplomb--whatever that meant.

Sebastian, on the other hand, seemed to be having Wesley-like difficulties with where to put his eyes--from her neck up and ankles down seemed to be his only safe zone.

"That, my dear Buffy, you do not," he answered, in a heartfelt tone.

Buffy laughed. "The carnations, then, for umn...I don't know what to call her."

"I always referred to her as 'Clara.'"

"Not grandma or grandmother, or any of that stuff?" Buffy wished that it wasn't too late for daffodils. She'd wanted to leave daffodils for the girls, Marianna and Clarice--she thought they'd have liked the sunny yellowness.

"Clara wasn't ever my grandmother except, I suppose, in the strictly physical sense. We met, of course, but I always blamed her rather dreadfully."

"For the stuff with your dad?" Buffy asked, even though she knew the answer. Of course Sebastian blamed Clara Giles--Stanley--whatever she called herself--for the bad stuff that happened to his father. She, personally, couldn't understand how her honey had found it in his heart to forgive his mom at all--but he had. She tried to imagine how horrible it would be to have to stake one of your own parents, however far you'd grown apart. She couldn't do it. She couldn't even let her brain go there.

"What do you think of the daisies, Buffy?" Sebastian touched her shoulder, lightly and quickly, to get her attention--an extremely Gilesean gesture. Old-style Giles, anyway.

Buffy found herself smiling up at him. "Daisies are perfect."

"We're decided, then." Sebastian gestured to the little pixy-like woman who ran the shop, motioning her over. "It's kind of you to do this, Buffy. A thoughtful gesture."

Buffy shrugged. "It seemed like someone should, and your dad's kinda out of it. Do you think we should have..." She didn't want to spend too much time considering why Giles and Moira had gone to London dressed up in their Watcher clothes, and why he'd insisted so strongly that neither she or Sebastian could come along. He'd even tried to leave her sleeping, without waking her at all. Buffy resented that, big-time, at first--but then she thought of all the times she'd said, "I need you to stay here, I can't protect you." Maybe he felt the same way.

"Seb..." she began, not exactly sure how to go on with what she meant to tell him--and then the woman was looking at her, expecting her to say what she wanted. Buffy explained about the daisies and the carnations, then turned to Sebastian once again after she'd gone away. "It was Watcher business, wasn't it? That Giles and Moira were going on?"

"They--er--didn't make that clear." Sebastian was a way worse liar than his dad. When Giles wanted to be, he could achieve downright sneakiness, but Seb blushed too easily. Buffy gave him a look and he caved. "Buffy, it was purely routine, I'm sure. They wanted a book from the Council Archives, one that would explain how to tighten the seal on the London Hellmouth."

"A book." They wandered over to the counter at the same time the florist returned, and Buffy fished into her purse for some of the multicolored British money Giles had given her. Paying wasn't too tough--the bills and coins were plainly marked, and she could do the math. She just didn't know what anything really cost. Sebastian, the perfect gentleman, carried her flowers.

The little bell over the shop door jingled as they came out, and Buffy blinked in the sudden bright light, feeling suddenly a little dizzy and displaced. Seb grabbed her arm to steady her.

"Buffy?"

She shook her head to clear it. "Nothing. Just a moment of weirdness."

"I think you ought to sit down somewhere. Have a cup of tea, perhaps?"

She shook her head again. The feeling was lingering, getting worse, even. Her back hurt too, like it was bruised, and she felt generally achy--she hoped she wasn't getting sick again. In fact, she'd started to get the worst-ever sinus headache.

"Let's just leave the flowers and go home, okay?"

"You're not feeling well, are you?"

"It just hit me," Buffy answered. "Geez, it's like I got whacked in the face or something."

Sebastian gave her a sharp look and started to say something else, then stopped. He put a big-brotherly arm around her shoulder, leading her back to the Bentley--which a bunch of boys a couple years younger than her were admiring, but pretending not to.

"Some blokes have all the luck," one of them muttered. "The best motors, the best birds."

Sebastian opened the door, helping Buffy in, then walked around to his own side. While the door was open, she heard one of the others say something rude--at least she thought it was rude. The tone was there, even if she didn't understand the words.

Sebastian straightened, looking down on them--and even though they were six to his one, they backed away with a muttered, "Sorry, mate."

"Just remember your manners next time," Sebastian told them, managing to sound good-humored instead of stuffy. He slid into the driver's seat, shutting the door behind him.

"Did you just give them a Ripper-look?" Buffy asked.

"It's oddly effective." Sebastian ran his fingertips thoughtfully over the steering wheel, then turned his bright, Giles-without-worries smile on her. "I suppose, though, that they'd be rather less impressed if they knew the car was my mum's and the beautiful young bird my dad's.

Buffy looked at him and, despite herself, started to laugh. She'd started to feel better again. In fact, she felt fine. "Yeah, but you have The Perfect Hostess."

"That's true," Sebastian answered, laughing with her. "That's very true." He started the engine, shifted, and pulled out into traffic. "You've got your color back, Buffy," he told her, after a sideways glance.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I don't know what that was--some Slaying-related wobblies, I guess."

Sebastian reached over to lay his hand against her forehead. "You're neither too hot nor too cold."

"Just one of those things." She grinned. "My grandma used to call that 'having a turn.'"

"Still, perhaps Aunt Rose ought to have a look at you." Seb took the Bentley around a curve and suddenly, there they were, back at St. Elizabeth's. He parked, turning to face her. Buffy grinned up at him, and Sebastian smiled back, though with a little more restraint. "Although I can't think why--at the moment, you're quite the picture of health."

"That's me. Health girl." Buffy opened her door, sliding out across the leather seat.

Luckily, Sebastian had parked halfway under a tree, so the spreading branches would hopefully provide some shade. Otherwise, she'd have been willing to bet that the black leather would be hot enough to barbecue on by the time they finished. Seb had already started to look a little sweaty, ruining the effect of his perfect dress-shirt, coat and tie--a little ensemble that in and of itself was so nice Buffy guessed that Celeste probably picked it out for him.

"You, on the other hand, are looking a little warm," Buffy told him. "The world won't end if you take off your coat and tie, you know."

Sebastian shrugged. "One doesn't like to."

"You sound like your dad." Buffy handed him the two bouquets, saying, "I just want to run across the street for a minute." On the back seat, she located the tin box she'd brought along.

"Buffy--" Seb called after her, but she'd already gone.

Church House looked different than it had the other time--probably because she wasn't getting ready to die, or recovering from almost dying. It looked like just an ordinary house, English-style: a little poky and old-fashioned, nothing to be afraid of.

On the back steps, though, she noticed some rust-colored stains, and two splintered chair legs crossed over each other on the gravel path. Dust lay in drifts on the stairs.

Buffy opened the tin and, with her hand, swept what she could of the dust inside. She hoped--in what she recognized as a fairly morbid way--that if she ever ended up like this, someone would do the same for her.

When she straightened up, Sebastian stood right behind her.

"Spot of housecleaning?" he asked.

Buffy felt herself blushing. She didn't know how to explain, and so she finally just told him, "Clara."

Seb's face got that questioning Giles look--eyes wide open, eyebrows raised.

"She got turned. Giles staked her. The end."

"Then his nose--"

"She put up a fight." Buffy placed the box in Sebastian's hands, along with the flowers. "People change when they get turned. They're not the same, even if they think they are."

"How so?" Sebastian asked, following Buffy toward the big old tree in the backyard. She studied a minute, scoping out handholds, before making her way up. "And what on earth are you doing?"

"Different how? I don't know. More distant, with a mean streak--a lot of them. With a lot of vamps, it means they get dumber. Unless they were just really, really dumb in real life."

"Distant...?" Sebastian said.

"Like there's no heart. That's the demon influence. Know what I mean?"

Seb shook his head, but what he really meant, Buffy realized, was that he did know, and was trying to think what exactly it was that was wigging him.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Something my mum was upset about. She'd called her house in Sunnydale, and was worried that her...er...friend."

"Umn, fiance, I guess. Wesley," Buffy supplied.

"She was concerned that Wesley sounded distant. She'd said it quite raised her hackles, even though he gave the perfectly rational explanation of feeling a bit groggy after having been awakened from a kip."

Buffy gave him a look, not understanding.

"A nap, to you Americans," Sebastian replied.

"So, you're thinking what?" Buffy grunted as she hauled herself upward.

"Oh, nothing, most likely. Only... You don't think..."

"That Wesley's a vampire?" Buffy laughed. "Puh-lease." She'd found the old squirrel hole and poked her hand inside, coming up with a slightly moldy leather pouch with the letter C embossed on the front. "You don't know how silly that would be. He'd have to wash you before he bit you, or something."

"It is ludicrous, isn't it?" Sebastian called up to her. "I'm creating trouble where there's none."

Buffy shinnied down. "Yeah, Seb, don't do that. There's enough in the world without borrowing more." She spilled the contents of the bag out onto her palm: one tiny circle of gold, and a tangle of tarnished silver, plus a few odd bits and pieces--a feather, a kid's baby tooth, a little magnifying glass. She showed the collection to Sebastian.

"A child's treasure," he said, but he touched one piece with a look of confusion. It didn't look that just special--just an egg-shaped rock with a slimy leather cord through the narrow end, a little cartoon hand on one side and a pair of wings on the other.

"Weird, huh?" Buffy asked. "Though I guess you might expect it in the House of Giles."

"It's very old," Sebastian told her, then smiled. "If you're done, Buffy, let's go lay the flowers, shall we?" He transferred all his burdens to one arm, reaching out the other hand to her.

Buffy returned the treasures to their pouch, and tucked the pouch into Seb's jacket-pocket. Her small hand closed around his big one, and together they walked into the graveyard.

As she passed over into the hallowed ground, she felt a shiver run down her spine, that familiar "goose on her grave" feeling. Which was stupid. She had nothing to be afraid of. Everything would be fine.

Damn Sebastian anyway, she thought. Why'd he have to go wig me out?

Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. In a few hours, Giles would be home, and he'd tell her how he'd spent his day, and she'd tell him how she spent hers.

Clara's grave, the way she'd expected, was all clawed up, so Buffy didn't leave the carnations there. Instead, she took the flowers and the box back from Sebastian, and crossed the churchyard to the mausoleum that Giles, as a boy, had called his sisters' house. She walked up the steps into the cool darkness, and looked for their names--and there they were, two plaques, side-by-side.

"Clarice, Marianna," she said, laying down the daisies, that reminded her of clusters of suns drawn by happy children. "I hope you know how much your brother cared about you."

There was a little niche in one corner, where maybe a candle was supposed to burn. Instead, Buffy set the tin there, and left the carnations beside it, redder and brighter than any flame. "Thank you, Clara," she whispered, "For giving me the man I love."

When she came out, Sebastian was waiting on the steps. He took her hand again, and for a long time they stood there hand-in-hand and side-by-side, staring back into the shadows that lay beyond the open door.