Tribulations - Chapter 56

"If I am not allowed out of this room, Bastian," Celeste stated, her normally pleasant voice grown undeniably threatening, "You will not care for the consequences."

Sebastian glanced up, startled to see his wife in the doorway, fully dressed in a tailored suit of soft green which she seemed--to his disquiet--to have accessorized with one of her most determined expressions. Or perhaps determined wasn't a strong enough word. Belligerent might do.

"But we were told..." he protested. "That is, your doctor said you oughtn't..."

"If I'm forced to rest anymore, I shall not be responsible for my actions." She moved toward him in a way that was nearly predatory. "Bastian, let me out!"

Sebastian blinked at her one or two times, then decided, through the agency of his better judgement, that the time had come to raise the white flag of surrender. "Shall we go out for a meal? I'm certain..."

Celeste had already snatched up a handbag, the one which coordinated perfectly with her fashionable high-heeled court shoes. As always, it amazed Sebastian how easily she--even more so than the other women of his acquaintance--walked in them. Perhaps Celeste's Slayer training helped her in that, as in other areas.

Yet another reason not to provoke her, he thought, smiling.

"Ah, I see you've begun to come round to my way of thinking." When Celeste returned his smile, her loveliness struck him as it had the first, as it would every time he regarded her. How fortunate he was, to be with her. Whether in a palace, or the questionable comfort of the Holiday Inn or in a hovel, would make no difference.

That he'd come so near to losing her--that his world, as it was, had depended only upon an undead creatures's lack of deftness with a knife, and Wyndham-Price's quick action in stopping Celeste's bleeding--was a thought he could scarcely force his brain to consider.

As if guessing his thoughts, Celeste raised a hand to her throat, where a scarf of soft blues and greens, carelessly yet artfully tied, concealed the dressings. Sebastian rose, and went to his wife, enfolding her in his arms, her strong, slender body fitted to his. "I would not deny you," he murmured into her perfumed hair. "Neither this, nor anything."

Celeste raised her face to his, kissing him with perfect tenderness.

"Did I seem a bit of a cow just then?" she asked, as they parted. Her eyes sparkled up at him, so very full of smiles and devilment Sebastian had to laugh. Celeste's arm linked with his and, still laughing, they left their room behind, heading along the corridor toward the lifts. Once inside, Celeste pulled a veritable sheaf of printed pages from her seemingly trim and incommodious handbag.

"I took the liberty of ringing the concierge--or, at least what passes for a concierge in a place like this." Celeste gave a slight sniff of disapproval--when it came to hotels, or any concern that purported to offer hospitality, his wife could be a bit of a snob. Not that she insisted every establishment they patronized be a five star hotel or award-winning restaurant: she merely expected such places to be clean, and pleasant, and for the services offered to actually be...offered. "He was watching the telly: I could hear it play in the background."

"One gets bored, I suppose," Sebastian offered weakly, secretly amused by her indignation, though he never would have said as much.

"One needn't be so obvious about it," Celeste said, but her crossness quickly departed. "At any rate, I've arranged a hired car. And found a restaurant that sounds as if it might be rather charming--at the moment, I feel fully capable of eating for two. After which..."

"We return here," Sebastian ventured, "And you agree to rest?"

"I've rested quite enough," Celeste told him. "Bastian, I hope you realize that I'm sufficiently clever to decide for myself when I need to rest again."

"Yes, of course, but..."

Admit defeat, Sebastian, he told himself. Like Napoleon's armies in Russia, you can't win, and ought to know when to turn back. Still, he had to laugh at himself.

"I've become the comic stock character of the nervous husband," he told her. "By all means, love, you've the earned the right to a bit of fun. It hasn't exactly been thick on the ground since we've arrived."

"Speaking of which..." Celeste crossed to the desk, where she rapidly completed a form containing a great number of infinitesimal boxes, then accepted a key on a rather tatty green-plastic keyfob from the spotty young man behind the desk. "I've rung Rupert and Buffy--though they weren't in, and I was forced to leave a message on the ansaphone. Oh, and after breakfast and a bit of exploration, we ought to go by the hospital and visit your mum."

"Such a whirlwind of activity you've planned!" Sebastian laughed. "After all that, I suppose we'll chose our new home, and then--" He stopped, realizing that the remainder of the papers still clutched in Celeste's hand pertained to real estate.

His wife gave him a look. "There's hardly any point in waiting, is there? Unless you're so very enamoured of our present accommodations chez Holiday Inn. We'll need to purchase our own cars, as well."

Sebastian held the large main door for her, and Celeste breezed through. Their hired vehicle waited at the curb--an undistinguished sedan of medium size, painted a shade of pale blue that bordered on the metallic. Celeste passed him the key.

"Would you care to indulge your impulse for protectiveness, Bastian, and drive? These cursed dressings pull unless I move exactly so."

It was the first complaint he'd heard her make since the time of her injury, and Sebastian was not about to argue with her. Besides, though it had been quite a long time since he'd handled an America car, he'd always rather enjoyed the feeling of doing everything wrong-side-to. "As long as you'll direct me," he answered, opening Celeste's door for her. Her breathing changed slightly as she pulled the belt across her shoulder, but she said nothing about the pain, only proceeded to deliver such a rapid-fire series of directions that only long experience allowed him to retain what she'd told him.

Celeste having plotted their route in her usual flawless fashion, they arrived at what passed for Sunnydale's High Street without the slightest confusion. As luck would have it, a parking space stood open adjacent to the brick building wherein Celeste's chosen restaurant was housed. By the time Sebastian stilled the motor and locked the doors, his wife had already leaped from her seat and made her rapid way to the pavement--there to be distracted by the art gallery occupying the building's nearer half.

Grinning, Sebastian took his Celeste's elbow, nudging her away from the glass. "I understood that you were starving, my love."

"And so I am, but..."

"I doubt very much all the art will vanish by the time we've had our breakfast, and I'd rather that you didn't expire whilst studying Mayan artifacts."

"In other words, you're hungry too." Celeste laughed, her hand rising to cover his.

"In other words, I'd be likely to eat the aforementioned Mayan artifacts, were nothing else to be offered me."

"Then, by all means," she answered, still laughing, "The art must be protected!"

Since the restaurant had been Celeste's choice, they enjoyed their time there greatly. A series of pleasant watercolours adorned the brick walls, their server was a charming young woman (and apparently, from what Celeste winkled out of her, the creator of several of the paintings) and the food excellent--perhaps all the more so for being so very Californian, and thus the antithesis both of what was usually called an English breakfast and that which they'd been forced to eat at their hotel. Celeste enjoyed her meal with gusto, now and then digressing into what she'd might have done with such a bounty of fresh produce in London, or jotting a series of notes into the little notebook she carried whereever she went.

"What's that?" Sebastian asked her, having long since finished--except for his leisurely enjoyment of the restaurant's excellent coffee. He'd been amusing himself by leafing through Celeste's printed pages. True to form, every one of the houses offered seemed perfect. His only apprehension lay in the certain knowledge that Celeste would have him peering at foundations and climbing into attics, and he never knew what he was meant to be searching for.

"Recipes. Ideas for them, at any rate. You know, Bastian, I think I'm going to quite like it here."

"After all that's happened?' Reaching across the table, he touched her throat gently.

"London was safe?" Celeste responded.

"Safer than Sunnydale, at any rate."

"For someone who's led the life you've led, followed the career you chose..." Celeste's great warm eyes shone at him, devoid of judgement. "Bastian, you do quite want to wrap me up in cotton wool, don't you?"

He shook his head, quite unable to answer her in words, because he knew any such words spoken would be a lie. With equal certainty, he understood that Celeste was a woman who would never, in her life, submit to such protectiveness. Nor did he want her to submit. He only...

"Sometimes I want, very much--" he said to his coffee cup, "To be able to control the world around me. Not out of any desire, I suppose, for power, but because I can't bear..." Sebastian met Celeste's gaze, seeing that she understood him completely, as she always understood him. "I can't bear for anything to hurt you."

"Life is pain," she quoted. Or, at least, paraphrased. "Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something."

"You are no longer allowed to watch films with my mum," Sebastian answered. A moment of doubt caught him. "That was from a film, wasn't it? I seem to remember..."

Celeste caressed his cheek with a fingertip. "It was, my love. And you, in many ways, are so very much like your father. If you aren't careful, I shall have Buffy set to work on you. And now--" She withdrew a number of American bills from her handbag, counted through them and left several on the table. "Do you think the artifacts are safe from you?"

"As safe as they'll ever be," Sebastian answered, content to follow her for this time, happy to see her as she was meant to be: happy, active, filling the very air about her with the force of her being.

In fact, he quite liked the gallery, from the moment they stepped inside. It had floors of the same weathered brick as the walls, apparently laid down, tightly fitted but unmortared, into a bed of sand. His footsteps making a pleasant creak-squeak as he and Celeste (whose footsteps made no sound whatsoever) passed from room to room. He enjoyed the quality of the light, as well, a soft warm glow which reminded him of long, lazy summer afternoons. The art, too, mostly South American, but with smatterings from other cultures, impressed him as well: obviously, it had been chosen by someone who knew, and cared, about such things.

"It's good, isn't it?" he murmured to Celeste, draping his arm round her shoulders and pulling her close. "I'm far from knowledgeable, but it seems..."

"It's lovely,' Celeste answered, matching his quiet tone. They'd stopped before a painting of vibrant colours, reminiscent of the paintings one saw everywhere on walls in San Francisco's Mission District: a dark-skinned, great-eyed Madonna gazing out upon the world with tender, weary wisdom, her black-haired son cradled close in her lap. Celeste's hand rose, as if she meant to touch the painting, then dropped again.

"'But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,'" Sebastian said to her.

Eyes still on painting, Celeste nodded emphatically. "Yes, that's it, isn't it? As if she knows her child, and sees everything that's to be. Sometimes I think..." Her voice trailed away, as if the thought she'd meant to express hurt too much to be given voice. "I wonder..."

Sebastian held her closer. "You wonder if our little girl will be like my mum. Or my dad. Or..." His own breath caught as he considered the likeliness of it all. "Or like me."

Celeste darted a quick look at him. "Don't forget, my love--what if she's like me? What if I've avoided...what was planned, only to see my child..."

"Love, don't..." Sebastian began, but at that moment a pleasant voice behind them said:

"Do you like this one? It's one of my favorites."

They both jumped, as if they'd been caught sharing something a bit shameful.

"I'm so sorry," the voice continued. "I didn't mean to startle you." Suddenly, its tone hardened. "Wait just... Rupert?"

Sebastian turned, bringing Celeste with him. Before them stood a tastefully-garbed woman about ten years their senior, whose classical features had just begun to crumple into an expression of utter confusion.

"Oh! I'm sorry," the woman said, dismay lending a faint quiver to her voice. "I...um...I mistook you for someone I..." She pushed a hand back through her soft, ash-blonde curls. "That is, obviously you aren't him. He. Which do I mean?"

"You mistook me for my father," Sebastian answered gently, not wanting to discompose her any further. "That happens fairly frequently. There's a resemblance."

"Your. Father." The words dropped like stones from her mouth. Sebastian began to wonder if he'd encountered a madwoman.

"Rupert Giles?" Sebastian continued in the same tone, hoping that his manner would go some distance towards soothing her. "He was the librarian at Sunnydale High School until very recently."

"My daughter's school," the woman answered, as if each word tasted bitter.

Sebastian became aware that Celeste had begun to tug urgently, if somewhat covertly, upon his sleeve.

"You must be Joyce Summers," his wife said at last, apparently having decided that subtlety was wasted upon him. "Buffy's mum." Celeste took a step away from him, extending her hand. "We got to know Buffy in England this summer, and have become very fond of her. By way of introductions, I'm Celeste, and this is my husband, Sebastian Delacoeur."

Mrs. Summers appeared incapable of speech

"We'd no idea this was your gallery," Celeste continued brightly. "What a lovely collection you've assembled."

Buffy's mother's eyes continued to lock upon Sebastian like, as her daughter might have said, "heat-seeking missiles." He couldn't escape the conviction that, at any moment, his clothes might burst into flame from their fiery regard. He might have stepped backward, perhaps even collided with the wall, if not for Celeste's hold upon his arm, and he could not escape the desire to grovelingly apologise for his own existence.

Instead, he turned his own stare upon Mrs. Summers, and was relieved to see that white-hot intensity cool somewhat. "I wish that I could say I was sorry," he told her softly. "How can I? My dad was very young when I was born, and his life, up until that point, had been less than joyous. Afterwards, it was, perhaps, even more dismal. At first I, too, found it difficult to understand that your daughter makes him happy, and he makes her just as happy in return. Perhaps, as those who love them, we should rejoice in that, rather than passing judgements based solely on our own prejudices."

"I'm her mother," Mrs. Summers said. "I can't just..."

"Let her grow up?" Celeste interjected. "That's what all this amounts to, isn't it?"

"She's not..." The older woman's features shifted into such a mask of misery that Sebastian was moved, despite his own feelings of protectiveness for his dad. "She's young, far too young, and..."

"And a Slayer," Celeste interrupted bluntly. "And before you prepare yet another set of protests, let me inform you that I was trained to be one, as well. Rupert trained me. I was meant to be the one between Helena and Buffy, and only pure luck that I wasn't called. Buffy IS grown up now, in every way that can be counted. All your love for her can't change that. Neither should you want it to."

Somewhere in the distance, the gallery door opened, with a jingling of little bells.

"I have other customers," Joyce Summers informed them. "And I think that you two had better leave."

Celeste was, visibly, gearing up to a passionate response, when Rupert's voice spoke from the arched doorway.

"Er... Joyce..." He glanced from one to the other of them, taking in their angry expressions, the way they must have appeared divided into armed camps. "I see you've met," he said drily.

"You can--" Mrs. Summers whirled upon him, apparently ready to wither him with a look, but something in Rupert's manner stopped her. In truth, he looked dreadful: white-faced, his eyes reddened, the flesh beneath them appearing almost bruised.

"Oh, God!" Joyce Summers pressed her hands to her mouth. "It's Buffy, isn't it? Something's happened to Buffy."

"Joyce, good Lord, no." He touched her shoulder briefly, gently. "I assure you, Buffy's perfectly well. She..." His eyes caught, and held, Sebastian's.

"Son," he said quietly. "It's your mum..."