Two Ladies of Quality
Author's Website: http://www.angelfire.com/rebellion/riani1/
Feedback: riani1@yahoo.com
It's been a quiet summer, since they defeated Glory. The quiet of waiting for the other shoe to drop. And some new shoes are heading for the floor.
Buffy walked slowly along the dark streets of Sunnydale, shadowed by a trio of Watchers Council commandos and with Quentin Travers, head of the Council, silently at her side.
She hadn't been able to answer his question about Giles, and not just because she'd very carefully kept herself from knowing exactly where he was. She knew that Vampire Central these days was out in Sunrise Grove, but no one had specifically ever said, "Rupert Giles, using the professional name of Ripper, is doing business here."
She should have expected someone to wonder where he was. She'd demanded that he be reinstated to the Council, so of course they'd be in contact with him. The reports might be reluctant and incomplete, but the reports were still being made.
"How did you know he was--missing?" she asked.
Travers didn't blink at the sudden breaking of over an hour's worth of silence. "He'd been reporting every week, even if it was just to say 'Situation continuing.' When the reports stopped, we assumed things were becoming more complicated, and we decided not to bother him. The two of you have proved the match of any number of crises, and we expected we'd get a long summary before too much longer."
He fidgeted with his walking stick. "We did hear about the last fight with Glory, though the tales were third hand and worse. It was a story of magic and blood and very unlikely alliances. And every story mentioned two vampires. William the Bloody and a compatriot of his. How long has William the Bloody been--fully capable again?"
Buffy gave him a disbelieving look for his phrasing, imagined Spike's reaction for a moment, and forced back a snicker. "He's been--back to normal for several weeks now."
"And you've left him alone?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She stopped and gave him a very level look. "Didn't we have this conversation already, about you telling me what to do?"
Travers raised a calming hand. "Please, Miss Summers, I'm not--I would really like to know what circumstances would prevail that would allow a Vampire Slayer of your skill to ignore so vicious a vampire as William the Bloody."
"I'm not ignoring him. It's more--an understanding. I patrol every night, and if I catch them I slay them. To go after Spike now I would have to declare war, and I'm not ready for that."
"Surely you had the opportunity once Glory was finished."
"Mr. Travers, we would not have beaten Glory without Spike's help, or without--" She really did try to say his name, really. "Spike could have sold out to Glory, but he didn't. He stood on the side of the humans instead of a hellgod."
"For his own selfish reasons, I'm sure."
"Mr. Travers, you weren't here. There was so much going on. And Glory nearly tortured Spike to dust trying to get him to tell where her Key was."
Travers frowned. "Really?"
She nodded. "There were pieces missing when we rescued him."
"Rescued? 'We'?"
"You weren't here. You odn't know."
They walked along quietly for several minutes. Buffy led the way into one of the busier cemeteries, and the commandos spread out, like hunting dogs looking for a sent.
Travers broke the silence. "In a war, strange alliances are often necessary. But those alliances are finished when the war ends. There is no shame in that."
Buffy didn't answer.
"I first met Rupert Giles when he was eight years old. His father brought him to the Council for a tour. He didn't seem impressed."
She smiled sadly. "He wanted to be a fighter pilot."
"Did he?"
"Or a grocer." After a moment, he handed Buffy his handkerchief and studied the surrounding tombstones himself for several moments.
"After that . . . interval . . . in college," he went on, "Rupert settled in fairly well. I tred to direct him into the archives and research, but he kept insisting he wanted to be a Watcher in the field. Apparently we never fully succeeding in eradicating the rebel in him."
"I'm glad," Buffy said quietly.
Travers pursed his lips. "We do have reasons for why we do things the way we do--and it's not just because that's the way things have always been done. That's not even true. There have been periods where it was judged immoral to take a young girl away from her family, others when it was considered that leaving her in her community, among people she knew, would give her a greater sense of responsibility in fighting the evil things."
"And?" Buffy asked when he paused.
"It made no difference," he said softly. "The Slayers fought, and the Slayers died. Sometimes she tried harder because her loved ones were in danger, sometimes that very danger distracted her at a critical moment."
"And did we ever get a say in how we were treated, through all the long years the Council has been around?"
Travers walked quietly for several moments. "I have been a part of the Watchers Council in one way or another for nearly forty years. In that time, do you know how many Slayers there have been?"
Buffy shook her head, dreading the answer.
"Twenty-three. Not even an average of a year and a half for each. Consider how long you have been a Slayer, Miss Summers, and think how short the life span of some of those Slayers has been." He stared off into the darkness. "One meets this lovely young girl, strong and brave, trained for the war, ready to do her duty. One starts to get to know her, and then she's gone. And there's another girl, equally strong and brave, equally doomed. It doesn't take many memorial services before one stops trying to know her as more than the Vampire Slayer. It's the only way to stay sane."
The image of all those deaths twisted Buffy's stomach. "Then why haven't you tried to figure out why I've survived so long? You can use it to stop those girls dying."
He turned on her. "Do you think we enjoy this? Sending girls who could be our sisters, our nieces, our daughters to this doom? Do you really think it is only about the power for us?"
"That's all I saw when you were here last Fall. And then there was the Crucia-whatever. Everything designed to make me jump to your tune. You never asked me what I thought about the job, and I'm the one doing it. Slayers are the ones dying out here, not Watchers--"
They stared at each other, then Travers began walking again. "We lose a great many Watchers in the field. Someone on the Council always says, 'Damned shame about So-and-So, wants to go in the field with the Slayer.' It's considered less prestigious. The simple fact is, we're afraid." He glanced at Buffy. "It has happened before, losing a Watcher--even a Slayer--to the vampires. We try to act on it as soon as we can, especially if it's a Watcher. There is too much knowledge that can be used against us in the wrong hands."
She bristled. "Why not go to the extra effort for a Slayer who's been turned?"
His smile was sad, but oddly proud. "They don't last long. Someone wrote a tedious thesis on the matter some years back, but the current theory is that the--spark--that makes one a Slayer survives the transformation, and the dichotomy of being the thing one is sworn to kill is too much for them. They rarely survive long."
"Rarely isn't never."
"No. And those are the bad times." He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Miss Summers, your Watcher, my friend, is dead. There's a memorial service planned for Rupert Giles. Once we're sure. You know he must be stopped."
Buffy closed her eyes. Yes, she knew it. Every Slayer cell in her body knew it. Except the ones in her heart, that still whimpered, "Not Giles. I can't do this without him."
Travers took her hands gently. "We're not asking you to do it yourself. Perhaps, in the first few hours, before you had a chance to think, it would have been possible. But not now. That's why I'm here with the others."
She glanced out into the darkness, where the trio of commandos had disappeared. "You're going after him. In force."
"Yes."
"He'll try to stop you."
"I know. Which is why we must move quickly. But I need to know where he is."
"You don't think I can do it, do you."
"I don't think it's something we should ask you to do. Truly, Miss Summers, we're not monsters. Unlike the vampires."
Not her call. Not her responsibility. Part of her knew this was cowardice speaking, but the other part, the part that was still crying, was glad to have the decision taken out of her hands. Besides, they'd find out sooner or later, and sooner reduced the chances of them all getting killed. She took a deep breath, focused on the carved weeping angel on a nearby mausoleum, and told Quentin Travers about Sunrise Grove.
***
Tara's eyes popped open, but she managed not to leap out of bed with a chipper "Hello, world!" Some mornings were like this, she woke up with boundless energy and a song in her heart. The first time Willow had seen it, she'd suspected demonic possession and had nearly finished Giles' phone number before Tara could stop her.
Her mother had laughed and called her "wood sprite" on such mornings. Even that melancholy memory couldn't dim her mood. She sent a thought of love out into the air, certain her mother would get it, wherever she was, then Tara rolled over carefully.
Willow was bundled up in her share of the covers, snoring sweetly. Miss Kitty was curled up on her hip, tail over nose. Tara smiled and eased closer.
"Good morning, gorgeous," she whispered into Willow's ear. Willow muttered something but showed no other signs of awareness. Tara pouted. She'd learned that waking an exhausted Willow in interesting ways was frequently fun, but resulted in a tired and cranky Willow. Best to let her sleep.
"Piffle. Might as well get up, then."
She slipped out of bed and looked around the room. No homework during break; the only thing on TV at this hour on a Sunday morning were infomercials and televangelists who weren't quite laughable enough. And how many times could one watch Suzanne Somers demonstrating exercise equipment?
She bounced restlessly on her feet, and a certain draft reminded her of a chore that desperately needed doing. Laundry!
As she gathered clothes, she found one of Willow's skirts and a blouse in a pile near the door with her shoes. They certainly hadn't been there the night before. Shrugging, she added them to the basket.
She sang her mother's favorite gospel songs down in the basement laundry room as she loaded the machines, enjoying the sound bouncing off the cinder block walls. Her mother had told her to ignore some of the people who sang these song, because a song of joy was a song of joy. And darn good tunes, as well.
She limited herself to humming on the way back to the room. Not everyone appreciated cheerful moods in the morning. Opening the door a crack, she peered in.
Willow raised her head. "There you are," she said blearily. "Why are you up?"
"It's one of *those* mornings. I've started the laundry already."
Willow leaned towards Miss Kitty. "Oh, no, Kitty, it's happened. The pod people have come and taken Tara away and replaced her with one of their evil alien spawn doubles."
Miss Kitty yawned and resettled herself.
Tara came over and bounced on the bed. "Well, this evil alien spawn double loves you, and she's going to kiss you." Which she proceeded to do, but Willow's response was a little vague. She pulled back and studied her lover worriedly. "Did you have a bad night?"
"Huh? No, it was fine. Why?"
"I found your clothes by the door. Where did you go?"
"Oh! That. Um, I woke up with a case of the munchies. I went down to the lobby and they didn't have anything I wanted, so I went vending machine hunting over at Campbell Hall."
Tara frowned. "You went out in the middle of the night alone?"
Willow looked affronted. "Hey, one of the original Scoobies, here. I pity the fool vampire that messes with me."
"You need more gold chains for that to work."
They giggled and snuggled for a while, then Tara saw Willow trying to keep her eyes open. "Get some more sleep, sweetheart," she said.
"No . . . I'm fine."
Tara rested her forehead on Willow's. "There are bags under your eyes." She looked closer. "I think they say Samsonite. Or maybe Louis Vuitton."
"Where did you learn about Louis Vuitton?" Willow grinned.
"Remedial consumer awareness 101, taught by Professor Dawn Summers. She dragged me to the mall and tried to explain why a suitcase was worth five hundred dollars."
"That's our girl." She fought back a yawn. "Are you sure you don't mind . . ."
"Go to sleep. I have to go back down to the laundry room and make sure Creepy Charlie didn't stay over break."
Willow grimaced. "I had to threaten him with boils to make him stop looking through our underwear in the drier. He said they were nicer when they were warm."
They shared a shudder, then Tara kissed Willow and crawled out of bed. "You sleep yourself out. I'll be fine."
"OK. Night night. Love you."
"Love you, too."
Tara tucked the covers around Willow and quietly left the room.
In the lobby, she paused, then went to the line of vending machines. They must have just been filled. Every snack Willow liked was present, from the healthy sunflower seeds and granola mixes to the quasi-food things like Twinkies and genuine artificial-fruit-flavor filled, pre-hardened pastries. Guiltily, Tara told herself it was nothing to worry about, and she continued down to the laundry room. But vaguely uneasy thoughtfulness competed for space with the guilt.
***
Birdsong outside his window woke Xander, and he opened his eyes to whitewashed walls and a tiled floor. He was momentarily disoriented, but it was kind of nice. Somewhere bread was baking.
This was a smaller room than the one Anya had been given when they were here last. The ancient rope-strung bed was surprisingly comfortable, but he'd been unable to really settle down to sleep until he'd shamefacedly lit the candle in the lantern on the table. He wasn't afraid of the dark, but the dark in Sunnydale was a less thick and impenetrable thing than the darkness in the mountains in a building that was still ignorant of all forms of electricity. He'd actually spent five minutes marveling at how much light his digital watch could give off. But once he had a little light, he'd been able to settle down to a good night's rest.
Odds were he wouldn't get a crack at the washroom this morning. He'd gotten in late enough last night that he was able to get a proper bath without upsetting respectable female eyes. Still, there was enough water in the jug on the table to go on with. This simple life had its advantages. He wondered how big a solar panel he'd need to run a TV and satellite dish off of.
They were done with morning Mass and halfway through breakfast when Xander realized he hadn't had any of the usual dreams that plagued him in Sunnydale. Whether that was a result of him not having that one extra beer before bed or not having visitors lurking at the windows, he wasn't sure. But he liked this feeling, the one of actually getting enough sleep. He should have that stable finished in record time.
Baynar didn't show up to help for an hour or so. Maybe his mother held Sunday School or something for little demons. Xander heard him coming, calling "Za-er!" as he came.
"Right here, guy, I haven't gone anywhere yet." He pulled out the board he'd been saving as Baynar dashed in. "Just in time, I need somebody to hold this end up while I nail it in." Baynar bounced excitedly.
Another hour saw the end of the tool-using portion of the job. Xander was giving the attentive Baynar a lecture on the importance of cleaning up the jobsite when he realized they had an audience. Joyce was leaning in the doorway, smiling that maternally pleased smile that was so bizarrely disturbing. Baynar squeaked a little at seeing her, but he only took a cautious step closer to Xander instead of actually running for cover.
"Hey, Mrs. Summers. What can I do for you?"
She looked a little apologetic. "Well, I was wondering when you wanted to get going home."
Home. That was supposed to be a happier sounding word. "Never?"
She nodded. "I know."
She joined him in staring out over the valley, the crops in the field peacefully growing, the mountains in the distance.
"But," Joyce sighed, "we can't stay. It's not our place."
"It could be," Xander said. "Without too much trouble at all, this or someplace like it could easily be my place. It's quiet here. Peaceful."
"You're too young to be looking for peace and quiet." She smiled when she said it, but the smile faded as she looked at him.
"Young," he mused. "I remember being young, once." He squared his shoulders. "But, yes, you've got other places to be and footloose and fancy-free daughters to be scolding. When did you want to leave?"
The sisters insisted that they stay for lunch. Xander endured the gushing thanks of Sister Dymphna for the repairs, and Sister Agnes made an embarrassing speech of gratitude for Joyce's donations, Xander's work, and "all the wonderful help before."
After lunch, Xander managed to slip away to the chapel. The only light came from the small windows and the candles burning in front of the images of Christ, the Virgin, and Saint Eugene. Xander stood a while, then finally chose a pew at the front, where he could look up at the face of the tortured man on the cross.
"I don't want to go back," he said softly. "And I know it's only the cowardice talking. It may not be me they need, but they do need someone who knows the score and is willing to go out every night and take his lumps in the fight. But I'm not the Slayer. I'm allowed to want more. Think I'm ever going to get it?"
There was no answer from the upturned, pain-wracked face.
Xander nodded. "Yeah, you and the Magic 8 ball, conditions unclear, try again. No offense." He considered alternate universes for a while. "Should I have left when I had the chance? Taken Glory's car and driven off into the sunrise? 'Cause the Hellmouth's gonna kill me, and probably sooner rather than later. And I shouldn't be thinking 'Get it over with, already,' should I. But I shouldn't blame the Zeppo on the Hellmouth. I've got no reason to think I'd be any different anywhere else." He looked up at the carved man. "I'd just like to think there's a reason, you know? That it makes a difference that I'm the one here, not just Any Guy Who Can Take Care of Practical Home Repairs. But I guess you get that a lot, huh." He nodded and stood up. "You come up with an answer, big guy, you know where to find me. Xander Harris, Mouth of Hell."
There were some tears, of course, when they packed the Land Rover for the trip home. Sister Teresa packed some cheese and bread, and Joyce promised to come back. Xander crouched down to give Baynar a big hug.
"Don't know if I'll ever see you again, guy," he said, trying not to feel too mushy at saying good- bye to a demon.
Baynar chattered something not quite comprehensible, then looked up at his mother impatiently. Savlin smiled and patted her son on the shoulder. "He says you will, Xander Harris."
Xander nodded. "Yeah. Keep hope alive, kid. I don't think I'll be getting to San Francisco any time soon."
Savlin listened to Baynar and nodded. "He says when he is big he will come to the Hellmouth and find you."
"Oh, the Hellmouth's an icky, nasty place. He doesn't want to go there."
"He is determined. And children do grow up and do the most amazing things. Do not be surprised if before too much longer you open your door and find a Minoto there."
Xander stared at Baynar's earnest little face. "I'll warn the neighbors."
One more hug, and he was out of reasons to delay. He steadied Joyce into the passenger seat and headed for the driver's side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sister Agnes coming towards him, but he pretended not to notice and climbed in behind the wheel. The Mother Superior appeared at his window.
"Come back if you need to, Xander," she said simply. "Or even if you just want to. We enjoy guests." He looked at her uneasily, but she only smiled, then reached in and patted him on the shoulder. "Good-bye, Xander. Take care, Joyce."
Joyce leaned forward to speak past Xander. "Good-bye, Sister Agnes, and thank you."
Xander drove out slowly, avoiding the chickens, and he let Joyce handle the waving farewell duties. He took the rutted road down the valley slowly and didn't look into the rearview mirror until they'd made the turn into the woods.
"I'm glad we came," Joyce sighed. "It was lovely to see them all again. And I'm glad you got to see Baynar again. You're going to be a wonderful father someday."
Xander hit the brakes, and he didn't apologize when the seatbelt jerked Joyce back against her seat. He had to close his eyes against the images Joyce's words had summoned: kids of his own, his and Anya's. A chance to do the job of fatherhood right, to avoid all the mistakes his own parents had made. Some little voice saying the word "Daddy," and never, ever making his kids cry. "Yeah," he whispered brokenly, "I kind of thought I would, too. Someday."
Joyce started to reach for him, started to speak, but she settled back in her seat and let him be.