TITLE:Step in Time
AUTHOR: Pythia
RATING: FRC
PAIRING: B/G
FEEDBACK: Will be appreciated
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
SUMMARY: The morning after the Christmas Eve before. Santa’s not the only visitor used to climbing down chimneys.
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss and all those other people, not to me.
NOTES:This is a follow up to ‘Winter Gifts’, and is another tale in the ‘Practically Perfect’ Universe, in which Giles turns out to be Mary Poppin’s grandson and inherits her powers. This one is all Ann’s fault …
“Good morning and Merry Christmas!” Buffy’s voice was bright and cheerful as she breezed in through the apartment door. “This is the assistant-to-Santa’s special Christmas Day delivery service – Slayer division.” She grinned as she added the clarification, waltzing past her Watcher at his desk, and carefully placing the grocery bag she was cradling on the ledge of the service hatch. “Bringing you the season’s cheer, a Summers’ care package, an invitation to dinner and … ta-da!“
She’d completed the waltz, whipping something out of the top of the bag as she turned, and fell into a dramatic pose, one arm lifted above her head. Giles, who’d been thoughtfully immersed in the papers he’d been studying, swivelled round in his chair to look up at her in momentary bemusement. Her grin got a little wider and her eyes flicked up, indicating he should look at her hand – and after he’d done so, a small and faintly wicked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I see,” he said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “This is a standard part of the service, is it?”
She smirked. “Only for our special customers. Those who have earned a particular Christmas bonus this year.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged sagely. “In which case …”
He rose to his feet in a smooth, fluid motion, reaching on one side to tug the dangling greenery from her hand and with the other enwrap her waist and pull her in towards him. One moment she was standing there, all perk and promise, and the next she found herself dipping backwards into a knee-shaking kiss, the tiny sprig of mistletoe she’d brought blossoming into an extravagant bundle of green and gold as it rose to float above them both.
"Wow,” she breathed as he lifted her upright again, her arms reaching to hug him in and her senses spinning from a heady mix of musky aftershave, morning tea, cinnamon, honey and Giles … “Bottle that and you’d make a fortune..”
He chuckled, returning the hug with one of his own. “You think so? Maybe I should consider it. Anya’s always talking about acquiring new lines for the shop …”
“Don’t you dare,” she muttered, snuggling into his warmth and resting herself comfortably against his chest. She’d been dreaming about doing this since he’d left her standing on a snowy porch step roughly a day and a half ago. “You’d have every woman in Sunnydale chasing after you, and then I’d have to do the Slayer thing to rescue you, and there would be pulled hair and groaning bimbettes everywhere. Not a pretty sight.”
“N-no. Not … pretty at all.” One set of his fingers were playing with her hair; the others were caressing her spine, sending delicious shivers up and down it. “You seem … confident that you’d be victorious in such a conflict.”
“Hey.” She pushed back, tilting her head up so that she could meet his eyes. "One: Slayer here. Two: my Watcher. And three? There are some things I just don’t want to lose ..."
The amusement in his eyes softened into a gentle, loving affection that she’d never seen before. Buffy’s heart melted into instant mush. There were a lot of looks she wanted to coax into those eyes – smouldering passion, all focused desire and Ripperish promises sprang to mind – but that look, that good lord, I love you look, was both endearing and reassuring. She knew how she felt – but there was just a teensy part of her insecure enough to wonder if he were merely reflecting, rather than returning those feelings. This was such a weird shift in their relationship, even if a rather wonderful one; for all her teasing confidence, she couldn’t be entirely certain that he wanted this as much as she did.
He dipped forward and planted a soft kiss on her lips – one filled with warm smiles rather than toe-curling promises – and any intimation of doubt vanished like soap bubbles.
Or melting snow …
“You never will,” he promised softly, smiled – and let go, leaving her standing there feeling as if she were floating on air.
She looked round, smiling as she realised that he’d actually decorated for the holiday; there were garlands of holly and twists of red and gold ribbon hanging along the balcony of the loft and down the length of the banister. Similar accents lay along the mantelshelf, and there was even a wreath hanging over the archway leading to the bathroom and kitchen.
She looked up. The bunch of mistletoe still hung in midair above her, tied with a neat red-and-gold ribbon and decorated with little golden bells.
Then she looked down.
Her feet were a good six inches off the floor.
"Giles,” she remonstrated, not sure if she should be amused or exasperated at the discovery. He was halfway back into his chair by then; he finished sitting down before turning to identify the reason for her protest.
"Oh - good Lord,” he reacted. “Um … s-sorry. I – um … oh dear.” He closed his eyes for a moment; Buffy floated gently to the floor, then had to hastily reach up and catch the mistletoe as it hurtled earthwards. “Buffy, I – I really am sorry …”
What for?” She stepped round to lean her weight against the desk, toying with the bundled decoration as she studied the intricate way the ribbons had been laced and tied. “Giles … you kiss me and … it’s magic. literally magic. No way am I gonna complain about that.”
He tugged off his glasses and began cleaning them, his _expression warring between embarrassment and contrition. “I-I should be … more responsible than that,” he said. “It’s just that …” He paused, looked up at her, and then looked away again, a hint of colour painting his cheeks. “Y-you make it … difficult f-for me to stay focused … And,” he went on with a little more certainty, “I am still learning to understand all of this. Nana … warned me that - sometimes – the gift seems to have a mind of its own.”
“Really?” Buffy frowned. A vaguely worrying thought occurred to her. “Giles – you don’t think … you, me, this… Is this just the gift? The night before last was wonderful, but ... am I in love with you? Are you in love with me?”
He dropped his glasses on the desk and reached for her hand instead, laying his fingers over hers where they rested on the polished wood. “No, not in the way you’re thinking, I-I truly hope so and … dear lord, yes," he said, answering each of her questions in turn. “Buffy – the gift is at its most powerful when it is used to aid the cause of true love. Make no mistake. It may create fantasies, but they are very real fantasies. Quests for truth, not deceptions and illusion. It serves to open people’s eyes, lets them look into their hearts – and it cannot make your heart lie, no matter how much another might want it to. Do you remember? The day I … acquired it? You asked me if I could find you your perfect prince”
She nodded, remembering it all too well; she’d spoken almost without thinking, asking the question only half in jest – and something had happened between them. She hadn’t really thought about what it might have been.
“When you asked,” he sighed, his fingers tightening over hers, “I felt as if … as if you’d stabbed me in the heart. The gift is … good at curses, you see, and for a moment I’d thought …”
A shiver ran through her. "Angel," she breathed, then bit at her lip, staring at the feelings his name stirred within her. Sorrow. A lingering hurt, overlain with remorse – and a complicated, knotted emotion that was partly affection, partly desire, and mostly regret. “I do love him,” she admitted slowly, lifting her eyes to find herself reflected in hazel green depths. “But I’m not in love with him. Not anymore.”
“I know,” Giles said, his hand squeezing hers with quiet sympathy. “He could have been your perfect prince, Buffy. A creature to match your strength, your fire, your passion … Everything you ever dreamed of. I could have made that happen. If you’d wanted it.”
She stared at him, silently comparing his years of steadfast, quiet and unselfish devotion to the high drama that had been her and Angel. It had wracked her heart, torn her in two – and left her bruised and damaged, seeking an illusion of normality in preference to exposing her heart to further pain.
“That’s not what I want,” she realised, turning her hand so she could lace her fingers into his. “I don’t need someone who matches me. I need … I need someone who compliments my strengths, not competes with them … Wow,” she considered shakily. “This .. gift of yours. Really does make you look, doesn’t it?”
He smiled, a little sadly. “I think some of that,” he said, “is Buffy Summers. Growing up. Something,” he added with a hint of tease, “that I’ve been waiting for her to do for a while.”
“Oh yeah?” Buffy questioned, her eyes narrowing in a moment of indignation. “Is that why you did the whole ‘push me out of the nest’ thing when I started college?”
“Partly,” he admitted, the word coloured with regret. “And partly to stop me from making a bloody fool of myself over you."
She opened her mouth to answer that, then shut it again, suddenly understanding what he meant. “Oh,” she said, then: "Oohh.Oh, Giles, I’m sorry. I didn’t know …”
“I didn’t want you to know.” He sounded very matter of fact about it. “Buffy – until that moment in the shop, I had no idea you might think of me as anything but a friend. If you even thought of me at all. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. That … and to survive being the Slayer for as long as you possibly could.”
“And then I asked my question.”
“Yes.”
“And the gift whacked you upside the head and told you I was nuts about you, even if I hadn’t figured it out yet.”
“Well … yes. More or less.”
“So you took me skating so that I couldfigure it out, and then when I did … okay,” she concluded, letting a smile creep back onto her face. “I think I’m good with that. True love, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The smile got a little wider.
“I’m not. A little wigged, maybe. Worried about what our friends might say. How we’re going to tell my mom. But - I’m not afraid. Not about us.”
He was watching her with warm indulgence. “I-I’m hardly your perfect prince, Buffy. And Nana’s gift … is likely to make life – interesting, to say the least.”
“We live on the Hellmouth. ‘Interesting’ is the least of our worries. Besides,” Buffy asked with a grin. “Who needs a perfect prince? When you’ve got a man who’s practically perfect in every way?”
He chuckled at that, giving her hand a squeeze before he let it go. “I’m hardly my grandmother, Buffy.”
"Well, duh,"she laughed. “So whatcha doing, anyway? It’s Christmas. You should be … making eggnog or something, not pawing over dusty papers.”
“The eggnog,” he said dryly, “is already made. As are the mince pies. I’m just … going through a few of Nana’s thing. Letters. Memories. That sort of thing.”
Buffy shifted a little to get a better look at what lay on the desk. There were little bundles of paper, tied up with various coloured narrow ribbons. There were several battered square tins, and an ornate box, carved with swirling dragons and painted with red lacquer. There were even a couple of leather bound journals, a little like the ones Giles was always writing in – except these were smaller and had delicate little gold clasps holding them shut.
And there was a photograph in a silver frame. One of those faded sepia type prints; it depicted a lanky-limbed figure in a very old-fashioned uniform, complete with peaked cap and a row of medals pinned proudly to his chest. Buffy reached out and picked it up, drawn by the confident, cheerful smile that beamed out of the faded image.
“Who’s this?” she asked, trying to decide exactly what it was about the picture that reminded her of the man it now belonged to. Something in the shape of the face, the hint of rangy build …
“Mmm?” Giles looked up from the letter he was reading and glanced over at the object in her hands. “Oh. Oh, that. That’s my grandfather. Rupert Frederick Arthur Moneypenny. Although everyone just called him Bert.”
“Bert?” Buffy couldn’t help but grin. “Mary Poppins married Bert? The chimney sweep?”
"Chimney sweep, pavement artist, kite seller … yes, Buffy, I’ve seen the movie too.” He reached to take the photo from her, turning it to study the man within the frame. “Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. And sometimes truth is depictedas fiction, because otherwise no-one would believe it. My grandfather was one of nature’s gentlemen; an honest, hardworking soul prepared to do anything and everything to make his way in the world. He didn’t have much of an education, although he had learned to read and write by the time he left school. His father apprenticed him to a sweep when he was twelve years old, and he spent most of his adolescence climbing the inside of chimneys.”
“I’m guessing,” Buffy said slowly, studying the pensive expression on her Watcher’s face, “that it wasn’t all song and dance ‘step in time’ stuff."
“No.” Giles careful placed the picture back on the desk, handling the frame as if it held something very precious to him. “But .. it taught him to be determined, forthright, and very self-assured …” He paused, his lips curling with wry reminiscence. “Cocksure and confident, he used to say.”
“All of that and then some,” the man in the photograph said, turning to flash them both a very cheeky grin. “Cock o’ the walk I was. ‘Til her ladyship walked into my life and knocked all the perk and pertinence outta me.”
He had, Buffy blinked with disconcerted realisation, Ripper's accent. He also had Ripper’s swagger, which was in clear evidence as he clambered out of the picture and leapt from the frame onto the desk.
"Hello, Granddad,” Giles said. There was a catch in his voice, a sudden crack of emotion that he had to swallow hard to overcome. The sepia figure – who stood about ten inches tall – threw him a sympathetic look.
“Don’t take it so sudden, lad,” he said. “I’m just a memory. You know that. Things that linger. Thoughts of the past.” He reached to tug the cap from his head, revealing a tumble of hair and a hint of unruly curls. “The gift’s powerful,” he considered, giving Buffy a wink. “But it can’t turn back time. Hold it back, maybe. For a bit or two. Let you visit the past if you need to. But it can’t pull anyone forward into the now, or take you back to live there forever.”
He hitched himself up onto the nearest bundle of letters and considered Buffy with interest. “You gonna introduce me, Ru?”
“Oh – yes, yes, of course. Granddad, this is Buffy. Buffy, this is –
“Bert,” the sepia soldier interrupted warmly. “Just call me Bert. Everyone does. ‘Cept him, of course.” He nodded towards Giles with the sort of proprietary pride that grandparents demonstrate the world over. “You his girl?”
“She’s my Slayer, Granddad.”
“I know that,” Bert dismissed with a wave of his hand. “But is she your girl? Are you, miss?”
“Buffy,” Buffy corrected, sliding off the edge of the desk so she could turn and converse with Bert a little more comfortably. “And yes,” she affirmed, casting a self-conscious glance in Giles’ direction. “I am.”
Giles somehow managed to look both embarrassed and immeasurably pleased at the confession. Bert slapped at his leg with his cap, expressing his delight with an engaging grin. “Knew it,” he crowed. “’Never settle for second best, that’s the Moneypenny motto. And it don’t matter a jot that you’ve got all that blue blood clogging up your veins, Ru - you’ve got a Moneypenny’s heart, and a Poppins’ soul, keeping it warm. You musta - or you wouldn’t be wearing my Mary’s gift like you were born to it.” He paused, frowning at what he’d just said. “Hang about. You were born to it. But you know what I mean.”
Giles smiled, leaning back in his chair to consider the miniature figure with affection. “Yes, I do. I was … rather surprised she left it to me.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. You were always her favourite, even if she tried hard not to have them. I was kinda fond of you myself.
The look that chased across Giles’ face echoed his initial reaction to the man. Buffy got the impression that ‘fond’ was a totally inadequate word to describe where this man lay in her Watcher’s heart. “You loved all your grandchildren,” he countered softly, deflecting the surge of emotions with what looked like long practised skill. “Along with every child that came to your attention.”
“Well, now,” Bert smiled. “Someone’s gotta look out for the nippers. Lot of folk don’t, and that’s a crying shame. Besides. You hang around my Mary long enough, you get to see the world through different eyes. To a child, nothing is impossible – and magic just … happens.”
“Nana’s magic,” Giles pointed out softly. “The other kind … comes with a price attached.”
Buffy resisted what she’d always resisted – and then remembered that she didn’t have to any more and reached to give his arm a gentle squeeze, offering him a look of silent sympathy and support. He looked a little startled at the contact before acknowledging it with a grateful smile; his grandfather snorted.
“Misuse anything and you end up paying for it, one way or the other,” he said. “The more you take, the more you pay. But then - the more you give, the more you get back. You look at me,” he offered with a grin. “I never stinted on the helping hand or the friendly shoulder to lean on. The sweep’s luck stayed with me all me life, and I spread it around to anyone and everyone I could. I had the finest wife a man could ask for, a family that loved me, and I never failed to put food on the table for ‘em, no matter how tight things got. We gave away more than we owned, and we never lacked for something to give. That’s how it works. None of this grasping for things that don’t belong to ya in the first place. Live humble and you live well. Want for more and … you just want – and never have anything"
The Watcher smiled, although there was a hint of sorrow in it – one that echoed the lessons he’d learnt over the years. “I wish it were that simple,” he said. “But some of us …”
“Have to fight for the things we believe in. I know, I know.” Bert heaved a small sigh, suggesting that he’d learnt some of those lessons himself. “There’s greed and hate and evil in the world, and some bad people who do some very bad things. But that doesn’t mean the good people have to spend all their time lamenting and moaning about it.” He jerked his finger in his grandson’s direction and he grinned. “You get off your duff, you knuckle up – “ He did just that, a clench of fingers that turned him into a miniature pugilist. “-and you show the world what you’re made of.”
Buffy had to laugh. It was a fine sentiment, but it sounded a little ridiculous coming from a man barely taller than the average stake.
“Paper and silver nitrate, Granddad?” Giles sounded equally amused; Bert shot him a Ripperish glare that told Buffy exactly who Ripper himself had inherited it from – and which suggested that there was a lot more to Rupert Frederick Arthur Moneypenny than first met the eye.
“Oh, you can laugh,” he drawled, in a tone that implied nothing of the sort. “Here I am, imparting hard-earned pearls of wisdom, and there you two are are, making light of it all. You think I don’t know what you face? What Slayers are and why Watchers watch them? I know. I might have danced a little though it, but not all my life was climbing chimneys, making kites or standing behind a shop counter. I did my bit.” He paused to sit back on his letter padded seat, regarding them both with quiet challenge. “Take these,” he said, tapping the ribbons that decorated his chest. “I didn’t get these medals sitting around while everyone else marched off to fight the Hun. I was there, marching alongside the rest of them. Just as boldly and just as brave as any Tommy could be.”
“I know,” Giles said. “I’m sorry, Granddad. I didn’t mean to –“
"‘Course you didn’t.” Bert reacted, his nose wrinkling and a twinkle springing to life in his eye. “Anymore than I forgot to tell Mary I was taking the shilling. Took her a while to forgive me for that, but she did.” The twinkle blossomed back into a cheeky grin. “I forgive you, lad. Forgive you anything. You know that.”
“I do now.” The wry note in Giles’ voice spoke volumes; tales of boyish pranks and of days when they’d got him into trouble he had cause to regret. Buffy glanced at him with a sudden sense of delight. She’d never really stopped to consider what he might have been like as a child, but now that she did, she could picture it perfectly; the young boy, wearing glasses that had been a little too large for him, determinedly serious in his studies and equally determined in his enthusiasm when unleashed to play. Probably something of a solitary child, given the nature of his calling and the secrets he’d had to keep – but still bold in his explorations and his mischief, driven as much by eager curiosity as by boyish bravado or a need to prove himself to those that loved him.
“Well now,” Bert was saying, “they were prize-winning roses, Ru. What did you expect me to say?”
"Exactly what you did,” Giles admitted ruefully. “At least it taught me to look before I leap."
“Should think so, too,” his grandfather laughed. “Mary and I were plucking thorns from your hide for the rest of the week. God knows what your father thought we’d done to ya when he came to take you home … well,” he grinned, “God and my Mary, I should think. But I wasn’t angry with ya. Not really. Little scared, I think. Seeing you take that great big leap out into the world …" .He jumped back to his feet to demonstrate. “There I was,” he declaimed, “fighting my way past my best rose bush …” He pantomimed the deed, thrashing his arms about in a mock desperation that made Buffy fight down a giggle and Giles roll his eyes with amused forbearance. “… and there you were, lying in the middle of the blasted flower bed covered with blood and rose petals. I thought you’d killed yourself.” He gave his grandson an indignant look, managing to convey the anguish this had cost him. "S’no wonder I tore you off a strip or two when I realised you hadn’t. Bloody stupid thing for you to do – and my Mary didn’t help,” Bert went on, his voice stirring with more than a hint of passion, “filling your head with tales o’heroes and noble deeds … He doesn’t need to grow up to be a hero, I used to say. He just needs to grow up. Good and proper like. But ya father was taking care of those things, and all we had to give ya was a dose full o’ common sense and a little willingness to believe in happy endings.”
“Both very welcome gifts,” Giles murmured, reaching his arm to slide it round Buffy’s waist so he could pull her closer against him. She moved in without protest, resting her weight against his side and marvelling at how comfortable, at how right it felt to be next to him like that. Bert smiled.
“So I see. Well, you got my Mary’s gift now, and it’ll sit pretty comfortably with ya if the first two made themselves at home. You were a good lad, Ru. I know you had some bad moments later but – well, I guess you turned out all right in the end."
{He certainly did,} Buffy thought, savouring the sensation of sharing her Watcher’s warmth while breathing in the whisper of his cologne.
"Most folk do, if you treat ‘em right." Bert was exploring the desk top, lifting up the edges of letters and peering at the patina on his photo frame. "Wish I could say the same for the Colonel’s nipper, mind you,” he said, breathing on the metal and using the edge of his sleeve to rub away a non-existent spot. "Real disappointment he turned out to be. Damn shame, too. The colonel was a good man. Deserved better. He gave one final wipe and nodded his satisfaction with the shine. “Don’t suppose you know if …?” he asked, turning back with a questioning look on his face. "Nah,” he decided before Giles could formulate an answer. "Roger dodger, Mr High and Mighty kept his whelps away from the likes of you and me. Common as muck he thought us. Not that you ever were, Ru, I knew that and so should’ve he, but ..."
Buffy was losing track of this conversation and she frowned at the suggestion that someone might think her Watcher common. He was the most uncommon man she’d ever met and, going by the impressions she was getting from a faded photograph, his grandfather had been pretty special too.
“They weren’t all a lost cause,” Giles said, looking amused for some reason. “Although it did look a little touch and go for a while. The Colonel’s youngest grandson cut the worst of his ties with the Council and is now working as a demon hunter in LA. Working for a vampire as it happens. One with a soul, and a great deal of good intentions, I have to say. Nevertheless …”
The diminutive figure on the table threw back his head and laughed with a moment of sheer delight. “He is? Oh Lord, that’s capital. The colonel must be grinning from ear to ear.”
“Almost undoubtedly,” Giles concurred a little sadly. “Although not in this world, I’m afraid. He passed away – not … long after you did. I believe Nana went to the funeral.”
“Damn right, she did. If know my Mary – and I do. Turn up at the graveside spick, span and all business. Paying her respects. The colonel deserved ‘em too. Bet the boy was livid. He was scared o’ Mary, you know? The boy. Not the Colonel. He adored her.”
Buffy had been working it out. {Working for a vampire …}
“Giles?” she questioned. “Are we talking about Wesley’s grandfather now? When he first came here – I didn’t think you’d met him before.”
“Yes, we are.” Giles threw her a smile. “And I had – but just the once. I doubt he’d recall it. I think he was about three at the time."
She couldn’t quite imagine Wesley at three. A shy child, perhaps, lurking in his mother’s skirts; earning himself frowns of disapproval from a stern father and an indulgent look from his grandparents …
“Yes, I remember,” Bert smiled, his eyes taking on a slightly distant look. “Nice kid. Had his mother’s eyes. And the colonel’s stubborn streak,” he added with a knowing grin.
“That stubborn streak saved your life, as I recall.” Giles leant back in chair – which also allowed Buffy to settle herself a little more comfortably against him. She took advantage of the moment and slid her arm around his shoulders as if it belonged there. It was rather reassuring to find that it did.
“It did indeed,” Bert agreed happily. He’d seen exactly what Buffy had done, and he winked at her, conveying warm approval of the way the two of them fit so comfortably together. “Course it was hardly my fault there were a couple of vampires sneaking about in the trenches, taking advantage of the Hun’s barrage. But then I’ve always suspected it was the sweep’s luck that gave me the Colonel as my commanding officer. There I was,” he declared for the second time, crouching down so that he could present another dramatic pantomime, “arse down in the mud with nothing but a bayoneted rifle between me and a hungry death – and there he was – “ He sprang back to his feet, and into a heroic pose. “Driving the two of them back with a makeshift cross and a look of anger in his eyes that’d make the devil quail." Bert's voice dropped into a gruff imitation of a man with a very aristocratic accent "Damn and blast, he was swearing. Give up everything to become a soldier and here I am, having to be a bloody Watcher after all!"
Buffy chuckled - both at the display, and the quote, which sounded like a very – well, Watchery thing to say and do. Giles grinned. “Colonel Wyndam-Pryce never tired of that story,” he said. “It was almost his party piece – although only on the kind of occasions he could freely talk about such things, of course.” His smile softened into one of quiet pride. “He always told the rest of it too – how he was wounded in the next assault and … um … how the soldier he’d saved from the vampires picked him up and carried him to safety. Three miles across no-man’s land, with shells falling on every side and German snipers in every fox hole.”
“Not every foxhole,” the man in question corrected self-consciously. “Just one or two. And the Colonel firing back over my shoulder as I ran. I took a bullet in the leg, just as we reached the line – and woke up in a field hospital with my Mary glaring down at me with absolute thunder in her eyes. Took her forever to forgive me, but … I won her round in the end." He sat back on the edge of the letters and considered some far distant time and place, his expression softening at the memory. "We were married in this little French chapel – half in ruins it was, and the company’s chaplain had to use a hospital sheet for an altar cloth." Memory became a warm smile and Bert heaved an exaggeratedly happy sigh. "The Colonel gave Mary away, and then scurried round to be my best man … he was leaning on his crutches and I was sitting in a wheelchair, and that was the best day o’my life … least until Ru’s mother was born,” he added softly, an oddly haunted look in his eyes. “We had three boys, and we loved every one, but ... Alice... ” He sighed. "Alice was special.” The pensive look lingered for a moment, and then he grinned at his grandson. “Your father certainly thought so.”
“My father – “ Giles began to say, and Bert held up his hand to silence him.
“Ah, ah, ah” he interrupted. “It’s Christmas, Ru. There’s no need to go there today. Your father loved Alice with every fibre of his being and when we lost her, it was more than he could bear. He blamed himself, and could find no forgiveness for that. But we forgave him a long time ago. Maybe it’s time you forgave him too."
Buffy had felt Giles stiffen at the mention of his father, the echo of conflicted feelings expressing themselves in a sudden tension in his frame. “He blamed me,” he said softly. There was no resentment in the words, just a weary acceptance of the way things were. Bert snorted.
“Is that what you think? He never blamed ya, lad. He loves you. Loves you so damn much it hurts – and every moment he sees you he sees her … and remembers how he failed to keep her safe, how he lost her to the dark. He raised you to be strong, Ru. To be ready. To be the best. Not because the best survive – but because the best keep others safe, too.” The sepia soldier stood up, staring at the two of them with a warmth and pride that almost took Buffy’s breath away. “He didn’t want you to fail the way he failed. Nor have ya. Look at her, Ru. Look at her. Your Slayer. Most of them don’t survive their first year – and here’s one all grown up and woman enough to claim your heart and give hers back in return.”
“That’s the best way to do it, you know,” he confided, aiming the remark at Buffy, who grinned.
"I know. Well, I’m beginning to know. I-I’ve never … before, I … I gave, they took. Giles just …” She threw an almost helpless look in her Watcher’s direction. "Gives," she concluded, realising that that was exactly what he did. Even back when he’d been handing out orders, rather than advice, they’d been offered with patience and the hopeful expectation that she could and would learn from them. She had, too – although sometimes the lessons had been hard to take, and her frustrations at her destiny had often blinded her to the truths he was so carefully drawing to her attention.
It was his eyes that held her attention now; they were watching her, echoing the twist of wry denial that creased his features.
“Can’t give up the gift to a selfish heart,” she heard Bert say with a hint of laughter in his voice. “The times I had to tell my Mary it was right for me to pamper her ..."
“Nana never had time for sentimental foolishness,” Giles murmured, his eyes still fixed on Buffy’s wide- eyed gaze. “She also believed that generosity was its own reward. Giving what was needed,” he added in an even softer tone. “She had a real knack in knowing exactly what that was .”
{She gave you her gift … }
There were just too many implications behind that thought; patterns of destiny, twists of fate, choices and inevitabilities. Buffy had no wish to disentangle any of them. She let a soft smile curl onto her face instead, recognising her Watcher’s words for what they really were – an attempt to dismiss the compliment she’d offered him, to side- step the implications of praise and refocus her attention on someone else. Not that Giles didn’t appreciate a little praise – but he was English enough to be embarrassed at being given it.
Especially if he didn’t feel entirely deserving of it in the first place.
“It obviously runs in the family,” she teased and he snorted, just as she’d expected him to.
“ Yes,” he observed, “and the … umm … questionable events of my youth are clear evidence for my excellent sense of judgement. Really, Buffy. My grandmother was an exceptional woman and … while I will make every effort to live up to the expectations of her legacy, I seriously doubt that I will ever be as confident or as competent as she was.”
“I don’t,” Buffy countered confidently. “Bert’s right. I’ve lived as long as I have because of you – and I intend to go on living a lot longer with you. If …” She hesitated for a moment, suddenly realising how bold that had sounded. “If that’s okay with you? ”
The comfortable curl of his arm tightened around her, pulling her in against his warmth. “Buffy,” Giles said softly, “I’m a stuffy, repressed Englishman, over twice your age. I prefer the company of a good book and a cup of hot Bovril to a night out on the town, and I keep the most questionable company at the most questionable of hours. Are you sure that’s the kind of match you want to make?”
She stared down at him with astonished affection. Astonished, because she couldn’t quite believe how comfortable she felt about all of this. She’d thought love was hard, something you had to fight and wrestle with, something that would rear back and bite you if you didn’t struggle to control it. And here she was, discovering that – if you simply trusted it – love just curled itself around you and settled there, as easily and as comfortably as putting on a coat.
A very expensive and ‘last you a lifetime’ kind of coat. One that warmed you, protected you, and made you feel like a million dollars from head to toe and back again.
“Let me see,” she mused, winking at the sepia figure who was watching them both with a broad and cheeky grin. “Lonely White Slayer – female of course – “
“Of course,” Giles acknowledged dryly.
“-seeks practically perfect partner for lifetime commitment. Preferably … male – “
“ Willow will be very disappointed.”
"Mature," she went on, giving him an arch look. “Highly educated, literate in several languages, skilled in a range of ancient weaponry. Must be – Watcher trained, experienced in demon hunting and the magical arts … and preferably a competent cook, talented musician and stuffy ex-librarian. Ownership of a magic shop essential, possession of a fairy godmother’s gift an appreciated extra.” She grinned down at his expression. “Did I leave anything out?”
Giles gave it some serious thought, his eyes twinkling a little as he looked up at her. “I think the word … umm … stevedore … might be missing in there somewhere,” he said, managing to keep a straight face as he did so. Buffy couldn’t. She collapsed into a fit of giggles, wrapping both arms around him and giving him a happy hug.
"Giles," she admonished, in between snorts of laughter. “Not in front of your grandfather ..."
“He’s just a memory, Buffy.” Giles disentangled himself – with some reluctance, it had to be said – brushing her palm with his lips as he caught and then released her hand. It was just a casual affectionate gesture, but it sent a tingle right through her. She glanced across at the desk, and found that it held nothing but the little bundles of books and papers – and an old, sepia photograph, propped up against a pile of journals.
“A good memory,” she decided, moving away so she could, once again, pick up the picture and study it. “And a … good man, I guess. I liked him.”
“So did I.” Giles’ _expression was pensive as he watched her run a finger down the frame. “You can keep that, if you like. I have another of him. Nana too.” He nodded towards the wall; Buffy turned to look – and found herself face to face with Mary.
Mary – and Bert, the two of them smiling out of what looked like a much more recent photograph. The old soldier’s hair was grey and his face was wrinkled, although the wrinkles looked a lot like laugh lines and the twinkle in his eye was just as bright, and just as mischievous. Mary’s hair was still dark, with only a suggestion of silver lingering in its neatly caught back lines. There was a wisp or two escaping at the back, suggesting that there might just be a little rebelliousness to her; her face also carried a few lines, although nowhere near as many as her husband - and her blue eyes held warmth, immeasurable wisdom and a quiet hint of laughter.
“Wow,” Buffy said. “They look so happy. But …” She turned back to stare at her Watcher with anxious concern. “Bert said … your mother …” She tailed off, unsure of how to express what she was trying to say. {They lost so much,} was what sprang to mind – but it had been his mother, not just their child, and surely he’d lost so much more …
“You never really lose the people that you love,” Giles said, giving her a somewhat haunted smile. “It can be … hard, when they move on. But Nana and Grandad had each other. Three strapping sons to keep their eye on – and seven grandchildren. They didn’t have much time for dwelling in the past.”
“Seven?” Buffy blinked at him. “That’s a lot of birthdays and Christmases... Oh," she realised. “I have to go. Mom wanted me to make sure everybody was coming over tonight, and I said I’d pop in to see Willow and Tara before lunch, and then I have to make sure Xander and Anya actually got out of bed today …” She started to put the picture back on the desk and then stopped, hugging it back in against her chest. “Can I - really keep this? I- I never knew my grandfather. Can I … can I borrow yours?"
Now he grinned, an expression just as warm and as mischievous as Bert’s had been. The resemblance was uncanny .
“ You can’t borrow family,” he said. “But you can adopt it. I don’t think Grandad would object. Especially if we intend to make it more … official at some point. No,” he went on hastily as her eyes widened at the thought. “That wasn’t … umm … well – it probably was, actually, but … there’s … no hurry. We … umm … still have to … umm …”
“Tell Mom,” Buffy completed with a gulp. “I know. And we will. I guess. Somehow.” She paused for a moment. “She’s gonna have a fit. Can we – um - wait until after dinner tonight?”
“That might be … umm … advisable.”
“But we will tell her.”
“Of course we will.”
“ When she’s far away from the weapon's cabinet .”
“Of course.”
“And not in the kitchen. Because of all those knives and things.”
“That might be a problem.”
“Maybe I should phone her from here …”
“Buffy!” His tone wasn’t sharp, but it grounded her sudden panic with life- saving certainty. “We will tell her. After dinner. And don’t worry. If there’s one thing I’m learning about this gift I’ve been given? It’s that … it tends to take care of the important things in life.”
{White flakes drifting through the air. Delicate figures drifting and dancing across the ice … }
Buffy relaxed with a smile, reassured - and reminded that, these days, there was more to her Watcher than met the eye. Much more. The smile became a grin . {Stevedore, huh ? }
One day soon, he was going to have prove it to her …
“I gotta go,” she realised, taking a step towards the door. “You will be there? This afternoon?”
“I will.”
“And … Giles?”
“Mmm?” He’d begun to turn back to his grandmother’s things, and he looked up with distracted bemusement.
“ Can I … would you mind if … I-I can’t …I don’t think …” She took a deep breath and said what she wanted to say, all in a rush. “It’s silly that I call you by your last name all the time, but I’m kinda used to it and Rupert just isn’t gonna be any better - and I wondered, that is, if you don’t mind, can I - call you Ru? Like Bert did? When it’s just us?” she added anxiously, suddenly thinking that Giles and pet names didn’t really sit together. Unless it was 'English,' but that was what Miss Calendar had called him, and no way was she going to remind him of that .
His bemused expression had been deepening into a vague frown, but her final words turned it into a moment of astonishment – and after it, quiet delight.
“I think I could … umm … live with that,” he declared, looking at little embarrassed at the admission. “Maybe even … umm … publicly.” He didn’t look entirely happy at the thought. “Eventually.”
Buffy nodded. “Okay. Trial run first. I get that. Ru?” She tried it out, surprised at how easy it felt to say it.
“Yes?” His response was wary, but that was okay. The last person to call him that had probably been his g randmother.
She smiled. “Love you.”
He rose from his chair and closed the distance between them in two determined steps. They didn’t need the mistletoe – and the kiss was just as magical this time round.
“I love you, Buffy,” Giles whispered, pulling away with decided reluctance. “Now go. Before I succumb to temptation and start abusing the gift to stretch time, or wreak a magic that will keep you here forever and a day.”
“You could do that?”
“I could. But it wouldn’t be very sensible of me – and we’d definitely regret it in the end. Besides,” he added, stepping back and letting her hand slide from his. “It’s Christmas … and I really ought to ring my father before it gets too late.”
{Every moment he sees you, he sees her ...} Bert’s words echoed in Buffy’s head, and her heart turned over to see the sudden haunted look that touched her Watcher’s eyes .
“Yes,” she said with loving sympathy. “I really think you should. I’ll see you later,” she concluded, standing up on tiptoes to press a quick farewell kiss to his cheek.
She left him standing there, knowing that he watched her as she made her way out into the late morning sun. She hugged Bert’s picture to her chest, carrying it with care, treasuring the time she’d spent in the old man’s company. She’d learnt more about her Watcher in those few short moments than she had learned in all the time she’d known him – and the more she’d learned, the more she’d come to appreciate the depth of his heart and the strength of his soul.
And … wait a minute!
All that stuff about adopting families and making it official …
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, stopping dead in the middle of the street and tipping the photo frame down so she could stare at the man it contained.
“Was I dreaming?” she asked. “Or did Giles ... Ru … just ask me to marry him?”
Bert said nothing.
But she could have sworn his picture winked at her.
END