Author's Note: A oneshot about Silas and Miss Lupescu, because Silas is cool, and Miss Lupescu is cool, and really, somebody has to fix Bod's trousers. The title comes from the song by the Beatles, although it doesn't have much to do with the fic. Thanks be to glitterlavalamp for betareading. I hope you enjoy it! :)
Follow the Sun.
It was a dark and stormy night, and there was a Hound of God on Silas's doorstep, carrying a brown leather briefcase and dripping rain all over the welcome mat.
"Oh, hello," said Silas politely. And then, "Terrible weather, isn't it?"
"Clearly," said Miss Lupescu. "This is not a social call," she added quickly, "I am on my way to the airport. I simply—dislike—the rain."
Her nostrils flared at this, and Silas, who had always found it a rather threatening gesture, stood aside to let her in. She deposited her briefcase, scraped the mud from her boots on the rusted bootscraper, and peered critically around the empty chapel.
"Hmph," she said.
"I apologize for the light," said Silas. The chapel was dim, certainly, lit only by candles; he did not require much light. A visitor, squinting, might have made out the shape of a tall candelabrum and an exhausted-looking sofa, the latter occupied by a pile of blue denim, spools of thread, sewing needles, and—presently—Miss Lupescu.
Silas brought her her luggage.
"Thank you," said Miss Lupescu, and (in a slightly more scandalized tone of voice), "What is that?"
"The boy's trousers," Silas explained. "He tore them earlier today. I was attempting to repair them."
Miss Lupescu sniffed. "Give it here," she said, and with practiced, efficient movements she picked Silas's uneven stitches out of the denim and replaced them with tiny, precise, even ones.
Silas stood aside and remained tactfully silent.
It was cold in the chapel, and he could see Miss Lupescu's breath curling in white swirls of mist in the dim candlelight. There were splinters of wood scattered across the floor, the remains of the pulpit and the pews and impressive-looking furniture donated to the chapel by long-ago parishioners. Silas heaped several of these beside the couch, near Miss Lupescu's feet; then he touched one of the candles to the heap until orange tongues of flame began to lick up and around the age-darkened wood.
Miss Lupescu did not react to the fire, not immediately. Nor did she comment. She did, however, uncross her legs and edge her boots closer to the light.
Silas watched the air ripple over the fire. "The boy says he wants to go to school," he said.
"Indeed?" said Miss Lupescu, pursing her lips.
"I did not expect it," said Silas. "Of course, I did not refuse."
"Good for you," said Miss Lupescu.
"The risk, however," said Silas, and paused. When he continued, he said, "I cannot see that the virtues of public education outweigh the boy's safety."
Miss Lupescu put down the trousers and plunged the needle into the moth-eaten upholstery of the sofa. "Of course you cannot," she said. She sounded amused, or exasperated, or both. "Even you cannot see everything."
Silas made no answer.
"You cannot protect him always," she went on. "You cannot follow him about, fixing his mistakes and cleaning up his mess and—and patching up his trousers for the rest of his life. Even if you wanted to."
The air in the chapel was growing warmer, and Silas found himself stepping back from the fire, away from its bright, insistent heat. He put his hands in his pockets. "No," he said, "I don't suppose I can."
Miss Lupescu made a small noise of satisfaction. She plucked the needle from the cushion, tied several deft knots, and handed Bod's jeans back to Silas. "I suggest you purchase several more of these," she said. "It is useless telling him to take care."
"I am aware," said Silas, but he folded up the jeans and made a mental note to visit the department store soon.
The drumming of the rain had tapered off to the patter of water dripping from branches and eaves and leaks in the gutter. Miss Lupescu stood, picking up her briefcase. "I will be going," she said. "My flight will depart soon."
Silas accompanied her to the doorway. When they had stepped out into the chapel porch, he extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure, as always," he said.
Miss Lupescu said nothing, and the expression on her face was very strange. Suddenly she leaned across and, raising herself onto her toes, placed a kiss on Silas's lips. Her mouth was very warm and tasted faintly of foreign spice, like fruit from an orchard very far away.
For his part, Silas could not have been more surprised had the sky come crashing down about their ears. At least then, you might see something coming.
When they parted, Miss Lupescu was smiling. It was not a happy smile, nor a sad one, and even had Silas lived a thousand more years he would not have known what it meant.
"So," said Miss Lupescu softly, "you are in love."
Silas said, "I—I beg your pardon?"
"You are in love," she repeated. "With the lady on the grey, I think. I think you have been for a long time."
Silas's mouth opened, but nothing produced itself but air.
Miss Lupescu retrieved her bag from the floorboards, where she had dropped it at some point within the last several minutes. She readjusted her tie and said, "Good night to you."
"And you," said Silas. They shook hands. Then Miss Lupescu turned on her heel and began making her way down to the path to the cemetery gates. Silas watched, for a while, as her figure diminished and was consumed by the lights of the nighttime city. The rain had scrubbed the day's fumes and smoke from the air; the world smelled crisp, vivid, like some exotic wine that had just been decanted, and it was a long time before he went back inside to the confined, dusty dark.