Shadow Though it Be: An Excursus – Chapter 30
by L. Inman
The alarm went off far too soon. Rupert shut it off and dragged himself halfway upright, forcing his eyes open. He reached over his companion and fumbled the lamp on. She stirred only a very little: he saw, too, that she had reverted to her protective sleeping position, whether because of the alarm or for some other reason he did not know.
It didn't bode well.
Mindful of the omen, he let her sleep as long as he possibly could, dressing in near-silence, brewing coffee for himself, packing carefully all the necessary papers in his satchel, before carrying a glass of ice water upstairs.
He sat down gingerly by her side, momentarily putting down the glass, and began to stroke her shoulder and hair. He used her name once, softly.
She made a faint gravelly noise of protest and curled harder into herself. It seemed to Rupert that it would be fatal to force her awake too soon, so he continued patiently stroking her and talking to her until he gauged that the spirit was willing, if not the flesh. Then he began to uncover her gently and urge her to sit up.
She sat up with his help, eyes still tight shut, hands curled protectively against her chest, shivering; when he tried to get her to take some of the water she resisted, with an unconscious convulsive movement as of nausea. "Don't want tea," she muttered.
"It's water," he told her. She dragged her eyes open enough to see the glass; and slowly she took it and sipped at it, first slowly, then more deeply.
He let her wake up slowly, puttering about the room and getting out the clothes she'd chosen for the day. He put them next to her on the bed: she stared at them for a long time, clutching her water glass, while he made certain her backpack was properly packed, book, notebook, clothing, and all.
At last he straightened, glanced at his watch, and said to her: "Best get dressed now."
She offered a jerk of a nod, began to uncurl herself and put down the water to dress. Something in her movements made him think of a dying insect, with its legs beginning to shut against its body—and then the impression passed and she looked human again, childlike and smooth-limbed.
He left her alone so she could dress.
When he came back she was numbly attempting to shove her pajamas into her pack on top of her books. Gently he took over for her: she acquiesced, blinking hard into the light, and took up her water glass again.
In a very short time he was escorting her downstairs step by step, carrying her pack. He set it down by the table long enough to get her jacket and hold it for her to get into; then she took a little initiative and picked her pack up before he could take it again.
He shrugged into his own jacket, took down her new coat and shouldered his own satchel. She trailed after him to the door; but when he opened it and moved a hand to usher her out, she paused, looking back.
He watched her eyes, still bleary behind crooked glasses, sweep over the landscape of his flat, with an expression of one making sure she hadn't missed anything, mixed with a numb hint of emotion, whether regret or relief he could not tell.
She turned back to him. "Ready?" he said; she nodded, hitched her backpack on her shoulder, and strode wearily past him into the blackness of the wee morning hours.
He worried that she might fall asleep again in the car on the way to the airport. She did not; she sat quite straight and silent with the streetlights flicking smoothly over her glasses. She moved once, when they passed the city-limit sign on the highway, headed toward the city airport.
He worried that the dimensional warp would take her again. It did not; and a small knell fell inside him: he knew it meant both death and life to her.
He ran over the procedures in his mind, and worried that she wasn't up to a one-stop flight. She was so fragile, so tired, so obviously ill. Could she handle both LAX and Logan? Curse the airlines—it was the best he could do under such short notice. He wanted to ask her if she would be all right, but realized that such a question would be counterproductive: he wanted to reassure her, not ask for her reassurance.
He took the exit for the Sunnydale Airport, which quickly sheared off toward winding lanes over which terminal signs brooded brightly; found the proper parking lot, pulled into a space. The headlights zeroed in on a half-pillar acting as both curb and fence, and went out when he shut off the car.
"We're here," he said.
So that they would not forget, she took her new coat over her arm rather than letting him carry it; but she ended up handing it to him anyway when she bellied up to the airline counter to sign for her ticket. The man at the desk looked askance at her papers, her one-way fare, and the bruises on her face; but it wasn't the first flight from Sunnydale he'd seen (in all senses of the word), and he made no comment except to give Elisabeth a mordant smile, which she did not return.
Ticket in hand, they went their way toward the security gates. "I suppose I've got to do the major passport stuff in L.A.," Elisabeth said.
"Yes," Rupert said. "Would you like to go over the papers again?"
Elisabeth shook her head.
"Call me," he said, "if you run into any trouble. Any trouble at all."
"Is your number on the papers?"
He started; he had forgotten that minor detail. Thinking quickly, he rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a Magic Box card. "Just had them printed up," he said, with a ridiculous little smile of pride that he regretted until he saw that it had elicited a little smile from her in return. He found a pen and wrote his home number on the back, including the area code. "Can't think how I forgot that," he said. "Of course you'll want to call me when you get to London—that is, I hope you'll call me. Don't mind the hour; I probably won't be asleep."
Elisabeth nodded.
They passed through the security gates so uneventfully that Elisabeth couldn't help a glance backward at the scaffold door and X-ray conveyor belt, as if unable to believe they hadn't stopped her.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Rupert asked her as they walked.
She took a full ten seconds to answer this, staring off into the middle distance, as if the world depended on a serious answer. "Yes," she said finally.
It didn't take long to stop at a kiosk; Rupert purchased two coffees, and waited to hand her hers while she rearranged the things in her hands so that coat, ticket, and papers were in one arm.
They reached the gate sipping, and found it more or less deserted. The plane had not arrived yet, and the sky outside the windows was still dark. Rupert and Elisabeth sat down in seats she chose, for their view of nearly everything within and without the building. They sipped their coffee, said very little.
Rupert, for his part, was trying to conceal how very inadequate his efforts were beginning to look to him. He wished he had bit the bullet, taken a few days of vacation, and gone with Elisabeth to London, just to make sure she was well taken care of. Not that she was incapable of taking care of herself—and surely that is what she would say to him if she knew—but—so much could go wrong, and here he was tossing her gently like a fledgling into the wind.
On the other hand, he would certainly be doing her a disservice, coddling her. And she clearly did not even want him to do so. He had not forgotten her little speech about pride.
Not to mention the work Rupert needed to get back to. He pushed away the thought, but it came back with force: Dawn, the mystery of her existence, the mystery of the woman who was seeking her. He needed to get information; it was the only way he could help Buffy. And yet his very mind had been fractured kaleidoscopically by the magic that had been worked to fit Dawn among them: trying to figure out where Dawn had come from was like trying to figure out where his power of language had come from; it was far more seamless, and ultimately less acceptable, than what had just happened with Elisabeth. Who now also had her place among them outside the natural course of things, even though she was leaving to keep it to a minimum.
He gave a small sigh. Elisabeth had a hard row to hoe ahead of her. As would Dawn, if she ever found out the truth.
He glanced over at Elisabeth and saw, to his surprise, that she was looking at him with a small, affectionate smile. He relaxed in his seat and smiled back wryly.
"All right?" he asked her.
"Yeah," she said.
"You look more awake." Rupert kept his eyes on her as he sipped again at his cooling coffee.
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah." She looked down at her own coffee, made a faint face, put it down on the endtable. Rupert thought suddenly that the way she looked now—scruffy in black jacket, with her old army pack at her feet, coat on her lap, glasses permanently askew—was going to become another of his indelible images of her, like the one of her playing Punch and Judy with his fertility idols, of her sitting on his kitchen counter looking him intermittently in the eye, a bruise swelling on her cheek, of her splashed in mud, pupils wide, hands stroking his laid on her breast.
He cast his eyes down, breaking off that thought.
There was a faint stir in the other few people in the gate, elicited by a growing high-pitched efficient whine; Elisabeth and Rupert turned to see the plane nosing in to dock, just as the P.A. voice said: "Pre-boarding for Flight 17 from Sunnydale to LAX."
Elisabeth looked down at her ticket. "Flight 17," she murmured. "It figures."
"Eh?" Rupert said.
She looked up at him, her habitual wry look not quite masking a small swell of fright. "I came here on Bus 17. Looks like I'm leaving on Plane 17."
Rupert could not but see the humor. "Well," he said, "let us hope Schrodinger does not hijack—"
"Don't," she hissed suddenly, "talk about that sort of thing in an airport!" He blinked; she recovered and said, "Yes, let us hope I don't hop dimensions this time."
They got to their feet. "You'll call me," he said, "when you get in...?"
She nodded. "I will."
The plane was boarding. Elisabeth gathered up her things and started toward the gate, Rupert drifting after her.
She turned, shoulders straight, looking him in the eye. "I guess this isn't really goodbye," she said quietly, "seeing as how you're bankrolling my future."
"Not for long," he answered, just as softly. "I have every confidence."
Both of them moved in a faint urge as toward a kiss, but restrained it: for his part, Rupert was thinking of her desire for independence, not to mention the disastrous interruption they'd had the last time they tried to kiss goodbye.
She put out a hand; he met it with his and they shook firmly. Oh what the hell, Rupert thought after a second, and pulled her into a quick, strong hug.
She hugged him back, one-armed and awkward with her burdens, but no less forcefully for all that. The moment lasted a few extra seconds.
And then she was withdrawing, she was waving with her ticket, she was saying, "Take care—"
"And you," he managed to answer before she passed the attendant and disappeared through the gate.
Rupert moved out of the way to the window and watched until the plane was shut and began to pull out of the gate. The faintest hint of grey now tinged the eastern half of the sky.
"Godspeed," Rupert murmured, audible to no one but himself.
On the way home in the gathering dawn, Rupert stopped for more coffee and a doughnut. He felt his mind beginning to turn again toward the daily round of his life's work, and probably not too soon. Though it had been nice, having a girlfriend for a few days—despite the almost constant disaster that had attended their courtship. At least the disaster hadn't ended the courtship, as it had certainly done to him before; and the ridiculousness that had taken them over had made them both laugh more than once. All in all, it had been a remarkably positive Hellmouth romance.
Rupert crossed his fingers for Elisabeth on the plane.
Elisabeth did her best not to be overwhelmed by the sheer size and busyness of the airport in L.A., but it was tough work. When it came time to present her papers and passport, she assumed her best air of dignity, pretending that her face was not bruised and her hair was not straggly and her glasses were not crooked—helped, somewhat, by changing into her nice new coat in the restroom before approaching the desk.
They asked her questions. Elisabeth answered them, trying not to stammer; but they were all looking at her closely and suspiciously until a brisk man, obviously a superior, passed behind them. "Student, are you?" he asked her kindly.
Elisabeth did not answer him yes, but she straightened her shoulders and drew in a breath, in a way that he could, and did, take as an affirmative.
The man jerked a quick nod, and just that quickly it was all over and she had her ticket and papers in hand, free of further inquiry. She stumbled away from the desk, looking over her shoulder, feeling like a refugee in one of those movies where women and children are fleeing from totalitarian regimes.
Now all she had to do was find out how to get on the plane.
She checked her ticket carefully over, then read the monitors overhead. Her flight to Boston was, apparently, on schedule. Good. She set off in search of the gate.
An hour later she was comfortably ensconced in a window seat (happy miracle), waiting for the plane to taxi to the runway. It had been years since she last flew, and despite the hellish stress of large-scale solitary travel, she was enjoying the novelty she had always felt as the airplane picked up speed and lifted from the ground—the view from high in the air—the weightless speed of their going.
And she had a window seat.
She leaned back in her seat, taking in the characteristic scent of air travel, pulled down the window shade a little to cut down the brilliance of the sunrise, and sighed contentedly.
As the plane climbed and finally reached its level height, Elisabeth had leisure to think about Rupert. She wasn't sure whether she missed him yet; though she suspected that as time went on she was going to miss him badly. She had dared to warm to him and connect with him not only knowing she might soon die, but expecting that that death would save her from the pains and difficulties that would surely result. Now, not only had she died, she had remained undelivered from that future. It's just typical, she thought; but she did not notice that there was more humor and less self-pity in the statement than had been in her before they met.
Elisabeth cast her glance down through the window to see what the rising sun was doing to the earth below. She did enjoy flying.
Rupert sat himself down to an egg sandwich and some juice. His flat was oddly quiet around him: the sheer energies of another person's presence, now withdrawn, left him slightly disoriented in his own home. He frowned thoughtfully at his sandwich, gave a mental shrug, and took another bite.
He was just polishing the last of it off when a knock came at the door. Rupert waited for whoever it was to barge in, curious as to whether it'd be Spike in a whirl of blanket and smoke, Xander and Anya, nattering and bickering, or—
Nobody was barging in. Rupert got up and opened the door.
It was Buffy.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he said.
"What?" she asked him dryly.
"Nothing," he said.
"Come on." Buffy's wicked smile grew. "You know you have something smartass to say."
Rupert cleared his throat. "I was merely thinking," he said, eyebrows lofty, "that it was a nice change to have my door knocked on by someone willing to wait for me to answer it." He stood back for her to come in.
Buffy grinned in response, and entered.
Rupert shut the door, and, to give his hands something to do, took his plate and cup into the kitchen to wash.
Buffy came to rest against one of the dining-table chair backs, and watched him for a moment before beginning idly: "So...Elisabeth's gone off to England now?"
Rupert glanced back at her, slotting his dish carefully into the rack. "Yes. I took her to the airport early this morning."
"She okay?"
He finished washing the cup and turned off the water. "Yes," he said, drying his hands on the dishtowel, "I think she will be."
"Are you okay?"
Rupert hung up the dishtowel on the oven door handle. "Of course," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He could feel Buffy's probing look, but she did not come out with the hard sell. "Oh, I don't know," she said quietly. "Love on the Hellmouth tends to be a pretty risky proposition."
Rupert snorted. He came out into the kitchen corridor and leaned a hand against the doorway. "You didn't come here to ask about that," he said.
As an attempt to turn the tables, it went surprisingly well.
"I'm not that self-interested," Buffy said, straightening in mild pique. "I wanted to find out how you were. Because, you know, everything's been so complicated. And...." She trailed off and finally let down her shoulders, admitting defeat. "I've missed talking to you."
He gave her a smile all the more gentle for carrying a strong tinge of guilt.
"You've been very busy," he said.
She nodded. "And it's been—so crazy. Everything's all right; everything's all wrong; and I can't figure out moment to moment which one it really is."
He nodded fervently.
"It's like life keeps dealing me these flash cards, and I have to keep asking myself what 6 times 7 is."
"Forty-two," Rupert said.
"The answer to everything," Buffy said dryly. "Supposedly."
She stopped and looked up at him, clearly at a loss what to say next.
For answer he went to her and gathered her into a hug.
It was a method of communication he rarely employed with her; but he found that his response was the right one: she hugged him back firmly around the waist, her odd, incongruous strength adding an unwitting pressure to his ribs that he bore without flinch or comment. And they stayed like that for a long minute.
Finally Buffy moved her head to speak to him. "Have you forgiven me for hitting your girlfriend?" she asked.
He smiled wryly, though she couldn't see it, and hugged her tighter. "Yes."
"Okay....Are you sure?"
"Buffy. She has forgiven you; I hardly think I have a right to bear a grudge."
"Okay."
This time Rupert hitched and winced a little. Buffy loosened her grip. "Sorry." She pulled back to look him in the face. There was a hint of suspicion in her expression, whether over his assurances that the quarrel was finished or over his unwonted blatant affection he could not tell.
It seemed to be the latter, because as they parted she said: "You give good huggage when you forget you're British."
He was halfway back to the kitchen before that caught up with him. "Hey!" He turned around, indignant. "British people hug," he insisted.
Buffy broke into a full grin. "Gotcha," she said, and sailed off to the door. "I gotta go," she said. "I have this odd urge to go to class."
"You do that," Rupert said, grinning in spite of himself.
Buffy opened the door and turned to face him. He waited, with pleasure, for her parting shot.
"And Giles?" she said. "Thanks for the encouragement."
He blinked. "Well—you're welcome. Though—I didn't say anything materially useful."
"You didn't have to." With one last wry, grave smile, Buffy was out the door in a flash of denim and organdy.
Left alone once more, Rupert stared thoughtfully across the living area.
It was high time he got back to work.
Boarding her flight to Heathrow in Boston, Elisabeth wished fervently that she had thought to get a hat; her hair was growing stringier by the minute, adding to her bedraggled state by a power of ten.
Though for all that, the trip was going well, with a minimum of delay and frustration, although she was certainly looking forward to arriving and not having to navigate her way through endless cavernous corridors.
As boarding continued, Elisabeth pulled her backpack out of the upper compartment to retrieve her book. She had spent a good part of the flight to Boston reading it, though she had also spent a good part watching the land move past beneath her and thinking of her old home, somewhere down there and a dimension away. Now, however, they would be over ocean for a long time; she could read, and sleep.
The movement of the plane, the dim cabin lights, and the darkness outside quickly put paid to Elisabeth's reading plans. She stowed the book back in her pack, folded up her new coat (carefully, as she did not feel ready to mistreat it yet), and added it to the little pillow the flight attendant had given her. Within minutes she was drawn just under the surface of sleep, haunted by plane sounds and voices and the shadows of ocean and travel and time.
Rupert spent his first hour at the shop that afternoon arguing with Anya, who for some inexplicable reason wanted him to pay her ten dollars from yesterday. "Anya," he had explained in what he thought was a very patient manner, "we agreed on this. You agreed to take a vacation day without pay, in exchange for not chipping in for Elisabeth's coat."
"Oh, that's got nothing to do with it," Anya said, and proceeded to explain the entire thing. Rupert listened with half an ear, until she was nearly finished; then he turned on her and whipped off his glasses. "What?" he demanded.
"I paid Elisabeth vengeance money for what you said to her, so now I'm asking you to remunerate me," Anya repeated, as if the instant he understood he would be happy to oblige.
He stared at her, squinting quizzically. "No," he said finally.
Thus the argument: in which was canvassed the gaucheness of gambling over relationships, followed by the history of vengeance, the traditions of the Mafia and their relation to those of demonkind, the obtuseness of English men, the callous clumsiness of men in general, the specific horror of said clumsiness in relation to young, vulnerable girlfriends, and the utter implacability of even former vengeance demons regarding such peccadilloes.
In the end Rupert paid her the ten dollars as much to stem the lecture as anything else. But Anya's parting shot gave him something to think about.
"And if I were you," she said, folding the bill neatly and slipping it into the pocket of her sweater, "I would send her flowers. Posthaste."
Rupert snorted. But half an hour later, outside Anya's purview, he drifted to the phone book and began to study the florists' pages.
Elisabeth was waked when the intercom scratched to life, alerting them to the plane's approaching descent. She blinked herself into as much a semblance of alertness as possible, gathered her things neatly, and sat waiting for the plane to land.
In the slow scramble of the passengers gathering their possessions, Elisabeth put on her new coat, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could, checked the pockets of her jacket, and got down her backpack, trying to avoid the thought of who was waiting for her.
Dawn had spread in the sky outside, and as she shrugged her weary way up the gate to the terminal, she felt the unreality of morning twilight in her bones as well as all around her.
Nevertheless she could not help a small smile of pleasure at what met her in the airport: British voices all around, British spelling and vocabulary on the signs, all the novelty of a foreign land upon which her feet were now standing—the faintest of triumphs, but still her own.
She caught sight of Olivia before she saw the little sign soberly lettered, "Elisabeth Bowen," that she held in one hand: tall, magnificently black, and stylish, she was scanning the erstwhile passengers for her new charge.
Elisabeth went toward her, swallowing the dryness in her throat; and Olivia saw her at last.
"Hello," she said, with (which pleased Elisabeth) no smile but a cordial voice. "You must be Elisabeth."
"Hi," Elisabeth croaked.
Fortunately for her nerves, it seemed Olivia was a sensible person, for apart from a handshake and an inquiry about the flight (the handshake was too languid for Elisabeth's taste but the inquiry was the right blend of smart competence and sympathy), followed by an inquiry after the essentials of restroom, luggage, and breakfast, she did not expect too much conversation out of Elisabeth. After a half hour getting free of the airport, Elisabeth felt it safe to let Olivia manage the details of getting them back to her London flat, and spent a good portion of her time rubbernecking out windows and glancing (almost disastrously) in every direction at once.
Elisabeth liked Olivia's flat as soon as they got up the stairs and in the door; it was small by American standards, but made good use of space and was marvellously decorated. "Those are very lovely prints," Elisabeth said, gesturing at the walls of the—what she supposed she must now call the lounge.
"Yes," Olivia said briskly, "friend of mine did them; instead of putting them in the gallery I snapped them up myself. I'll pass the compliment along; he doesn't get tired of them, though they come regularly." She offered Elisabeth a small mischievous grin, then tipped her head for Elisabeth to follow.
"This will be your room while you stay here," she said in the doorway.
Elisabeth wandered in tentatively and looked around. Clearly the room had been a sort of library-cum-office recently; one wall held bookshelves full of well-thumbed art books and two large filing cabinets. In the other corner was a bed and a small dresser.
"It's very nice," Elisabeth said, setting down her backpack. She was beginning to feel again the small helpless urge of gratitude.
"Care for some breakfast?"
"Actually," she said, turning round, "I'm dying for a shower."
Again the mischievous grin. "Of course. Bathroom's down that way, towels on the rack, and—I've got an extra wrapper, I'll get that out."
"Thank you," Elisabeth said.
Ten minutes later, however, Elisabeth returned awkwardly to the kitchen, clutching the borrowed wrapper around her. you show me how to work the faucets? They've defeated me."
"Oh! of course. They are a bit tricky."
At last, bathed, dressed in fresh clothes (which smelled of Rupert's flat and gave Elisabeth a sudden jolt of what could only be called homesickness), Elisabeth reappeared, ready to do damage to whatever was for breakfast.
"You had a delivery while you were in the shower," Olivia said, with a small smile.
"Oh?" Elisabeth drifted to the table and found a small potted African violet, complete with card. Slowly she took out the card and read it.
"I expect it's from Rupert?" Olivia said.
She nodded. "It says, 'Mazel tov.'"
Olivia gave a small snort of laughter, which Elisabeth understood: it was hardly the sort of thing one would expect Rupert to say. She looked from the card to the violet, and was taken by the growing conviction of a memory, of a conversation in a hospital room, of Rupert's voice without his image.
"He asked me to call him," she heard herself saying, "when I got in."
"Of course." Olivia brought her the phone and showed her how to make the international call. Elisabeth put it to her ear and waited.
"Hello?" Rupert's voice was gravelled but alert.
"Rupert," Elisabeth said.
"Oh, you've arrived then? Everything all right?"
"Yes, just fine. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Thanks. Er...."
"Thank you for the violet," Elisabeth said, answering his unasked question.
"Ah," he said. "Yes. You're quite welcome."
A small silence fell. Elisabeth broke it.
"Thank you," she said again.
"Thank you," was his soft reply.
"Well...I'll let you go. Take care."
"And you."
"I will."
"Right."
"Okay."
"Bye then."
"Bye."
"Care for some toast?" Olivia asked, as she put the phone away.
"Yes, please," Elisabeth said. "I'm just going to...." She picked up the violet and carried it into her room.
She found a place for it on top of the little dresser, and stood for a moment regarding its dark blooms and spreading leaves. There was so much she could have said to him. But perhaps it was just as well she had not. And after all, he knew.
Elisabeth gave the violet one long last look, and then returned to the kitchen.
"Now," she said, "where's that toast?"
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