Giles looked down at the cracked pavement under his feet. He found himself squinting in the half-light emanating from the overcast day. It was grey. It'd been too long since he'd been in London. Somehow everything here seemed grey. So different from Sunnydale. So different from all of California, to be perfectly honest.
His ticket to LAX was heavy in the pocket of his wool overcoat. It was begging him to return to L.A. and, eventually, to Sunnydale. He'd be warm there, instead of in the bloody fog that kept everything cold these days. He found himself dreaming of that warmth both waking and asleep. It was like something truly English had died within him when he was in that ring of Californian warmth.
Feet scuffed loudly through dry, brown leaves on the sidewalk, listening to then crackle under the soles of his shoes. He hadn't done this since he was a little boy. The chill filling the air brought the Englishman to pull his coat closer around his shoulders, trying to warm himself from the winter that was surrounding him.
His feet had pounded these sidewalks for so many weeks since he'd returned to London. He took the same walk every afternoon. He'd pass the grocer where he'd wanted to work when still young, the house he'd grown up in when a very small child, and the little Anglican Church that was somehow draft even on the warmest days of summer.
Rupert Giles stood in the doorway to the church, looking out at the grey sky and leaves that were no longer the colour of sweets wrappers. Everything seemed draped in grey and brown. He turned his back on the winter and looked instead toward the inside of the church.
Every since he was a little boy, Rupert had felt out of place in this little Anglican haven. It was as if he didn't belong there. Somehow something was looking at him, judging him. He'd heard an older couple when he was no more than five saying it was scandalous for such a small boy to come into the church and not be awed into prayer to the almighty Lord. Since then he'd found himself kneeling in the pews every time he came in here. It was a good place for him to think, but he never truly prayed.
He knelt in a pew near the back and bowed his head, deep in false prayer. His eyes covertly scanned the little church. There was a redheaded girl to his right, several pews up. She reminded him of Willow and Giles realised how much he missed the young witch.
Father Benjamin scowled at him, knowing that the Watcher was not praying. Giles never prayed, not really. He'd stay in the church for hours if let, piously on his knees, thinking about something.
Father Benjamin watched the Watcher pull his long coat around his shoulders to fight back the cold. Something about the chill, though, pleased the preacher. He liked the cold, it felt like home to him.
Giles shivered again and looked at the redhead once more. Something about her drew his hand into his pocket where he felt the ticket to LAX. If he didn't tell them, didn't tell her, he could leave that evening if he liked. Something told the Englishman that the meeting would go smoother if Willow didn't know he was coming back to Sunnydale. After all, he'd been quite cross with her the last time and no one knew how she'd take his return yet again.
Father Benjamin just smiled. Giles wasn't going anywhere, not today. He was going to stay in that pew until the redhead finished her devotions. Then he'd walk home in the cold, through the winter that was all over London. He was dreaming of California, but the Watcher never was one to make dreams a reality.