"At the Reception"-- B is for bric-a-brac. BtVS fic.
Title: At the Reception
aheartfulofyou
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Medium: TV Show
Words: 1,070
Genre: Slash (pre-slash, in this)
Pairing: Giles/Oz, Oz/Willow
Rating: PG
Theme: B is for bric-a-brac.
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related belong to Joss Whedon.
Setting/Spoilers: Season Four (“Wild At Heart”)
The van pulled away well enough for a dramatic exit. He wasn’t big on dramatics. Fate was, though, apparently, because driving through the subdivisions, the engine light turned on. It made a few popping sounds, which probably weren’t good, and the van stalled.
He rubbed a hand over the side of his face, unlocked the door, stepped out. Jumped out. Vertically challenged.
The smoke coming out from under the hood was just another thing to add to the trials of the day, but if his trademark stoicism had kept him from shedding a single tear a few minutes ago, even though his chest felt like it had been tearing, it was enough to keep him calm now. Willow had cried enough for the both of them, and he had wanted to stay. Ignition on, off. A thousand inane thoughts, more tearing. Then ignition on. He had to leave. He had to.
He took a glance around the neighborhood, and was mildly surprised to see that the houses looked familiar. At least, one of them did. Giles. He shut the heavy metal door, walked down the street and up the sidewalk, knocked on the door.
He was ready to turn away, walk back down to town and find a mechanic, when Giles opened the door, oven mitt on one hand, spatula in another, chewing something. The house smelled like pot roast. He looked mildly surprised.
“Oz.” He opened the door wider, swallowed, motioned to come inside. “Please, please, come in.”
“Thanks.” Oz stepped over the threshold. “My van’s engine broke down, a few houses away.”
He shut the door behind him as Giles went back into the kitchen, opened the oven, poked at something with his spatula, then set it down. He took of the mitt, wiped his hands on the sides of his slacks.
“Feel free to use the phone then. I’m sure there’s a number for a mechanic, or, er, one of those garages.” Giles reached under the counter, first pulled out a large, ancient-looking tome, with ambiguous symbols on the cover, put it back, then pulled out a similarly sized yellow telephone book. He fumbled through it a bit, and then handed it to Oz. “Well, it’s bound to be there somewhere.”
“Thanks,” he said again, and thumbed through it. He found a number of a nearby towing and car mechanic shop, called them, and set the phone down again.
“They said it’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll have to impose on your hospitality a little more.”
Giles gave a smile. “Not a problem whatsoever. I was actually just making supper, so if you’d care to stay for that, I won’t have leftovers in the refrigerator for the next couple of weeks.”
“Sounds good.”
Oz leaned against the kitchen counter, fingering the cold marble and musing to himself. Giles piped up yet again, with: “Oh, if you’d like to call Willow, tell her where you are, feel free. I’m sure she’s worrying about you?”
He breathed in, moved away from the counter. “Actually, I was heading to L.A. when the van broke down. Probably the airport after that.”
Giles looked up. His eyes told Oz he knew most of the reasons, and understood them, but he explained anyway, matter-of-factly. “I still care about Willow. A lot.” He realized speaking about it was difficult, only after he’d started. “It’s better. To work out my... problems.” Giles nodded.
Awkward silence ensued, except for the clinking of dinner plates Giles was pulling out of the cupboard, and the sizzling of the roast in the oven. Oz, hands hanging halfway out of his pockets, glanced around, and then spotted the cases of records that lined the wall at the side of the living room.
“Mind if I take a look at your records again?”
Giles turned around, looking a little relieved. “No, of course. Go right ahead. I know you have excellent taste yourself.”
“I’d say so.” He squatted down, opened up the first case, and pulled out a few LPs carefully.
Twenty minutes later, they had The Boomtown Rats playing scratchily on the record player Giles had dragged up from his basement, and they were in a friendly debate about a song from The Rolling Stones’ 1965 album, and exactly what it had stemmed from. Oz’s voice was calm as ever, stated out his point; Giles’ was as enthusiastic as he was about some of his discoveries and books, a little excited, insistent.
“Now, listen, you weren’t even born when it was out. It was from Keith Richard’s genius only, the lyrics, the key changes, all inspired by the fact that he was out there, seeing both sides of America...”
“True enough, but you were pretty young yourself. Doesn’t mean I know less. It’s inspired by Martha and the Vandellas.”
“The guitar riff only!”
“That’s still where he got it from.”
When the buzzer on the oven went off, and they sat at the kitchen table, eating and continuing their discussion. Oz hadn’t talked to someone this intently about music since... well, since the incident he’d rather he didn’t think about.
Giles took a bite of the meat, chewed a little, and then: “You must agree with me on the subject, though. What he’s trying to say is that there are two sides to everything, in two separate shapes; one is the actual, pure shape, and the other is... phony, if you will, trying to hide the other side. It’s quite like...” He paused.
Oz set down his fork, nodded solemnly. “The wolf.”
“Which hides the human side, only,” Giles corrected hurriedly.
He sighed out a little. “I’ve been starting to think it might be the other way around.”
“When one thinks that way...” Giles began. The doorbell rang, he stopped, and Oz quickly got up, greeted the man at the door, and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He looked at the unfinished dinner plate and the pile of records in a haphazard tower on the floor.
“Hold on a minute. I should help...”
Giles walked to the door. “No, go ahead. I’ll clean up the rest here, alphabetize the records and what have you. Go on. I wish you... the best of luck with your journey.”
Oz nodded. “Thanks, man.”
Giles inclined his head, and Oz followed the towing-mechanic out the door, as the last strains of an early Velvet Underground song followed him down the street.
aheartfulofyou
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Medium: TV Show
Words: 1,070
Genre: Slash (pre-slash, in this)
Pairing: Giles/Oz, Oz/Willow
Rating: PG
Theme: B is for bric-a-brac.
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related belong to Joss Whedon.
Setting/Spoilers: Season Four (“Wild At Heart”)
The van pulled away well enough for a dramatic exit. He wasn’t big on dramatics. Fate was, though, apparently, because driving through the subdivisions, the engine light turned on. It made a few popping sounds, which probably weren’t good, and the van stalled.
He rubbed a hand over the side of his face, unlocked the door, stepped out. Jumped out. Vertically challenged.
The smoke coming out from under the hood was just another thing to add to the trials of the day, but if his trademark stoicism had kept him from shedding a single tear a few minutes ago, even though his chest felt like it had been tearing, it was enough to keep him calm now. Willow had cried enough for the both of them, and he had wanted to stay. Ignition on, off. A thousand inane thoughts, more tearing. Then ignition on. He had to leave. He had to.
He took a glance around the neighborhood, and was mildly surprised to see that the houses looked familiar. At least, one of them did. Giles. He shut the heavy metal door, walked down the street and up the sidewalk, knocked on the door.
He was ready to turn away, walk back down to town and find a mechanic, when Giles opened the door, oven mitt on one hand, spatula in another, chewing something. The house smelled like pot roast. He looked mildly surprised.
“Oz.” He opened the door wider, swallowed, motioned to come inside. “Please, please, come in.”
“Thanks.” Oz stepped over the threshold. “My van’s engine broke down, a few houses away.”
He shut the door behind him as Giles went back into the kitchen, opened the oven, poked at something with his spatula, then set it down. He took of the mitt, wiped his hands on the sides of his slacks.
“Feel free to use the phone then. I’m sure there’s a number for a mechanic, or, er, one of those garages.” Giles reached under the counter, first pulled out a large, ancient-looking tome, with ambiguous symbols on the cover, put it back, then pulled out a similarly sized yellow telephone book. He fumbled through it a bit, and then handed it to Oz. “Well, it’s bound to be there somewhere.”
“Thanks,” he said again, and thumbed through it. He found a number of a nearby towing and car mechanic shop, called them, and set the phone down again.
“They said it’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll have to impose on your hospitality a little more.”
Giles gave a smile. “Not a problem whatsoever. I was actually just making supper, so if you’d care to stay for that, I won’t have leftovers in the refrigerator for the next couple of weeks.”
“Sounds good.”
Oz leaned against the kitchen counter, fingering the cold marble and musing to himself. Giles piped up yet again, with: “Oh, if you’d like to call Willow, tell her where you are, feel free. I’m sure she’s worrying about you?”
He breathed in, moved away from the counter. “Actually, I was heading to L.A. when the van broke down. Probably the airport after that.”
Giles looked up. His eyes told Oz he knew most of the reasons, and understood them, but he explained anyway, matter-of-factly. “I still care about Willow. A lot.” He realized speaking about it was difficult, only after he’d started. “It’s better. To work out my... problems.” Giles nodded.
Awkward silence ensued, except for the clinking of dinner plates Giles was pulling out of the cupboard, and the sizzling of the roast in the oven. Oz, hands hanging halfway out of his pockets, glanced around, and then spotted the cases of records that lined the wall at the side of the living room.
“Mind if I take a look at your records again?”
Giles turned around, looking a little relieved. “No, of course. Go right ahead. I know you have excellent taste yourself.”
“I’d say so.” He squatted down, opened up the first case, and pulled out a few LPs carefully.
Twenty minutes later, they had The Boomtown Rats playing scratchily on the record player Giles had dragged up from his basement, and they were in a friendly debate about a song from The Rolling Stones’ 1965 album, and exactly what it had stemmed from. Oz’s voice was calm as ever, stated out his point; Giles’ was as enthusiastic as he was about some of his discoveries and books, a little excited, insistent.
“Now, listen, you weren’t even born when it was out. It was from Keith Richard’s genius only, the lyrics, the key changes, all inspired by the fact that he was out there, seeing both sides of America...”
“True enough, but you were pretty young yourself. Doesn’t mean I know less. It’s inspired by Martha and the Vandellas.”
“The guitar riff only!”
“That’s still where he got it from.”
When the buzzer on the oven went off, and they sat at the kitchen table, eating and continuing their discussion. Oz hadn’t talked to someone this intently about music since... well, since the incident he’d rather he didn’t think about.
Giles took a bite of the meat, chewed a little, and then: “You must agree with me on the subject, though. What he’s trying to say is that there are two sides to everything, in two separate shapes; one is the actual, pure shape, and the other is... phony, if you will, trying to hide the other side. It’s quite like...” He paused.
Oz set down his fork, nodded solemnly. “The wolf.”
“Which hides the human side, only,” Giles corrected hurriedly.
He sighed out a little. “I’ve been starting to think it might be the other way around.”
“When one thinks that way...” Giles began. The doorbell rang, he stopped, and Oz quickly got up, greeted the man at the door, and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He looked at the unfinished dinner plate and the pile of records in a haphazard tower on the floor.
“Hold on a minute. I should help...”
Giles walked to the door. “No, go ahead. I’ll clean up the rest here, alphabetize the records and what have you. Go on. I wish you... the best of luck with your journey.”
Oz nodded. “Thanks, man.”
Giles inclined his head, and Oz followed the towing-mechanic out the door, as the last strains of an early Velvet Underground song followed him down the street.