"Perhaps if we both keep our fingers crossed for the next three days, we'll be all right." Oz's hand is traveling up towards Giles' neck, so he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, lets Oz touch him. Playful touches, exploratory, knuckles rolling over his adam's apple and up to his chin, nails skritching lightly through beard stubble, thumbs pressing up his collarbone to his shoulders. Giles keeps his own hands wandering and easy, to let Oz set the pace.
Oz pulls his head down, thumbs along his neck and fingers in his hair, and kisses him.
And the telephone rings.
In an instant Oz is off his lap and halfway across the room. Giles scrambles for the phone, and if this is a telemarketer the bastard's going to get an earful.
Every time the phone rings, Giles has that pounding tension in his chest that only used to happen if the phone rang in the middle of the night. Now, any call could bring the worst imaginable news.
"Hello," he says, and his voice sounds choked and rough.
Hi, Giles! It's Buffy.
"Buffy." For a moment he's relieved. "Is everything all right?"
Yeah, sure. I just . . . you know how I've been patrolling really carefully lately, and also electrocuting robotic demons and so on? I've been like, super-dutiful Buffy.
"Yes, you've done very well."
Then, it wouldn't be a big deal if I did kind of a short patrol tonight, right? 'Cause there's this band at the Bronze, and they're really- And also, vamps like the Bronze. I could keep an eye on it. Make sure everything's OK.
"Yes, I'm sure that would be helpful." He tries for sarcasm, but it comes out fond and only slightly exasperated. "Enjoy your evening. But full patrol tomorrow night."
Sure. Hey, I'll have so much extra energy, I'll stake the vampires twice as hard as usual. Bye.
"Goodbye," he says, but she's already hung up.
Oz is sitting at the top of the loft stairs. "It was nothing. Everything's fine. Buffy just wants a night off. Apparently there's a lot of that going around." Giles' heart has slowed back to normal, but adrenaline still has his nerves twittering and popping.
He's got electrified barbed wire in his veins and it's going off, humming and sizzling, so Oz just nods. Instead of getting used to this, he feels like he's getting worse. It's the shock of the ringing phone, but more than that, it's hearing Giles talk to his slayer. He sounds like a dad, a good dad, patient and affectionate; he sounds the same when he talks to the other girl, too. Once it was the boy, and Giles sounded like a monitor in detention, telling the guy to calm down and take a breath.
So it takes Oz a minute or five to chill, to start seeing Giles again as Giles, and the interval is always weird. Like Giles is superimposed over himself, slightly blurred, different cels in an animation or an anatomy book. Muscular system, circulatory system, skeleton; his Giles, the librarian, the Watcher.
Oz takes the steps two at a time, thinking that proximity and speed will fill up that interval, and hugs Giles hard enough that he has to take a step backward from the momentum.
He doesn't realize he's breathless until he kisses Giles, hard, craning his neck, fingers digging into his shoulder blades and waist.
Oz tumbles into him, fast and hard as an avalanche, and his kiss is an avalanche too, scraping Giles, burying him, smothering him in cold heaviness.
"Shhh," he says between kisses, and he's not sure what he's soothing away, why the telephone turns Oz precarious and quivering, ready to collapse at a sound.
Teeth on Oz's lips, tongue in his mouth to warm him, hands bracing his neck and hip, holding him steady and still.
Now he's flushing with shame, and Oz knows he should pull away and apologize and maybe even catch his breath, but he can't let go and it would hurt Giles, confuse him. Confuse him more, that is, than he probably already is.
Giles is strong and immovable as a pillar, something infrastructural, and Oz catches his breath by inhaling little, slowing gasps full of Giles, of calm and dust and good, dark liquor and kissing him, slower and slower.
"Sorry," he mumbles and pries his fingers out of the fabric of Giles's shirt. His head buzzes and when he blinks, he sees big, sparkly carnations wheeling behind his lids. "I -" Like he even knows. Electricity still sparking under his skin. "Panicked? Something. Fuck. I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Oz starts to take a step back, but Giles holds him. Cradles Oz's head in his hand, fingers stroking the roots of his hair, trying to work peace in through his skin. He'd succeed better if he weren't still clenched, still feeling tiny shivers in his muscles. "I panic too. Every time the phone rings or there's a knock on the door."
When he kisses Oz again it's slower, easier, warmer, with just the aftertaste of fear. Oz's body loosens against his, not clutching and not pulling away, settling back into itself.
"Shall we sit down again?" he asks after a while, when Oz is quiet against his chest, eyes closed, murmuring a little as Giles' fingers flex and curl over his scalp.
"Yes, please," Oz whispers and it feels just like a dream, reverberations of panic bouncing and weakening around inside him and his body heavy but moving lightly and then they're back on the couch and he's slipping out of his overshirt, wrapping around Giles again. He tries to channel the nerves and odd electrical twinge into kissing Giles, because it is the same thing, need for Giles, fear at losing Giles, panic that Giles will go.
He gets one tail of Giles's shirt untucked and slides his hand up his side, over his ribs, takes in all over again the width of his ribs, the sheets of muscle overlying them, and his hand's as hungry as his mouth is, hollowed out, yearning.
Giles pushes his fingers through Oz's hair, tips back his head, and kisses him carefully, precisely, right down the jugular. He gasps, once, when Oz finds his nipple with his thumbnail, and Oz smiles, and the expression feels brand-new on his lips.
Everything's all right, now, when Oz is smiling and draped over him and doing that thing again with his nails, little blunt scrapes that burn down into Giles' skin. When he tips his head back, letting Giles kiss the veins through his skin, kiss and treasure every drop of blood. When his hips flex under Giles' touch and he squirms and leans in closer and squirms again and it makes Giles gasp every time. When he kisses Giles and his tongue is soft and knowing and he tastes of weed and burnt sugar. When he unbuttons Giles' shirt and raises his arms so Giles can pull his t-shirt off, and they're skin to skin, finally.
Oz remembers where his shirts are, overshirt behind the couch, t-shirt tossed onto the far arm, maps them in his mind, just in case, even as he slides against Giles's chest and feels it rise as he inhales and kisses over the knob of his shoulder to his chest. Giles's hands tighten on his hips and Oz's tongue knows the quickest path to one flat nipple just like his feet know whether to head for the door or the stairs depending on where he is.
Sounds are gathering in his throat as he leans in and Giles spreads his legs and Oz drops his hips, grinds against him as slowly as he can manage and nips down, teeth in flesh, but it's only when Giles's head drops back and he groans that Oz groans back and the sounds jump and skitter past his lips like rocks over a pond.
"Missed you," he says again, can't say it enough, can't think of anything truer, pressing close and kissing Giles deeply enough to mix their sounds together.
"Yes," Giles says, "missed you every day, every fucking minute," and it's true, he misses Oz even when he's in the library or the parking lot and praying not to see him.
He pulls Oz's hips down hard, rocks up against him, licks his ear and tugs at the earrings with his teeth. Pinches his nipples, thinks of two silver rings there and a groan builds up from deep in Giles' chest, tears through him. Oz's skin is so tight, so smooth, and Giles kisses his neck, bites it and hopes the mark won't show.
Reading, cataloguing, shelving books, sparring with Buffy, he misses Oz. Misses him when he showers, when he sleeps. Sometimes misses him even before they say goodbye.
When Giles flushes, and his eyes darken, and he starts to swear, Oz can't help shivering, because this is the realest thing, the most urgent and necessary thing. Because for whatever reasons, secret ones and spoken ones, he wants Oz and needs him and Oz can actually do something about that. He presses Giles back, back into the cushions, hands flat on his chest and slides down until his knees hit the floor and he's looking up.
Giles's face, distant and brilliant, looking down at him, and Oz kisses along a short silvery scar, just off his navel, keeps one hand holding him down as he undoes the fly and Giles lifts his hips and Oz tugs his pants down. His cock is hard, and red, and desperate, and the sight always makes Oz groan because it's naked and literal and far past any doubt or worry. Licking his lips, he keeps his eyes on Giles's, unblinking, grasping the base of his cock and rolling the head over his cheeks, his mouth.
Giles's mouth opens, silent and dark, as Oz paints his face, draws closer and runs the flat of his tongue over his trembling balls, back and forth, and the skin on his face is moist and hot and when he pushes his lips over the burning head of Giles's cock, he groans again and his hips jerk and spasm sympathetically.
Secrets, it's all secrets, and watching Oz do this, watching his eyes as he draws Giles' cock along his face, Giles doesn't know if this is a secret shared or a secret kept. Eyes are windows, eyes are mirrors, Giles sees in or he sees himself reflected, bounced back and kept out, and he's not sure which.
And Oz's mouth is another secret, another mystery, taking him into the dark and he's in, he's there, but still he can only guess, only imagine, only feel. Heat and wet and darkness and Oz's eyes are on him all the time, green and cool and bright, and the room's bright and he can see everything, Oz's eyes and his hollowed cheeks and his lips stretched wide, and everything but what's happening inside, in the dark.
Giles is groaning and still and Oz is silent and moving, head bobbing and tongue sliding and teeth dragging and everything's moving but his eyes. And Giles has two bodies, one that sees and one that feels, one in the room and one in the cave of Oz's mouth, and one body is caught in green reflected light while the other stiffens and jerks and comes.
He closes his eyes then, to be in the dark, in the secret, in Oz.
Oz pushes his hand against one of Giles's, knuckles against knuckles, and laces their fingers together and holds on tight as Giles closes his eyes and his face twists and contorts. When he comes, he looks like a stranger, scared and fierce, but he feels and tastes and moves like Giles, like himself, and Oz swallows and does not gag and waits, air coming shallow through his nose, until Giles's hand flexes and his cock stills.
His eyes are still closed when Oz rises, but his arms are open and Oz crawls up his body as Giles lies down on the couch and takes Oz with him.
Oz kisses the sweat off Giles's cheeks, then his eyelids, and he stirs, smiles, when Oz kisses his forehead and says, "Like that. Want to taste you like that all the time."
Slowly the world steadies and Giles folds back into one body, one self. Oz brings him back, pieces him together word by word and cell by cell, shows him who he is. He's the man Oz tastes and wants and misses.
Kissing Oz, tasting himself, then licking deeper and tasting Oz, he can open his eyes again. And see Oz looking back.
"Jesus. You . . . watching you . . ." For now Giles gives up on words, tries his mouth and hands instead, kisses and licks Oz's neck and ear and hair and mouth, squeezes his arse, cups the bulge that's pressing against Giles' hip.
Then he remembers what words are for. "Tell me what you want. Tell me, please."
Oz wriggles and pushes against Giles and kisses him again.
"Too much," he says and Giles shakes his head. Oz tries to explain, even though it's never going to come out right. Sometimes he just wants to lie here, crowded against Giles, tasting him on his own lips, burying his face against Giles's neck, clinging. And sometimes he wants Giles to touch him for hours, slow and gentle, full of affection and attention. Or to lie on top of him, kiss him and suck his cock and make him moan long and sweet. "But other times, right now, I don't even care. Want you like rough and bitey, feel your fingers inside me and your hand on me and your tongue in my mouth -- and -"
He kisses Giles again and tries to hold still, tries to stop squirming for more touch like a puppy and tries not to look away. "I'm a perv, huh?"
Giles almost smiles and says 'yes,' but then Oz's eyes dart away and Giles realizes that he means it. It's a real question, like all Oz's questions, and whatever answer Giles gives him he'll believe.
"Of course not," he says, shifting over so they're side by side and kissing him, gentle at first and then harder, toothier, until Oz is rocking and grinding against him. "Anything you want, you can tell me. I won't be shocked."
Oz's breath catches when Giles unzips his trousers and works them down. "In fact, there's a very good chance" fingers stroking and tugging at Oz's pubic hair, brushing over his balls "that I'll be excited."
Kisses him then, closes a fist around Oz's cock and pulls, and Oz moans into him and both their bodies vibrate with it.
Oz pulls his head down, thumbs along his neck and fingers in his hair, and kisses him.
And the telephone rings.
In an instant Oz is off his lap and halfway across the room. Giles scrambles for the phone, and if this is a telemarketer the bastard's going to get an earful.
Every time the phone rings, Giles has that pounding tension in his chest that only used to happen if the phone rang in the middle of the night. Now, any call could bring the worst imaginable news.
"Hello," he says, and his voice sounds choked and rough.
Hi, Giles! It's Buffy.
"Buffy." For a moment he's relieved. "Is everything all right?"
Yeah, sure. I just . . . you know how I've been patrolling really carefully lately, and also electrocuting robotic demons and so on? I've been like, super-dutiful Buffy.
"Yes, you've done very well."
Then, it wouldn't be a big deal if I did kind of a short patrol tonight, right? 'Cause there's this band at the Bronze, and they're really- And also, vamps like the Bronze. I could keep an eye on it. Make sure everything's OK.
"Yes, I'm sure that would be helpful." He tries for sarcasm, but it comes out fond and only slightly exasperated. "Enjoy your evening. But full patrol tomorrow night."
Sure. Hey, I'll have so much extra energy, I'll stake the vampires twice as hard as usual. Bye.
"Goodbye," he says, but she's already hung up.
Oz is sitting at the top of the loft stairs. "It was nothing. Everything's fine. Buffy just wants a night off. Apparently there's a lot of that going around." Giles' heart has slowed back to normal, but adrenaline still has his nerves twittering and popping.
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So it takes Oz a minute or five to chill, to start seeing Giles again as Giles, and the interval is always weird. Like Giles is superimposed over himself, slightly blurred, different cels in an animation or an anatomy book. Muscular system, circulatory system, skeleton; his Giles, the librarian, the Watcher.
Oz takes the steps two at a time, thinking that proximity and speed will fill up that interval, and hugs Giles hard enough that he has to take a step backward from the momentum.
He doesn't realize he's breathless until he kisses Giles, hard, craning his neck, fingers digging into his shoulder blades and waist.
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"Shhh," he says between kisses, and he's not sure what he's soothing away, why the telephone turns Oz precarious and quivering, ready to collapse at a sound.
Teeth on Oz's lips, tongue in his mouth to warm him, hands bracing his neck and hip, holding him steady and still.
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Giles is strong and immovable as a pillar, something infrastructural, and Oz catches his breath by inhaling little, slowing gasps full of Giles, of calm and dust and good, dark liquor and kissing him, slower and slower.
"Sorry," he mumbles and pries his fingers out of the fabric of Giles's shirt. His head buzzes and when he blinks, he sees big, sparkly carnations wheeling behind his lids. "I -" Like he even knows. Electricity still sparking under his skin. "Panicked? Something. Fuck. I'm sorry."
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When he kisses Oz again it's slower, easier, warmer, with just the aftertaste of fear. Oz's body loosens against his, not clutching and not pulling away, settling back into itself.
"Shall we sit down again?" he asks after a while, when Oz is quiet against his chest, eyes closed, murmuring a little as Giles' fingers flex and curl over his scalp.
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He gets one tail of Giles's shirt untucked and slides his hand up his side, over his ribs, takes in all over again the width of his ribs, the sheets of muscle overlying them, and his hand's as hungry as his mouth is, hollowed out, yearning.
Giles pushes his fingers through Oz's hair, tips back his head, and kisses him carefully, precisely, right down the jugular. He gasps, once, when Oz finds his nipple with his thumbnail, and Oz smiles, and the expression feels brand-new on his lips.
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Everything's all right now.
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Sounds are gathering in his throat as he leans in and Giles spreads his legs and Oz drops his hips, grinds against him as slowly as he can manage and nips down, teeth in flesh, but it's only when Giles's head drops back and he groans that Oz groans back and the sounds jump and skitter past his lips like rocks over a pond.
"Missed you," he says again, can't say it enough, can't think of anything truer, pressing close and kissing Giles deeply enough to mix their sounds together.
He's closer to the back door than the stairs.
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He pulls Oz's hips down hard, rocks up against him, licks his ear and tugs at the earrings with his teeth. Pinches his nipples, thinks of two silver rings there and a groan builds up from deep in Giles' chest, tears through him. Oz's skin is so tight, so smooth, and Giles kisses his neck, bites it and hopes the mark won't show.
Reading, cataloguing, shelving books, sparring with Buffy, he misses Oz. Misses him when he showers, when he sleeps. Sometimes misses him even before they say goodbye.
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Giles's face, distant and brilliant, looking down at him, and Oz kisses along a short silvery scar, just off his navel, keeps one hand holding him down as he undoes the fly and Giles lifts his hips and Oz tugs his pants down. His cock is hard, and red, and desperate, and the sight always makes Oz groan because it's naked and literal and far past any doubt or worry. Licking his lips, he keeps his eyes on Giles's, unblinking, grasping the base of his cock and rolling the head over his cheeks, his mouth.
Giles's mouth opens, silent and dark, as Oz paints his face, draws closer and runs the flat of his tongue over his trembling balls, back and forth, and the skin on his face is moist and hot and when he pushes his lips over the burning head of Giles's cock, he groans again and his hips jerk and spasm sympathetically.
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And Oz's mouth is another secret, another mystery, taking him into the dark and he's in, he's there, but still he can only guess, only imagine, only feel. Heat and wet and darkness and Oz's eyes are on him all the time, green and cool and bright, and the room's bright and he can see everything, Oz's eyes and his hollowed cheeks and his lips stretched wide, and everything but what's happening inside, in the dark.
Giles is groaning and still and Oz is silent and moving, head bobbing and tongue sliding and teeth dragging and everything's moving but his eyes. And Giles has two bodies, one that sees and one that feels, one in the room and one in the cave of Oz's mouth, and one body is caught in green reflected light while the other stiffens and jerks and comes.
He closes his eyes then, to be in the dark, in the secret, in Oz.
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His eyes are still closed when Oz rises, but his arms are open and Oz crawls up his body as Giles lies down on the couch and takes Oz with him.
Oz kisses the sweat off Giles's cheeks, then his eyelids, and he stirs, smiles, when Oz kisses his forehead and says, "Like that. Want to taste you like that all the time."
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Kissing Oz, tasting himself, then licking deeper and tasting Oz, he can open his eyes again. And see Oz looking back.
"Jesus. You . . . watching you . . ." For now Giles gives up on words, tries his mouth and hands instead, kisses and licks Oz's neck and ear and hair and mouth, squeezes his arse, cups the bulge that's pressing against Giles' hip.
Then he remembers what words are for. "Tell me what you want. Tell me, please."
Words are for secrets. For knowing.
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"Too much," he says and Giles shakes his head. Oz tries to explain, even though it's never going to come out right. Sometimes he just wants to lie here, crowded against Giles, tasting him on his own lips, burying his face against Giles's neck, clinging. And sometimes he wants Giles to touch him for hours, slow and gentle, full of affection and attention. Or to lie on top of him, kiss him and suck his cock and make him moan long and sweet. "But other times, right now, I don't even care. Want you like rough and bitey, feel your fingers inside me and your hand on me and your tongue in my mouth -- and -"
He kisses Giles again and tries to hold still, tries to stop squirming for more touch like a puppy and tries not to look away. "I'm a perv, huh?"
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"Of course not," he says, shifting over so they're side by side and kissing him, gentle at first and then harder, toothier, until Oz is rocking and grinding against him. "Anything you want, you can tell me. I won't be shocked."
Oz's breath catches when Giles unzips his trousers and works them down. "In fact, there's a very good chance" fingers stroking and tugging at Oz's pubic hair, brushing over his balls "that I'll be excited."
Kisses him then, closes a fist around Oz's cock and pulls, and Oz moans into him and both their bodies vibrate with it.
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