Philip looked just the same. Except for the bruises. A different haircut, of course, and that ridiculous goatee, but his face hadn't changed. Not the way Giles' has, over twenty years and more
( ... )
His shoulders are slumped, his hair suspiciously flat, as if he's been pawing at it, and Giles sounds as if he's speaking through gritted teeth. Oz crunches into his apple, finally, as he rises, bag in his hand.
He chews carefully, swallows, and Giles is still waiting, frozen with his keychain clinking in his hand, not looking at him. Like a zombie or a ghost, like there's nothing inside his clothes.
"I can go," Oz says. "Looks like you could use some help, though."
The apple's mealy and pale-tasting on his tongue, and Oz keeps his eyes carefully focused on Giles' heavy door.
It takes Giles several seconds' fumbling before the key slides into the lock. He opens the door and then looks back at Oz, who's still waiting. The bitten apple in his hand is already turning brown.
"No, don't go." It's good of Oz to want to help. Even though he can't.
Inside, he drops his briefcase on the sofa and goes straight to the bathroom. After washing down the pills with water from the tap, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. No wonder Oz thought he needed help. His eyes look dark and empty.
Oz is perched on the arm of the sofa, riffling the pages of the unopened comic book. He watches as Giles pours himself a large whiskey. Giles seldom drinks when they're together. And at the moment he must seem rather desperate for it.
A question occurs to him, belatedly. "How did you know?" he asks, sitting down. He doesn't seriously believe Oz is telepathic, although it seems that way sometimes.
"Saw you leave with the cops," Oz says. "Figured you had to come home at some point."
His jaw hurts when he swallows and his back is twinging from sitting on the tiles outside, so Oz slides off the couch and stretches. The apartment's as dark as if it were midnight out there, and it occurs to him suddenly that Giles might spend entire evenings in here, in the dark, alone.
Maybe those nights he looks like he does now, both hunched and crumpled, long graceful fingers wrapped around his drink. Oz turns and wanders over to the nearest bookcase; he has a feeling Giles won't sip it in front of him. And even though his palms are itching and head throbbing to touch Giles, hold him, he doesn't. Not yet, anyway, not until the dark hum that's settled around Giles like a force-field is lowered.
"What happened?" he asks lowly. "Is it one of the kids?"
In the corner of the couch, Oz twists until he's leaning against the arm and rubbing the back of Giles' neck, his other hand working lightly up and down Giles' forearm. Giles rarely mentions his parents, and Oz has to admit it's usually difficult to picture Giles even having parents.
Except now, with Giles looking so creased and out of it, sounding so hesitant, like he's trying to reconstruct a decade-old dream, it's easy to see him with parents, needing a home and food and care. Not getting it.
He wonders if Giles misses his parents, whether how they were before everything went wrong or just in general. Oz can't imagine missing his mom, or maybe he's so used to missing her that this is sort of what Giles feels like, an absence, a shadow cast by something invisible and untouchable.
"Ethan more than murder?" he finally asks as he slides his hand down to Giles' and interlaces their fingers. "I'm sorry."
There are five bracelets on Oz's right wrist, two on the left. One is vaguely African-looking, warm woven earth-tones, and Giles doesn't remember having seen it before. He ought to pay more attention to these things
( ... )
Closer now, and Oz can wrap his arm around Giles' shoulder, work his thumb in wobbling circles over the muscle, circles that match the ones drawn by his other thumb over Giles' knuckles. When he leans in, he can feel the moist heat of Giles' breath.
Wanted him that much. Oz turns the phrase over in his mind, feels it as rough and heavy as stones, just as true. He's seen Giles in the halls at school, straight-backed and distant, and the sight is always clanging and wrong, a bad impersonation of the Giles he knows, real and strong and full of want and need.
"How long did you stay?" he asks. "Were you glad you went back?"
He has no idea, now, when things ended with Ethan, if they ever did, if the want's still there.
Thinking about it now, Giles itches and wants to wash. The bedbugs, the cockroaches, the dirty blankets. The skinny girl who offered to blow him if he'd help her find a vein. The sulfur smell of matches that hung in the air because someone was always cooking a fix. And Ethan, smiling and beautiful. The lily on the dunghill
( ... )
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He chews carefully, swallows, and Giles is still waiting, frozen with his keychain clinking in his hand, not looking at him. Like a zombie or a ghost, like there's nothing inside his clothes.
"I can go," Oz says. "Looks like you could use some help, though."
The apple's mealy and pale-tasting on his tongue, and Oz keeps his eyes carefully focused on Giles' heavy door.
Reply
"No, don't go." It's good of Oz to want to help. Even though he can't.
Inside, he drops his briefcase on the sofa and goes straight to the bathroom. After washing down the pills with water from the tap, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. No wonder Oz thought he needed help. His eyes look dark and empty.
Oz is perched on the arm of the sofa, riffling the pages of the unopened comic book. He watches as Giles pours himself a large whiskey. Giles seldom drinks when they're together. And at the moment he must seem rather desperate for it.
A question occurs to him, belatedly. "How did you know?" he asks, sitting down. He doesn't seriously believe Oz is telepathic, although it seems that way sometimes.
Reply
His jaw hurts when he swallows and his back is twinging from sitting on the tiles outside, so Oz slides off the couch and stretches. The apartment's as dark as if it were midnight out there, and it occurs to him suddenly that Giles might spend entire evenings in here, in the dark, alone.
Maybe those nights he looks like he does now, both hunched and crumpled, long graceful fingers wrapped around his drink. Oz turns and wanders over to the nearest bookcase; he has a feeling Giles won't sip it in front of him. And even though his palms are itching and head throbbing to touch Giles, hold him, he doesn't. Not yet, anyway, not until the dark hum that's settled around Giles like a force-field is lowered.
"What happened?" he asks lowly. "Is it one of the kids?"
Reply
Except now, with Giles looking so creased and out of it, sounding so hesitant, like he's trying to reconstruct a decade-old dream, it's easy to see him with parents, needing a home and food and care. Not getting it.
He wonders if Giles misses his parents, whether how they were before everything went wrong or just in general. Oz can't imagine missing his mom, or maybe he's so used to missing her that this is sort of what Giles feels like, an absence, a shadow cast by something invisible and untouchable.
"Ethan more than murder?" he finally asks as he slides his hand down to Giles' and interlaces their fingers. "I'm sorry."
Reply
Reply
Wanted him that much. Oz turns the phrase over in his mind, feels it as rough and heavy as stones, just as true. He's seen Giles in the halls at school, straight-backed and distant, and the sight is always clanging and wrong, a bad impersonation of the Giles he knows, real and strong and full of want and need.
"How long did you stay?" he asks. "Were you glad you went back?"
He has no idea, now, when things ended with Ethan, if they ever did, if the want's still there.
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