The words seem to come from some far, interstellar distance, attenuated to the faintest whisper against the background crackle of quasars, pulsars, solar winds. It takes Giles a while to decipher them, and longer to climb the four steps he'd descended, to traverse the light years of empty space to the bed and Oz
( ... )
Giles' body is the most familiar thing Oz knows, the most welcome warmth. Right now he smells sharp, like worry and despair and sweat. He's strange and different, and Oz feels ice building in his chest. He keeps his eyes closed and holds onto Giles as tightly as he can without frightening him.
"Love you," he says into Giles' neck. And he does, and the words taste warm and dark in his mouth. They feel right, right in a way that Giles' own voice still doesn't feel. Giles sounds so flat and dull, going through things by rote, out of duty, and it makes Oz's head want to cave in.
"Have to make it all right," he says a little later, when he can't help it, when Giles' stillness and silence start to overwhelm him. "Want to make it better."
He's always missed Giles, no matter how close they were; it's how they helped diagnose the fact that he *loves* Giles in the first place. Oz wonders now what the opposite of missing is, what Giles is feeling that isn't missing, isn't the feeling of lack, but of too much, smothering, drowning.
Giles wonders what would make it all right, how Oz could possibly fix this. Could he invent a cure, a vaccine to kill the wolf, cleanse him of it, make him entirely himself again? Could he build a time machine, go back and not be bitten? Or further back, to the moment when he could have told Giles everything, and didn't? Could he cure the lie that's been between them all this time
( ... )
When Oz dares to open his eyes, Giles' face is too close to be recognizable. His skin is rough, this close, the pores like gnats, the wrinkles around his eye harsh and crumpled. He kisses Giles' cheek again, because there aren't lies with gestures.
Oz trusts words even less than ever right now. He doesn't believe Giles, but he knows why he's saying these things. Why he's trying to be reassuring and optimistic. He doesn't know why Giles won't believe him, though; why not telling him about his mother's family counts as a lie.
"Want it to be," he whispers and pulls back until he can see Giles more clearly, see the face that lives behind his lids, the one he aches, daily, to see and touch and kiss. "Tell me how to help. Tell me what to do."
This is the first time they've ever shared this bed and not been happy. And that's the worst thing, the unbearable thing, worse than the wolf or the secret Oz wouldn't trust him with. Happiness has gone away, flown over those continents and oceans that Giles isn't sure he has the strength to cross. Maybe it's gone even farther, maybe it's sunk into the sea like Atlantis or buried like Pompeii under rock and rubble.
And Oz wants, no, expects him to find it again. Oz doesn't seem to understand that Giles can't read the map, that the compass is lost and the food's running out and it's getting so, so cold.
"I don't know," he says. "What you can do, what I can do." He pulls Oz closer, but however tightly they cling, he can feel the cold seeping in around them, between them. Never close enough, never. That's what love feels like, so why does this feel so different, so much like dying?
All he can think to say is trust me, but he's got no answers, no sure route to safety, and there's no reason Oz should trust him at all.
"Giles," Oz says, struggling up onto his elbow. Giles blinks back at him and there are icicles piercing Oz's chest and arms at the sight. He knows he's about to give up; he knows himself well enough to feel the fear creeping higher than hope, to feel his energy ebbing away. Giles doesn't trust him, and Oz doesn't know why, and neither of them knows what to do about this.
"Giles." Maybe it's like Beetlejuice. Maybe something spectacular will happen if he just says Giles' name one more time. "Giles."
He waits. Nothing happens, but he does have Giles' attention. Brilliant eyes on him, moving back and forth, reading him, and for the first time in ages, Oz doesn't know what Giles sees there. If he wants to be seeing this.
"Maybe if you tell me what you're scared of, I can tell you what I'm scared of. Maybe it'll help."
Oz holds his breath, lets Giles look him over like a waterlogged book, a damaged specimen.
Oz's eyes are strange in the dim light--vast black pupils in a thin blue-green ring, and a look like he's seeing things Giles doesn't. Visions, or truths, or secrets. Giles stares into his eyes, tries to see in but remains hopelessly outside
( ... )
Wrapped in Giles' arms, hiding his face, it's somehow slightly easier to listen, and hear, and think. Oz rubs his forehead against Giles' shoulder, feels his hand in his hair, and pictures comfort and love streaming out from his fingers, through Oz's skull, down deep where it's cold and empty
( ... )
"It's not your fault," Giles says, and for the first time he thinks he might believe it. It's an accident, a terrible chance, unpredictable and cruel, as random as disease. If Oz had leukemia or AIDS, Giles would never blame him, would love him just the same. And what's the wolf but a disease, an invader in an innocent body?
"You're not a monster." He can't hold Oz any tighter, but he tries to hold him more, frantic kisses in Oz's hair, hands slipping under his shirt to really touch him, to soothe away the shaking and the fear and the sadness. "Not a monster. Never. It . . . the wolf, maybe it's a monster. But not you. It is not you." Giles starts to shiver again. His face is hot and his eyes hurt and the words scrape his throat raw when he speaks. "You're still yourself. Still my Oz. Always. Always. My-" And then he can't talk, because he's starting to cry
( ... )
Oz can't stop shaking. The last things he said, he didn't even mean to say, didn't know he was going to say anything like that. Barely knew it was the truth until he heard himself. And now Giles is touching him, touching him for real and talking to *him* again, not to some figure in a nightmare, and the cold is shaking through him like wind rattling bare branches.
When he tips back his head, trying to breathe through a clogged nose and aching throat, he sees the light from downstairs catch and shine on Giles' face. On his tears. Oz touches Giles' cheeks with his finger, half-disbelieving what he sees, but when his fingertip comes away wet, he kisses the tracks, kisses Giles' nose, his chilled skin, his mouth.
His own mouth is lemon-tight and sour with swallowed tears, his throat too rough to say much more. Oz pulls them back onto the pillow, tracing the curve of Giles' cheekbone with one finger.
"Love you," he says. "Won't hurt you."
He believes Giles more than he does himself. It will be all right, he'll make sure of it.
Giles takes a handful of tissues from the box on the night table, wipes the tears off Oz's face and his own. "I know," he says, cupping Oz's stubbled cheek in his palm. "I'm so sorry. It was . . . a bit of a shock, and I reacted badly." He kisses Oz's forehead, then his lips. "I do wish you had told me, but I think I understand now why you didn't
( ... )
He's sure that he won't be going to sleep; Oz wants to extend this moment, remember just what it feels like to rest his head on Giles' shoulder, just the rhythm of Giles' breathing, the whisper of his lips against Oz's temple. All the same, his body is starting to warm up, thicken and grow heavy. Sleepy as he is, he often loses the distinction between his skin and Giles'; he knows them apart by texture, but everything grows blurry and melts slightly.
It's funny, then, how his mind is still going, working and spinning, even as his body sleeps. Or at least he thinks it is. Giles still loves him; he knows that now. And that is, after the wolf itself, the biggest fear. So now he's left just with the fear itself.
The wolf, staring him down, licking its chops, and Oz can see himself in its eyes. Then he can see *through* its eyes, and he's running, leaping, and there's no going back.
For some time Giles lies awake, feeling Oz twitch in and out of nightmares, but then exhaustion claims him. He sleeps restlessly, shallowly, waking every time Oz shifts or whimpers. Anxious dreams flicker behind his eyelids, full of shadows and nameless, sourceless fears. Sleep seems more effortful than waking, and finally, around mid-day, he stops trying. Oz is sprawled across him, and he mutters and sighs when Giles slips carefully out of bed, but then he goes quiet again
( ... )
Waking comes slowly, the line cast by a fly-fisherman, looping and hanging for ages before it hits the water. Oz hears Giles, feels his touch, but it takes much longer than usual to turn and yawn and open his eyes
( ... )
Once the table's set, Giles goes upstairs to change out of the clothes he's worn for the last two days. He's on his way down again, an extra shirt in his hand for Oz, when he hears Oz's frightened voice calling from the hallway. "I'm right here," he answers, and then stumbles and has to catch himself
( ... )
"Really hungry," Oz says as he buttons up the shirt. If he can't hold Giles all day, which is silly *and* impossible, this is probably the next best thing
( ... )
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"Love you," he says into Giles' neck. And he does, and the words taste warm and dark in his mouth. They feel right, right in a way that Giles' own voice still doesn't feel. Giles sounds so flat and dull, going through things by rote, out of duty, and it makes Oz's head want to cave in.
"Have to make it all right," he says a little later, when he can't help it, when Giles' stillness and silence start to overwhelm him. "Want to make it better."
He's always missed Giles, no matter how close they were; it's how they helped diagnose the fact that he *loves* Giles in the first place. Oz wonders now what the opposite of missing is, what Giles is feeling that isn't missing, isn't the feeling of lack, but of too much, smothering, drowning.
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Oz trusts words even less than ever right now. He doesn't believe Giles, but he knows why he's saying these things. Why he's trying to be reassuring and optimistic. He doesn't know why Giles won't believe him, though; why not telling him about his mother's family counts as a lie.
"Want it to be," he whispers and pulls back until he can see Giles more clearly, see the face that lives behind his lids, the one he aches, daily, to see and touch and kiss. "Tell me how to help. Tell me what to do."
Tell me what I did, he wants to add.
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And Oz wants, no, expects him to find it again. Oz doesn't seem to understand that Giles can't read the map, that the compass is lost and the food's running out and it's getting so, so cold.
"I don't know," he says. "What you can do, what I can do." He pulls Oz closer, but however tightly they cling, he can feel the cold seeping in around them, between them. Never close enough, never. That's what love feels like, so why does this feel so different, so much like dying?
All he can think to say is trust me, but he's got no answers, no sure route to safety, and there's no reason Oz should trust him at all.
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"Giles." Maybe it's like Beetlejuice. Maybe something spectacular will happen if he just says Giles' name one more time. "Giles."
He waits. Nothing happens, but he does have Giles' attention. Brilliant eyes on him, moving back and forth, reading him, and for the first time in ages, Oz doesn't know what Giles sees there. If he wants to be seeing this.
"Maybe if you tell me what you're scared of, I can tell you what I'm scared of. Maybe it'll help."
Oz holds his breath, lets Giles look him over like a waterlogged book, a damaged specimen.
"It can't hurt, right?"
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"You're not a monster." He can't hold Oz any tighter, but he tries to hold him more, frantic kisses in Oz's hair, hands slipping under his shirt to really touch him, to soothe away the shaking and the fear and the sadness. "Not a monster. Never. It . . . the wolf, maybe it's a monster. But not you. It is not you." Giles starts to shiver again. His face is hot and his eyes hurt and the words scrape his throat raw when he speaks. "You're still yourself. Still my Oz. Always. Always. My-" And then he can't talk, because he's starting to cry ( ... )
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When he tips back his head, trying to breathe through a clogged nose and aching throat, he sees the light from downstairs catch and shine on Giles' face. On his tears. Oz touches Giles' cheeks with his finger, half-disbelieving what he sees, but when his fingertip comes away wet, he kisses the tracks, kisses Giles' nose, his chilled skin, his mouth.
His own mouth is lemon-tight and sour with swallowed tears, his throat too rough to say much more. Oz pulls them back onto the pillow, tracing the curve of Giles' cheekbone with one finger.
"Love you," he says. "Won't hurt you."
He believes Giles more than he does himself. It will be all right, he'll make sure of it.
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It's funny, then, how his mind is still going, working and spinning, even as his body sleeps. Or at least he thinks it is. Giles still loves him; he knows that now. And that is, after the wolf itself, the biggest fear. So now he's left just with the fear itself.
The wolf, staring him down, licking its chops, and Oz can see himself in its eyes. Then he can see *through* its eyes, and he's running, leaping, and there's no going back.
He hopes this is just a nightmare.
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