Giles wanted words, and now there are words. Too many, jostling for space like people on the tube. So many words that they crowd the air out of the room, that their sounds catch and tangle into meaningless noise. SorryBuffysorrysorryussorry. Just a hiss and rumble, something you'd hear walking past the door of a busy pub.
Making meaning out of it would be as difficult as translating Sumerian. As difficult as everything is, these days, and Giles is so tired. His head aches so badly. But Oz is waiting, perched awkwardly on the arm of the settee, fingering the beads on his wrist. He's stopped looking at Giles.
It seems important to try and answer, so Giles closes his eyes and sifts through the floating noises, lets them filter down into words. Buffy. Sorry. "Thank you," he says. "About Buffy, I mean."
The rest, the word us that hangs in the air like another bad smell, Giles doesn't have an answer for. Oz has tried this before, has wanted to take Giles' forgiveness like he's taken everything else, but Giles has never given it. Oz wanted it for Willow's sake, then; Giles wonders if there's someone else, now, whom Oz needs to be clean for. How young Oz is, that he still thinks forgiveness is possible.
The whiskey slops wetly in Giles' stomach, and seasickness rises up towards his throat. He crosses his arms over his belly and breathes slowly until everything settles. "It's . . . kind of you, to come and tell me." Kind. Giles used to believe that Oz was kind, gentle. That was before all the times Oz sat in the library with Willow on his lap, sat playing with her hair and looking at Giles. Before he went away, and came back, and went away again.
Giles sits in the armchair, the one near the whiskey bottle, although he doesn't reach out for it. "Oz, where have you been? All this time. We . . . everyone was so worried." Fool that he is, Giles wants to know. He'll always want to know where Oz is, and whether he's all right.
Pretend. Play dress-up, cops and robbers, be who you'd like to be even though you know you'll never be that cool or good.
Giles's anger fills Oz's head, arthropods and turds, exoskeletons and stagnant water. He keeps his head down, can't look at Giles, because he deserves this, the flat knives of Giles's voice and disgust on his face, all of it. He deserves much, much worse.
"The mountains," Oz says. Closes his eyes and looks at the map his capillaries make on his eyelids. Old maps had Jerusalem at the center. London is the center of Giles's map. Oz still doesn't have a center to his own. "Argentina. Patagonia, actually."
He's still dizzy. He's sitting down, but he's still dizzy. And Giles is in front of the Scotch, blocking it, and Oz has to do this, take this.
"Sorry," he says again. "About worrying you. Everyone. Just -"
That afternoon, standing on Giles's doorstep, everyone was there. Everyone, like they'd sold tickets, and he needed to see Giles first and needed to tell him about Tibet but everyone -. And Willow. And her girlfriend. And Giles wouldn't look at him. Giles hadn't looked at him for two years anyway.
"Scratch that," Oz says and pushes up and off the chair's arm. Still not looking at Giles - he tried that and everyone else was there in the way - but moving closer because he's already travelled this far *anyway*. "Sorry about worrying you. Just you."
Without a map, he doesn't even know where he is. But he can see Giles's arm, sweater-sleeve pushed up to his elbow, fingers going white and rose-red on the sofa's arm, he's gripping it so hard.
Too much. Too many words, too much light, too many shadows crawling down Oz's half-averted face. Too much of everything except air. Giles' lungs are empty and laboring, and his heart pounds fiercely, struggling to live. The stupidity of the body, which never gives up.
He'd like to go and lie down. It's dark in the bedroom. He could take the bottle with him, lie down and drink himself to sleep. Drink himself out of this confusion. Drink until he can breathe again, or until he stops needing to.
But Oz is waiting, yet again, for an answer. Waiting for something. The words he's thrown at Giles--sorry and just you--are terrible, full of gelignite and shrapnel. Perhaps he's waiting for the explosion and the blood. Perhaps he's come back to kill. It's one of the things Giles used to dream about-fangs at his throat, claws at his belly. Or a simpler, cleaner death, a knife or a gun and Oz's patient explanation. It has to be this way.
Oz is standing almost close enough to touch. If Giles reached out, what would his skin feel like? Would it be the same, or has Oz turned all to ice and iron, to cold, deadly things?
"Argentina," Giles says finally, because this is something safe. A mapped space, a proper noun. "You . . . you came all the way from Argentina? To tell me you're sorry?"
Too many miles to calculate. And Giles thinks of quests, of pilgrimages, of penitents walking barefoot to Santiago de Compostela. Perhaps this isn't just some new fantastic cruelty. Perhaps Oz really is sorry. Perhaps under those worn-out boots, his feet are bleeding.
"Oz." Giles doesn't know what he wants to say. The word that comes out is: "Why?" It could mean anything or nothing. He won't know what it means until Oz answers.
Giles is asking him questions and Oz sways a little. Questions are cracks, trickles of water over granite, tiny, but if the water keeps running, canyons form, spaces open, air comes in.
Because I love you. Oz has enough of a sense of self-preservation to close his teeth around the real answer, the simple and true one, but it takes too much effort and black swings across his eyes, pushes under his feet. He grabs at air and something rushes up, smacks his knees.
When he can see again, he's clutching Giles's wrist and he's on his knees. Giles's mouth is opening, dark and wet, and Oz shakes his head. Hard enough that black flies across his vision in spots, but he has to answer.
"Yeah," he says. "To tell you I'm sorry."
In his grip, Giles's wrist is familiar, as familiar as the plane on the top of Bill's skull, as the roof of his own mouth, the scent of his own skin.
Giles's mouth is still open. Frozen around why.
"Because I am sorry and because you hate me. Because, because -" He slept alone and climbed the bottom of the world but the wolf was still there, always there, right under his skin. The monks were right: Not control but release was what he needed. Release from fear and guilt. "'cause I can't hide anymore."
Because I love you.
Giles's wrist is broad and solid and the only thing holding Oz up. The floor might as well be a cloud, a gust of wind, nothing. Maybe in forty years they'll laugh at how much of a drama queen he was back then. Maybe in five minutes he'll be rolling down the stairs, kicked to the curb. He's no good at looking at consequences. Never was.
Making meaning out of it would be as difficult as translating Sumerian. As difficult as everything is, these days, and Giles is so tired. His head aches so badly. But Oz is waiting, perched awkwardly on the arm of the settee, fingering the beads on his wrist. He's stopped looking at Giles.
It seems important to try and answer, so Giles closes his eyes and sifts through the floating noises, lets them filter down into words. Buffy. Sorry. "Thank you," he says. "About Buffy, I mean."
The rest, the word us that hangs in the air like another bad smell, Giles doesn't have an answer for. Oz has tried this before, has wanted to take Giles' forgiveness like he's taken everything else, but Giles has never given it. Oz wanted it for Willow's sake, then; Giles wonders if there's someone else, now, whom Oz needs to be clean for. How young Oz is, that he still thinks forgiveness is possible.
The whiskey slops wetly in Giles' stomach, and seasickness rises up towards his throat. He crosses his arms over his belly and breathes slowly until everything settles. "It's . . . kind of you, to come and tell me." Kind. Giles used to believe that Oz was kind, gentle. That was before all the times Oz sat in the library with Willow on his lap, sat playing with her hair and looking at Giles. Before he went away, and came back, and went away again.
Giles sits in the armchair, the one near the whiskey bottle, although he doesn't reach out for it. "Oz, where have you been? All this time. We . . . everyone was so worried." Fool that he is, Giles wants to know. He'll always want to know where Oz is, and whether he's all right.
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Giles's anger fills Oz's head, arthropods and turds, exoskeletons and stagnant water. He keeps his head down, can't look at Giles, because he deserves this, the flat knives of Giles's voice and disgust on his face, all of it. He deserves much, much worse.
"The mountains," Oz says. Closes his eyes and looks at the map his capillaries make on his eyelids. Old maps had Jerusalem at the center. London is the center of Giles's map. Oz still doesn't have a center to his own. "Argentina. Patagonia, actually."
He's still dizzy. He's sitting down, but he's still dizzy. And Giles is in front of the Scotch, blocking it, and Oz has to do this, take this.
"Sorry," he says again. "About worrying you. Everyone. Just -"
That afternoon, standing on Giles's doorstep, everyone was there. Everyone, like they'd sold tickets, and he needed to see Giles first and needed to tell him about Tibet but everyone -. And Willow. And her girlfriend. And Giles wouldn't look at him. Giles hadn't looked at him for two years anyway.
"Scratch that," Oz says and pushes up and off the chair's arm. Still not looking at Giles - he tried that and everyone else was there in the way - but moving closer because he's already travelled this far *anyway*. "Sorry about worrying you. Just you."
Without a map, he doesn't even know where he is. But he can see Giles's arm, sweater-sleeve pushed up to his elbow, fingers going white and rose-red on the sofa's arm, he's gripping it so hard.
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He'd like to go and lie down. It's dark in the bedroom. He could take the bottle with him, lie down and drink himself to sleep. Drink himself out of this confusion. Drink until he can breathe again, or until he stops needing to.
But Oz is waiting, yet again, for an answer. Waiting for something. The words he's thrown at Giles--sorry and just you--are terrible, full of gelignite and shrapnel. Perhaps he's waiting for the explosion and the blood. Perhaps he's come back to kill. It's one of the things Giles used to dream about-fangs at his throat, claws at his belly. Or a simpler, cleaner death, a knife or a gun and Oz's patient explanation. It has to be this way.
Oz is standing almost close enough to touch. If Giles reached out, what would his skin feel like? Would it be the same, or has Oz turned all to ice and iron, to cold, deadly things?
"Argentina," Giles says finally, because this is something safe. A mapped space, a proper noun. "You . . . you came all the way from Argentina? To tell me you're sorry?"
Too many miles to calculate. And Giles thinks of quests, of pilgrimages, of penitents walking barefoot to Santiago de Compostela. Perhaps this isn't just some new fantastic cruelty. Perhaps Oz really is sorry. Perhaps under those worn-out boots, his feet are bleeding.
"Oz." Giles doesn't know what he wants to say. The word that comes out is: "Why?" It could mean anything or nothing. He won't know what it means until Oz answers.
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Because I love you. Oz has enough of a sense of self-preservation to close his teeth around the real answer, the simple and true one, but it takes too much effort and black swings across his eyes, pushes under his feet. He grabs at air and something rushes up, smacks his knees.
When he can see again, he's clutching Giles's wrist and he's on his knees. Giles's mouth is opening, dark and wet, and Oz shakes his head. Hard enough that black flies across his vision in spots, but he has to answer.
"Yeah," he says. "To tell you I'm sorry."
In his grip, Giles's wrist is familiar, as familiar as the plane on the top of Bill's skull, as the roof of his own mouth, the scent of his own skin.
Giles's mouth is still open. Frozen around why.
"Because I am sorry and because you hate me. Because, because -" He slept alone and climbed the bottom of the world but the wolf was still there, always there, right under his skin. The monks were right: Not control but release was what he needed. Release from fear and guilt. "'cause I can't hide anymore."
Because I love you.
Giles's wrist is broad and solid and the only thing holding Oz up. The floor might as well be a cloud, a gust of wind, nothing. Maybe in forty years they'll laugh at how much of a drama queen he was back then. Maybe in five minutes he'll be rolling down the stairs, kicked to the curb. He's no good at looking at consequences. Never was.
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