Oz can nearly feel the effort Giles is taking to look relaxed and keep his voice light and natural. He figures Olivia must know, too, since she's known him so long and left all those messages on the answering machine that Oz woke up early one morning to erase so Giles didn't have to hear them. Everyone is smiling and teasing, and he can play along, too; it seems to be helping.
"Am I in for a nasty surprise?" Oz asks. "'cause I've had bread pudding, but it's the butter that's worrying me here."
"Oh, yes," Olivia says. "Although Rupert knows more about such things, but I believe the recipe's Lancastrian. Not at all like your delicious bread pudding. Rather sour, isn't it? Anything would be, of course, after fermenting in ale for five years..."
When Giles laughs, he grips Oz's hand tightly, and for the first time in days, it's a pleased gesture without a trace of anxiety or sorrow. A rope of tension Oz didn't know he had suddenly slides out his shoulders and Olivia grins at him. No appraisal there, at least not so obvious, just something a little like friendship.
"I can handle it. Lived on tripe pupusas for a month last winter."
"This from someone who once tried to feed me kelp-based burger patties," Giles says and Olivia's face twists into a grimace. "Thank God he's seen the light."
"I *like* those," Oz says. "Tofu pups, too. I just, you know. Don't mind the flesh any more." Giles leans across the corner of the table and kisses his cheek very quickly. Oz is grinning, Olivia is poking her fork at Giles and threatening to report him to the authorities, and it all feels good. Good and happy, and Oz never expected to feel like this so soon outside of the apartment.
"You never would've known, either," Oz adds, "if you didn't go digging through the trash for the box, all suspicious and paranoid."
"I was not paranoid," Giles says, reluctantly letting Oz's hand go so that they can both eat. "I was cautious. As anyone would be after the kelp burger incident and the shepherd's pie with the-what's it called?-textured vegetable protein." Oz laughs and mutters something about how it tasted just fine. Only Giles' knowledge that he's getting very silly, that his mood has swung from numb anxiety to a giddiness that makes him laugh a little too loudly, stops him from kissing Oz again. "In any case, I think the fact that tofu pups taste like tofu and nothing at all like sausages would have been a clue."
"It's a very good thing that you've become innured to tripe and so forth," Olivia says. "Otherwise English food would've come as a terrible shock." She waits until Oz has taken a bite of his pudding, then adds, "We eat tripe too, or at least they do up in the benighted north. We also eat lamb's kidneys. And eels."
Oz, smiling, swallows and takes another bite. He scarcely seems like the same person as the boy who couldn't bear to look at the bones from a roast. "Olivia," Giles says, "I've been trying very hard to convince him that England offers more than rain, bad cooking, and the royal family. Do help me, won't you?" There's really no need to protect Oz, who's calmly dabbing a bit of custard sauce off his lips. The expression on his face challenges Olivia to do her worst, and Giles knows that if Oz had seemed at all bothered, Olivia wouldn't have said a thing. If Oz can eat tripe, he can hear about eel pies (which, now that Giles thinks about it, no one seems to make anymore). But Giles needs to offer something back to him, return safety for safety.
"Of course, Rupert," Olivia says, between bites of chocolate mousse. "Besides rain and greasy chips and indolent aristos, we also have cricket."
"And hundreds of concert venues," Giles counters. The pudding is just as comforting as he'd hoped, and after the first bite he realizes he's still a little hungry.
"Gardening programs."
"They have those in America, too." Giles sips at his cappuccino and glances at Oz, who's watching them with bemusement. "But the BBC has fairly intelligent comedies as well. On occasion."
"The Millennium Dome."
Giles eats a bit more of his pudding and lets Olivia think she's won, then says, "Temple Church."
"Oh, that's unfair, Rupert. How am I meant to beat twelfth-century Norman architecture?"
"It's perfectly fair, and you can't." Victorious, Giles grins and, seeing Oz has finished eating, takes his hand again. "Ignore this cynical woman. You'll like it here, really."
The pudding sits in his belly, warm and sweet, and Oz feels cuddled from the inside while outside, his skin is hot and sore from laughing and grasping Giles's hand.
"Already love it here," he says, and then his eyes drop to his empty bowl. Even *he* knows how just how cheesy that must have sounded. But Giles tickles the inside of his wrist and Oz looks up again. "And I like eel, actually. Japanese, anyway. Barbecued, with lots of sticky rice."
"Then all you need is some tweed and gardening gloves," Olivia says, "and you'll be a real Briton."
"And a weird taste for Benny Hill."
"Well, of course," she says, placing her napkin on the table and massaging the side of her neck for a moment. "Lecherous men chasing after the bosomy girl. It's a national tradition."
Every place, Oz thinks, is full of both the gross - Benny Hill, Cliff Richard - and the wonderful - the Eye of London, Giles's favorite bookshop, deep and dark as a cave - and the sublime - cathedrals, he supposes, and Giles's body, full of whorls and secret strength, scars and soft fragrant hair. He swallows and shifts in his seat, surprised at how easy it is, these days, for his thoughts to slip into the sexual. He used to hold them back, take another drag of whiskey, pass out before he let himself think sexually.
It doesn't matter *where* he is, not any longer, not as long as he's out in the world, not hiding.
Silence has settled over the table as Olivia roots in her purse and Giles leans back in his chair. Comfortable silence, a pause and a shift, and Oz leans a little toward Giles.
"Happy birthday," he whispers and squeezes Giles's hand. No bad memories this time, just good wishes and more care than he can possibly express. "Love you."
Giles leans in a little closer, almost dragging his sleeve in the coffee, and says, "I love you too." Whispered words, secrets, and after Sunnydale he'd never have imagined that secrets could be a good thing. But everything has changed now, clocks have gone back to midnight and calendars to the year one, and they're beginning again. In Sunnydale their secrets turned to walls, razor wire, claustrophobic cells, both fortress and prison. Here secrets are no more than curtains, thin and fluid, letting in the breeze. Privacy, not concealment.
"Thank you," he says, a murmur in Oz's ear and then another kiss on the cheek before he sits back. Oz smiles, a wide slow smile that Giles usually only sees when they're alone, and Giles knows that he's understood. The thanks are for more than birthday wishes, or Oz's care over the last few difficult days, or even for coming back to him. They're for something a good deal too large, too essential, to put into words.
"Is it safe to look up again," Olivia asks, elaborately searching through her very small purse, "or are you two going to whisper tenderly for a bit longer?"
"I think the all-clear has sounded," Giles says, catching Oz's hand in case he doesn't realize that Olivia's joking.
"Thank god." Olivia emerges with some sort of electronic gadget and fiddles with it for a few moments. "Sorry, I couldn't remember whether my meeting was at three or half-past. Ah, half-past. Good." Slipping it into her purse again, she looks from Giles to Oz and back, smiling. "So, what plans do you have for the rest of your birthday? Or should I not ask?"
Oz seems to be getting used to her; he doesn't even blush this time. "I believe we're going to see a film," Giles answers. "That Mexican one-Y Tu Mama Tambien. It's playing at the art cinema in Leicester Square, so we'll probably poke around Soho a bit as well." They're never seen a film together before, and Giles is unreasonably excited at the prospect.
After several minutes of banter over the bill and the tip and Giles's propensity for ingratitude, Olivia catches Oz's arm as they rise from the table and tugs him close. Giles walks on ahead, his brown suede jacket almost glowing under the soft lights of the dining room, his back straight and head held high. Oz watches him, stumbling a little against Olivia and inhaling her crisp perfume.
"You ever think of pissing off on him again," she whispers with a sweet, sincere smile and a death grip on his wrist, "and I'll have to break every delicate little bone in your body."
"I'm not -"
"Consider yourself warned," she says. "I think I might be quite fond of you, so it would break my heart."
"Fair enough," Oz whispers back. She's both serious and not, and maybe later he'll let himself worry just how much she knows about him and what he did to Giles. They step out onto the sidewalk and he hunches his shoulders automatically against the drippy rain that doesn't come. The air is, actually, dry and warm, and the edges of the high clouds are ribboned in silver and gold. When he sees them together, whispering, Giles frowns a little and Oz sees his fingers curl up; he'd been about to reach for Oz, and Oz smiles at him.
"She's doing the best friend thing," he tells Giles as he moves to his side. "Also, she says I'm allowed to go to some vintage stores someday."
Giles looks a little lost - happy still, but confused - looking back and forth, down, then up, between Oz and Olivia as Olivia laughs. Her laughter is as bright and clear as the clouds and Giles ducks his head, smiling. Olivia is fussing with her jacket and purse, scanning the street for traffic and a cab.
"Thanks for lunch," Oz tells Olivia. He's known people like this, who are somehow able to segment their lives as carefully as day-planners pretend you can, and he doesn't want to keep her. "I'm glad I met you."
"Am I in for a nasty surprise?" Oz asks. "'cause I've had bread pudding, but it's the butter that's worrying me here."
"Oh, yes," Olivia says. "Although Rupert knows more about such things, but I believe the recipe's Lancastrian. Not at all like your delicious bread pudding. Rather sour, isn't it? Anything would be, of course, after fermenting in ale for five years..."
When Giles laughs, he grips Oz's hand tightly, and for the first time in days, it's a pleased gesture without a trace of anxiety or sorrow. A rope of tension Oz didn't know he had suddenly slides out his shoulders and Olivia grins at him. No appraisal there, at least not so obvious, just something a little like friendship.
"I can handle it. Lived on tripe pupusas for a month last winter."
"This from someone who once tried to feed me kelp-based burger patties," Giles says and Olivia's face twists into a grimace. "Thank God he's seen the light."
"I *like* those," Oz says. "Tofu pups, too. I just, you know. Don't mind the flesh any more." Giles leans across the corner of the table and kisses his cheek very quickly. Oz is grinning, Olivia is poking her fork at Giles and threatening to report him to the authorities, and it all feels good. Good and happy, and Oz never expected to feel like this so soon outside of the apartment.
"You never would've known, either," Oz adds, "if you didn't go digging through the trash for the box, all suspicious and paranoid."
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"It's a very good thing that you've become innured to tripe and so forth," Olivia says. "Otherwise English food would've come as a terrible shock." She waits until Oz has taken a bite of his pudding, then adds, "We eat tripe too, or at least they do up in the benighted north. We also eat lamb's kidneys. And eels."
Oz, smiling, swallows and takes another bite. He scarcely seems like the same person as the boy who couldn't bear to look at the bones from a roast. "Olivia," Giles says, "I've been trying very hard to convince him that England offers more than rain, bad cooking, and the royal family. Do help me, won't you?" There's really no need to protect Oz, who's calmly dabbing a bit of custard sauce off his lips. The expression on his face challenges Olivia to do her worst, and Giles knows that if Oz had seemed at all bothered, Olivia wouldn't have said a thing. If Oz can eat tripe, he can hear about eel pies (which, now that Giles thinks about it, no one seems to make anymore). But Giles needs to offer something back to him, return safety for safety.
"Of course, Rupert," Olivia says, between bites of chocolate mousse. "Besides rain and greasy chips and indolent aristos, we also have cricket."
"And hundreds of concert venues," Giles counters. The pudding is just as comforting as he'd hoped, and after the first bite he realizes he's still a little hungry.
"Gardening programs."
"They have those in America, too." Giles sips at his cappuccino and glances at Oz, who's watching them with bemusement. "But the BBC has fairly intelligent comedies as well. On occasion."
"The Millennium Dome."
Giles eats a bit more of his pudding and lets Olivia think she's won, then says, "Temple Church."
"Oh, that's unfair, Rupert. How am I meant to beat twelfth-century Norman architecture?"
"It's perfectly fair, and you can't." Victorious, Giles grins and, seeing Oz has finished eating, takes his hand again. "Ignore this cynical woman. You'll like it here, really."
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"Already love it here," he says, and then his eyes drop to his empty bowl. Even *he* knows how just how cheesy that must have sounded. But Giles tickles the inside of his wrist and Oz looks up again. "And I like eel, actually. Japanese, anyway. Barbecued, with lots of sticky rice."
"Then all you need is some tweed and gardening gloves," Olivia says, "and you'll be a real Briton."
"And a weird taste for Benny Hill."
"Well, of course," she says, placing her napkin on the table and massaging the side of her neck for a moment. "Lecherous men chasing after the bosomy girl. It's a national tradition."
Every place, Oz thinks, is full of both the gross - Benny Hill, Cliff Richard - and the wonderful - the Eye of London, Giles's favorite bookshop, deep and dark as a cave - and the sublime - cathedrals, he supposes, and Giles's body, full of whorls and secret strength, scars and soft fragrant hair. He swallows and shifts in his seat, surprised at how easy it is, these days, for his thoughts to slip into the sexual. He used to hold them back, take another drag of whiskey, pass out before he let himself think sexually.
It doesn't matter *where* he is, not any longer, not as long as he's out in the world, not hiding.
Silence has settled over the table as Olivia roots in her purse and Giles leans back in his chair. Comfortable silence, a pause and a shift, and Oz leans a little toward Giles.
"Happy birthday," he whispers and squeezes Giles's hand. No bad memories this time, just good wishes and more care than he can possibly express. "Love you."
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"Thank you," he says, a murmur in Oz's ear and then another kiss on the cheek before he sits back. Oz smiles, a wide slow smile that Giles usually only sees when they're alone, and Giles knows that he's understood. The thanks are for more than birthday wishes, or Oz's care over the last few difficult days, or even for coming back to him. They're for something a good deal too large, too essential, to put into words.
"Is it safe to look up again," Olivia asks, elaborately searching through her very small purse, "or are you two going to whisper tenderly for a bit longer?"
"I think the all-clear has sounded," Giles says, catching Oz's hand in case he doesn't realize that Olivia's joking.
"Thank god." Olivia emerges with some sort of electronic gadget and fiddles with it for a few moments. "Sorry, I couldn't remember whether my meeting was at three or half-past. Ah, half-past. Good." Slipping it into her purse again, she looks from Giles to Oz and back, smiling. "So, what plans do you have for the rest of your birthday? Or should I not ask?"
Oz seems to be getting used to her; he doesn't even blush this time. "I believe we're going to see a film," Giles answers. "That Mexican one-Y Tu Mama Tambien. It's playing at the art cinema in Leicester Square, so we'll probably poke around Soho a bit as well." They're never seen a film together before, and Giles is unreasonably excited at the prospect.
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"You ever think of pissing off on him again," she whispers with a sweet, sincere smile and a death grip on his wrist, "and I'll have to break every delicate little bone in your body."
"I'm not -"
"Consider yourself warned," she says. "I think I might be quite fond of you, so it would break my heart."
"Fair enough," Oz whispers back. She's both serious and not, and maybe later he'll let himself worry just how much she knows about him and what he did to Giles. They step out onto the sidewalk and he hunches his shoulders automatically against the drippy rain that doesn't come. The air is, actually, dry and warm, and the edges of the high clouds are ribboned in silver and gold. When he sees them together, whispering, Giles frowns a little and Oz sees his fingers curl up; he'd been about to reach for Oz, and Oz smiles at him.
"She's doing the best friend thing," he tells Giles as he moves to his side. "Also, she says I'm allowed to go to some vintage stores someday."
Giles looks a little lost - happy still, but confused - looking back and forth, down, then up, between Oz and Olivia as Olivia laughs. Her laughter is as bright and clear as the clouds and Giles ducks his head, smiling. Olivia is fussing with her jacket and purse, scanning the street for traffic and a cab.
"Thanks for lunch," Oz tells Olivia. He's known people like this, who are somehow able to segment their lives as carefully as day-planners pretend you can, and he doesn't want to keep her. "I'm glad I met you."
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