Someday, Giles hopes, it will be amusing to remember how they stumbled and floundered, tangled in dragging iron fears. How Oz's fears were the inverse and corrective of his own, so that each held the other's key if only they'd had sense enough to know.
Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he has to stop, because Oz did. Oz left him, and took up with someone as young as himself.
Quickly, before Oz can do more than squeeze Giles' ribs and kiss the side of his mouth, Giles says, "And I liked that there were things you didn't know." He strokes Oz's buttocks, plays his fingers along the crack, letting his hands interpret what he means. "That you were shy. Innocent, almost. I found it rather shamefully erotic, teaching you." He always loved the moment when Oz's shyness would burn away with a gasp and a shudder, leaving him trembling and desperate under each new feeling.
Oz tips his head forward, memory creeping slowly as a blush over his face and chest, and his hips roll under Giles' touch. When he sighs, because Giles' fingers are warm and strong, Giles chuckles a little. Giles is playing the game he did at lunch, straining for relaxation, ignoring pain - you left - and Oz takes up his side, wraps his arm more snugly around Giles' waist.
"Shameful, huh?" he manages to ask and Giles kisses the top of his head. Oz closes his eyes, sinking into the dark, salty warmth around them, and kisses Giles' chest. He was always convinced that Giles could never know how nervous he was, that he didn't dare open his mouth and let slip another clue. Turns out he failed pretty miserably at it anyway.
"Still a lot I don't know -" Oz opens his eyes and smiles, shifting closer and tightening his arm around him. Giles returns the smile, slow and teasing, and starts to shake his head. "No, really. Plus, anyway. Learned from the best."
Giles is still shaking his head as Oz kisses him, tasting exertion and pleasure, sharp as citrus, and squeezes his arm, pushing back against his hand. He drags his mouth in a looping trail to Giles' ear, shivering. "Lots more to learn," he whispers and Giles sighs, short and sharp. "Eager to learn."
This is better. Every kiss and touch, every naughty joke and answering smile is another stone in the wall they're building between themselves and the unbearable past. Let that past be another country absolutely, let it go to wild and waste and roaming barbarians, so long as he and Oz are safe here, behind the wall. Giles nips at Oz's lower lap, rolls it between his teeth, raises the wall a little more. Razor wire, guard towers, minefields--Giles wants no sorrow creeping over in the darkness.
"More to learn, hmm?" Oz smiles again, rubbing his thumb along Giles' ribs and grinning even wider when bends sideways into the touch. Giles pinches his bottom and kisses him when his mouth drops in surprise and pretended outrage. Oz is helping him, is just as eager, maybe, to forget what happened. What he did, what he chose. "We may have to learn together, then. Unless you're talking about leather costumes and whips, in which case I think I'd just as soon remain ignorant."
It can't be good, really, having a thousand things they daren't mention. It's a wall that will rot from the inside, fall and crush them. But for now, it feels so much safer than the things it hides.
When Oz laughs, his chest hurts and his eyes water, and he can't stop. The image of Giles in chaps and Sam Browne belt, wielding a flogger and glaring over the top of mirrored sunglasses is both ridiculous and so awesome that he wants to double over.
"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and brilliance of his eyes, width of his chest and strength of his hands. But that's not right, either; this is just the realest of the real, the most preferable, where he's the most at home.
Oz nips lightly at the first knuckle of Giles' thumb and slides down until his head is tucked into the curve of Giles' neck. At the edges of the laughter's warmth, old sluggish things are threatening to spawn inside of him, and all he can do is kiss Giles and hope they stay away.
"Always wanted leather pants," he says. "But not for sex. Just for the cool."
"Always?" Giles settles one arm across Oz's back and goes hunting for the duvet again with the other. "Even when you didn't believe in eating the poor defenseless cows?" With a growl, Oz nips the side of his neck. "Now that didn't feel at all vegetarian. Wicked boy."
The duvet seems to have slithered off the bed, except for a fold that's twisted unreachably around Giles' foot. Giving up, he ruffles Oz's hair instead, palming it up against the growth and then letting it fall back into place. Oz lies very still, and when Giles twists around enough to look at his face, he sees that he's frowning a little.
There are times, with everything else that have to think about or not think about, that Giles forgets Oz is a werewolf. But Oz, of course, can't ever forget. They haven't really talked about it, but if the wolf horrifies Oz as much as it used to, every day must be a struggle.
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he has to stop, because Oz did. Oz left him, and took up with someone as young as himself.
Quickly, before Oz can do more than squeeze Giles' ribs and kiss the side of his mouth, Giles says, "And I liked that there were things you didn't know." He strokes Oz's buttocks, plays his fingers along the crack, letting his hands interpret what he means. "That you were shy. Innocent, almost. I found it rather shamefully erotic, teaching you." He always loved the moment when Oz's shyness would burn away with a gasp and a shudder, leaving him trembling and desperate under each new feeling.
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"Shameful, huh?" he manages to ask and Giles kisses the top of his head. Oz closes his eyes, sinking into the dark, salty warmth around them, and kisses Giles' chest. He was always convinced that Giles could never know how nervous he was, that he didn't dare open his mouth and let slip another clue. Turns out he failed pretty miserably at it anyway.
"Still a lot I don't know -" Oz opens his eyes and smiles, shifting closer and tightening his arm around him. Giles returns the smile, slow and teasing, and starts to shake his head. "No, really. Plus, anyway. Learned from the best."
Giles is still shaking his head as Oz kisses him, tasting exertion and pleasure, sharp as citrus, and squeezes his arm, pushing back against his hand. He drags his mouth in a looping trail to Giles' ear, shivering. "Lots more to learn," he whispers and Giles sighs, short and sharp. "Eager to learn."
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"More to learn, hmm?" Oz smiles again, rubbing his thumb along Giles' ribs and grinning even wider when bends sideways into the touch. Giles pinches his bottom and kisses him when his mouth drops in surprise and pretended outrage. Oz is helping him, is just as eager, maybe, to forget what happened. What he did, what he chose. "We may have to learn together, then. Unless you're talking about leather costumes and whips, in which case I think I'd just as soon remain ignorant."
It can't be good, really, having a thousand things they daren't mention. It's a wall that will rot from the inside, fall and crush them. But for now, it feels so much safer than the things it hides.
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"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and brilliance of his eyes, width of his chest and strength of his hands. But that's not right, either; this is just the realest of the real, the most preferable, where he's the most at home.
Oz nips lightly at the first knuckle of Giles' thumb and slides down until his head is tucked into the curve of Giles' neck. At the edges of the laughter's warmth, old sluggish things are threatening to spawn inside of him, and all he can do is kiss Giles and hope they stay away.
"Always wanted leather pants," he says. "But not for sex. Just for the cool."
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The duvet seems to have slithered off the bed, except for a fold that's twisted unreachably around Giles' foot. Giving up, he ruffles Oz's hair instead, palming it up against the growth and then letting it fall back into place. Oz lies very still, and when Giles twists around enough to look at his face, he sees that he's frowning a little.
There are times, with everything else that have to think about or not think about, that Giles forgets Oz is a werewolf. But Oz, of course, can't ever forget. They haven't really talked about it, but if the wolf horrifies Oz as much as it used to, every day must be a struggle.
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
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