Between Oz's reassurances and the look on his face--jaw clenched, skin stretched tight around his mouth, eyes that dart to meet Giles' and then quickly away--Giles isn't at all sure he wants whatever it was that Oz handed him and then snatched back
( ... )
"Course I did," Oz says. He sits carefully next to Giles, close enough to reach if Giles wants to, but not clinging like the ivy he wants to be. The book's been molded to his pocket and the inside of his knapsack for so long that it looks strange out here in the clean, well-lit room, cradled in Giles' wide palms. The book is small and dirty.
Just like him.
"I, um. It's got stuff in it. I filled it up, took it with me. And I thought, like -" He looks down at his own hands, tiny, the nails gnawed down, and breathes.
He looks up so quickly that Giles half-flinches and blinks rapidly.
"Know you're wondering where I went. Why. So I wanted you to look at it."
Like being flayed open on an operating table, naked and swabbed with blood-yellow antiseptic and everyone watching, poking, laughing.
Decades ago, not long after Giles started primary school, his father showed him how to use the encyclopedia. The volumes were too big for him, and the desk in his father's library too high, so he sat on his father's knee and looked at the massive pages with their columns of small type and their black-and-white photographs. "Any questions you can think of, this will answer," Dad said. And of course he thought of question after question, less for the information than for the privilege of sitting there proudly while the tobacco-scented wool of his father's jacket prickled his skin every time he moved
( ... )
His knee pops when Oz stands and slides onto Giles' lap, and it feels like it takes too long to settle, but then his back is against the arm of the couch and his head is on Giles' shoulder and the position, at least, is familiar. Comfort will follow, soon as he can breathe right and manage to open his eyes.
His mom's older sister used to go to consciousness-raising groups when his mom was a teenager, and they'd do things like look at their own genitals in the mirror to get a feel for their womanhood. Oz doesn't want to look at himself like that, doesn't want to revisit the pages he made; he's read the pages Giles wrote over and over, so he's memorized the sequence, starts hearing Auden as he finishes the excerpt from Midsummer-Night's Dream. But he skips past his own pages, every time
( ... )
He'd have to be a fool not to know what Oz means, but Giles works his thumb softly up and down the rigid muscles on either side of Oz's vertebrae and pretends that he only heard the literal. "It's rather battered, but that's because you kept it with you. And you . . . you used it. Read it over, added your own things. That's what I hoped you'd do." Half a truth at best, because when Giles made the book, he hoped (tried to hope, tried to believe, although he knew something was terribly wrong between them) that the things Oz added would be things they'd shared.
Oz's neck loosens a little as Giles works at it, and his breathing gets steadier and deeper. This is the best comfort, Giles' hand sliding up into Oz's hair and Oz kissing his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. There's no other comfort, no answer in words for what Oz said. He did fuck up. Little by little he turned away Giles' love, left him one agonizing inch at a time. Probably, certainly, Giles fucked up too; somehow he hurt or scared or neglected Oz. Certainly it
( ... )
Oz rubs his hand, the palm he cut, over the curve of Giles' shoulder. It was a shallow cut, never scarred, but it throbs now. He couldn't play for over a week, and Devon got so pissed off.
"It's me," he says, tasting ice and looking up at Giles. Hard bones, motionless face, near-liquid eyes. "I felt -" Ice-shards in his chest, cataract-cloudy vision, and when he tries to breathe, nothing happens. Giles tightens his embrace even more. "It's me. Blood, and, and the wolf. Knew I was going to kill you." He can't see much more than the angled curve of Giles' cheekbone and the deep line around his mouth. "Felt so sick. Filthy. Had to protect you."
Lies and truth, the past tense tissue-thin over the truth. He will always feel sick and dirty, always need to save Giles again, over and over.
"Sorry?" Stupid words, stupid head for believing this would make things better, would help him or Giles or both of them. All it's doing is reminding him how nothing's different, will never change. "It's me."
Fragments, half a sentence here and there, and sometimes talking to Oz reminds Giles of piecing together a rotting manuscript. Scraps and snippets, ink so faded it's only visible under special lights, and great gaping holes that always interrupt the crucial bits. Meaning's necessarily half a guess, mixed probability and hope.
Wolf, blood, Oz. "I don't think I understand," Giles says quietly, hand on Oz's cheek to keep him from looking away again. Faint burr of afternoon shadow against his palm, soft skin under it. It's been a long time since Giles has thought about the wolf pelt that can sprout from that skin, the poison in his blood. Commonplace pains, like a knee that aches in damp weather, familiar and forgettable.
Oz moves suddenly, shivering or hiding or making the first tiny step towards slipping off Giles' lap and vanishing out his door, and Giles locks both arms around him. Not going anywhere. He rubs Oz's shoulder and the hollow of his back, and says, "What did you mean, that you thought you might hurt me?" That's not
( ... )
Patience is soft and tight, outgrown pajamas and too much hot cocoa, and Oz closes his eyes for a second. Giles' voice is so steady, and he's trying so hard to listen, that Oz is swamped with light and fear.
"Not might," he says and opens his eyes. Curls his fingers into the shoulder-seam of Giles' sweater. "Would hurt."
On his knees, he was on his knees and Giles was fucking him gloriously, and Oz felt so happy, bursting and crackling with love, alight with hope and certainty that things were going to be all right. The wolf sprouts when he feels the simplest, most basic emotions: Love and hope then, grief when he saw Giles, broken, on his hospital bed, fear and anger when Tara tried to walk away. Whenever he was most human, that was the worst.
Giles' brows draw together, his eyes narrowing and lips pursing, and he's about to argue, or, worse, ask Oz again to be clearer. Oz's cut palm skates up Giles' neck, over the curve of his skull, and the ice inside his chest shifts and creaks. Tell you anything, he said the first night he
( ... )
Oz's voice is a muddy croak, shame-thickened, like pond water green with algae and the slime of decaying weeds. His hand roams over Giles' jumper, plucking pills and then worrying new ones up, but the rest of him doesn't move at all. Giles catches his nervous hand and kisses it a few times, slowly, giving himself time to breathe. Firm tendons and flexible bones, scattering of hair on the knuckles, the soft uncallused spot at the center of the palm. Beautiful and familiar
( ... )
"*No*. Jesus, no," Oz says. Giles stays where he is, not blinking, his lips bloodless, they're pressed so tightly together. "No, you didn't. Not ever
( ... )
So happy. The tie. Sky-blue silk knotted around Oz's wrists, long rattling groans and Oz shouted when he came, and afterwards he was shaky and quiet and Giles thought he was still worried about their quarrel. He made him cocoa and held him all evening, whispered silly things in his ear until he smiled. That night, when Oz pulled away from his kisses, told him no for the first time, Giles tried to believe he was just tired.
It happened then. When he was inside Oz, fucking him, loving him and so happy, Oz . . .
"Jesus." Giles' hands have gone still on Oz's body, all of him frozen, and he can't do anything but watch the fear slide across Oz's face, twist gradually into shame and then pain like the first shiver of death.
Human and monster, love and blood-hunger, all knit together. Close as the virus in the blood, close as the wound in the flesh. Passion, Giles thinks vaguely as he tries to touch Oz, to say something, originally meant sufferingDesperate, ice crystallizing in his veins and spreading white-feather trails across his skin
( ... )
Cold slush pushes through Oz, so slow and sluggish he might as well be dead and buried. Giles' voice is small and thin, like something hammered out, cheap tin or brass. His eyes are dark and still, looking through Oz, and Oz's hands have dropped into the space between them, heavy and useless
( ... )
On the rare nights when Giles couldn't avoid "wolfsitting," as Willow insisted on calling it, he used to watch Oz turn back, monster melting away to reveal the naked, sleeping boy. It was like the end of a fairy tale, the prince unenspelled and restored, and Giles always wanted to believe that Oz would never grow fangs and fur again
( ... )
Touching him, brushing dry fingertips over his face and skull, Giles returns feeling into Oz's skin, sends gentle whispers through the numbness and tension, and it's a relief, no thaw, no pain, just return.
But history keeps coming back, pouring through the cracks words, past everything they don't say - without a word, the story of Oz's entire silent life right there - pushing Oz away, making Giles more and more distant. Giles veers from blame and accusation, entirely true and so painful because they *are* justified, to self-doubt and fear. Nothing was his fault, but he'll always shoulder the responsibility, whether it was Oz leaving or Buffy jumping
( ... )
Oz's hand, layered between jumper and shirt, is a muted warmth on Giles' back. Infinitely frustrating to touch through cloth, to muffle the bare honesty of skin. And this is what they've been doing these last weeks, keeping silence and evasion between them like heavy coats, sacrificing contact to the fear of being naked.
Sorry for everything, Oz says, but that's just another way of saying nothing
( ... )
So much anger, and pain, always inside Giles, and it's not history; it's alive and darkly bright, and Oz deserves it all. Oz curls his fingers into his palm and breathes through his mouth against the frictionburn grip of Giles' hand on his arm. That day still jangles with all the others around it, one shard in the kaleidoscope, bright and meaningless. Oz remembers Giles' haircut, sunlight off his glasses, the speed from the tab of acid rocketing through his system
( ... )
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Just like him.
"I, um. It's got stuff in it. I filled it up, took it with me. And I thought, like -" He looks down at his own hands, tiny, the nails gnawed down, and breathes.
He looks up so quickly that Giles half-flinches and blinks rapidly.
"Know you're wondering where I went. Why. So I wanted you to look at it."
Like being flayed open on an operating table, naked and swabbed with blood-yellow antiseptic and everyone watching, poking, laughing.
Reply
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His mom's older sister used to go to consciousness-raising groups when his mom was a teenager, and they'd do things like look at their own genitals in the mirror to get a feel for their womanhood. Oz doesn't want to look at himself like that, doesn't want to revisit the pages he made; he's read the pages Giles wrote over and over, so he's memorized the sequence, starts hearing Auden as he finishes the excerpt from Midsummer-Night's Dream. But he skips past his own pages, every time ( ... )
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Oz's neck loosens a little as Giles works at it, and his breathing gets steadier and deeper. This is the best comfort, Giles' hand sliding up into Oz's hair and Oz kissing his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. There's no other comfort, no answer in words for what Oz said. He did fuck up. Little by little he turned away Giles' love, left him one agonizing inch at a time. Probably, certainly, Giles fucked up too; somehow he hurt or scared or neglected Oz. Certainly it ( ... )
Reply
"It's me," he says, tasting ice and looking up at Giles. Hard bones, motionless face, near-liquid eyes. "I felt -" Ice-shards in his chest, cataract-cloudy vision, and when he tries to breathe, nothing happens. Giles tightens his embrace even more. "It's me. Blood, and, and the wolf. Knew I was going to kill you." He can't see much more than the angled curve of Giles' cheekbone and the deep line around his mouth. "Felt so sick. Filthy. Had to protect you."
Lies and truth, the past tense tissue-thin over the truth. He will always feel sick and dirty, always need to save Giles again, over and over.
"Sorry?" Stupid words, stupid head for believing this would make things better, would help him or Giles or both of them. All it's doing is reminding him how nothing's different, will never change. "It's me."
Reply
Wolf, blood, Oz. "I don't think I understand," Giles says quietly, hand on Oz's cheek to keep him from looking away again. Faint burr of afternoon shadow against his palm, soft skin under it. It's been a long time since Giles has thought about the wolf pelt that can sprout from that skin, the poison in his blood. Commonplace pains, like a knee that aches in damp weather, familiar and forgettable.
Oz moves suddenly, shivering or hiding or making the first tiny step towards slipping off Giles' lap and vanishing out his door, and Giles locks both arms around him. Not going anywhere. He rubs Oz's shoulder and the hollow of his back, and says, "What did you mean, that you thought you might hurt me?" That's not ( ... )
Reply
"Not might," he says and opens his eyes. Curls his fingers into the shoulder-seam of Giles' sweater. "Would hurt."
On his knees, he was on his knees and Giles was fucking him gloriously, and Oz felt so happy, bursting and crackling with love, alight with hope and certainty that things were going to be all right. The wolf sprouts when he feels the simplest, most basic emotions: Love and hope then, grief when he saw Giles, broken, on his hospital bed, fear and anger when Tara tried to walk away. Whenever he was most human, that was the worst.
Giles' brows draw together, his eyes narrowing and lips pursing, and he's about to argue, or, worse, ask Oz again to be clearer. Oz's cut palm skates up Giles' neck, over the curve of his skull, and the ice inside his chest shifts and creaks. Tell you anything, he said the first night he ( ... )
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It happened then. When he was inside Oz, fucking him, loving him and so happy, Oz . . .
"Jesus." Giles' hands have gone still on Oz's body, all of him frozen, and he can't do anything but watch the fear slide across Oz's face, twist gradually into shame and then pain like the first shiver of death.
Human and monster, love and blood-hunger, all knit together. Close as the virus in the blood, close as the wound in the flesh. Passion, Giles thinks vaguely as he tries to touch Oz, to say something, originally meant sufferingDesperate, ice crystallizing in his veins and spreading white-feather trails across his skin ( ... )
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But history keeps coming back, pouring through the cracks words, past everything they don't say - without a word, the story of Oz's entire silent life right there - pushing Oz away, making Giles more and more distant. Giles veers from blame and accusation, entirely true and so painful because they *are* justified, to self-doubt and fear. Nothing was his fault, but he'll always shoulder the responsibility, whether it was Oz leaving or Buffy jumping ( ... )
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Sorry for everything, Oz says, but that's just another way of saying nothing ( ... )
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