"-and that's when Buffy found us, in the warehouse," Willow says. Most of her story is new, since she hadn't mentioned the demons when she rang, or the interruption of the spell. Giles had been wondering about the boarded-up storefronts and damaged houses he saw this morning. If the resurrection had failed, there'd be nothing left of Sunnydale. "She was pretty out of it, but then she sort of . . . came back, and she saved all our lives."
"She still seems quite distressed to me." Giles can hear the thinness of his voice-constraint, worry, a tinge of disapproval--and Willow's happy enthusiasm sours into a frown. "Do you have any idea what might be causing it? Was she in a hell dimension?" Buffy is the strongest person Giles has ever known, but not even she would come away blithe after months (years? centuries?) of torture, of endless pain and shattering fear. Giles only had a few hours of it with Angelus, and he still feels, sometimes, as though he died that night and now he's someone else.
"I don't know. She doesn't exactly want to talk about it." Willow plucks a few stalks of overlong grass, mutters something under her breath, and watches as they twist themselves into green lace.
"Well, trauma-"
"She doesn't even seem glad not to be dead! And you don't seem glad either."
"I'm not sure I am." It's a shocking thing to say, to feel. Giles can see it in Willow's face, that he's a cold, priggish, wretched human being. It's what Watchers are trained to be, and only now has he begun to understand why. "You know how much I care for Buffy. But the magic you did-"
"Saved Sunnydale! And maybe the world." The lovely web of grass collapses as Willow's fingers tug and tear at it. "Giles . . . without Buffy, there was no Slayer. I mean, Faith's in jail, and there won't be a new Slayer until . . ."
He could tell her that she should've trusted to the Council's ruthlessness; they were undoubtedly working on a plan to assassinate Faith and call a new Slayer. But he doesn't, and after a moment's pause (she's still such a child, she won't give death its proper name) Willow continues. "I brought back Buffy. I saved us, Giles! I did the hardest, scariest magic I've ever done, and I saved us, and nobody's even said 'thank you.'"
Such a child. Giles looks at her face for the first time in several minutes, and all he can think is how young she is, and how pretty. "You want thanks? For a spell that might've ended the world a lot bloody quicker than a gang of demons? A spell we still don't know all the consequences of? For all your power, Willow, you're a rank, arrogant amateur. You had no business meddling in life and death."
"You're right about one thing," Willow says. Her face isn't pretty anymore, somehow, and it isn't young either. "I am powerful. And maybe it's not such a good idea to piss me off."
Oz comes out the bathroom half-dressed, just needing a clean shirt, and he finds Xander still on the bed, carefully *not* looking away while Oz digs through the open suitcase. "Hey. The Ranch still open?"
"Haven't managed to shut it down yet," Xander says.
Noon on a Saturday, so the diner is overrun with families. Many toddlers and much syrup on the floor. *This* is a real diner, Oz thinks as they weave their way toward the back, though he'd never tell Giles that the little cafe they go to is only a pale, much cleaner imitation.
The Texas Breakfast for Xander, waffles instead of pancakes, three eggs, sausage and bacon and potatoes and toast.
The Lil' Rustler for Oz, which is exactly the same except no pancakes and just two eggs; he orders a side of beans, too.
"Baked beans?" Xander asks dubiously, peering at the shallow bowl when their food is served. "Isn't that dinner food?"
Oz dunks half a piece of toast into the bowl and eats the entire thing. "Baked beans are *any*-time food." Xander's still staring at him. "Okay," Oz admits. "English thing."
"Thought so." Satisfied, Xander starts slicing up his eggs and swirling the yolk through a puddle of ketchup. "Is it any good?"
Oz carefully cuts the whites off the edges of his sunny-side-up eggs and reaches for the pepper. "Nope. Horrible. But they'll kick me out of the country if I don't have them at every meal."
"Ass."
"Yeah."
They use different grease in California. Probably margarine and accumulated burger fat, and it's all shiny and rich and Oz is far hungrier than he thought. Xander's appetite seems to be unchanged, just as huge as it ever was.
"So," Oz says, sitting back and taking a breath. "You and Anya? Doing okay?" He wants to wince at how adult and cocktail-partyish that sounds.
Mouth full of waffle and sausage, Xander nods until he's swallowed. "Yeah, yeah. I mean, never thought I'd end up with a demon -"
"Former demon."
"With a former demon, but, yeah. It's -" Xander stops, and frowns, and seems to be looking for the right word.
"She's great," Oz says. "Like her."
Xander looks surprised, then happy; just a shift in the angle of his brows, the way his mouth loosens into a smile. "Anya? Yeah. She's amazing. And she likes me, so go team me."
Oz raises his thimble-sized cup of orange juice in a toast and Xander clinks his coffee mug against it. "Think it's weird, though?" Oz asks. "Being in, like, these big longterm relationships?"
It's a question he never would have even thought of back in London. London is Giles, and Oz happily, relievedly, focuses on that. But here in Sunnydale, back in this sticky web of people and relationships and history, Oz wonders. Like, he's sitting here in the diner he spent entire nights in, drinking coffee and bullshitting away the time, but now he's living with somebody. He's in a relationship, like you're in an airplane, and so is Xander. Xander who's had the worst luck in love this side of Port Charles.
"Yeah," Xander says, scooping up bacon fragments on his knife. "Weird as hell. But - you know. You're different. *Giles*, man."
He says Giles' name like he's footnoting it. Oz grins; it's a good name. "Giles. Yup."
Her eyes look darker, and Giles can feel magic build around her, around himself, insectile crawling blotches under his skin and a thickening of the air.
You can't fuck me about anymore, Ripper. You're not leaving this time. Ethan's face unrecognizable, twisted ugly with Chaos and painted with blood-sigils, and then a word and the magic winding around Giles' mind, strangling his will.
"Willow, don't threaten me. It's childish." He says it lightly, and rests his hands on his knees so she won't notice they're shaking. But already, before he speaks, the magic disappears as quickly as light from a switched-off bulb.
Willow looks herself again. "Giles, I don't want to fight." She doesn't, he knows. She didn't. It was just an impulse, a flash of anger backed with power. Willow's impulses can kill, now.
"Nor do I." Giles half-turns in the chair so he's facing her, and tries to ignore the rough aluminum edge of the arm digging into his hip. "I'm concerned about you. About how you're using magic, and where it can lead."
There's a hint of an eye-roll before she looks aside, and a heavy, bored sigh. "It led to Buffy being alive again. I'm so sick of this. What's the point of having magic if you don't use it? But all I hear is be careful, be careful, like I don't know what I'm doing."
"I'm not sure you do."
"You couldn't do it, could you?" Arms folded over her chest, Willow sits stiffly on the edge of her chair. "Bring her back. You didn't know how. I did what you couldn't, and you don't like it."
"I couldn't have done it, you're right." He still doesn't know how she did, and he's not sure she'll tell him, now. She'll cling to her secrets and dismiss everything he tells her as jealousy. "And if I could, I'd have known better than to try. Willow-"
"Stop it! Stop pretending that you're concerned for me. None of us ever mattered, compared to Buffy."
He'd like to stand up, walk around, try and understand what's happening and how this conversation slid out of his control, but he can't bring himself to get out of the chair. Perhaps it's that he doesn't want to tower threateningly over her; perhaps he doesn't want to turn his back on her. "Willow-"
"If you're so concerned, why did you . . . god, Giles. You bring Oz here. You - there were hickeys all over his neck this morning! Why didn't you just fuck him right there in front of us?"
The bottom drops out of Giles' stomach. Closing his eyes, feeling himself redden with shame, he thinks, absurdly, I've never heard her swear before.
Xander points his fork, loaded with egg and toast, streaked with ketchup like blood, at Oz and leans in. "So what's he like?"
His beans are nearly gone, but Oz swipes up the last of the sweet sauce and thinks it over as he chews. He can't tell if Xander's asking the G-rated version of that question, or the NC-17 one. "He's, you know. Giles. Huge big brain, bigger heart, worries a lot, plays his guitar. Sexass bastard. Giles."
Xander was nodding along until the end. Now his eyes drop to his plate and he pokes at a desiccated sausage. "Um, okay. See -"
"Xander," Oz says, and thinks for a moment of the proverbial TV mom, who uses your full name to get your attention. It works on Xander, though; he looks up. "We've talked about that before. Remember?" Beers and cold fried chicken at night on the beach, Oz's second senior year, the two of them wrapped up in sweaters, discussing life and the universe and girls and men and what, exactly, Giles might be like to kiss.
"Yeah, but that was - that was just hypothetical. Who's sexier, Springsteen or Bono? Iman or Linda? Giles or Wesley? That was *before*."
"Okay," Oz says. It feels like Xander's working up the scale towards shouting - which is just silly, because his voice is perfectly normal. But it's *faster*, too, and Oz wants to lean away. "Fair enough."
"It's *Giles* -" Xander almost drops his fork, then stabs it into the remains of his sausage. Now he's using Giles' name like he's a priest, or a demi-god, something holy and not to be profaned. "Giles."
He'd been smiling before; now his face hurts from staying still. Oz nods and crumbles a shred of toast in his fingers. "Do you love Anya?"
"Huh?" Xander swipes his bacon through the yolk and blinks. "Yeah. I do."
"Nobody gets that, though."
"Oz, *I* don't get that." Xander looks scared, big eyes and white around his mouth.
"Yeah," Oz says softly. "That's all I'm saying. Giles --"
"Different, though." Xander sets aside his fork and nudges his eggs with toast. He sounds calmer, flatter. "You never said anything --"
Oz sits back into the creaking naugahyde seat. "What was I supposed to say?"
"I don't know. Should've said *something*. Early on --"
Oz thinks that Xander might be mad at him. The cardinal rule of Sunnydale, or at least of Buffy's group, is that secrets are bad. Never keep secrets, and if you do, something bad's going to happen. Oz used to think the wolf might be that punishment; it's been a long time since he even remembered thinking that way.
"You'd've been happy if I was like, nice to meet you, by the way, I'm in love with your librarian but I fucked up and broke his heart?"
"You -- what?"
"Nothing. Gonna finish that?"
"Take it." Xander pushes his waffle towards Oz. "What happened with you and Giles?"
Xander's stubborn; he's not going to let this drop. Weirder still, though, Oz wants to answer. Four years on, and no one knows the story except Giles. "Grrr," he says. "Big bad wolf."
"Oh. Oh, *shit*." Xander sounds like he sounds in Oz's memories of that night on the beach, of all their pizza and donut runs, of the letters to Penthouse Forum he would read out loud while wolfsitting. Husky, a little shy, and very gentle.
"Yeah."
Xander drains his coffee, then holds the mug up toward the counter, asking for more. "But before that, you guys were -- you and Giles --"
"We were --" Oz suddenly feels the full weight of all the food in his stomach. He stretches and cracks his neck, but Xander hasn't even blinked. "We were really good. Like, spectacular. As good as a 17-year-old doofus and a 40-year-old genius can be, anyway."
"Not a doofus."
"Trust me," Oz says. "Doofus. Like, okay, the first time he said the -- you know. The L word. I blanked. Didn't even know what it meant."
Xander frowns. "Lubricant?"
"Other L word." Oz digs a corner of the waffle into his egg yolk and pops it into his mouth.
"Lesbian?"
Snorting, covering his mouth with his hand, Oz says, "Nope. Watched enough porn, pretty sure I knew what lesbians were."
"*Ohhh*," Xander says, drawing it out. "*That* word. Really? Giles said, said he --"
"Yeah," Oz says. "Said it. Still does."
"Wow."
Xander is quiet then. Still eating, always eating, but very quiet. Oz has finished his eggs and beans and the rest of the waffle when Xander, peering fixedly at the salt shaker, says almost under his breath, "So it wasn't just sex."
"Willow," he says again. Names her again, as though he can turn her back to the Willow he remembers, back to a charming, brilliant girl whom he'd never be afraid of. Who would never speak to him so brutally, never lay her finger so roughly and precisely on the festering sore. "I - we didn't mean to hurt you."
"Sure. You just showed up holding hands with my boyfriend and thought I wouldn't notice."
"He's not-"
"No big deal, Giles. Why should I be upset that Oz lied to me for two years? I'm just old reliable Willow, everybody's doormat." Her voice is tight, as though she's holding back tears, but there's no sign of them in her expression.
Giles leans back in the chair and tilts his face up, letting the sun burns blue afterimages into his closed eyelids. "It was . . . complicated." If he told her how much he'd loved Oz, how hard it had been to see Oz touch her, how he drank himself numb night after night, would that make things better or worse? Worse, probably. He'd only be staking his claim again, reminding her that Oz was his before her, and is his again. "But we weren't . . . Oz didn't betray you with me. Or me with you," he adds, unable to stop himself.
"Did he love you?" The words are a rush, spraying out like water from a split hose. Like an accident. Giles glances over, but she's not looking at him anymore.
Did you love her? he asked Oz, just a few weeks ago.
"Yes." With effort, he keeps himself from adding the present tense. She can fill it in herself. "Do you love Tara?" Another reminder of time.
"Of course!"
Giles doesn't doubt it, although they seem more awkward together than he remembers. Tara speaks hesitantly, gingerly. He hopes, for all kinds of reasons, that they're happy together. "Well, then." In this unaccustomed sunshine, everything's beginning to seem simpler. Or perhaps it's just that he has what he wants, but Willow, somehow, doesn't.
Her skeptical noise proves that a simple answer won't do. "Giles, just . . . go away, okay? I don't want to talk anymore."
She keeps her face turned away as he gets up. They've solved nothing. There is no solution, not for this, not now. "I need to wait for Oz to get back. I'll be indoors, going through the bills."
He can see her through the living room window, sitting motionless, shoulders hunched and small. Did she always do that when she was unhappy, or is it a mannerism she picked up from Oz? Giles turns his chair away and concentrates on the stacks of papers.
"She still seems quite distressed to me." Giles can hear the thinness of his voice-constraint, worry, a tinge of disapproval--and Willow's happy enthusiasm sours into a frown. "Do you have any idea what might be causing it? Was she in a hell dimension?" Buffy is the strongest person Giles has ever known, but not even she would come away blithe after months (years? centuries?) of torture, of endless pain and shattering fear. Giles only had a few hours of it with Angelus, and he still feels, sometimes, as though he died that night and now he's someone else.
"I don't know. She doesn't exactly want to talk about it." Willow plucks a few stalks of overlong grass, mutters something under her breath, and watches as they twist themselves into green lace.
"Well, trauma-"
"She doesn't even seem glad not to be dead! And you don't seem glad either."
"I'm not sure I am." It's a shocking thing to say, to feel. Giles can see it in Willow's face, that he's a cold, priggish, wretched human being. It's what Watchers are trained to be, and only now has he begun to understand why. "You know how much I care for Buffy. But the magic you did-"
"Saved Sunnydale! And maybe the world." The lovely web of grass collapses as Willow's fingers tug and tear at it. "Giles . . . without Buffy, there was no Slayer. I mean, Faith's in jail, and there won't be a new Slayer until . . ."
He could tell her that she should've trusted to the Council's ruthlessness; they were undoubtedly working on a plan to assassinate Faith and call a new Slayer. But he doesn't, and after a moment's pause (she's still such a child, she won't give death its proper name) Willow continues. "I brought back Buffy. I saved us, Giles! I did the hardest, scariest magic I've ever done, and I saved us, and nobody's even said 'thank you.'"
Such a child. Giles looks at her face for the first time in several minutes, and all he can think is how young she is, and how pretty. "You want thanks? For a spell that might've ended the world a lot bloody quicker than a gang of demons? A spell we still don't know all the consequences of? For all your power, Willow, you're a rank, arrogant amateur. You had no business meddling in life and death."
"You're right about one thing," Willow says. Her face isn't pretty anymore, somehow, and it isn't young either. "I am powerful. And maybe it's not such a good idea to piss me off."
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"Haven't managed to shut it down yet," Xander says.
Noon on a Saturday, so the diner is overrun with families. Many toddlers and much syrup on the floor. *This* is a real diner, Oz thinks as they weave their way toward the back, though he'd never tell Giles that the little cafe they go to is only a pale, much cleaner imitation.
The Texas Breakfast for Xander, waffles instead of pancakes, three eggs, sausage and bacon and potatoes and toast.
The Lil' Rustler for Oz, which is exactly the same except no pancakes and just two eggs; he orders a side of beans, too.
"Baked beans?" Xander asks dubiously, peering at the shallow bowl when their food is served. "Isn't that dinner food?"
Oz dunks half a piece of toast into the bowl and eats the entire thing. "Baked beans are *any*-time food." Xander's still staring at him. "Okay," Oz admits. "English thing."
"Thought so." Satisfied, Xander starts slicing up his eggs and swirling the yolk through a puddle of ketchup. "Is it any good?"
Oz carefully cuts the whites off the edges of his sunny-side-up eggs and reaches for the pepper. "Nope. Horrible. But they'll kick me out of the country if I don't have them at every meal."
"Ass."
"Yeah."
They use different grease in California. Probably margarine and accumulated burger fat, and it's all shiny and rich and Oz is far hungrier than he thought. Xander's appetite seems to be unchanged, just as huge as it ever was.
"So," Oz says, sitting back and taking a breath. "You and Anya? Doing okay?" He wants to wince at how adult and cocktail-partyish that sounds.
Mouth full of waffle and sausage, Xander nods until he's swallowed. "Yeah, yeah. I mean, never thought I'd end up with a demon -"
"Former demon."
"With a former demon, but, yeah. It's -" Xander stops, and frowns, and seems to be looking for the right word.
"She's great," Oz says. "Like her."
Xander looks surprised, then happy; just a shift in the angle of his brows, the way his mouth loosens into a smile. "Anya? Yeah. She's amazing. And she likes me, so go team me."
Oz raises his thimble-sized cup of orange juice in a toast and Xander clinks his coffee mug against it. "Think it's weird, though?" Oz asks. "Being in, like, these big longterm relationships?"
It's a question he never would have even thought of back in London. London is Giles, and Oz happily, relievedly, focuses on that. But here in Sunnydale, back in this sticky web of people and relationships and history, Oz wonders. Like, he's sitting here in the diner he spent entire nights in, drinking coffee and bullshitting away the time, but now he's living with somebody. He's in a relationship, like you're in an airplane, and so is Xander. Xander who's had the worst luck in love this side of Port Charles.
"Yeah," Xander says, scooping up bacon fragments on his knife. "Weird as hell. But - you know. You're different. *Giles*, man."
He says Giles' name like he's footnoting it. Oz grins; it's a good name. "Giles. Yup."
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You can't fuck me about anymore, Ripper. You're not leaving this time. Ethan's face unrecognizable, twisted ugly with Chaos and painted with blood-sigils, and then a word and the magic winding around Giles' mind, strangling his will.
"Willow, don't threaten me. It's childish." He says it lightly, and rests his hands on his knees so she won't notice they're shaking. But already, before he speaks, the magic disappears as quickly as light from a switched-off bulb.
Willow looks herself again. "Giles, I don't want to fight." She doesn't, he knows. She didn't. It was just an impulse, a flash of anger backed with power. Willow's impulses can kill, now.
"Nor do I." Giles half-turns in the chair so he's facing her, and tries to ignore the rough aluminum edge of the arm digging into his hip. "I'm concerned about you. About how you're using magic, and where it can lead."
There's a hint of an eye-roll before she looks aside, and a heavy, bored sigh. "It led to Buffy being alive again. I'm so sick of this. What's the point of having magic if you don't use it? But all I hear is be careful, be careful, like I don't know what I'm doing."
"I'm not sure you do."
"You couldn't do it, could you?" Arms folded over her chest, Willow sits stiffly on the edge of her chair. "Bring her back. You didn't know how. I did what you couldn't, and you don't like it."
"I couldn't have done it, you're right." He still doesn't know how she did, and he's not sure she'll tell him, now. She'll cling to her secrets and dismiss everything he tells her as jealousy. "And if I could, I'd have known better than to try. Willow-"
"Stop it! Stop pretending that you're concerned for me. None of us ever mattered, compared to Buffy."
He'd like to stand up, walk around, try and understand what's happening and how this conversation slid out of his control, but he can't bring himself to get out of the chair. Perhaps it's that he doesn't want to tower threateningly over her; perhaps he doesn't want to turn his back on her. "Willow-"
"If you're so concerned, why did you . . . god, Giles. You bring Oz here. You - there were hickeys all over his neck this morning! Why didn't you just fuck him right there in front of us?"
The bottom drops out of Giles' stomach. Closing his eyes, feeling himself redden with shame, he thinks, absurdly, I've never heard her swear before.
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His beans are nearly gone, but Oz swipes up the last of the sweet sauce and thinks it over as he chews. He can't tell if Xander's asking the G-rated version of that question, or the NC-17 one. "He's, you know. Giles. Huge big brain, bigger heart, worries a lot, plays his guitar. Sexass bastard. Giles."
Xander was nodding along until the end. Now his eyes drop to his plate and he pokes at a desiccated sausage. "Um, okay. See -"
"Xander," Oz says, and thinks for a moment of the proverbial TV mom, who uses your full name to get your attention. It works on Xander, though; he looks up. "We've talked about that before. Remember?" Beers and cold fried chicken at night on the beach, Oz's second senior year, the two of them wrapped up in sweaters, discussing life and the universe and girls and men and what, exactly, Giles might be like to kiss.
"Yeah, but that was - that was just hypothetical. Who's sexier, Springsteen or Bono? Iman or Linda? Giles or Wesley? That was *before*."
"Okay," Oz says. It feels like Xander's working up the scale towards shouting - which is just silly, because his voice is perfectly normal. But it's *faster*, too, and Oz wants to lean away. "Fair enough."
"It's *Giles* -" Xander almost drops his fork, then stabs it into the remains of his sausage. Now he's using Giles' name like he's a priest, or a demi-god, something holy and not to be profaned. "Giles."
He'd been smiling before; now his face hurts from staying still. Oz nods and crumbles a shred of toast in his fingers. "Do you love Anya?"
"Huh?" Xander swipes his bacon through the yolk and blinks. "Yeah. I do."
"Nobody gets that, though."
"Oz, *I* don't get that." Xander looks scared, big eyes and white around his mouth.
"Yeah," Oz says softly. "That's all I'm saying. Giles --"
"Different, though." Xander sets aside his fork and nudges his eggs with toast. He sounds calmer, flatter. "You never said anything --"
Oz sits back into the creaking naugahyde seat. "What was I supposed to say?"
"I don't know. Should've said *something*. Early on --"
Oz thinks that Xander might be mad at him. The cardinal rule of Sunnydale, or at least of Buffy's group, is that secrets are bad. Never keep secrets, and if you do, something bad's going to happen. Oz used to think the wolf might be that punishment; it's been a long time since he even remembered thinking that way.
"You'd've been happy if I was like, nice to meet you, by the way, I'm in love with your librarian but I fucked up and broke his heart?"
"You -- what?"
"Nothing. Gonna finish that?"
"Take it." Xander pushes his waffle towards Oz. "What happened with you and Giles?"
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"Oh. Oh, *shit*." Xander sounds like he sounds in Oz's memories of that night on the beach, of all their pizza and donut runs, of the letters to Penthouse Forum he would read out loud while wolfsitting. Husky, a little shy, and very gentle.
"Yeah."
Xander drains his coffee, then holds the mug up toward the counter, asking for more. "But before that, you guys were -- you and Giles --"
"We were --" Oz suddenly feels the full weight of all the food in his stomach. He stretches and cracks his neck, but Xander hasn't even blinked. "We were really good. Like, spectacular. As good as a 17-year-old doofus and a 40-year-old genius can be, anyway."
"Not a doofus."
"Trust me," Oz says. "Doofus. Like, okay, the first time he said the -- you know. The L word. I blanked. Didn't even know what it meant."
Xander frowns. "Lubricant?"
"Other L word." Oz digs a corner of the waffle into his egg yolk and pops it into his mouth.
"Lesbian?"
Snorting, covering his mouth with his hand, Oz says, "Nope. Watched enough porn, pretty sure I knew what lesbians were."
"*Ohhh*," Xander says, drawing it out. "*That* word. Really? Giles said, said he --"
"Yeah," Oz says. "Said it. Still does."
"Wow."
Xander is quiet then. Still eating, always eating, but very quiet. Oz has finished his eggs and beans and the rest of the waffle when Xander, peering fixedly at the salt shaker, says almost under his breath, "So it wasn't just sex."
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"Sure. You just showed up holding hands with my boyfriend and thought I wouldn't notice."
"He's not-"
"No big deal, Giles. Why should I be upset that Oz lied to me for two years? I'm just old reliable Willow, everybody's doormat." Her voice is tight, as though she's holding back tears, but there's no sign of them in her expression.
Giles leans back in the chair and tilts his face up, letting the sun burns blue afterimages into his closed eyelids. "It was . . . complicated." If he told her how much he'd loved Oz, how hard it had been to see Oz touch her, how he drank himself numb night after night, would that make things better or worse? Worse, probably. He'd only be staking his claim again, reminding her that Oz was his before her, and is his again. "But we weren't . . . Oz didn't betray you with me. Or me with you," he adds, unable to stop himself.
"Did he love you?" The words are a rush, spraying out like water from a split hose. Like an accident. Giles glances over, but she's not looking at him anymore.
Did you love her? he asked Oz, just a few weeks ago.
"Yes." With effort, he keeps himself from adding the present tense. She can fill it in herself. "Do you love Tara?" Another reminder of time.
"Of course!"
Giles doesn't doubt it, although they seem more awkward together than he remembers. Tara speaks hesitantly, gingerly. He hopes, for all kinds of reasons, that they're happy together. "Well, then." In this unaccustomed sunshine, everything's beginning to seem simpler. Or perhaps it's just that he has what he wants, but Willow, somehow, doesn't.
Her skeptical noise proves that a simple answer won't do. "Giles, just . . . go away, okay? I don't want to talk anymore."
She keeps her face turned away as he gets up. They've solved nothing. There is no solution, not for this, not now. "I need to wait for Oz to get back. I'll be indoors, going through the bills."
He can see her through the living room window, sitting motionless, shoulders hunched and small. Did she always do that when she was unhappy, or is it a mannerism she picked up from Oz? Giles turns his chair away and concentrates on the stacks of papers.
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