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.
"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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