Giles takes off his glasses and lets Oz coat his face, which feels a bit tight from this morning's sun, with a thick layer of cream. Oz has already moved on to his neck before Giles realizes that he could, in fact, have done this himself. But this is nicer. "You know, I've never been here before," Giles says, pushing up the sleeves of his jumper and holding out an arm for Oz to work on. He went to the pier a couple of times, investigating one demon or another, but that's strictly for teenagers and he was never tempted to stay. Glasses back on, Giles looks at the steep rocky slope leading down to a narrow stretch of sand. "It's pretty."
Oz's touch, functional though it is, gentles away most of the cold tension in Giles' body. By the time Giles has put sunscreen on Oz and followed him down the footpath to the beach, he feels better. Normal. It's strange that this pitch of worry isn't normal anymore, that he's grown accustomed to relative peace. That peace isn't really normal to him, he thinks; it's one of the gifts Oz gives, all unawares.
Surprisingly, the beach is almost empty. There are a couple of slow-moving joggers and, in the distance, a women with a little girl. Perhaps the breeze off the sea makes the day too cold by California standards. It feels warm to Giles, and when they sit down he takes off his shoes and slides his feet in the rough sand.
"Well," he says, turning back to the question he's left unanswered for half an hour, "I've had better mornings." Oz listens quietly to his account of what happened, pouring a bit of sand from hand to hand, his expression shading gradually into a frown. "It's a mess," Giles concludes. "Anything I say to Willow will only make her angrier, I expect. I'd like to have a word with Tara-she's a level-headed girl-but I'm not sure I'll get the chance." He touches Oz's cheek. "It's as well you weren't there. But I'm sorry about . . . well, how I handled that. I don't intend to start ordering you about, honestly." Remembering their conversation this morning, he thinks, my Oz, but smiles instead of saying it.
Out in the sun, breeze teasing at his hair, Giles looks like himself, relaxed and loose, and Oz leans into the touch. It used to be, when they got away from Sunnydale, that Giles, relaxed, looked like a version of himself. Not the real thing.
"You were in Watcher-mode," Oz says and shrugs. "Really not a big deal." When he closes his eyes, he tries to picture what Willow looked like, so angry and hard, but it's impossible; the closest he can get is that blank, dark look on her face when they did the curse on Angel in the hospital room. He shivers and shifts closer, so his legs are folded over Giles', his toes digging in the sand. "Sorry about Will, though. I didn't think it'd be this hard."
Giles opens his mouth, but Oz shakes his head. "Know it's not my fault. Feels like it is." Giles' hand circles his upper back, plucking at his shirt, sweeping down his shoulder-blades, and Oz drops his head forward, lets the touch seep more deeply inside. The sound of the water, heavy and steady, is something he's missed without realizing it, like lemon-scented dryer sheets, and Oz times his breathing with the waves.
"I stuffed my face and fended off Xander's X-rated questions," he says, looking sideways at Giles and smiling. "Wanna trade?"
"Good lord." Xander's red face and suppressed giggles make a lot more sense now. Giles would have expected him to shy away from the topic, indeed to refuse to notice more than he absolutely must, but then Xander has always baffled him. If Oz was astonishingly, impossibly kindred, Xander was the alien being Giles had assumed American teenagers must be. "No thanks. Except perhaps for the face-stuffing part. Tara offered me breakfast, but I couldn't quite manage it."
Oz digs in the bag and pulls out a Hershey bar, but Giles shakes his head and says, "Later." He leans back on one elbow and watches how the sun falls on Oz's face. His London-pale skin is almost transparent, showing fine blue veins and tired shadows under his eyes, but his mouth is relaxed, half-smiling, and he looks happier than he has since they left for Heathrow. Giles runs a fingertip along the curve of one ear, flicking at each earring in turn, and says, "This must be rather uncomfortable for Xander. He's very fond of you, you know. I know he missed you after you left."
It's not the best thing he could have said. Something like a wince crosses Oz's face, and the hand that's been rubbing Giles' arms goes still. Giles works his fingers into Oz's hair and strokes the bumps and hollows of bone above his ear. "Do I want to know what he asked?" He brushes a bit of sand off Oz's neck and kisses his forehead. Being open, he's finding, is almost as awkward as it is liberating. All their long secrecy seems to have left a vacuum that's now rushing to fill with covert glances and open stares, impertinent questions, and gestures of effortful tolerance.
Oz twists at the waist until he's lying on his elbow in the gritty sand, his free hand tracking slowly up and down the center of Giles' chest. Sun, and waves, and touch - these are all things he's always associated with Giles, with being at ease and away from it all.
"Dunno if you want to know," Oz admits, plucking at the neck of Giles' sweater, learning the texture of its ribbing with his eyes closed. He opens his eyes and smiles at Giles. "Think he missed me, yeah. And you. More than, uh, you might've thought. All kind of smorgasbordy in his weird, weird head."
Giles' fingers slow in his hair and Oz pulls one knee up to his chest as he wiggles back beside Giles. He slides his arm around Giles' back and tips his head on the woolly shoulder, squinting out at the waves. Endless, massive, uncountable gallons, all pulling towards land, and when they reach it, crashing and sucking backwards, back where they came. The only ones watching are a raggedy dog and Oz and Giles.
"Like Catalina, remember?" Oz asks, slipping his hand under the hem of Giles' sweater. "Getting away from it all. Except colder. And permanent, this time."
He doesn't know what to say about Willow, or Xander, or about much of anything. But there's a furrow building between Giles' brows, just over his glasses, and, leaning up, Oz kisses his jaw. If he doesn't know what to say, he's learned enough since the first time they went to a beach to *say* so, at least. Xander agreed that longterm relationships were of the weird, but maybe Xander was right that it's different with Giles; Oz hopes so, wants to make it so.
"Wish I knew what to say. About anything. Just -" His voice drops and he has to cough a little. "Love you. Kept thinking in the diner how surreal this is, except it's not. You're not."
Surreal. Odd and uncomfortable as the last day has been, it's not the word Giles would have chosen. Instead, it's as though reality has shifted into a new pattern, field and ground reversing, making the whole picture new. The change is in what he notices, what matters most.
"To me this feels very different from Catalina," he says, shivering a little as Oz's cool fingers slide along his belly. Catalina was a stolen pleasure, like phoning in sick to work or sneaking a look at the Christmas presents. Even at its best, as they sat alone on a hill above Two Harbors, kissed and watched the birds wheeling and the tiny sailboats gliding and bobbing in the bay, he couldn't forget the hours slipping away, the end relentlessly coming on. "Catalina-as you said, that was getting away from it all."
He rolls onto his back, pulling Oz along with him, and opens his eyes to the sky. It's the vivid blue of autumn, endlessly deep, a color that seems to generate its own gravity. With the rise and fall of the surf in his ears he's losing track of direction, and only the weight of Oz's body seems to stop him falling. "This . . . " Tracing the pebbly course of Oz's backbone, he stops worrying, for once, about the right words. "This is it all. You and I."
He's not Buffy's Watcher anymore, although he'll help her as much as he can. He's not the dutiful man who put Oz in second place. Her death freed him, as he always knew it would. It's not something he can say, even to Oz, but it's true.
"Permanent," he says, and settles his arm more firmly around Oz. "Yes." Not a holiday, not a distraction, but the real thing. The thing that matters most.
Oz's touch, functional though it is, gentles away most of the cold tension in Giles' body. By the time Giles has put sunscreen on Oz and followed him down the footpath to the beach, he feels better. Normal. It's strange that this pitch of worry isn't normal anymore, that he's grown accustomed to relative peace. That peace isn't really normal to him, he thinks; it's one of the gifts Oz gives, all unawares.
Surprisingly, the beach is almost empty. There are a couple of slow-moving joggers and, in the distance, a women with a little girl. Perhaps the breeze off the sea makes the day too cold by California standards. It feels warm to Giles, and when they sit down he takes off his shoes and slides his feet in the rough sand.
"Well," he says, turning back to the question he's left unanswered for half an hour, "I've had better mornings." Oz listens quietly to his account of what happened, pouring a bit of sand from hand to hand, his expression shading gradually into a frown. "It's a mess," Giles concludes. "Anything I say to Willow will only make her angrier, I expect. I'd like to have a word with Tara-she's a level-headed girl-but I'm not sure I'll get the chance." He touches Oz's cheek. "It's as well you weren't there. But I'm sorry about . . . well, how I handled that. I don't intend to start ordering you about, honestly." Remembering their conversation this morning, he thinks, my Oz, but smiles instead of saying it.
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"You were in Watcher-mode," Oz says and shrugs. "Really not a big deal." When he closes his eyes, he tries to picture what Willow looked like, so angry and hard, but it's impossible; the closest he can get is that blank, dark look on her face when they did the curse on Angel in the hospital room. He shivers and shifts closer, so his legs are folded over Giles', his toes digging in the sand. "Sorry about Will, though. I didn't think it'd be this hard."
Giles opens his mouth, but Oz shakes his head. "Know it's not my fault. Feels like it is." Giles' hand circles his upper back, plucking at his shirt, sweeping down his shoulder-blades, and Oz drops his head forward, lets the touch seep more deeply inside. The sound of the water, heavy and steady, is something he's missed without realizing it, like lemon-scented dryer sheets, and Oz times his breathing with the waves.
"I stuffed my face and fended off Xander's X-rated questions," he says, looking sideways at Giles and smiling. "Wanna trade?"
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Oz digs in the bag and pulls out a Hershey bar, but Giles shakes his head and says, "Later." He leans back on one elbow and watches how the sun falls on Oz's face. His London-pale skin is almost transparent, showing fine blue veins and tired shadows under his eyes, but his mouth is relaxed, half-smiling, and he looks happier than he has since they left for Heathrow. Giles runs a fingertip along the curve of one ear, flicking at each earring in turn, and says, "This must be rather uncomfortable for Xander. He's very fond of you, you know. I know he missed you after you left."
It's not the best thing he could have said. Something like a wince crosses Oz's face, and the hand that's been rubbing Giles' arms goes still. Giles works his fingers into Oz's hair and strokes the bumps and hollows of bone above his ear. "Do I want to know what he asked?" He brushes a bit of sand off Oz's neck and kisses his forehead. Being open, he's finding, is almost as awkward as it is liberating. All their long secrecy seems to have left a vacuum that's now rushing to fill with covert glances and open stares, impertinent questions, and gestures of effortful tolerance.
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"Dunno if you want to know," Oz admits, plucking at the neck of Giles' sweater, learning the texture of its ribbing with his eyes closed. He opens his eyes and smiles at Giles. "Think he missed me, yeah. And you. More than, uh, you might've thought. All kind of smorgasbordy in his weird, weird head."
Giles' fingers slow in his hair and Oz pulls one knee up to his chest as he wiggles back beside Giles. He slides his arm around Giles' back and tips his head on the woolly shoulder, squinting out at the waves. Endless, massive, uncountable gallons, all pulling towards land, and when they reach it, crashing and sucking backwards, back where they came. The only ones watching are a raggedy dog and Oz and Giles.
"Like Catalina, remember?" Oz asks, slipping his hand under the hem of Giles' sweater. "Getting away from it all. Except colder. And permanent, this time."
He doesn't know what to say about Willow, or Xander, or about much of anything. But there's a furrow building between Giles' brows, just over his glasses, and, leaning up, Oz kisses his jaw. If he doesn't know what to say, he's learned enough since the first time they went to a beach to *say* so, at least. Xander agreed that longterm relationships were of the weird, but maybe Xander was right that it's different with Giles; Oz hopes so, wants to make it so.
"Wish I knew what to say. About anything. Just -" His voice drops and he has to cough a little. "Love you. Kept thinking in the diner how surreal this is, except it's not. You're not."
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"To me this feels very different from Catalina," he says, shivering a little as Oz's cool fingers slide along his belly. Catalina was a stolen pleasure, like phoning in sick to work or sneaking a look at the Christmas presents. Even at its best, as they sat alone on a hill above Two Harbors, kissed and watched the birds wheeling and the tiny sailboats gliding and bobbing in the bay, he couldn't forget the hours slipping away, the end relentlessly coming on. "Catalina-as you said, that was getting away from it all."
He rolls onto his back, pulling Oz along with him, and opens his eyes to the sky. It's the vivid blue of autumn, endlessly deep, a color that seems to generate its own gravity. With the rise and fall of the surf in his ears he's losing track of direction, and only the weight of Oz's body seems to stop him falling. "This . . . " Tracing the pebbly course of Oz's backbone, he stops worrying, for once, about the right words. "This is it all. You and I."
He's not Buffy's Watcher anymore, although he'll help her as much as he can. He's not the dutiful man who put Oz in second place. Her death freed him, as he always knew it would. It's not something he can say, even to Oz, but it's true.
"Permanent," he says, and settles his arm more firmly around Oz. "Yes." Not a holiday, not a distraction, but the real thing. The thing that matters most.
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