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.
"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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