Sunnydale, 10/01: An Oz only a mother (and Giles) could love
When Oz takes a right out of the Magic Box's alley, instead of the usual left, Giles looks surprised. Oz bites his lip and keeps his eye on the road, weaving up Main Street, then cutting across Calendula, and Giles' brows are lifting and he's about to open his mouth and ask where they're going as Oz slows to nab a parking space
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He's being ridiculous, of course; he's never been a wine snob, or even a knowledgeable wine-drinker like Olivia. If this were Buffy's house, or anyone's house but Teresa's, he wouldn't care about whatever plonk was set before him. But at the moment he's ready to be irritated by anything of Teresa's, from the flowery plates (cheap Wedgewood imitations) and overly fussy serviettes to the nonsense about him opening the wine. Despite her ostentatious feminism, she keeps treating him like the man of the house, the way Giles' mother used to treat his father. Rose Giles never opened a wine bottle in her life.
The table's enormous, with that unused look that formal dining tables inevitable acquire, and there are places set at the head and either side. Giles sits at one of the side places; he's not about to play father any more than he already has.
"Can I help?" he asks when Oz comes in with a salad bowl, but Oz shakes his head and vanishes back into the kitchen. Watching Oz bring out glasses of water, a bowl of sauce and another of brown rice, salt and pepper and salad dressing, Giles is abruptly, painfully homesick for their own kitchen. There's always been something central, fundamental, about cooking together, and it's been more than a week since they've had the opportunity.
Finally, Oz emerges with a platter full of pale, thick slabs of eggplant. Teresa follows him in and smiles shyly, with a meaningful flick of her eyes at Oz, when Giles stands. Apparently he's being very English, or old-fashioned, or something else that Teresa interprets as charming. She hesitates for long enough at her chair that Giles is afraid she's going to ask him to switch places, but then sits down. There's an expectant pause, and for an awful moment Giles thinks she's going to say (or ask him to say) some kind of New Age, guaranteed-inoffensive blessing. But it's not, after all, that kind of pause. It's the silence of an anxious cook. "The food smells marvelous," Giles says as sincerely as he can manage, and Oz nods agreement.
"Shall we have a toast?" Teresa asks. "Giles?"
A blessing might almost have been better; it would've been easier to be vague. "To . . . to returns," he stammers out at last. "And memories." Teresa looks pleased amid the general clinking of glasses, and Oz gives him one of those speaking looks, a softening around the eyes and mouth that no one but Giles would recognize as a smile.
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Oz cracks pepper liberally over his brown rice and hands the shaker to Giles. "Nope. Tibetan."
"I thought you went to Argentina?"
And so it goes, Giles kind of glaring at Terry out of the corner of his eye like he used to do with Xander, but staring openly, widely, at Oz when their eyes meet, and Terry chattering about the job prospects for hypnotherapists just as soon as she gets her degree, and Oz swings back and forth between them until he's dizzy. Giles is ground and turned earth, solid and warm in the sun, and Terry's always been one of those high, high bridges made out of balsa and matchsticks over rocky rivers at the bottom of canyons, and Oz can barely eat.
Which, in itself, is okay, because the eggplant tastes like olive oil and the rice tastes likes cardboard. The dill and yogurt's pretty tasty, though.
"It's just like the way it used to be," she says, when Oz sets down his fork. Terry squeezes his hand and Oz presses his lips together. "Dinner, and family, and good friends."
"Okay," Oz says. The last time they used the table was Thanksgiving, 1989.
"We should make this a regular thing. My Danny and his handsome boyfriend, every Friday! That's what families do, isn't it?"
She's clinging to his hand still and Oz looks at Giles. He's holding the wrong hand. "We're not - I mean, see. We're not *moving* here, you know."
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"Teresa."
She jumps, eyes darting to Giles for an instant, then turns back to Oz. It's as though she's forgotten that Giles even exists. "I should've known," she says to Oz, so expressionlessly that Giles isn't sure why it sounds so brutal.
Oz reaches for her hand again, then stops when she doesn't move. He slides back towards the edge of his chair, drawing in his shoulders in a way Giles remembers from before Oz got used to London crowds-making himself small, yes, but also shutting out what upsets him. Giles always thought of a turtle retreating into its shell. Oz is staring at Teresa, and for a moment Giles feels absolutely alone, pushed off into the wings by this older drama. Oz glances over at him then, briefly. The expression on his face is something well past blankness. Emptiness. It's the way he looked when Giles found out about the wolf, and then again the day he left.
"Teresa," Giles says again, stretching across the wide table to hold Oz's hand. Oz clutches hard at his fingers, nails digging in. "I'm sorry if we-"
"I should've known you'd walk out on me again, Danny." The cold dignity has disappeared, and now she sounds close to tears. "You're just like your father."
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"No, see -" he says and Giles clears his throat. But it's not fair to Giles that Giles always has to defend him, against Willow and now against Terry. Oz *isn't* a kid. He looks up, first at Giles - tight face, eyes dark and wet and dangerous like blood or wine - then at Terry, whose face is kind of melting, all soft drooping eyes and downturned mouth. "I'm not, and it's not like that."
Poking at her salad like she's looking for bugs, Terry says, "Always thought you could just come and go. Always like -"
She's right, that's probably the worst thing. Not until he got to London did Oz start figuring out how to stay, start realizing that he *wanted* to stay somewhere. "Mom? I'm sorry."
She shakes back her hair and Giles grips his hand even tighter; Oz's shoulder is starting to ache, being stretched so far, but he's not going to move, he can't.
"So am I," Terry says. She slides a quick glance at Giles and must see something in his face, because she straightens up and squares her shoulders. "But of course, you're happy now."
And again, she's right, and Oz doesn't know why he feels so guilty, sick with guilt swarming like hornets inside him, about that. After he left Giles, he remembers lying on his bed upstairs and telling himself that happiness was transient and life was not about being happy but about getting through. It's almost like he's regressing, and he's fine with that.
Except for the guilt.
"I am," he says. "Really, I am."
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"Happy," Teresa says, looking up from her plate with a wide, forced smile. "That's good, Danny. I mean, who wouldn't be? London and everything. I always wanted to live in London." While Giles is trying to find a pleasant, non-committal answer to that, something that will pull them back into small talk and politeness, Teresa looks appraisingly at Oz and adds, "I guess I always thought of you as more the L.A. type. You know, glamour and celebrities and whatever the latest music is. Instead of all that history and good old rock-and-roll." She refills Giles' wineglass, which he hadn't realized was empty, and gives him a quick smile. A conspiratorial smile, between adults.
"Los Angeles?" Giles looks over at Oz, hoping for a smile at such a spectacularly idiotic idea, but Oz has gone stiller and more stoic than before. Of course it must hurt, to be so completely, contemptuously misunderstood. "I can hardly imagine it. We're very happy in London." He chooses the word deliberately; her word, the ground she's chosen for whatever this hidden struggle is about.
For years, he assumed that Teresa didn't care, didn't feel anything for Oz. That would've been simple, almost easy compared to this swirl of rivalry and patronizing affection; he's beginning to wish it were true.
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Giles' thumb moves slowly over Oz's knuckles, steadily, like it's reminding him how to breathe, and Oz wants to feel it *more*. Like he usually does, ease and security just kind of blossoming at Giles' touch, rather than having to be worked for and sought.
"Oh, no one in LA goes *outside*," Terry says. "It's all cars and air conditioning."
"True. Maybe I should've thought of that." Before he met Giles, even a long time *after* he met Giles, Oz didn't think he'd ever get to leave Sunnydale. He used that fact as some kind of dam against taking Giles as seriously as he wanted to, against responding to love you, against everything. And he never thought why he believed it so strongly; it would be like wondering why the sun rose in the east or why rain fell to earth. "I like London. It's no LA, but."
"I used to try to get Danny to watch A Hard Day's Night," Terry is telling Giles, "but you know him. Too old, too black and white to hold his interest."
Giles doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on Oz and squeezes his hand.
"I love that movie," Oz says. Wine burns like hot metal on the back of his tongue. "Fuck, Mom. I've seen Sympathy for the Devil on the big screen. Black and white, French *and* the Stones."
It feels like Terry takes half a century to turn and look at him, blink, and smile kindly. It's a smile his Nana wore in the nursing home, the Alzheimer's I should be nice to you but I have no idea who you are one.
"Oh, well, they're the *Stones*," she says. "Anyone who can write 'Under My Thumb' isn't exactly a good person."
He knows her better than anyone, better than himself, definitely better than Giles, but Oz has no idea why she's talking like this, what he did wrong. Besides leave, come back, and talk about leaving again.
"I -" Oz stands up, grabbing the napkin before it slides from his lap. He wants more wine, wants to throw something, wants to rewind half an hour and start dinner again. "What's for dessert? I'll get it."
He stopped holding Giles' hand. Maybe that's why he feels like falling over. He sits back down and reaches for Giles.
"Or we could go into town. Get cones or something." Act like things are okay, and they'll be that much closer to the motel, and sugar might distract him.
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"-all that refined sugar," Teresa's saying. She hasn't seemed to notice that he and Oz aren't answering, that they're watching each other instead of her. "I don't keep sweet stuff around anymore. Sugar is addictive, you know. I think that's why Danny always had such trouble in school."
Oz looks at her then, takes a deep breath as though he's nerving himself to answer, and then sighs it out. He looks tired and almost ill, sallow-faced except for feverish red patches on his cheeks. It's as though Teresa's words are viruses, eating him up, taking him over, replicating until they drown out Oz himself.
She talks about Oz as if no one could ever love him.
"-but if you're sure you want ice cream, we could go."
"Actually, Teresa," Giles says, folding his napkin and laying it on the table, "I think I've got a migraine coming on. I shouldn't have had the wine. Stupid of me." He doesn't look at Oz, who'll know he lying-he doesn't get migraines. It's never been easy for Giles to lie, and being around Oz, who doesn't, as far as Giles can tell, ever see a reason to, makes it almost impossible. "Sorry to cut the evening short." Oz strokes the back of his hands, and Giles remembers just in time not to smile.
It probably doesn't mean anything to Teresa that he understands Oz better than she does, loves him more. But Giles can't help feeling that he's won.
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Oz is the one who actually feels headachey, his temples throbbing and his eyes starting to burn. He hugs his mom goodbye, strokes her long, soft hair, and tells her he'll be back soon. She makes him take the platter of carrot cake and tucks several random snapshots into his front pocket. And through it all, he's blinking hard but there's no moisture in his eyes, and as soon as they hit the porch and descend the steps, he breathes in eucalyptus-scented air and stumbles. The carrot cake tips and starts to slide off the platter.
Giles catches his elbow, then draws him close against his side and kisses the top of Oz's head.
"I'm really sorry," Oz says at the car. Guilt's not just swarming in him, but breeding and spawning. "I should've planned better. Or at all."
He sets the platter down on the hood and hugs Giles, even though he still gets that Sunnydale-spike of fear at touching in public, rubbing his cheek against Giles' chest. Around him, Giles' arms are strong and sure.
"How's your head, fibber?" Oz asks and feels his face stretch into a smile as he reaches up and touches Giles' cheek. "God. Thank you."
Gratitude feels far too small in just words, but Giles would shake his head and not let Oz tell him how much he owes him, so Oz kisses him instead. Tries to let dry lips and hesitant tongue do the thanking for him, tries to promise to do better next time.
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It's a damp night, cool; beads of dew seep into Giles' trousers from the car's metal sides and Oz is starting to shiver. "I'm the one who should be sorry," Giles says, holding Oz a little tighter for a moment and then letting him go. With his glasses back on, all the lines seem too sharp, surfaces too definite. Being close to Oz, for kissing or sex or sleep, usually means having his glasses off, and perhaps blurriness has come to mean happiness. "I pushed you into this." Oz, unlocking the car door, only shakes his head. They know better, usually, than to argue over who's sorrier.
"What should we do now?" There are things Giles wants to talk about, but not just yet. Better to gain a little distance, to stop (as best he can) being angry at Teresa, to let Oz sort through whatever all this means to him. "Are you hungry? You hardly ate a thing. Nor did I, come to that. Ice cream? Something more substantial?" The things Teresa said have given Giles a craving for rich meats, achingly sweet desserts, and music played so loud the windows rattle.
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"Burgers," he says, shifting into gear and pulling out. "I want to go to the Red Rooster and have a bacon cheeseburger. Never had one, but they're supposed to be the best in three counties."
Giles ducks his head, smiling, as he pulls on his seatbelt, and Oz drives across town without saying much more. He's got dead guilt sifting and settling inside him and he needs to let it happen. If he talks too soon, he might set the guilt in amber, preserve it long past the time it should have dusted away and vanished. He cranks the radio to KROQ and Giles doesn't even flinch, just rests his left hand on Oz's knee and keeps time with his fingers.
The Red Rooster is half-rundown drive-in/diner and half-attempted tarting-up of said drive-in/diner, so the neon is new and flamingo-pink but the paint on the sides of the building is peeling and faded. Oz has only ever gotten milkshakes here, averting his eyes while Devon and Eric and, later, Xander stuffed their faces with bacon burgers and chili-cheese dogs, but he's different now in almost every way.
"They've got chocolate malteds, too," he tells Giles as they enter the frigid fluorescent interior, so bright that Giles' skin looks like old linen. Hand in hand, and that's even better than the prospect of loads of hot, greasy food. "Like Maltesers, but cold. And liquid."
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Still, he's grinning as he looks over a menu, smeared with ketchup and grease, of things he'd normally consider inedible. It's like being a boy again, cramming down forbidden chips and sweets and ruining his appetite for tea. "Bacon cheeseburger, you say?" he half-shouts over the pallid pop music (which he tries not to hear as it breaks the illusion) and the echoes of other people's conversations off the chrome and linoleum. Oz, who barely looked at his menu before putting it back behind the napkin dispenser, nods. All the tight signs of anxiety-rigid shoulders, set mouth, tiny creases around his eyes and heavier ones between his brows-have gone, which is good, but strange. This isn't normally the sort of place that would relax him, any more than it would make Giles smile in the dizzy, foolish way he knows he's smiling. But a couple of hours with Teresa is enough to turn anyone into a rebellious teenager.
After the waitress takes their orders (far too much food-cheeseburgers and chips and onion rings, sodas and a malted that Oz has promised to share), Giles reaches across the table for Oz's hand. It feels as different as possible from the same gesture at Teresa's table-an overspill of pleasure, not nerves and need. "Good idea," he says. "I'm glad we came here."
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Oz bounces a little in his seat, testing the resiliency, and lets himself take a good, long look at Giles. Like they've been separated for several days, and he needs to relearn all the creases on his face, the dip of his left eyelid, the whorls at his hairline. The small details that rarely even show up in photographs, they're so faint and almost *private*. Maybe it's weird to feel private *here*, in the midst of a Top-40 power ballad, surrounded by high school students and families with squawling kids in high chairs, rather than in his mom's house, but however weird it is, it's still true.
When their drinks arrive, Oz takes a long, thirsty suck of Coke, relishing the peppery sweetness and its cold flood into his incredibly empty stomach.
"I'm glad, you know," he says, sitting back and slumping a little, pushing the glass away and toying with the sheath of his straw. "That you came. But it had to suck to be there for - for everything."
He ought to be stammering, Oz thinks, choking on apologies and gratitude, but that's for Terry. With Giles, he just needs to let the words come. He's finally acclimating, in fits and starts, to Giles' patience, feeling himself loosen inside in response to the readiness of Giles' grin, the steadiness of his eyes.
"Families suck," Oz adds. "Like the invented ones better. Like *you* better."
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