Sunnydale, 10/01: An Oz only a mother (and Giles) could love

[glossing]

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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[glossing]

"I burn pretty easy," Oz says and takes a sip of wine. His right hand is still curled like a snail underneath Giles', still and sticky, and it's the only patch of his skin that feels halfway real. The wine burns dully down to his gut and he takes another big swallow, enough to nearly empty the glass, before he remembers, with a twist in his stomach and a clawing up his throat, the old borrowed warmth of whiskey and tequila drunk like water. He puts the glass down as far away from himself as possible and scrubs his fist over his mouth, trying to remove the taste. "So LA was never really a possibility."

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.

[kindkit]

Giles has never liked scenes, but for the second time this evening he wants to make one. Polite evasion and polite rebuke don't seem to work with Teresa, and she's even ignored how sharply Oz contradicted her (which, for Oz, is making a scene). There's something about her that reminds him, strangely, of Quentin Travers or even Principal Snyder-that absolute assurance of rightness and truth, that inability to imagine that any rational person might disagree. It's moral bullying, and he's never liked bullies. After all, he's been one.

"-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.

[glossing]

Terry offers Giles some feverfew, just a few pinch, but Giles is doing a really convincing job, shading his eyes and shaking his head slowly and thanking her but no, he should just lie down.

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.

[kindkit]

It feels almost like a first kiss, Oz's lips cool and slow, nearly still, against his own, and clumsy, shy maneuvering as the kiss deepens. Giles drops his glasses on the bonnet of the car and pushes in closer, one hand cupping the back of Oz's head and the other clutching his jumper, and this feels more like their real first kiss now, messy and fiercer than either of them expected. There's a low creak of metal as Oz sits back, wrapping his legs around Giles' hips, that reminds Giles of chocolate and spells and badly mistaken sex, but this is something else. This is Oz, and this is a first kiss, really. The first kiss afterwards, the first kiss with an Oz he knows better than he did two hours ago.

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.

[glossing]

Oz slides into the driver's seat and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Right now he wants ice cream, and milkshakes, and to drive at high speeds down cold, dead-of-night desert highways. He wants crazy teenaged things, scenes from Aerosmith videos, girls dancing on the hoods of cars.

"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."

[kindkit]

Following the waitress to a red vinyl booth, Giles feels as though he's walking through a film set. This is the America he imagined as a young boy--the place that made rock and roll, where the Beatles went to become superstars, where life was fuller and freer than it ever could be in England. It's an America that never existed, one that even Americans mythologize into the source of dreams. And myths turn sour with such terrible ease. When he was nineteen and cynical, he saw American Graffiti with Ethan, and they laughed and shouted rude comments at the screen.

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."

[glossing]

"Me, too," Oz says and turns his hand so his palm presses up against Giles' before sliding it free and lacing their fingers together and squeezing. His eyes are adjusting to the glare, and now he can really *see* Giles again, the real Giles - or as close as anyone gets to being real. Relaxed, eyes nearly disappearing in the width of his smile, glasses slipping halfway down his nose and glinting.

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."