Sunnydale, October 2001: Families
Continued from here.
"I'd go running with you," Oz says, "but it wasn't ever my thing. Kind of more a moseyer. But fencing looks like chess, only live-action. Cool."
The waitress is clearing away their plates, and Oz has to curl his fingers into a fist to keep himself from grabbing the last tiny onion ring. He can't help but remember Giles, face sweaty and glowing, after training Buffy in the library, nor how he always had to cut his eyes away and keep busy with a random open book.
"I'm stuffed," Oz says, more to keep himself from thinking than anything else. "How're you doing?"
Giles nods agreement with stuffed, smiles, and realizes he's lifting the malted to his lips yet again. "Quite," he says, setting it firmly down at the edge of the table for the waitress.
The restaurant's emptying out now, parents steering reluctant, sleepy children towards the exits and couples hurrying to late film showings or whatever band's playing at the Bronze these days. Encouraging the exodus, someone has dimmed the lights and turned the music down. Everything's quieter, more intimate, comfortable in a way it takes Giles a moment to understand. Tonight, for the first time since they came back to Sunnydale, he doesn't feel strange being in public with Oz.
"I'd love to teach you to fence." Oz looks up, startled, from another attempt at cleaning his fingers with a paper serviette and spit, and Giles quirks an eyebrow at him. Usually it's Oz who lets a comment drop and picks it up five minutes later. "I think you'd be good at it." Oz is strong, quick-moving when he wants to be, and under his gentle placidity there's aggression that could do with letting out. Giles remembers the last full moon, how Oz was still restless after a day spent walking around London, how he ate a steak larger and rarer even than Giles likes, how in bed he was fierce, rough, explosive. Accept, the monks told him. Don't deny the wolf, don't chain it inside. Oz, Giles thinks, is still learning how to do that. "And you're right, fencing is chess with weapons. The thinking man's combat."
The waitress, looking as though her second wind just ran out, drops the bill on the table and takes their glasses and the mound of greasy, crumpled paper. "I suppose we ought to go," Giles says. Oz, with an expression that looks like play but isn't, whisks the bill from under Giles' fingers and counts out money. "Do you feel like staying out for a bit? Going driving or something? Or should we go back to the motel?" Although Giles knows Oz isn't as relaxed and happy as he's trying to seem, he's not sure if it'll be better to talk now or to wait a little longer.
"I'd go running with you," Oz says, "but it wasn't ever my thing. Kind of more a moseyer. But fencing looks like chess, only live-action. Cool."
The waitress is clearing away their plates, and Oz has to curl his fingers into a fist to keep himself from grabbing the last tiny onion ring. He can't help but remember Giles, face sweaty and glowing, after training Buffy in the library, nor how he always had to cut his eyes away and keep busy with a random open book.
"I'm stuffed," Oz says, more to keep himself from thinking than anything else. "How're you doing?"
Giles nods agreement with stuffed, smiles, and realizes he's lifting the malted to his lips yet again. "Quite," he says, setting it firmly down at the edge of the table for the waitress.
The restaurant's emptying out now, parents steering reluctant, sleepy children towards the exits and couples hurrying to late film showings or whatever band's playing at the Bronze these days. Encouraging the exodus, someone has dimmed the lights and turned the music down. Everything's quieter, more intimate, comfortable in a way it takes Giles a moment to understand. Tonight, for the first time since they came back to Sunnydale, he doesn't feel strange being in public with Oz.
"I'd love to teach you to fence." Oz looks up, startled, from another attempt at cleaning his fingers with a paper serviette and spit, and Giles quirks an eyebrow at him. Usually it's Oz who lets a comment drop and picks it up five minutes later. "I think you'd be good at it." Oz is strong, quick-moving when he wants to be, and under his gentle placidity there's aggression that could do with letting out. Giles remembers the last full moon, how Oz was still restless after a day spent walking around London, how he ate a steak larger and rarer even than Giles likes, how in bed he was fierce, rough, explosive. Accept, the monks told him. Don't deny the wolf, don't chain it inside. Oz, Giles thinks, is still learning how to do that. "And you're right, fencing is chess with weapons. The thinking man's combat."
The waitress, looking as though her second wind just ran out, drops the bill on the table and takes their glasses and the mound of greasy, crumpled paper. "I suppose we ought to go," Giles says. Oz, with an expression that looks like play but isn't, whisks the bill from under Giles' fingers and counts out money. "Do you feel like staying out for a bit? Going driving or something? Or should we go back to the motel?" Although Giles knows Oz isn't as relaxed and happy as he's trying to seem, he's not sure if it'll be better to talk now or to wait a little longer.