He can see doubt and etiquette twisting over Giles' face, and Oz squeezes his arm through the tweed jacket. Anya's grinning like she just won the lottery and Xander -- Xander's looking a lot like Giles right now, with some extra happiness mixed in with the doubt
( ... )
It's automatic, with Oz standing this close, for Giles to put an arm around his waist; only afterwards does he notice how Buffy looks at them. It's not her "You're very old and it's gross," look. He's used to that. He'd rather see that than the terrible pinched impassivity of her face and her eyes gone dark as bruised flowers. Thinking about everything (everyone) Buffy has lost in the last few years is almost unbearable. What it must be like for Buffy, Giles would just as soon not imagine. There are times when he wishes that Angel had stayed in Sunnydale, that they'd found a way around the curse. Almost any man in the world, he believes, would be better for Buffy than Angel, but she seems not to agree. And it is, after all, her life. Her heart
( ... )
Oz has taken to holding his breath at the end of work days and research sessions; when it comes time to split up for the drive(s) home(s). Six times out of ten, he drives Dawn back to Revello, especially if Buffy's not around, which tends to happen more often than not. He grooves on Dawn, but when the day is over, he just wants to slide into the driver's seat and take Giles as far away as he can; they had dinner on the other side of Santa Barbara last night because Oz couldn't get far enough away
( ... )
Trying to ignore the blatant stares of a group of teenage boys lounging against the wall outside the shop, Giles holds Oz's hand and rubs his tight-hunched shoulder. Oz looks shaken, misery twisting his mouth and brows into anxious curls, and if Giles were just a little braver he'd undo the seatbelt and hold him. But the boys are muttering and glaring, voices getting a little louder with each comment, words like "faggots" and "goddamn homos" carrying even over the traffic noise and the hum of the giant ice machine.
They won't try anything here, Giles tells himself, in this lighted parking lot on a well-travelled street. "Oz, what's the matter?" He should know; he would know if he'd been paying attention, if he hadn't spent the last five minutes trying to find a way to make Xander and Anya think twice without making them hate him. Going over subtle and not-so-subtle phrases, this is a surprise and you're both very young and perhaps you might be rushing things, and not noticing Oz, not noticing whatever has him almost hyperventilating
( ... )
Xander grabs the beer and takes a long swig, grimacing at the taste, questioning whether Englishmen can choose good beer, before drinking again, guzzling like the guy in the proverbial desert.
"Easy there, matey," Oz says, grinning, hating how censorious he sounds. It's a party, and Xander deserves more than to receive the dregs of Oz's guilt. Sticking his tongue out, Xander raises his fake hook and lets out a mighty arrrrrr, and Oz ducks theatrically out of the way. With one last squeeze of the hand, Giles has moved to the fridge, past Tara, who's carefully sorting Pringles and Doritos into big bowls
( ... )
While Oz and Tara debate (if "debate" is even the right word for two such quiet people) the right number of cloves to use in the cider, Giles loads a tray with drinks and follows Xander into the sitting room. On the sofa, Buffy is listening to Anya with what looks to Giles like remarkable forbearance. When she sees him, she jumps up with a cry of "Oooh, sodas!" She grabs a glass and a handful of pretzels from the bowl Xander's carrying, and shows no inclination to sit down again
( ... )
Oz sips his cider carefully, squinting through the steam, as he wraps his fingers around Giles' thumb. It's weird, these gestures in public; they're so small, but he likes them this way, like shadows and fabric-ends. When he was with Willow, he was touching her all the time, holding her on his lap, braiding her hair, plucking at her shirt. His affection, he thinks now as he looks at Xander, who's straightening his shirt, fixing his headband, glancing at Anya and Dawn and his beer and all around the room, was fidgety. Flighty. Because he was drunk, and lost, and she fidgeted a lot, too.
But he's sober now, the cider burning down his throat, and with Giles, he's not fidgety so much as...close. Small things aren't tiny or meaningless with Giles.
Big things, though. Big things like marriage and Giles, those might be enough to make him fidget
( ... )
Dawn, it seems, has strong opinions about bridesmaids' frocks. "Not seafoam green, okay?" Xander nods enthusiastically, in that overemphatic way he's had all evening, his eyes too wide and his gestures too big. He's probably got no more idea than Giles himself of what shade "seafoam" might be. "My friend Ashley had to wear seafoam at her brother's wedding, and I think she's scarred for life. She wouldn't even show us pictures. And no bows in the back-that's so bad prom dress."
Giles nods occasionally and watches Oz-discreetly, he hopes-over Dawn's shoulder. Every so often Oz looks over from whatever earnest conversation he's having with Anya, and when their eyes meet Giles feels a catch in his breath, like the nicotine jolt of a cigarette. Ten feet of distance and it's as though Oz has gone unbearably far, unbearably long. And, too, as though Oz is someone he doesn't know, a charming stranger to make one's pulse race at a party, to make every other conversation dull because nothing matters but talking to himGlances back and forth,
( ... )
"I'm going to have to surrender," Oz tells Tara. He's down to six cards -- three twos, two fours, and one seven -- and there's no way he's going to win. "General, you whupped me good
( ... )
That irresponsible, foolish, feckless, selfish, bloody, bloody, bloody girl.
Giles puts the receiver down and walks-not running, surely there's no need to panic, he's just walking very quickly-into the sitting room. "Xander?" Xander's not there, and Giles calls again, louder, "XanderWillow and Tara are both looking at him, identically wide-eyed and caught in the frozen pose, heads together, of the whispered discussion he interrupted. Oz shoots off the sofa faster than Giles has ever seen him move, not bothering to put on his shoes, and gestures towards the door when Giles asks, "Where's Xander
( ... )
"Nice try," Oz says, handing Giles his jacket, then sliding his feet into his shoes and toeing up the backs. When they were first together, this was how it went, and Oz got very good at waiting. Too good. And then, afterward, they did emergency things together occasionally, but not together. Just as part of the team, and Oz started missing waiting.
Giles starts to open his mouth, then shrugs on his jacket, shoots his cuffs, and glances at the door.
Oz slips past him into the entryway. Last thing he wants is to have a huge discussion in front of everyone, so he waits until Giles joins him, then pulls into the dining room. "I'm pretty good at tracking, you know."
He ought to be embarrassed, but there isn't time for the usual hesitancy and mutters of yeah, remember? Werewolf. He's clutching Giles' sleeve and unlocks his fingers with difficulty.
"I can help. Want to."
If he helps, Oz thinks as he swipes the back of his hand across his nose, he's really here, not just something that turned up among Giles' luggage.
Oz can track. Of course. Such a sense of smell, an animal's - a wolf's sense. Once he found Willow by smell, when- "We don't know what's happening. Probably nothing, but
( ... )
Giles looks like Ichabod Crane, or the scarecrow, sagging, his arms and legs suddenly too long and hard to control. Oz switches his icepack from his cheek to his back and nods. He wishes he could fold Giles up and lug him all the way back to London, back to a deep tub and bottomless pots of tea.
Dawn's rooted in place, her arms crossed again, and with her hair covering her face, she looks so much like Tara, it's freaky. Oz touches her shoulder, feeling like he should apologize -- why? Because Giles wouldn't kill him? -- but she doesn't move.
He leans in and whispers, "Hey, Summers. See you tomorrow?"
Dawn shifts her weight and shrugs, then pushes him away when he kisses her forehead. She smells like dead leaves and peppermint, and his stomach hurts at the thought of her blood, his hunger. Scowling, she mutters, "Not a kid"Nope," Oz says, squeezing her shoulder, juggling the icepack, and stepping away. Giles has his hand on the door and he looks even closer to collapse. Over his shoulder, he says, "Glad you didn't get bit, by the
( ... )
Giles has been given morphine a few times over the years, for one injury or another. It feels a lot like this. Somewhere, things hurt. Somewhere are aches and stiffness and bright knifing pains in his knees; somewhere there's grief over what Dawn said and sorrowing shock that Willow told her. Somewhere there's yet another round of second thoughts about leaving Buffy; somewhere there's guilt and worry, as always
( ... )
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They won't try anything here, Giles tells himself, in this lighted parking lot on a well-travelled street. "Oz, what's the matter?" He should know; he would know if he'd been paying attention, if he hadn't spent the last five minutes trying to find a way to make Xander and Anya think twice without making them hate him. Going over subtle and not-so-subtle phrases, this is a surprise and you're both very young and perhaps you might be rushing things, and not noticing Oz, not noticing whatever has him almost hyperventilating ( ... )
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"Easy there, matey," Oz says, grinning, hating how censorious he sounds. It's a party, and Xander deserves more than to receive the dregs of Oz's guilt. Sticking his tongue out, Xander raises his fake hook and lets out a mighty arrrrrr, and Oz ducks theatrically out of the way. With one last squeeze of the hand, Giles has moved to the fridge, past Tara, who's carefully sorting Pringles and Doritos into big bowls ( ... )
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But he's sober now, the cider burning down his throat, and with Giles, he's not fidgety so much as...close. Small things aren't tiny or meaningless with Giles.
Big things, though. Big things like marriage and Giles, those might be enough to make him fidget ( ... )
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Giles nods occasionally and watches Oz-discreetly, he hopes-over Dawn's shoulder. Every so often Oz looks over from whatever earnest conversation he's having with Anya, and when their eyes meet Giles feels a catch in his breath, like the nicotine jolt of a cigarette. Ten feet of distance and it's as though Oz has gone unbearably far, unbearably long. And, too, as though Oz is someone he doesn't know, a charming stranger to make one's pulse race at a party, to make every other conversation dull because nothing matters but talking to himGlances back and forth, ( ... )
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Giles puts the receiver down and walks-not running, surely there's no need to panic, he's just walking very quickly-into the sitting room. "Xander?" Xander's not there, and Giles calls again, louder, "XanderWillow and Tara are both looking at him, identically wide-eyed and caught in the frozen pose, heads together, of the whispered discussion he interrupted. Oz shoots off the sofa faster than Giles has ever seen him move, not bothering to put on his shoes, and gestures towards the door when Giles asks, "Where's Xander ( ... )
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Giles starts to open his mouth, then shrugs on his jacket, shoots his cuffs, and glances at the door.
Oz slips past him into the entryway. Last thing he wants is to have a huge discussion in front of everyone, so he waits until Giles joins him, then pulls into the dining room. "I'm pretty good at tracking, you know."
He ought to be embarrassed, but there isn't time for the usual hesitancy and mutters of yeah, remember? Werewolf. He's clutching Giles' sleeve and unlocks his fingers with difficulty.
"I can help. Want to."
If he helps, Oz thinks as he swipes the back of his hand across his nose, he's really here, not just something that turned up among Giles' luggage.
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Dawn's rooted in place, her arms crossed again, and with her hair covering her face, she looks so much like Tara, it's freaky. Oz touches her shoulder, feeling like he should apologize -- why? Because Giles wouldn't kill him? -- but she doesn't move.
He leans in and whispers, "Hey, Summers. See you tomorrow?"
Dawn shifts her weight and shrugs, then pushes him away when he kisses her forehead. She smells like dead leaves and peppermint, and his stomach hurts at the thought of her blood, his hunger. Scowling, she mutters, "Not a kid"Nope," Oz says, squeezing her shoulder, juggling the icepack, and stepping away. Giles has his hand on the door and he looks even closer to collapse. Over his shoulder, he says, "Glad you didn't get bit, by the ( ... )
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