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 way."
Dawn looks like she's trying to decide between laughing and flipping him off, but Oz follows Giles out the door before she makes up her mind. Cold out here, and his ice-numbed hands fumble the keys.
"Get you in bed," he tells Giles over the car's roof. "Mummify both of us in those Ben-Gay patches." Giles gives him a wan, very sad smile as Oz finally pops the locks. In the dark stuffiness of the car, still heavy with the remnants of their fight, Oz struggles to breathe, and he's gone almost a mile before he drops his right hand on Giles' thigh and squeezes gently.
He drives like that all the way to the motel, even though it usually makes Giles nervous, then holds Giles' hand through the garage into the elevator. Weird that the medicinal fluorescence of the garage and the stale-smoke of the elevator can reassure him, that they smell like an approximation of home.
In the room, Giles closes the door and leans heavily against it, like he's barricading them from the rest of the world. It's something, Oz realizes, that he's always done; when Oz came by after school, all those years ago, Giles would do the same thing, pull Oz against his chest like he is now, and wait until their breathing synched up. This position, more than any place or room, is home.
"Bath?" Oz asks into Giles' sweater. One shard of memory, Giles flipped by the vamp, slices through his mind and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. "Bed?"
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.
But here he's warm, body numb and heavy, mind floating so loose that he can feel a spinning behind his eyes. Here there's Oz leaning carefully against him, one hand around his waist and the other twisted in his jumper, and Oz blocks out all the rest. "Bed," Giles says. His voice sounds rough, and he remembers that a vampire tried to strangle him an hour ago. "Want a bath, but I'm too tired."
Oz helps him out of his clothes, wincing at every revealed bruise, offering ice that Giles refuses and Advil that he accepts, four in one gulp with a glass of water. "Here," Giles says, tugging clumsily at Oz's jumper and shirt. They have to help each other; that's what right and necessary. Gentle as he tries to be, he brushes sore spots that make Oz hiss through gritted teeth. There's a purple-black patch on his back as big as Giles' two hands. "Jesus. Should we take you to the emergency room?" Oz shakes his head and skims his trousers gingerly down to his ankles, then, with great care and some sharp intakes of breath, settles on the bed.
Giles works himself into a tolerable position on his back, switches off the light, and adjusts the covers around them. "Is there a way I can hold you without hurting you more?" Answering his careful touch, Oz smiles lopsidedly and leans in, resting the unbruised half of his face on Giles' shoulder with a sigh. His shoulders look mostly unhurt, so Giles strokes his palm lightly over them, in shallow ovals that slow with Oz's breathing. "I love you." Oz's exhalations smell of chocolate biscuits. When Giles kisses him, gently, on the corner of his mouth, he makes a small contented sound and doesn't move.
Wrong metaphor, Giles thinks as sleep drifts up like snow around the edges of his mind. Not morphine, not a drug that hides. Truth. Oz is the truth, this is the truth. Painful sometimes, frightening, but this truth sets them free.
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 way."
Dawn looks like she's trying to decide between laughing and flipping him off, but Oz follows Giles out the door before she makes up her mind. Cold out here, and his ice-numbed hands fumble the keys.
"Get you in bed," he tells Giles over the car's roof. "Mummify both of us in those Ben-Gay patches." Giles gives him a wan, very sad smile as Oz finally pops the locks. In the dark stuffiness of the car, still heavy with the remnants of their fight, Oz struggles to breathe, and he's gone almost a mile before he drops his right hand on Giles' thigh and squeezes gently.
He drives like that all the way to the motel, even though it usually makes Giles nervous, then holds Giles' hand through the garage into the elevator. Weird that the medicinal fluorescence of the garage and the stale-smoke of the elevator can reassure him, that they smell like an approximation of home.
In the room, Giles closes the door and leans heavily against it, like he's barricading them from the rest of the world. It's something, Oz realizes, that he's always done; when Oz came by after school, all those years ago, Giles would do the same thing, pull Oz against his chest like he is now, and wait until their breathing synched up. This position, more than any place or room, is home.
"Bath?" Oz asks into Giles' sweater. One shard of memory, Giles flipped by the vamp, slices through his mind and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. "Bed?"
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But here he's warm, body numb and heavy, mind floating so loose that he can feel a spinning behind his eyes. Here there's Oz leaning carefully against him, one hand around his waist and the other twisted in his jumper, and Oz blocks out all the rest. "Bed," Giles says. His voice sounds rough, and he remembers that a vampire tried to strangle him an hour ago. "Want a bath, but I'm too tired."
Oz helps him out of his clothes, wincing at every revealed bruise, offering ice that Giles refuses and Advil that he accepts, four in one gulp with a glass of water. "Here," Giles says, tugging clumsily at Oz's jumper and shirt. They have to help each other; that's what right and necessary. Gentle as he tries to be, he brushes sore spots that make Oz hiss through gritted teeth. There's a purple-black patch on his back as big as Giles' two hands. "Jesus. Should we take you to the emergency room?" Oz shakes his head and skims his trousers gingerly down to his ankles, then, with great care and some sharp intakes of breath, settles on the bed.
Giles works himself into a tolerable position on his back, switches off the light, and adjusts the covers around them. "Is there a way I can hold you without hurting you more?" Answering his careful touch, Oz smiles lopsidedly and leans in, resting the unbruised half of his face on Giles' shoulder with a sigh. His shoulders look mostly unhurt, so Giles strokes his palm lightly over them, in shallow ovals that slow with Oz's breathing. "I love you." Oz's exhalations smell of chocolate biscuits. When Giles kisses him, gently, on the corner of his mouth, he makes a small contented sound and doesn't move.
Wrong metaphor, Giles thinks as sleep drifts up like snow around the edges of his mind. Not morphine, not a drug that hides. Truth. Oz is the truth, this is the truth. Painful sometimes, frightening, but this truth sets them free.
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