"Twelve hours?" Oz asks. It feels like a hell of a lot more, but when he tries to count backward, then adjust for time differences and distance travelled, he comes up with half an hour, and that can't be right. Giles' hand loosens on his shoulder, drifting up the back of Oz's neck, nails in the short hairs there, and the shivers return. A little slower, but just as warm
( ... )
Giles remembers. His whole body remembers in a flooding, drowning instant. Oz's mouth tasted of the mango sorbet he'd been eating, his skin was sunburn-hot, and he lay splayed out on the steps as Giles explored him. "I remember. Everything. The smell of your clothes. The creak of the bannister because you were pushing at it while I sucked you. You had a line of bruises up your back afterwards from the edges of the stairs."
In Giles' memory, that summer (the only summer, not the first, although he's not going to bring that up now) is the essence of all summers, heat and desire and joy, Oz wading in soaked jeans or naked and trembling under Giles' body. He scarcely remembers any unhappiness, except for the ends of their two trips away, the sharp bereavement that came with seeing the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. "I could almost be nostalgic for that summer," he says. Everything, then, was the first time. Everything was the bliss of discovery. And Oz was younger then, more easily happy, not yet touched by lycanthropy or guilt
( ... )
Oz's backbone twists and knocks him against Giles before he knows what's happening; his hand claws at Giles' knee, clenching hard, before he can take a breath
( ... )
Oz has a beautiful mouth, soft and generous and somehow expressive. Giles loves to watch him eating, hungrily or slowly, nibbling and tasting. There's something about Oz's mouth that yearns after pleasure, that hints at the sensualist under his stillness.
And inside . . . inside it's more than hints. Inside, Oz's mouth is slippery and hot, welcoming to Giles' kisses, eager and yielding to his cock. Inside there's a cushiony sliding tongue, a swirling flexible experimental tongue, a tormenting delicate knowing tongue. So fluid, and then the delicious shock of the hard places, the ridged roof of Oz's mouth, his sharp gentle teeth
( ... )
Interlacing their fingers, Oz squeezes Giles' hand. "Sorry," he whispers first, disturbed by the dark flush high on Giles' cheeks and the choked, clipped quality to his voice. "Um, I was Calderón. Guy who wrote Life is a Dream?"
He'd already done Hank Azaria and Jackie Robinson, and went with Calderón hoping that Giles would guess it. Oz tries to recall the soliloquy he likes so much from Act II, the one he memorized when he had to return the book to Jorge after having had it for four months, but the words, in both Spanish and English, aren't coming.
He's too aware of...*everything*. His skin, stretched taut and overheated, and the narrowness of the seats, and the impossible proximity of Giles, and Giles' discomfort.
"Hungry," Oz finally says. "Want some curry or something. Something homey."
Giles bends down, carefully, and digs in the plastic shopping bag under his seat, the one's that's heavy with too many magazines and dubious paperbacks. "Will you settle for the leftover half of my cinnamon bun?" Oz takes it, licking his fingers as he peels away the sticky paper. They should have bought some sandwiches--Oz is always hungry, and dull, meager airline meals will barely take the edge off--but most of the airport snack shops were still closed at seven this morning. "I expect they'll be bringing lunch soon." There's some clattering in the galley that sounds hopeful
( ... )
Oz hasn't cooked since they left London. He's made sandwiches for Dawn, helped Tara assemble casseroles, concocted some pasta for Xander, but he hasn't settled into a kitchen with Giles within reach and ingredients spread out everywhere. He hasn't squinted at a pile of produce or stripped fat off a steak, hasn't been able to nudge Giles with his hip or shimmy past him to the sink. He's made food, but he hasn't *cooked
( ... )
"Lots of sleep." There were hardly any nights in Sunnydale when Giles slept well, and these last few days he's been sore-eyed and nauseated, every muscle tense and painful. He squeezes Oz's shoulder gently in his hand, fingers gripping and flexing like starfish legs. "We'll laze about like great idle lumps, and do nothing but sleep and cook and read." Oz lifts his head, and Giles amends, "And one or two other things. You know. Some scrabble, a bit of television." Oz burrows more firmly into Giles' neck, and Giles feels a slow, sleepy laugh roll through Oz like the earth-rumble of a passing truck
( ... )
His sleep is sharp. One minute he's awake, the next he simply *isn't*. This is the kind of sleep that only comes to Oz during travel: Unspeakably deep and blank, yet he can wake at every knock of turbulence or stop of train or bus.
There isn't anything to wake him here, though, and he doesn't dream so much as *see* things. The metal rectangle of the washroom's mirror - the shadows under Giles' jaw and the glint of light on his spectacles - the back of the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign in the pearly predawn light - images, but not dreams. Not quite memories, either.
Oz snaps awake when Giles gently shakes his shoulder and presses his lips against his forehead. He inhales, eyes still closed, and smells ozone, old plane air, and Giles - salt and cologne and worry.
"Whoa," Oz says thickly and rolls his tongue against sour, sticky teeth. He wants to burrow into Giles' arms and never open his eyes. "Time is it?"
"I'm not sure," Giles says, experimentally stretching his numb right arm, where Oz has lain for hours. His watch is still set to California time, and he's at the stage of tiredness that makes the thought of any unnecessary effort, even simple addition, painful and distressing. "The middle of the night, anyway. We'll be landing soon."
Oz yawns again, knuckling his eyes, and mutters thanks when Giles helps straighten his shirt and rearrange his hair. "Did you sleep well? It seemed very sound." Oz didn't wake during turbulence that knocked Giles out of the light doze he'd managed, or even for meal service or the couple of times Giles got up to use the lavatory. He slept, far stiller than his ordinary sleep, peaceable and childlike and enviable. The sleep of a pure conscience, Giles thought once a few hours ago, when he couldn't stop himself fretting yet again about how Buffy will cope, whether she'll forgive him, whether she'll be too angry to ask for his help if she needs it. Whether Willow is treading the same path as Ethan, and what
( ... )
While he's fully awake, moving and grabbing his rucksack from the compartment and taking care not to let the crowd come between him and Giles, Oz still feels thick with sleep. Like dreams are clinging to him, stickier than cobwebs, though he didn't dream, not that he can remember, but the jostle of bodies, even the shock of air-conditioning as they enter the building, nothing quite wakes him up
( ... )
Giles slides his hand up to Oz's elbow and squeezes. "Ordinarily, yes. But, well, the Watchers have an arrangement with the government. Come on, it'll all be very easy
( ... )
Oz is still working out the utter 007-heights of coolness that gets you a special barcode in your passport as they pause before the rotating baggage and scan for their own bags. Special passports are like robot servants and souped-up MGs, things out of bad, flashy, *wonderful* movies
( ... )
Giles could happily just sink down here at the top of the stairs, wrap his arms around Oz, and sleep with his head pillowed on the suitcase. "Nearly home," he says. Dealing with his keys feels like some kind of cruel endurance sport, especially since the stairway light is burnt out and it takes him multiple attempts, and some cursing, to fit the right key to the lock
( ... )
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In Giles' memory, that summer (the only summer, not the first, although he's not going to bring that up now) is the essence of all summers, heat and desire and joy, Oz wading in soaked jeans or naked and trembling under Giles' body. He scarcely remembers any unhappiness, except for the ends of their two trips away, the sharp bereavement that came with seeing the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. "I could almost be nostalgic for that summer," he says. Everything, then, was the first time. Everything was the bliss of discovery. And Oz was younger then, more easily happy, not yet touched by lycanthropy or guilt ( ... )
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And inside . . . inside it's more than hints. Inside, Oz's mouth is slippery and hot, welcoming to Giles' kisses, eager and yielding to his cock. Inside there's a cushiony sliding tongue, a swirling flexible experimental tongue, a tormenting delicate knowing tongue. So fluid, and then the delicious shock of the hard places, the ridged roof of Oz's mouth, his sharp gentle teeth ( ... )
Reply
He'd already done Hank Azaria and Jackie Robinson, and went with Calderón hoping that Giles would guess it. Oz tries to recall the soliloquy he likes so much from Act II, the one he memorized when he had to return the book to Jorge after having had it for four months, but the words, in both Spanish and English, aren't coming.
He's too aware of...*everything*. His skin, stretched taut and overheated, and the narrowness of the seats, and the impossible proximity of Giles, and Giles' discomfort.
"Hungry," Oz finally says. "Want some curry or something. Something homey."
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There isn't anything to wake him here, though, and he doesn't dream so much as *see* things. The metal rectangle of the washroom's mirror - the shadows under Giles' jaw and the glint of light on his spectacles - the back of the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign in the pearly predawn light - images, but not dreams. Not quite memories, either.
Oz snaps awake when Giles gently shakes his shoulder and presses his lips against his forehead. He inhales, eyes still closed, and smells ozone, old plane air, and Giles - salt and cologne and worry.
"Whoa," Oz says thickly and rolls his tongue against sour, sticky teeth. He wants to burrow into Giles' arms and never open his eyes. "Time is it?"
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Oz yawns again, knuckling his eyes, and mutters thanks when Giles helps straighten his shirt and rearrange his hair. "Did you sleep well? It seemed very sound." Oz didn't wake during turbulence that knocked Giles out of the light doze he'd managed, or even for meal service or the couple of times Giles got up to use the lavatory. He slept, far stiller than his ordinary sleep, peaceable and childlike and enviable. The sleep of a pure conscience, Giles thought once a few hours ago, when he couldn't stop himself fretting yet again about how Buffy will cope, whether she'll forgive him, whether she'll be too angry to ask for his help if she needs it. Whether Willow is treading the same path as Ethan, and what ( ... )
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