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."
Normally Giles just waits in the queue. He's never taken advantage of the stamp and special barcode inside his passport; it seems rude. It's the something he suspects Quentin Travers does whenever he travels, and that's reason enough to hold back. But this isn't simply for his own convenience, tired though he is and reluctant to wait. There's a real chance that Oz, with no job and no return ticket to America, might be denied entry. It's surprising he got into the country in the first place.
Holding Oz's arm in a way that he hopes is reassuring for Oz but ambiguous to observers, he goes straight to the head of the queue. Before the irritated official can send him back, he hands her his open passport and says, "Official business. And he's with me. He'll need a six-month entry stamp."
Frowning (official business or not, she clearly doesn't like queue-jumpers), the woman holds the stamped page up to the light, tilts it back and forth to check the color-changing inks, scrutinizes Giles' photo and his face, scans the barcode with an electronic wand, and finally says, grudgingly, "Of course, sir." She stamps his passport and Oz's, taking her time about it, and then they're through.
Giles feels mutedly, sleepily gleeful. "Active Watchers have certain privileges," he says to Oz, who looks confused, or possibly just exhausted, as they approach the customs check. "I could bring anything, or anyone, into the country. We're not supposed to do so for personal reasons, of course, but it happens all the time. There was a chap, years ago, who brought back a fortune in Persian antiquities. The Council chucked him out eventually, but it didn't stop him buying a country house." They're waved through customs without questions or inspection.
On the way to the baggage claim, Giles takes Oz's hand again. "We'll have to see about getting you residency. Right of abode, it's called." That goes beyond Giles' privileges, and the Council might not help with it. Ridiculous. If they could marry there'd be none of this nonsense.
Oz blinks, seems about to answer, and yawns. "It's nothing we have to worry about right now," Giles says, and gazes blearily at the moving belt of the baggage track, willing their cases to appear. Bags, taxi, home, sleep. No worries for a good long while.
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.
"Right of a boat?" he asks and wonders, briefly, why he would need a boat to be a Briton. Something about the Navy, he thinks, before Giles squeezes his hand, ducking his head and smiling. Luckily, it looks like Giles thinks he made the joke on purpose. "Cool. Want a dinghy, then. Or a dugout canoe -- hey, there's your --"
Giles' worn leather suitcase, big enough to smuggle a crate of books in, wobbles past and Oz squirms between the woman in the Halloween shirt and the very sad-looking old man to grab it. His shoulder aches, pulled funny, as he sets it down between them.
He has a stamp in his passport. He can *stay*. Realizing that fact is like catching a shiver: at first he's not aware of it, but then, gradually, he is. They're in the back of the big black taxi by then, his passport safely in his front pocket and he's leaning against the door, facing Giles, watching the highway lights paint silver and red over the surface of his specs.
"Any other perks?" Oz asks, but an ambulance, screeching its strange British mating call, hoots past just then, and Oz doesn't need to know. Just get home, lugging the big case up the flight of stairs as quietly as he can, and lean against the door, smiling at Giles as he trudges up the last three stairs.
"Welcome home," Oz says, arms going around Giles' neck and kissing him. "For, like, real."
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.
The flat smells stale, and he wonders if air sours like milk left out. But it smells like home, too, as though some essence of their breath and bodies lingers in the upholstery and paint and the grain of the wood. Even the dust is their dust, smelling different from the dust in the shop or Buffy's house.
Oz drops the suitcase by the bed with a groan and leans wordlessly against Giles' chest. "That's better," Giles says, and Oz makes a vague, sighing sound and works his arms under Giles' coat. They can sleep properly, lying in their own bed, and they can touch without inhibitions for the first time in too many hours. They're home.
The answerphone is blinking, and all their clothes will wrinkle if they're not unpacked tonight, but Giles is too tired, bone and soul tired, to care. Only the desire to kiss Oz some more gives him the energy to brush his teeth.
Two bottles of water from the fridge, clean pyjamas from the dresser, soft sheets and a duvet that Giles knows no stranger has bled or spit or come on. Good comfortable things, and Oz sprawled on top of him and a slow kiss that tastes of mint, and this feeling of coming home is almost worth the misery of travel.
Normally Giles just waits in the queue. He's never taken advantage of the stamp and special barcode inside his passport; it seems rude. It's the something he suspects Quentin Travers does whenever he travels, and that's reason enough to hold back. But this isn't simply for his own convenience, tired though he is and reluctant to wait. There's a real chance that Oz, with no job and no return ticket to America, might be denied entry. It's surprising he got into the country in the first place.
Holding Oz's arm in a way that he hopes is reassuring for Oz but ambiguous to observers, he goes straight to the head of the queue. Before the irritated official can send him back, he hands her his open passport and says, "Official business. And he's with me. He'll need a six-month entry stamp."
Frowning (official business or not, she clearly doesn't like queue-jumpers), the woman holds the stamped page up to the light, tilts it back and forth to check the color-changing inks, scrutinizes Giles' photo and his face, scans the barcode with an electronic wand, and finally says, grudgingly, "Of course, sir." She stamps his passport and Oz's, taking her time about it, and then they're through.
Giles feels mutedly, sleepily gleeful. "Active Watchers have certain privileges," he says to Oz, who looks confused, or possibly just exhausted, as they approach the customs check. "I could bring anything, or anyone, into the country. We're not supposed to do so for personal reasons, of course, but it happens all the time. There was a chap, years ago, who brought back a fortune in Persian antiquities. The Council chucked him out eventually, but it didn't stop him buying a country house." They're waved through customs without questions or inspection.
On the way to the baggage claim, Giles takes Oz's hand again. "We'll have to see about getting you residency. Right of abode, it's called." That goes beyond Giles' privileges, and the Council might not help with it. Ridiculous. If they could marry there'd be none of this nonsense.
Oz blinks, seems about to answer, and yawns. "It's nothing we have to worry about right now," Giles says, and gazes blearily at the moving belt of the baggage track, willing their cases to appear. Bags, taxi, home, sleep. No worries for a good long while.
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"Right of a boat?" he asks and wonders, briefly, why he would need a boat to be a Briton. Something about the Navy, he thinks, before Giles squeezes his hand, ducking his head and smiling. Luckily, it looks like Giles thinks he made the joke on purpose. "Cool. Want a dinghy, then. Or a dugout canoe -- hey, there's your --"
Giles' worn leather suitcase, big enough to smuggle a crate of books in, wobbles past and Oz squirms between the woman in the Halloween shirt and the very sad-looking old man to grab it. His shoulder aches, pulled funny, as he sets it down between them.
He has a stamp in his passport. He can *stay*. Realizing that fact is like catching a shiver: at first he's not aware of it, but then, gradually, he is. They're in the back of the big black taxi by then, his passport safely in his front pocket and he's leaning against the door, facing Giles, watching the highway lights paint silver and red over the surface of his specs.
"Any other perks?" Oz asks, but an ambulance, screeching its strange British mating call, hoots past just then, and Oz doesn't need to know. Just get home, lugging the big case up the flight of stairs as quietly as he can, and lean against the door, smiling at Giles as he trudges up the last three stairs.
"Welcome home," Oz says, arms going around Giles' neck and kissing him. "For, like, real."
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The flat smells stale, and he wonders if air sours like milk left out. But it smells like home, too, as though some essence of their breath and bodies lingers in the upholstery and paint and the grain of the wood. Even the dust is their dust, smelling different from the dust in the shop or Buffy's house.
Oz drops the suitcase by the bed with a groan and leans wordlessly against Giles' chest. "That's better," Giles says, and Oz makes a vague, sighing sound and works his arms under Giles' coat. They can sleep properly, lying in their own bed, and they can touch without inhibitions for the first time in too many hours. They're home.
The answerphone is blinking, and all their clothes will wrinkle if they're not unpacked tonight, but Giles is too tired, bone and soul tired, to care. Only the desire to kiss Oz some more gives him the energy to brush his teeth.
Two bottles of water from the fridge, clean pyjamas from the dresser, soft sheets and a duvet that Giles knows no stranger has bled or spit or come on. Good comfortable things, and Oz sprawled on top of him and a slow kiss that tastes of mint, and this feeling of coming home is almost worth the misery of travel.
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