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.
"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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