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.
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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