Various aches, from long fatigue and the flight and sex, twinge and throb as Giles settles carefully into the tub, intensify for a moment in the heat, then ease off. Giles slides his feet under Oz's thighs and around his hips, knotting the two of them into a seated hug. "This is not a bad fate at all, I'd say." He can't, in fact, think of anything he'd choose over this--Oz slippery and contented and making waves with his hand, water that really is fragrant and only a little reminiscent of pasta.
For himself, Giles would never have bought all these bath things in their expensive packages, but he's glad Oz did. Lucky Oz, to have escaped whatever self-conscious masculinity prevents Giles buying anything too obviously, luxuriously pleasurable. Even the velvet dressing gown was a gift from Olivia.
Idly, listening to the still-running taps and letting himself not think about anything in particular, Giles scoops up water and lets it trickle down Oz's back and arms. Neither of them speaks for a while, words muting down to sighs and hums and the occasional light kiss to an earlobe or shoulder. Finally, when the tub is full to the over-flow drain, Giles shuts off the water and says, "You know, we've never talked much about you being a werewolf." Oz, who's been leaning dreamily on Giles' arm, looks up. "Not that we have to, if you don't want. But, well . . . don't feel that you shouldn't talk about it, all right?" Giles tries to brush back a drooping lock of Oz's hair, succeeds only in dripping water down his face, and kisses his forehead. "I do wonder, sometimes, what it's like for you."
"What it's like?" Oz echoes, looking up at Giles' steam-flushed face and running his hand out of the water and across Giles' chest. "It's..."
To think better, Oz closes his eyes and lets himself float against the back of the tub, imagining his pores opening wider and wider, making him buoyant and weightless. He wraps his arm under Giles' knee and hangs on, just in case.
He doesn't know what to say. The wolf hurts, a lot sometimes, and it makes him hungry, and he likes the hearing and sense of smell it gives him, likes how sharp it makes him feel sometimes. Other times, that sharpness is like a full-body toothache, grinding and throbbing.
So much for thinking in the dark. Oz opens his eyes.
"It's not so bad, not like how it used to be. Now, it's just me, like living with a new set of senses and aches and pains, you know?"
"That's all, hmm?" Giles dips the creamy, heavy soap bar into the water and lathers his hands, then spreads the suds along Oz's neck and shoulders, going gently over the bruised places. The scent of the soap, sharp and a little sweet, reminds him faintly of goat cheese, although that could just be because his mind is already on food. "It sounds like rather a lot to me."
They should have talked about all this years ago. If Giles hadn't been too afraid to ask, too afraid both of the answers and of seeming to investigate Oz, of behaving like a Watcher instead of a lover. If Oz hadn't already started to hold himself separate, part of his long rehearsal for leaving.
"When you say it was worse before, do you mean more painful? Or more . . . confusing, perhaps? Harder to cope with?" As he talks, Giles keeps rubbing soap into Oz's skin, squelching it between Oz's fingers and raising foam bubbles under his arms. "Now that you don't change, does . . . does that make things harder, the rest of the time?" Perhaps it's like holding back a sneeze or fighting off a yawn.
The slickness of the soap feels good, silky, and Giles likes the smooth wetness of Oz's skin after he rinses the soap away. They couldn't, he's sure, talk about this if they weren't touching.
Oz hums a little, keeping tune with the slick whisk-whisk of Giles' hands in the lather, moving over him. He sticks his wet fingers into the jar of olive stuff and paints a Rorschach over Giles' chest.
As he works it in, cleaning up the curves and spattering Giles' shoulder with goopy, misshapen stars, the humming gives way to words, just like he hoped they would.
"Before, it was -- just worse. Painful, and freak-making," he says, drawing a tic-tac-toe board over Giles' left nipple, grinning when X wins and Giles gasps at Oz crossing it out. "Which is like 'difficult to cope with', only scarier. Like every month wasn't anything, just a countdown?"
Coating both palms with the stuff, Oz then works his hands into Giles' armpits, leaning forward and rolling his forehead against Giles' chest. His face is sticky now, but he needs to get closer. Physically, he remembers the old silence, how he needed to tell Giles what it felt like, how there were no words and Giles' face was turned away *anyway*, but right now, silence seems silly.
Not to mention dangerous.
"Now, it's more...all the time. Not so much scary dread any more, just this kind of -- like, strung-out feeling. The bad with the good parts, the achiness and the strength, all twisted up together and permanent. Does that make sense?"
Before Giles can say anything, Oz pulls back a little, but tightens his slippery hold.
"I want to make sense. Never *talked* about this. I might just sound like an acidfreak or something."
Watching Oz's face, which is flushed pink and boyish but strained around the mouth, white at the corners of his eyes, Giles says, "You are making sense. And it can't be easy to put that sort of experience into words." He rinses a bit of oil from Oz's chin and hands him the soap. Washing off the green doodles he's left all over Giles' torso will give Oz something to do with his hands while they talk.
Perhaps that's why so many of their best conversations have happened while they cook or eat, or while they're touching and playing in bed. Oz needs to be a bit distracted or he'll get self-conscious.
Giles leans back a little to let Oz reach more of his chest. "Is there anything-" A corner of the soap digs into the ticklish spot on Giles' ribs, and he gasps and twists in reflex. "Anything I can do to make it easier for you?" There are a couple of good occult herbalists Giles knows, and a decent chap on the Council who specializes in Tibetan mysticism. Or maybe the coven down in Devon could suggest some meditations. And now that he knows where to begin, surely there are things Giles himself could find out, in his own books or the Council's archives.
Surely he can do more for Oz than just stand by. Giles pulls Oz into a slippery, awkward hug and whispers, "I want to help you, the way I should have done before."
Oz's palm slides down Giles' back, under the waterline, and he digs his fingers in so he doesn't have to let go. He clutches the soap in his other hand, up against the nape of Giles' neck, and squeezes.
"It's okay," he says and scoots forward, his ass adhering to the bottom of the tub and squelching in complaint as it moves. "It's okay now. Before was before. It's not like that now."
Nothing's like it used to be; they have the same bodies, though Oz's is different inside now, all the way down and through his cells, but they talk differently. Touch differently, feel more deeply, think things through.
"Just keep putting up with me when the moon gets fat," he adds, drawing back enough to see Giles' face and reassure himself that everything's okay. Warm, pink skin and a slight smile that's part worry and all patience. Oz kisses the side of Giles' mouth and shrugs. "If anything comes up, I'll say something, promise. I just need to keep drinking my stinky herbs and doing my empty-mind stuff and acknowledging the void. You know."
Tightly as he's holding on, Oz seems calm enough, unworried. It's nothing like before, in the wretched month before their split, when Oz got so tense he seemed stony and untouchable yet also house-of-cards fragile. "All right," Giles says. "I'll hold you to that promise to tell me, though." It's pointless to think about whether, if Giles had given Oz this kind of time and attention before, got him talking like this, he could have changed everything. So after a moment, Giles stops thinking about it.
The start of a cramp tightens threateningly in Giles' calf, and he has to pulls back from Oz and stretch his leg to ease it. "Let's rearrange a bit, shall we?" With some slipping and shoving and a bit of water splashed on the floor, Giles sets his back to the tub wall and Oz's back to his chest, and he can wrap both arms around Oz's waist. Encircling him like this always feels good, right on some level too deep for analysis, and Giles rests his cheek on Oz's hair and sighs, happily.
"You know, I've almost come to like the smell of those herbs." Oz brews them up every evening into a tea that smells like burning grass, rancid oil, and pungent, bitter, unnameable things. It almost got them chucked out of the motel their second night in Sunnydale, and after that Oz prepared his tea at Buffy's house. "Because it's, well, routine. And there's something awfully comforting in that." It means that Oz is still there with him, that another day is fading into another night, another morning. Giles kisses the nape of Oz's neck and holds him closer.
Oz rolls his head slowly against Giles' shoulder and crosses his arms over Giles'. "I like routine, too," he says, and *that* sounds so weird coming out of his mouth that he laughs a little, their arms rising out of the water before sinking back. Sitting like this, surrounded by Giles, almost cradled, is something Oz hopes never changes, never goes away. "Wish I could drink jasmine tea or rooibos instead, but I like it."
Routine *is* good. Routine means waking up at four and doing an hour's worth of meditation, then crawling back into bed with Giles and refolding himself into the warmth and solidity of Giles' body.
"What about you?" he asks, sliding down a little so he can look backward and up at Giles. "Does it still gross you out? I mean, obviously not a lot, 'cause I'm here and stuff, but --. Yeah. What about you?"
Giles would like to deny having been "grossed out," but he can't. Not and keep this clean, necessary honesty. "I'm . . . I forget sometimes, actually. I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but I do." With Oz's face upside-down, it's harder than usual to read his expressions, but he doesn't seem to think it's terrible. "And then you smell or hear something I can't, and I remember."
At the full moon Oz is charged and strange, far more intensely other than he is from day to day. Giles can't forget, then. Everything's heightened, and he can almost feel the wolf under Oz's skin, almost smell it. But then, they've only been through two full moons since Oz came back. With time, that too will be familiar. Never routine, maybe, but familiar.
Giles slides back a little, pulling Oz with him until Oz's body is almost floating, anchored only by Giles' arms. He feels Oz's deep breath and slow relaxation. "It's easier for me now that you don't change. It always used to be quite . . . disturbing, seeing the wolf. Knowing that it was you." Luckily, he never saw Oz transform. Changing back was bad enough. Giles only saw it once, but he can remember ever second, every slide and contortion of the flesh.
For himself, Giles would never have bought all these bath things in their expensive packages, but he's glad Oz did. Lucky Oz, to have escaped whatever self-conscious masculinity prevents Giles buying anything too obviously, luxuriously pleasurable. Even the velvet dressing gown was a gift from Olivia.
Idly, listening to the still-running taps and letting himself not think about anything in particular, Giles scoops up water and lets it trickle down Oz's back and arms. Neither of them speaks for a while, words muting down to sighs and hums and the occasional light kiss to an earlobe or shoulder. Finally, when the tub is full to the over-flow drain, Giles shuts off the water and says, "You know, we've never talked much about you being a werewolf." Oz, who's been leaning dreamily on Giles' arm, looks up. "Not that we have to, if you don't want. But, well . . . don't feel that you shouldn't talk about it, all right?" Giles tries to brush back a drooping lock of Oz's hair, succeeds only in dripping water down his face, and kisses his forehead. "I do wonder, sometimes, what it's like for you."
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To think better, Oz closes his eyes and lets himself float against the back of the tub, imagining his pores opening wider and wider, making him buoyant and weightless. He wraps his arm under Giles' knee and hangs on, just in case.
He doesn't know what to say. The wolf hurts, a lot sometimes, and it makes him hungry, and he likes the hearing and sense of smell it gives him, likes how sharp it makes him feel sometimes. Other times, that sharpness is like a full-body toothache, grinding and throbbing.
So much for thinking in the dark. Oz opens his eyes.
"It's not so bad, not like how it used to be. Now, it's just me, like living with a new set of senses and aches and pains, you know?"
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They should have talked about all this years ago. If Giles hadn't been too afraid to ask, too afraid both of the answers and of seeming to investigate Oz, of behaving like a Watcher instead of a lover. If Oz hadn't already started to hold himself separate, part of his long rehearsal for leaving.
"When you say it was worse before, do you mean more painful? Or more . . . confusing, perhaps? Harder to cope with?" As he talks, Giles keeps rubbing soap into Oz's skin, squelching it between Oz's fingers and raising foam bubbles under his arms. "Now that you don't change, does . . . does that make things harder, the rest of the time?" Perhaps it's like holding back a sneeze or fighting off a yawn.
The slickness of the soap feels good, silky, and Giles likes the smooth wetness of Oz's skin after he rinses the soap away. They couldn't, he's sure, talk about this if they weren't touching.
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As he works it in, cleaning up the curves and spattering Giles' shoulder with goopy, misshapen stars, the humming gives way to words, just like he hoped they would.
"Before, it was -- just worse. Painful, and freak-making," he says, drawing a tic-tac-toe board over Giles' left nipple, grinning when X wins and Giles gasps at Oz crossing it out. "Which is like 'difficult to cope with', only scarier. Like every month wasn't anything, just a countdown?"
Coating both palms with the stuff, Oz then works his hands into Giles' armpits, leaning forward and rolling his forehead against Giles' chest. His face is sticky now, but he needs to get closer. Physically, he remembers the old silence, how he needed to tell Giles what it felt like, how there were no words and Giles' face was turned away *anyway*, but right now, silence seems silly.
Not to mention dangerous.
"Now, it's more...all the time. Not so much scary dread any more, just this kind of -- like, strung-out feeling. The bad with the good parts, the achiness and the strength, all twisted up together and permanent. Does that make sense?"
Before Giles can say anything, Oz pulls back a little, but tightens his slippery hold.
"I want to make sense. Never *talked* about this. I might just sound like an acidfreak or something."
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Perhaps that's why so many of their best conversations have happened while they cook or eat, or while they're touching and playing in bed. Oz needs to be a bit distracted or he'll get self-conscious.
Giles leans back a little to let Oz reach more of his chest. "Is there anything-" A corner of the soap digs into the ticklish spot on Giles' ribs, and he gasps and twists in reflex. "Anything I can do to make it easier for you?" There are a couple of good occult herbalists Giles knows, and a decent chap on the Council who specializes in Tibetan mysticism. Or maybe the coven down in Devon could suggest some meditations. And now that he knows where to begin, surely there are things Giles himself could find out, in his own books or the Council's archives.
Surely he can do more for Oz than just stand by. Giles pulls Oz into a slippery, awkward hug and whispers, "I want to help you, the way I should have done before."
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"It's okay," he says and scoots forward, his ass adhering to the bottom of the tub and squelching in complaint as it moves. "It's okay now. Before was before. It's not like that now."
Nothing's like it used to be; they have the same bodies, though Oz's is different inside now, all the way down and through his cells, but they talk differently. Touch differently, feel more deeply, think things through.
"Just keep putting up with me when the moon gets fat," he adds, drawing back enough to see Giles' face and reassure himself that everything's okay. Warm, pink skin and a slight smile that's part worry and all patience. Oz kisses the side of Giles' mouth and shrugs. "If anything comes up, I'll say something, promise. I just need to keep drinking my stinky herbs and doing my empty-mind stuff and acknowledging the void. You know."
He rushes through the tasks and takes a breath.
"Thank you."
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The start of a cramp tightens threateningly in Giles' calf, and he has to pulls back from Oz and stretch his leg to ease it. "Let's rearrange a bit, shall we?" With some slipping and shoving and a bit of water splashed on the floor, Giles sets his back to the tub wall and Oz's back to his chest, and he can wrap both arms around Oz's waist. Encircling him like this always feels good, right on some level too deep for analysis, and Giles rests his cheek on Oz's hair and sighs, happily.
"You know, I've almost come to like the smell of those herbs." Oz brews them up every evening into a tea that smells like burning grass, rancid oil, and pungent, bitter, unnameable things. It almost got them chucked out of the motel their second night in Sunnydale, and after that Oz prepared his tea at Buffy's house. "Because it's, well, routine. And there's something awfully comforting in that." It means that Oz is still there with him, that another day is fading into another night, another morning. Giles kisses the nape of Oz's neck and holds him closer.
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Routine *is* good. Routine means waking up at four and doing an hour's worth of meditation, then crawling back into bed with Giles and refolding himself into the warmth and solidity of Giles' body.
"What about you?" he asks, sliding down a little so he can look backward and up at Giles. "Does it still gross you out? I mean, obviously not a lot, 'cause I'm here and stuff, but --. Yeah. What about you?"
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At the full moon Oz is charged and strange, far more intensely other than he is from day to day. Giles can't forget, then. Everything's heightened, and he can almost feel the wolf under Oz's skin, almost smell it. But then, they've only been through two full moons since Oz came back. With time, that too will be familiar. Never routine, maybe, but familiar.
Giles slides back a little, pulling Oz with him until Oz's body is almost floating, anchored only by Giles' arms. He feels Oz's deep breath and slow relaxation. "It's easier for me now that you don't change. It always used to be quite . . . disturbing, seeing the wolf. Knowing that it was you." Luckily, he never saw Oz transform. Changing back was bad enough. Giles only saw it once, but he can remember ever second, every slide and contortion of the flesh.
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