Giles slides his hand down the ridged slop of Oz's side and thinks about not leaving, about years that add up to permanence, or as close to it as anyone ever manages. "Good." It's the only answer he can manage to what Oz said, to words that fill Giles head to toe, crowding his aching chest, threatening to spill out from the corners of his eyes. Knowing Oz loves him is one thing, but being told like this is another, far more overwhelming.
In the long drifting silence, Giles touches Oz here and there, purposelessly, cupping an elbow or trying to tangle his hair. A luxury, like velvet and fancy soap--having more than enough, having extra just for pleasure. They're no longer poor, half-starved, licking up crumbs.
Giles laughs a little, quietly, at how his mind keeps going back to food. "I expect those muffins are cool enough by now," he answers Oz's questioning hum. "Shall we?"
They take their time drying off in the steamy, cozy bathroom, delaying the cold dash back to the bedroom to dress. When Giles finally opens the bathroom door, he laughs again at the forgotten chaos in the kitchen--chair overturned, clothes and pyjamas everywhere. "Dear lord. It looks like the aftermath of a porn film. Do you remember where I put my glasses?"
Arm around Giles' waist, Oz leans precariously into the kitchen, sucking in a breath at the slap of cold air and squinting. "See 'em", he says and breaks for the table. Cold tile on his feet, slightly-less cold air around him, and he stumbles on the wad of his shirt, skids into the table, and lands on one hand in a move he hasn't done since he was *good* at skateboarding. "Got em!"
Giles is peering at him, all soft-faced and confused, and Oz holds the glasses behind his back while he takes Giles' hand and leads him down the hall into the bedroom.
"Like you without them," he says, sitting on the foot of the bed and handing the glasses to Giles. "Like it's a secret, almost. What you look like without them, only I know." Shivering and blushing simultaneously, he unlatches the smaller suitcase and grabs out the first shirt and pants he can find.
Dressed except for socks, he pulls his knees up to his chest and watches Giles putter around. Maybe it's not a secret, but getting to see Giles like this, loose and half-smiling, hair awry and just one sock on, is something pretty close to a miracle.
"Muffins and bread," Oz says a little later, cocking his head the other way to get a new angle. "And tea. Is that enough for you? You're like all about food and porn today." At Giles' startled glance, Oz shrugs and grins. "Not that I'm complaining."
"I should hope not." High on a shelf Giles finally finds the jumper he wanted, a blue-grey cotton one that Oz likes for its softness. "If there comes a time when you don't like the thought of a day dedicated to food and sex, I'll begin to worry." Pulling the jumper on, he adds, "Enough, now . . . enough is a tricky question. But if we could have our breakfast in the sitting room with you on my lap, that might be enough. Worth a try, certainly." He starts to put on his watch, then changes his mind and just looks at the time before setting it down. "Our midafternoon breakfast."
Oz is just watching him, half-smiling, twirling Giles' glasses by one earpiece. All the suck marks and tiny bruises are hidden under his clothes, and Giles misses them a bit. What would it be like to live somewhere tropical, somewhere they could stay naked together all day?
No. Casual nudity is too . . . casual. Giles likes the secrecy of Oz's body, the privilege he feels every time he undresses Oz or touches his bare skin. Anyway, in tropical weather there's not much incentive to cling together under the covers. Or take hot baths.
After a few moments' search, Giles finds a pair of heavy socks in the drawer and proffers them to Oz. "Here, I'll trade you. Socks for specs." He kneels down, grins at Oz's startled look, and kisses one bare foot before working a sock over it.
The tickle of Giles' hands, the kiss and then the sock, runs up in ripples through Oz until he's laughing. Inside, anyway, because he's also caught by the look Giles is giving him. All intent and fond care, like a dad helping a kid put on hockey skates in a TV movie. But it can't be that, because this is Giles, and him, and it's sexy, too. It's everything, so much slipping faster and faster.
Oz cups Giles' head in his hands and tugs him up until Giles is holding him around the waist and Oz is kissing him, heated and fluid, all kinds of warmth thundering through him.
"Thanks," he says, smoothing down Giles' damp hair as he pulls back. He wiggles his toes inside the socks and smiles. "Toasty. You said something about a lap? I got you the papers, too."
Standing up, Giles plants a kiss on Oz's forehead, then pulls him to his feet. "Yes, I saw. Thank you." Oz, looking up through his lashes at Giles, looks flirtatious and happy, pleased with himself and Giles and everything. It must add something--something weighty and real--to whatever good Giles had done in the world, that he can make Oz look like that. "So I've got everything I could possibly want, right here in this flat."
In the kitchen, Giles throws out the cold, stewed tea and makes more, plus more coffee for Oz, while Oz piles a plate high with more muffins and bread than four people could eat. Or perhaps not, given Oz's appetite. Two months on, he still eats like he hasn't had a decent meal in months, and yet he's hardly put on any weight. He seems healthier, though, hair bright and skin a clear pale-pink, so Giles isn't too worried. Perhaps this is just a normal werewolf metabolism--Giles reminds himself to check the Council archives for information, whenever he bothers to go back.
"Ah, yes," he says a few minutes later, when Oz has settled in his lap and started peeling the paper off the bottom of a muffin. "This is perfect. Thank you," he adds when Oz gives him half of the muffin. It's delicious, rich and sweet, full of slightly-tart blueberries that burst on his tongue, and somehow Giles manages to chew and smile at the same time.
They've nabbed the last bright spot in the room, and if Oz was superstitious -- or more superstitious than he already is -- he might think it was waiting for them. Like the sun could do that, just hang around and wait. But it's warm on his face, and Giles is breathing steadily and slowly underneath him, and Oz could probably close his eyes right now and doze.
Giles wouldn't mind, either; he's managed, somehow, to go on reading, even researching, while Oz drooled his way through various dreams. But Oz shakes himself awake and reaches for his mug of coffee. His mug is dark blue, the kind of sky over lakes at night, and the coffee's pale with milk but brewed double-strong, just the way he likes it.
"Milk tastes better over here," he says a little later, when his mug's almost drained and Giles is placing the muffin wrapper back on the plate. "We don't have to go out to get dinner, do we?"
Giles starts to answer, but there're crumbs on his chin and Oz pushes upward to kiss them away. He rolls his forehead against Giles' and slips an arm around his neck.
"Sorry. Just don't want to move. Ever. Moved so much lately, happy here."
Giles holds the back of Oz's neck and kisses him lightly, feeling the faint roughness of sugar crystals on Oz's lips, or maybe his own. "No need to go anywhere today." They've both had entirely too much of travel, of unfamiliar places and other people's company. "We'll order in. Or eat muffins." Oz's only answer is a long breath, his chest swelling against Giles' with a comfortable pressure, and then a sigh that seems to relax his whole body. Every moment since they've been home strips off a little tension; while they were in Sunnydale, Giles almost forgot it was possible to feel this calm. "Perhaps we won't even leave this chair. I've missed holding you on my lap like this."
Giles drinks the rest of his tea and puts both arms around Oz, bringing him just a little closer. They were right to leave Sunnydale. There's no peace there on the hellmouth. No home.
He rests his cheek on Oz's hair and inhales, slowly. He can feel his own heart beating, hear the whisper of Oz's breath. Dim, distant, everyday sounds of cars float up from the street.
In the long drifting silence, Giles touches Oz here and there, purposelessly, cupping an elbow or trying to tangle his hair. A luxury, like velvet and fancy soap--having more than enough, having extra just for pleasure. They're no longer poor, half-starved, licking up crumbs.
Giles laughs a little, quietly, at how his mind keeps going back to food. "I expect those muffins are cool enough by now," he answers Oz's questioning hum. "Shall we?"
They take their time drying off in the steamy, cozy bathroom, delaying the cold dash back to the bedroom to dress. When Giles finally opens the bathroom door, he laughs again at the forgotten chaos in the kitchen--chair overturned, clothes and pyjamas everywhere. "Dear lord. It looks like the aftermath of a porn film. Do you remember where I put my glasses?"
Reply
Giles is peering at him, all soft-faced and confused, and Oz holds the glasses behind his back while he takes Giles' hand and leads him down the hall into the bedroom.
"Like you without them," he says, sitting on the foot of the bed and handing the glasses to Giles. "Like it's a secret, almost. What you look like without them, only I know." Shivering and blushing simultaneously, he unlatches the smaller suitcase and grabs out the first shirt and pants he can find.
Dressed except for socks, he pulls his knees up to his chest and watches Giles putter around. Maybe it's not a secret, but getting to see Giles like this, loose and half-smiling, hair awry and just one sock on, is something pretty close to a miracle.
"Muffins and bread," Oz says a little later, cocking his head the other way to get a new angle. "And tea. Is that enough for you? You're like all about food and porn today." At Giles' startled glance, Oz shrugs and grins. "Not that I'm complaining."
Reply
Oz is just watching him, half-smiling, twirling Giles' glasses by one earpiece. All the suck marks and tiny bruises are hidden under his clothes, and Giles misses them a bit. What would it be like to live somewhere tropical, somewhere they could stay naked together all day?
No. Casual nudity is too . . . casual. Giles likes the secrecy of Oz's body, the privilege he feels every time he undresses Oz or touches his bare skin. Anyway, in tropical weather there's not much incentive to cling together under the covers. Or take hot baths.
After a few moments' search, Giles finds a pair of heavy socks in the drawer and proffers them to Oz. "Here, I'll trade you. Socks for specs." He kneels down, grins at Oz's startled look, and kisses one bare foot before working a sock over it.
Reply
Oz cups Giles' head in his hands and tugs him up until Giles is holding him around the waist and Oz is kissing him, heated and fluid, all kinds of warmth thundering through him.
"Thanks," he says, smoothing down Giles' damp hair as he pulls back. He wiggles his toes inside the socks and smiles. "Toasty. You said something about a lap? I got you the papers, too."
Reply
In the kitchen, Giles throws out the cold, stewed tea and makes more, plus more coffee for Oz, while Oz piles a plate high with more muffins and bread than four people could eat. Or perhaps not, given Oz's appetite. Two months on, he still eats like he hasn't had a decent meal in months, and yet he's hardly put on any weight. He seems healthier, though, hair bright and skin a clear pale-pink, so Giles isn't too worried. Perhaps this is just a normal werewolf metabolism--Giles reminds himself to check the Council archives for information, whenever he bothers to go back.
"Ah, yes," he says a few minutes later, when Oz has settled in his lap and started peeling the paper off the bottom of a muffin. "This is perfect. Thank you," he adds when Oz gives him half of the muffin. It's delicious, rich and sweet, full of slightly-tart blueberries that burst on his tongue, and somehow Giles manages to chew and smile at the same time.
Reply
Giles wouldn't mind, either; he's managed, somehow, to go on reading, even researching, while Oz drooled his way through various dreams. But Oz shakes himself awake and reaches for his mug of coffee. His mug is dark blue, the kind of sky over lakes at night, and the coffee's pale with milk but brewed double-strong, just the way he likes it.
"Milk tastes better over here," he says a little later, when his mug's almost drained and Giles is placing the muffin wrapper back on the plate. "We don't have to go out to get dinner, do we?"
Giles starts to answer, but there're crumbs on his chin and Oz pushes upward to kiss them away. He rolls his forehead against Giles' and slips an arm around his neck.
"Sorry. Just don't want to move. Ever. Moved so much lately, happy here."
Reply
Giles drinks the rest of his tea and puts both arms around Oz, bringing him just a little closer. They were right to leave Sunnydale. There's no peace there on the hellmouth. No home.
He rests his cheek on Oz's hair and inhales, slowly. He can feel his own heart beating, hear the whisper of Oz's breath. Dim, distant, everyday sounds of cars float up from the street.
He doesn't move.
Reply
Leave a comment