He should have known this would happen. Oz can sleep through traffic noise, music, nearby construction, but if Giles gets up to go to the toilet, Oz is usually awake when he gets back. Sleeping, Oz relies on him.
Oz looks so young, knuckling his eyes and yawning. Wrong of Giles to wake him, and Giles knew, must have known, he would. Selfish. If he'd waited, spent another night or two holding Oz and chasing blankness of mind, he'd have slept eventually.
Slept, and dreamed, and lain sleepless again, thinking about the bottle in his briefcase, the liquid miracle inside it.
"It's all right," he says quietly, face turned down just enough to keep Oz a peripheral blur. "Go back to sleep. I'll be in before long."
Oz slides all the way into the room, the after-image of Giles' face -- blank, dark pooling shadows where his eyes should be -- stuck in front of his vision.
"Yeah," he says as he rounds the corner of the table and plops down into the arm chair opposite Giles. "Not sleepy any more, though."
The bottle's right under the bulb, and the light is caught in the last of the whiskey. Maybe two fingers' worth left, transformed into amber flame that curves around the inside of the bottle.
Orange juice, no pulp, was his favorite mixer. Oz takes the bottle and holds it in both his hands, letting the liquid slosh slowly back and forth, breathing out the citrus-sharp *hunger* for a swallow.
"Used to have this much for breakfast," he says, passing the bottle back to Giles and drawing his knees up to his chest even as he sits forward on the chair. "What's your occasion?"
Giles looks at Oz, almost invisible in the dark recess of the armchair, and tries to think. The drink's creeping into his synapses like fog around the doorframe, shrouding and stifling. He could probably sleep now, wrap himself around Oz and fade to black, if Oz hadn't said that strange and terrible thing.
Oz . . . Oz used to like scrambled eggs for breakfast. Or sweet things, French toast, oatmeal with a melting crust of brown sugar. Orange juice or grape juice or milk.
Oz got sick once from red wine, and never had more than a glass or two after that. Oz tasted Giles' best Oban scotch once and hated it.
"What-" His tongue, enormous and sticky, turns the consonants into muddy squelches. Nothing to wet his mouth with but whiskey, so he takes a sip. "I don't - don't understand." Oz held the bottle, looked at it, in a way Giles knows. Held it like he was aching for a drink.
Oh, fuck. Giles is hoarse, and lost, and Oz just thought he knew. He made sure no one knew, that was the whole point, but Giles knew. He was sure Giles knew. He stole Giles' own Scotch, Giles had to notice that.
He scrubs his fists into his eyes again, like clearing his eyes will fix time and Giles, but nothing happens. Giles is sitting back in the love seat, mouth a little open and eyes gone unfixed and vague.
"I --" Shit, fuck, damn it. "Fuck, Giles, I thought you knew. Stupid." All these pointless, helpless words, just making Giles look more lost, and if he doesn't breathe soon, Oz might pass out. "Afterward, right? After the wolf, and you, I --"
Weeks and months afterward, Oz in the library almost every damned afternoon, and he hardly ever looked at Giles. Kept his distance, naturally. Sat next to Willow, held her hand, played with the ends of her hair. Moved slowly, dreamily, and hardly spoke at all.
He seemed so calm.
Drinking. Was he drunk, all those endless fucking days?
Giles starts to laugh, and crosses his arms over his chest to snuff it out. "The flask in my desk. You were . . . Christ. And I was drinking so much myself that I thought I'd just lost track of amounts."
Couldn't talk, couldn't touch, but they found a way to drink together. It really is very funny, and he buries his face in his hands and laughs.
High, almost keening laughs, helpless and sharp, and before he lets himself think about it, Oz slides off the chair and sits next to Giles. They hardly ever use this love seat -- it's too small for two, unless you're both Oz-sized -- and its cushions smell like storage and cedar.
Next to Giles, rubbing his back lightly, Oz doesn't know what to say. All this laughter, like glass breaking and breaking and still flying on, still breaking, and he rubs and presses his face against Giles' shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Oz hears himself saying. Repeating. His voice sounds flat and cold to his own ears. "Thought you knew."
He shouldn't touch Oz when he's like this, when he's stupid-drunk and shaking, but his arms have frozen around Oz and he can't let go. One last spasm of laughter rolls out of him, almost a hiccough, and it's too perfectly fucking appropriate for this drunk scene he's playing out.
Oz is holding him as tightly and tenderly as he held that bottle a few minutes ago. And apologizing. "Don't be sorry, don’t. I should've known." Should have been brave enough to look at him and see. Should have listened those few times he tried to talk.
What's he ever done for Oz but fail him? Turn him into someone who drinks. Who apologizes for things that aren't his fault.
Oz's body is scalding hot against Giles numb skin, but Giles can't let go, can only rock him a little, clumsily. "All my fault. All of it. So sorry, I'm so sorry. Such a coward, I'm sorry." A coward, drinking himself to sleep in secret, terrified of bad dreams.
Giles' hair is greasy, almost clammy, under Oz's awkward hand, but he keeps on petting, hoping somehow that it helps both of them.
"Shush," he says, twisting his face into a smile, but Giles is looking down into his lap, at his hands. "Giles." Oz clears his throat and firms up his voice. "Look at me."
Slow turn of the head, deer-startled eyes distant and wide under his smudged specs, but at least they're making eye contact.
"Not a coward, for one thing. Fuck, you save the world on a regular basis. And it's not your fault -- me, I mean. No way is it anything like your fault."
His fingers close in the back of Giles' hair and tug lightly for emphasis.
The night they met, he gave Oz beer. Alcohol and seduction. Later, love.
He made Oz an adult.
Taught him to drink. Wine at meals, and Oz didn't much like the taste of it at first. And if Oz never drank whiskey when they were together, he saw Giles drink it.
So if a year later he's having whiskey for breakfast, the blame's no mystery.
Oz is waiting quietly, the way Giles waits sometimes. Waiting for him to believe. Oz says it's not his fault, and Oz's hand cups his neck gently. It feels as though Oz is holding him upright with that hand, with his eyes.
"I don't know." Giles wants to lean in and press his forehead to Oz's, but his breath must stink of cheap whiskey. He settles on Oz's shoulder instead, back hunched, resting there. "I'm so tired, I don't-"
Oz says it's not his fault, and Oz never lies. But Oz can be wrong.
"Ssshh," Oz says, holding his mouth right next to Giles' ear, tightening his arm around Giles' neck. He can almost see the guilt prickling up and warping Giles' face, crooking his spine and bowing his shoulders, and they've both had more than enough guilt to last them for a good long time. "Just breathe, okay?"
Giles smells like whiskey and salt. He smells like he did the first night Oz came back, drowned in it, Woolf wandering into the water with stones in her pockets.
"I stopped," he says a little later. He doesn't know how to ask why Giles is drinking again, but he can talk about himself. "I had to. I -- I liked it, though. Numbed everything out, right?"
If he wanted numbness, liked it, he must have hurt as badly as Giles did.
Shame flattens out the last taste of whiskey on Giles' tongue, because he can't help feeling a little bit glad of that. It wasn't easy for Oz to leave him. "I used to put whiskey in my thermos of tea," he says. "Besides the flask. Couldn't face seeing you. Or not. Drank all day. Then drank myself to sleep, those first few weeks." Sunk in alcohol and sorrow. Not paying attention. He didn't push Buffy to kill Angelus right away. Might have saved Jenny Calendar's life if he had.
Blindly, not lifting his head, he reaches up to touch Oz's cheek, slides his fingertips into Oz's hair. Like seeing him, but easier. "You stopped. Good. Better to stop. I should, but-" Deep breath, another, and he pulls himself away from Oz. There's such concern on Oz's face, such love, and Giles has to fight not to hide his head again. "I can't sleep. Such a stupid thing. I can't sleep, and . . . dreams."
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Oz looks so young, knuckling his eyes and yawning. Wrong of Giles to wake him, and Giles knew, must have known, he would. Selfish. If he'd waited, spent another night or two holding Oz and chasing blankness of mind, he'd have slept eventually.
Slept, and dreamed, and lain sleepless again, thinking about the bottle in his briefcase, the liquid miracle inside it.
"It's all right," he says quietly, face turned down just enough to keep Oz a peripheral blur. "Go back to sleep. I'll be in before long."
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"Yeah," he says as he rounds the corner of the table and plops down into the arm chair opposite Giles. "Not sleepy any more, though."
The bottle's right under the bulb, and the light is caught in the last of the whiskey. Maybe two fingers' worth left, transformed into amber flame that curves around the inside of the bottle.
Orange juice, no pulp, was his favorite mixer. Oz takes the bottle and holds it in both his hands, letting the liquid slosh slowly back and forth, breathing out the citrus-sharp *hunger* for a swallow.
"Used to have this much for breakfast," he says, passing the bottle back to Giles and drawing his knees up to his chest even as he sits forward on the chair. "What's your occasion?"
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Giles looks at Oz, almost invisible in the dark recess of the armchair, and tries to think. The drink's creeping into his synapses like fog around the doorframe, shrouding and stifling. He could probably sleep now, wrap himself around Oz and fade to black, if Oz hadn't said that strange and terrible thing.
Oz . . . Oz used to like scrambled eggs for breakfast. Or sweet things, French toast, oatmeal with a melting crust of brown sugar. Orange juice or grape juice or milk.
Oz got sick once from red wine, and never had more than a glass or two after that. Oz tasted Giles' best Oban scotch once and hated it.
"What-" His tongue, enormous and sticky, turns the consonants into muddy squelches. Nothing to wet his mouth with but whiskey, so he takes a sip. "I don't - don't understand." Oz held the bottle, looked at it, in a way Giles knows. Held it like he was aching for a drink.
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He scrubs his fists into his eyes again, like clearing his eyes will fix time and Giles, but nothing happens. Giles is sitting back in the love seat, mouth a little open and eyes gone unfixed and vague.
"I --" Shit, fuck, damn it. "Fuck, Giles, I thought you knew. Stupid." All these pointless, helpless words, just making Giles look more lost, and if he doesn't breathe soon, Oz might pass out. "Afterward, right? After the wolf, and you, I --"
Now would be the time for a drink.
"Drank. A lot. Among other things."
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He seemed so calm.
Drinking. Was he drunk, all those endless fucking days?
Giles starts to laugh, and crosses his arms over his chest to snuff it out. "The flask in my desk. You were . . . Christ. And I was drinking so much myself that I thought I'd just lost track of amounts."
Couldn't talk, couldn't touch, but they found a way to drink together. It really is very funny, and he buries his face in his hands and laughs.
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Next to Giles, rubbing his back lightly, Oz doesn't know what to say. All this laughter, like glass breaking and breaking and still flying on, still breaking, and he rubs and presses his face against Giles' shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Oz hears himself saying. Repeating. His voice sounds flat and cold to his own ears. "Thought you knew."
Of course Giles knew. Giles knew everything, that's why he's Giles.
He shivers, tasting the glass, traces of Giles' mouth, and Scotch, all mixed together, all over again.
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Oz is holding him as tightly and tenderly as he held that bottle a few minutes ago. And apologizing. "Don't be sorry, don’t. I should've known." Should have been brave enough to look at him and see. Should have listened those few times he tried to talk.
What's he ever done for Oz but fail him? Turn him into someone who drinks. Who apologizes for things that aren't his fault.
Oz's body is scalding hot against Giles numb skin, but Giles can't let go, can only rock him a little, clumsily. "All my fault. All of it. So sorry, I'm so sorry. Such a coward, I'm sorry." A coward, drinking himself to sleep in secret, terrified of bad dreams.
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"Shush," he says, twisting his face into a smile, but Giles is looking down into his lap, at his hands. "Giles." Oz clears his throat and firms up his voice. "Look at me."
Slow turn of the head, deer-startled eyes distant and wide under his smudged specs, but at least they're making eye contact.
"Not a coward, for one thing. Fuck, you save the world on a regular basis. And it's not your fault -- me, I mean. No way is it anything like your fault."
His fingers close in the back of Giles' hair and tug lightly for emphasis.
"No way."
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He made Oz an adult.
Taught him to drink. Wine at meals, and Oz didn't much like the taste of it at first. And if Oz never drank whiskey when they were together, he saw Giles drink it.
So if a year later he's having whiskey for breakfast, the blame's no mystery.
Oz is waiting quietly, the way Giles waits sometimes. Waiting for him to believe. Oz says it's not his fault, and Oz's hand cups his neck gently. It feels as though Oz is holding him upright with that hand, with his eyes.
"I don't know." Giles wants to lean in and press his forehead to Oz's, but his breath must stink of cheap whiskey. He settles on Oz's shoulder instead, back hunched, resting there. "I'm so tired, I don't-"
Oz says it's not his fault, and Oz never lies. But Oz can be wrong.
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Giles smells like whiskey and salt. He smells like he did the first night Oz came back, drowned in it, Woolf wandering into the water with stones in her pockets.
"I stopped," he says a little later. He doesn't know how to ask why Giles is drinking again, but he can talk about himself. "I had to. I -- I liked it, though. Numbed everything out, right?"
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Shame flattens out the last taste of whiskey on Giles' tongue, because he can't help feeling a little bit glad of that. It wasn't easy for Oz to leave him. "I used to put whiskey in my thermos of tea," he says. "Besides the flask. Couldn't face seeing you. Or not. Drank all day. Then drank myself to sleep, those first few weeks." Sunk in alcohol and sorrow. Not paying attention. He didn't push Buffy to kill Angelus right away. Might have saved Jenny Calendar's life if he had.
Blindly, not lifting his head, he reaches up to touch Oz's cheek, slides his fingertips into Oz's hair. Like seeing him, but easier. "You stopped. Good. Better to stop. I should, but-" Deep breath, another, and he pulls himself away from Oz. There's such concern on Oz's face, such love, and Giles has to fight not to hide his head again. "I can't sleep. Such a stupid thing. I can't sleep, and . . . dreams."
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