Fear is humming through, and off, Giles -- tightening his face, deepening the lines around his mouth -- and he sounds lost. Lost and confused, the words coming out like half-formed questions that curl, then hook and snag, down Oz's throat, inside his mind.
"Love you so much --" Oz tips a little against Giles and pulls him down, mouth on his cheek.
Every day for the next year, more than a year, they were breathing the same air and not *doing* anything. Being miserable together but separate. He watched Giles, watched as much as he could, but through the smear and fog of his own thoughts.
And anyway, back then, Giles never wanted to speak to him. So much time *wasted*.
"Not stupid," Oz is saying now, fingers moving in Giles' hair. "Never stupid. Want to tell me about the dreams?"
Of course he doesn't want to tell Oz. Not telling him is terribly, terribly important. Not telling him, because he's happy.
Guilt goes into happiness like blood into water. There's no making it clean again, afterwards.
Flaw in that thinking, somewhere. Monumental stupidity in it. Must be, because Oz wants to know. Must be, because Giles is drunk, stupid, cowardly, and Oz is holding him and saying love.
"Dream about-" No, that won't do. His face is pressed to Oz's neck, speech slurred even to his own ears. Giles lifts his head a little, just enough to talk, eyes closed. "All those people in New York. Who died. I dream . . . they come back to life. Wrong, demonic. And." He must be shaking, because Oz is holding him tightly, so tightly he can feel it through the numbness. "And I have to kill them. Every single one." Bloody hands slipping on the sword-hilt, and there are so many, and their families are screaming, begging him to let them live
( ... )
Eyes closed, specs smeared with fingerprints and sticky with the light, Giles resembles a seer, Tiresias or somebody, reciting the horrors that lay ahead. Shamans get drunk, do psychotropics and other things, in order to induce the visions; that's who Giles is right now, except he's in his own vision
( ... )
The problem with not telling Oz is that then he doesn't know. Says well-meaning things, loving things, and thinks they're true. "I rang her," Giles says. "A few days ago. First night I couldn't sleep." Oz's hands go still on his neck and back, and Giles wants to push against him like a puppy, a spoilt housecat, demanding to be petted some more.
As though Oz hasn't touched him as much as ever these last days, kissed him, sat in his lap, come in his mouth and his hands, slept in his arms. Good, always good, but not a cure for this.
Taking Oz's hands in his own, Giles sits up. "She put the phone down. Wouldn't talk to me at all."
Unfair of him, really, to be so hurt. It's a way of blaming her. Burdening her with what's his, and she's got responsibilities enough of her own. "She'll get over it," Giles says quickly, in case Oz is about to be angry at her. "I know. But she - she will die. And I won't be there. I chose." He kisses Oz's hand, not sure if it's his lips or Oz's fingers that are so cold. "I chose right. Just need to get
( ... )
Oz wants to bark at Giles. Shake him, shout that he's not stupid, *something* to rile him up and get him out of this...this *fog* that's clogging his words and forgiving everyone else so he can shoulder more blame.
That is, however, absolutely the last thing Giles needs. Oz goes back to stroking long, slow circles over Giles' shoulderblades and tilts his head against his upper arm.
"Wish you'd told me," he says gently, then rolls his face so he can kiss the side of Giles' hands. Strong hands, long fingers that hold guitars, Oz, books just as confidently as they hold swords and battle-axes. "Glad you *did* tell me, just wish --." He lifts his eyes and looks steadily at Giles, summoning all the calm he can, hoping some of it transfers to Giles. "Don't apologize. It's talking to the Watchers, isn't it? That, and --"
Buffy. He can't be mad at her; he's never been mad at her so much as he's loved and resented her. She brought Giles to Sunnydale; without her, he'd never have met Giles. But she kept Giles away, too
( ... )
"The Council's not best pleased with me, no." Two days of bloody meetings, Incidents Committee and Disciplinary Committee and Executive Committee and a private chat with that bastard Travers as well. Two days of explaining himself, justifying himself, impossible when he daren't mention Oz, and then Travers shutting the door and looking him in the eye and saying We know about the American boy, Rupert. The one you've got living with you. That was always your weakness, wasn't it? Boys.
They did everything to break him, shame him, just like when he was twenty-one and had called up a demon and murdered a man.
Last time was different. Last time he deserved it.
Giles scrubs his hands over his face, wishing he could rub inside his skull, scour away the exhaustion and the whiskey. He's steadier now, with the initial dizzy slide into numbness over, but he's still drunk. Everything a bit sideways, logic chasing its own tail, words like merry paths leading nowhere.
"I love you," he says, because it's something he is sure of. "Don't - don't
( ... )
Holding Giles' elbow (unexpectedly sharp, even through the double layer of his pajamas and robe), Oz helps him up, then slides his arm around Giles' waist as they make their way through the dark to the kitchen.
He sits Giles at the table, kissing the top of his head before moving over to the counter to fill the kettle and plug it in. His hands are shaking. Regret is a word, a state, that hadn't occurred to him until just now
( ... )
Oz does everything so well. Such neat competence in his hands, such attention as he spoons sugar and pours milk into the mugs, removes the tealeaf-filled strainer from the pot, pours and stirs. Oz makes tea as though he's glad to be doing it. Lovingly. Giles wonders if the teapot feels grateful for Oz's attentions, as grateful as he himself does
( ... )
Standing up, Oz embraces Giles with one arm, just briefly, just long enough to lean down and press his cheek against the top of Giles' head and take a deep breath.
He refills the kettle and rinses out the teapot before he says anything. Deport is such an ugly word, conjuring up images of bombed-out piers and broken ships, something Napoleonic and post-apocalyptic all at once.
"Did they say that?" he asks as he sits back down and covers Giles' hand with his own. "About me, I mean."
It shouldn't be a surprise, Oz supposes, that the Watchers know about him. The Watchers can get you a passport, they can kill the Slayer. They can basically do whatever they want.
"And the other part..." Oz leans back in his chair, flooded with heat that's something like shame, a little like anxiety, that matches exactly the intensity of sun on a California morning. "We can go back if you have to."
Giles turns his head, looking at Oz, working his lips together.
"Not that I want to," Oz says. "Or that you do. But if you have to -- Yeah. I'll follow you
Giles grips Oz's fingers hard, as though he might be dragged off to the airport at any second. "They didn't say it exactly. But they didn't need to." Travers' sneer, the easy contempt of a man who's never loved anything, not even his timid frump of a wife. Love's a tool to him, a manipulable weakness, and what is it about the Council that it's always run by these nasty little Iagos? "Last year they threatened to deport me from America if Buffy didn't submit to all kinds of tests and nonsense
( ... )
"Welcome," Oz says, wrapping his arms around Giles' neck and kissing his beard-rough upper lip. Giles has been a Watcher his whole life; even as a kid, Oz always imagined, he was intent and careful. Joyful, too, but smarter than most people, more loving but also more analytical.
When they fired him, Giles sagged like a rotten wooden bridge, swinging perilously over a chasm.
"Resigning's a big step," Oz says, swishing the hot water around the pot, then dumping it and refilling. "You good on scones?"
There are still five on the plate, but Oz wants to check. Giles nods and Oz brings the pot back to the table.
"Love you," he says, sliding back into his seat. He leans forward, both arms on the edge of the table, looking Giles over. Weary, unshaven, exhausted, and Giles *still* looks incredibly handsome and eminently lovable. "All the time, a little more. You said that thing about getting to know me? Better, or whatever. It's true."
Giles warms his hands on the teapot for a minute, then loosely grasps Oz's fingertips, curling his own fingers over them. Knowledge grows every day, it's true. Tonight he's learned that Oz can make tea in the dark, that he can sit in a cold kitchen with bare arms and bare feet and not notice his own shivers, that he'll meet Giles' foolishness with love
( ... )
"Love you so much --" Oz tips a little against Giles and pulls him down, mouth on his cheek.
Every day for the next year, more than a year, they were breathing the same air and not *doing* anything. Being miserable together but separate. He watched Giles, watched as much as he could, but through the smear and fog of his own thoughts.
And anyway, back then, Giles never wanted to speak to him. So much time *wasted*.
"Not stupid," Oz is saying now, fingers moving in Giles' hair. "Never stupid. Want to tell me about the dreams?"
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Guilt goes into happiness like blood into water. There's no making it clean again, afterwards.
Flaw in that thinking, somewhere. Monumental stupidity in it. Must be, because Oz wants to know. Must be, because Giles is drunk, stupid, cowardly, and Oz is holding him and saying love.
"Dream about-" No, that won't do. His face is pressed to Oz's neck, speech slurred even to his own ears. Giles lifts his head a little, just enough to talk, eyes closed. "All those people in New York. Who died. I dream . . . they come back to life. Wrong, demonic. And." He must be shaking, because Oz is holding him tightly, so tightly he can feel it through the numbness. "And I have to kill them. Every single one." Bloody hands slipping on the sword-hilt, and there are so many, and their families are screaming, begging him to let them live ( ... )
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As though Oz hasn't touched him as much as ever these last days, kissed him, sat in his lap, come in his mouth and his hands, slept in his arms. Good, always good, but not a cure for this.
Taking Oz's hands in his own, Giles sits up. "She put the phone down. Wouldn't talk to me at all."
Unfair of him, really, to be so hurt. It's a way of blaming her. Burdening her with what's his, and she's got responsibilities enough of her own. "She'll get over it," Giles says quickly, in case Oz is about to be angry at her. "I know. But she - she will die. And I won't be there. I chose." He kisses Oz's hand, not sure if it's his lips or Oz's fingers that are so cold. "I chose right. Just need to get ( ... )
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That is, however, absolutely the last thing Giles needs. Oz goes back to stroking long, slow circles over Giles' shoulderblades and tilts his head against his upper arm.
"Wish you'd told me," he says gently, then rolls his face so he can kiss the side of Giles' hands. Strong hands, long fingers that hold guitars, Oz, books just as confidently as they hold swords and battle-axes. "Glad you *did* tell me, just wish --." He lifts his eyes and looks steadily at Giles, summoning all the calm he can, hoping some of it transfers to Giles. "Don't apologize. It's talking to the Watchers, isn't it? That, and --"
Buffy. He can't be mad at her; he's never been mad at her so much as he's loved and resented her. She brought Giles to Sunnydale; without her, he'd never have met Giles. But she kept Giles away, too ( ... )
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They did everything to break him, shame him, just like when he was twenty-one and had called up a demon and murdered a man.
Last time was different. Last time he deserved it.
Giles scrubs his hands over his face, wishing he could rub inside his skull, scour away the exhaustion and the whiskey. He's steadier now, with the initial dizzy slide into numbness over, but he's still drunk. Everything a bit sideways, logic chasing its own tail, words like merry paths leading nowhere.
"I love you," he says, because it's something he is sure of. "Don't - don't ( ... )
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Holding Giles' elbow (unexpectedly sharp, even through the double layer of his pajamas and robe), Oz helps him up, then slides his arm around Giles' waist as they make their way through the dark to the kitchen.
He sits Giles at the table, kissing the top of his head before moving over to the counter to fill the kettle and plug it in. His hands are shaking. Regret is a word, a state, that hadn't occurred to him until just now ( ... )
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He refills the kettle and rinses out the teapot before he says anything. Deport is such an ugly word, conjuring up images of bombed-out piers and broken ships, something Napoleonic and post-apocalyptic all at once.
"Did they say that?" he asks as he sits back down and covers Giles' hand with his own. "About me, I mean."
It shouldn't be a surprise, Oz supposes, that the Watchers know about him. The Watchers can get you a passport, they can kill the Slayer. They can basically do whatever they want.
"And the other part..." Oz leans back in his chair, flooded with heat that's something like shame, a little like anxiety, that matches exactly the intensity of sun on a California morning. "We can go back if you have to."
Giles turns his head, looking at Oz, working his lips together.
"Not that I want to," Oz says. "Or that you do. But if you have to -- Yeah. I'll follow you
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When they fired him, Giles sagged like a rotten wooden bridge, swinging perilously over a chasm.
"Resigning's a big step," Oz says, swishing the hot water around the pot, then dumping it and refilling. "You good on scones?"
There are still five on the plate, but Oz wants to check. Giles nods and Oz brings the pot back to the table.
"Love you," he says, sliding back into his seat. He leans forward, both arms on the edge of the table, looking Giles over. Weary, unshaven, exhausted, and Giles *still* looks incredibly handsome and eminently lovable. "All the time, a little more. You said that thing about getting to know me? Better, or whatever. It's true."
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