Giles' robe smells like whiskey, sure, but it also smells like their bed, warm with skin and sweat, and *Giles* himself, everything from cumin powder to parchment and in between. Oz wraps it twice around himself and pulls the wide lapels up around his face. Until Giles stepped away, he didn't realize quite how cold he was.
But now Giles is here, fragrant with steam, the moisture on his hair and across his face nearly glowing against his sober pajamas, and Oz is standing up, kissing him, tasting mint and hot water and Giles. All over again, and new starts can't be nearly this easy, but it kind of feels like one.
The bed's cold, and Oz leaves the robe on, but open, as he climbs back in between the sheets. He flips Giles' pillow and smoothes down the bottom sheet, and as soon as Giles lies down, Oz curls up against him, arm and leg over Giles, fingers and even toes curled in, gripping.
He was scared. He didn't realize it until just now, when the fear's evaporating away, but he was. Fear's like cold: he needs to remember to notice it.
"Promise me something?" he asks, tilting back his head and watching Giles' lashes rise and fall. "You have a nightmare or anything, just wake me up. Talk about it or not, whatever, but let me know and I'll --"
Chase it away. It's something his dad used to promise, back during that year of pre-K and then of kindergarten, when Oz had his zombies-dressed-up-like-Green Acres nightmares every single night.
"Chase it away. Or just listen. Promise."
Somehow it's turned from Giles promising *him* to Oz promising Giles. Like a cat curled up, tail tickling her whiskers, all circular and right.
At the moment, warm and clean and mostly sober, heavy with his own weight and Oz's, reassuringly sleepy, Giles believes that Oz really could chase the nightmares away. Oz knows mysteries, after all. Knows how to make Giles better, happier. Knows how to work miracles with tea and scones and touch. "Yes."
It's warm now under the duvet, and Giles slips a hand past the dressing gown and t-shirt to touch Oz's back, fold his fingers into the valley below his shoulderblade. He thinks, vaguely, of the crowds around saints and lamas, jostling for a brush of fingers or even the hem of a robe. "You're so good to me," he says, and softly presses his lips to Oz's. Reverence. In the marriage service, there's a promise to worship. They knew something, all those old priests and scholars.
He's falling asleep faster than he wants to. Strange, after so many nights hungering for sleep, despairing of it and fearing it. But right, necessary. He's not afraid. If he has nightmares, Oz will be there.
Eventually, Giles' head drops away, his forehead bumping Oz's chin, his mouth opening on the base of Oz's throat. Eventually, but it's a long time, his lips on Oz's, his breath stirring up with Oz's own, and it's almost like falling asleep. Sliding away and under, into dreams and comfort.
Almost, but Oz is still awake. His eyes are open, his fingers tight in Giles' pajamas, and he feels Giles sleeping against him, chest rising and voice murmuring occasionally.
He doesn't think he's particularly good to Giles. Not the way Giles means it, anyway -- as if he doesn't quite deserve it, as if it's a kind of mystery or plot that will change and lift at any moment. Oz is, he thinks, wiggling downward until his cheek is against Giles' forehead, just who he is.
It's just that Giles brings that -- whoever he is -- out better than anyone. Good and bad, gentleness and the thirst for drink, all of it at different times. Those days in the library are sliding farther away with every sigh and mumble from Giles, shrinking into dimness and softening at the edges. In their place, there's just this bed, wide and warm, and Oz could lie here for decades and never stir.
"Love you," he whispers, well after Giles is asleep, and catches his breath, suddenly afraid he'll wake Giles. But Giles just sighs again and Oz kisses his temple. Heads as holy places, skulls and souls, and he must be falling asleep. He's getting weird.
Weirder than usual, and that's all right, too. He's all right, Giles is safe and not afraid, and the morning feels a long, long way off.
Even when it comes, it's just the sun and there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, but everything to look forward to.
But now Giles is here, fragrant with steam, the moisture on his hair and across his face nearly glowing against his sober pajamas, and Oz is standing up, kissing him, tasting mint and hot water and Giles. All over again, and new starts can't be nearly this easy, but it kind of feels like one.
The bed's cold, and Oz leaves the robe on, but open, as he climbs back in between the sheets. He flips Giles' pillow and smoothes down the bottom sheet, and as soon as Giles lies down, Oz curls up against him, arm and leg over Giles, fingers and even toes curled in, gripping.
He was scared. He didn't realize it until just now, when the fear's evaporating away, but he was. Fear's like cold: he needs to remember to notice it.
"Promise me something?" he asks, tilting back his head and watching Giles' lashes rise and fall. "You have a nightmare or anything, just wake me up. Talk about it or not, whatever, but let me know and I'll --"
Chase it away. It's something his dad used to promise, back during that year of pre-K and then of kindergarten, when Oz had his zombies-dressed-up-like-Green Acres nightmares every single night.
"Chase it away. Or just listen. Promise."
Somehow it's turned from Giles promising *him* to Oz promising Giles. Like a cat curled up, tail tickling her whiskers, all circular and right.
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It's warm now under the duvet, and Giles slips a hand past the dressing gown and t-shirt to touch Oz's back, fold his fingers into the valley below his shoulderblade. He thinks, vaguely, of the crowds around saints and lamas, jostling for a brush of fingers or even the hem of a robe. "You're so good to me," he says, and softly presses his lips to Oz's. Reverence. In the marriage service, there's a promise to worship. They knew something, all those old priests and scholars.
He's falling asleep faster than he wants to. Strange, after so many nights hungering for sleep, despairing of it and fearing it. But right, necessary. He's not afraid. If he has nightmares, Oz will be there.
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Almost, but Oz is still awake. His eyes are open, his fingers tight in Giles' pajamas, and he feels Giles sleeping against him, chest rising and voice murmuring occasionally.
He doesn't think he's particularly good to Giles. Not the way Giles means it, anyway -- as if he doesn't quite deserve it, as if it's a kind of mystery or plot that will change and lift at any moment. Oz is, he thinks, wiggling downward until his cheek is against Giles' forehead, just who he is.
It's just that Giles brings that -- whoever he is -- out better than anyone. Good and bad, gentleness and the thirst for drink, all of it at different times. Those days in the library are sliding farther away with every sigh and mumble from Giles, shrinking into dimness and softening at the edges. In their place, there's just this bed, wide and warm, and Oz could lie here for decades and never stir.
"Love you," he whispers, well after Giles is asleep, and catches his breath, suddenly afraid he'll wake Giles. But Giles just sighs again and Oz kisses his temple. Heads as holy places, skulls and souls, and he must be falling asleep. He's getting weird.
Weirder than usual, and that's all right, too. He's all right, Giles is safe and not afraid, and the morning feels a long, long way off.
Even when it comes, it's just the sun and there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, but everything to look forward to.
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