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.
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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