This suit is the most expensive thing Oz has ever worn.
No, that's not quite right. It is - or it will be, when he finally gets dressed - but it's more than that. It's the most expensive thing Oz has ever owned. His first and second vans, zebra and blue, combined, didn't cost this much.
He's still gaping at it. Fresh from the shower, towel around his waist, he's sitting right in front of the electric fire Giles dug up when the weather went really cold a couple weeks ago. Waiting for his nails to dry, he's spending time looking at the suit. It's hanging on the back of the wardrobe door, sober and black and expensive.
It is, possibly, looking back at him.
"Should have diamonds in the lapels or something. Velvet and satin," he said when they went to the tailor's the first time. "Go all out, like Little Richard. Or Prince."
He said it under his breath, though, because the tailor's shop reminded him of a library. Not Giles' library, but a strange one, all the half-finished suits and rolls of fabric looming around like shadowy ghosts. But Giles smiled, privately, and just squeezed Oz's shoulder.
This suit is an investment. A good suit is like a van, that's how Oz has been justifying this to himself: it needs to go the distance and never disappoint you. The wool is finer than most silk, light under his weighing palm, and the lines of it, they're like something out of an old New Yorker cartoon, diagonal and elegant. Unwavering.
This suit will carry him through the party tonight, get him where he needs to go, and bring him home, safe and sound. It's not that he's not looking forward to the party; he is, if only because he hasn't seen Olivia since shortly after they got back to London. She warned him then about stealing Rupert back to California, cults and wackiness.
His nails are dry, and they'll match his vest - no, his waistcoat - and his socks. Bright and shiny, little flares of the familiar amidst all this pricey formality.
Oz loves dressing up. Right now, though, he flops back onto the bed and thinks about staying naked.
It'd be a statement, that's for sure.
"Hey, Giles -" he says when Giles bustles into the room, spot-cleaner apparently discovered in its insidious hiding place. "Can I wear a kilt instead? Maybe a festive frock?"
He shouldn't joke; Giles is taking this party much more seriously than Oz has seen him take any social appointment, but he can't help it.
He rolls over on his side, the towel coming loose, and grins at Giles' expression, all shock, partly dismay, and a little suspicion that he's being teased. "Could whip something stunning up from the old living-room curtains."