"Don't sell yourself short," Giles says. To Oz, but really directed at Meaghan and Paul, at everyone who'll see Oz's face, hear his accent, notice the difference in their ages, and assume that Oz is Giles' plaything. "You were reading Donne and Herbert at se- at a considerably younger age than I was." Paul, at least, doesn't miss what Giles almost said; his eyes narrow and he glances at Giles over Oz's head. "Anyway, there's nothing innately wrong with a paperback." That makes even Oz, who's heard him rant about cheap paper and weak spines, look at him, so Giles shuts up. He lays his hand on the small of Oz's back , stroking lines and squiggles with his fingers, like sigils for love and calm.
Meaghan, smiling apologetically, suddenly notices someone across the room that she needs to speak to. "Ring me next week, Rupert," she says before leaving, and he promises he will. Sophie has already disappeared somewhere, so now it's just the four of them. Still, that's an improvement over past years, with Paul and Martin together and Giles on his own.
Martin, bless him, says, "I've always wanted to visit California. All that wild coastline--that's in the north, isn't it, Oz?" And he and Oz are soon absorbed in the real California and how to avoid the tourist traps.
With a glance at Martin, some vague wordless signal, Paul pulls Giles a little aside. "Sorry. I don't know what's happened to my manners. I didn't mean to interrogate the boy." Cocking his head to the side, an artist's trick that he must have picked up from Martin, Paul looks into Giles' face. "You're happy, Rupert. In love, even."
"Yes."
"Hmmm." He smiles his beautiful smile. "I could almost be jealous. But fortunately I'm many years past that, my dear." Giles remembers, as Paul surely does, ancient quarrels. Paul's voice, pain-rough, saying You think you feel, but you don't, not really. "I'm pleased for you."
There's no way to apologize for not having loved someone enough. And Paul, happily settled for - what, thirteen years? - with Martin, is telling the truth when he says he's long past regrets. "Thank you," Giles says. Paul claps his shoulder and turns back to Martin, who's listening to Oz talk about Catalina.
In a pause Giles adds, "Yes, it's lovely, you'd both like it," and takes Oz's hand.
"And, see," Oz says, squeezing Giles' hand and squinting at Martin, "there's a chili dog stand right by the ferry dock and they do a tofu pup with six-bean chili that a family of four could live on for a week. Really amazing."
"And you managed to trick *Rupert* into eating tofu?" Paul asks as Martin launches into an enthusiastic description of the sausages available at a certain cafe in Blackpool.
Giles and Paul are doing this silent eyeing thing, like commentary by Waldorf and Astoria, but all in the eyes, while Martin spreads his hands to show the length of the sausages and Oz makes him repeat the name of the place a couple of times.
"Dunes Christian Coffee Shop," Martin says, nodding, locks of dark hair poking into his eyes before he pushes them away with the back of his hand. "Paul, the political darling, refuses to set foot inside, but he does accept takeaway. If there's any left."
"I'm not certain *Blackpool* is exactly the best introduction to the country past London," Paul says mildly and Giles grins.
"It's got the Doctor Who museum," Oz says. They all look surprised. "I'm there. Also, a go-kart track. And possibly a bungee jump."
"Not to mention the crassest entertainment outside of, well, America," Paul says.
Okay, this is going a lot better. Oz is leaning a little against Giles, sharing a glass of fizzy cider with him, and time's passing much faster than it had been. It's actually kind of fun; Martin is cool and chattery, his voice all growly and face going pink with excitement and possibly champagne, while Paul's not so much offputting as *elegant*.
But Oz has the coolest suit ever and Giles rubbing the inside of his wrist with his thumb, so he's down with the elegance.
"Bungee-jumping!" Martin says, pushing his hair out of his eyes and then ignoring it when it promptly falls back. "I went once, in New Zealand. Amazing. It was off this bridge over a gorge, trees all around, and the river, and it felt like I was falling up into all this green." From his grin, Giles suspects that only politeness is stopping Martin from whisking Oz off to Queenstown at once so he can try it. Martin always was a bit of an overgrown boy.
"It was the longest four seconds of my life," Paul says. "I planned your entire funeral." Not looking at all chastised, Martin hooks an arm over his neck and kisses his cheek.
Giles used to find it a little depressing to be around them; he'd always store up something cynical to say to Olivia, later, on the subject of domestic bliss. Now, watching Oz's face and tracing the soft creases of his palm with a forefinger, he decides he's as great a believer in domestic bliss as any Jane Austen character. (A rather modern and saucy version of Jane Austen, it would have to be.) "Don't even dream of it," he says to Oz. "You can have as many go-karts and Doctor Who museums as you like, so long as you promise not to throw yourself off a tower with a rubber band tied round your ankles."
For answer, Oz leans against his shoulder and listens as Paul offers a rapturous description of York, apparently meant as an antidote to Blackpool.
For a split second, it occurs to Oz that it's a shame things didn't work out for Giles and Paul; they seem pretty well-suited to each other, and that's not just a common fear of bungee-jumping. That second passes, though, and he straightens up, sliding his hand up to Giles' wrist.
"...medieval cathedral in Europe," Paul is saying and Martin has him by the back of his neck, shaking him lightly. "And the city walls, well -"
"There's also a Ghost Walk," Martin tells Oz. "It's not all dust and masonry and the great and glorious past."
"Stained glass is hardly *boring*," Paul says while Martin scowls.
"Not sure about ghosts, actually," Oz says, liberating the cider from Giles' hand and taking a thirsty sip. "I scare pretty easily when it's not, like, physical danger."
Paul smiles at that, this small, private smile that doesn't seem intended for anyone else; then he meets Oz's eyes and murmurs something about sanity and staying sensible.
Weird, how couples talk to each other through other people. Oz feels almost like an anthropologist at this party, fully aware that he's in a couple, too, but hoping against hope that he doesn't talk like that to Giles.
"You said something about Scotland, though, didn't you?" he asks Giles, happy to turn a little and look right up into his face. "Hillwalking and stuff."
"Hillwalking? Yes, of course." During one of the low points of their visit to Sunnydale, they talked, in a vague way, like prisoners daydreaming past the bars, about a trip to Scotland or Ireland. Fresh air, long walks, quiet. But it hasn't actually come up since they've been back. "Well, Britain's a small island. We'll go everywhere, sooner or later." We've got time, he'd say if they were alone, because that always makes Oz smile. But Oz, who by now can surely read in Giles' face everything he doesn't say, smiles anyway.
Couples all have their own version of telepathy; a look passes between Paul and Martin, and Paul says, "Well, we'd better go and say hello to Olivia, if we can find her in this crush." Before they go, there's the usual We must get together sometime, silly to meet once a year like this, and Yes, let's, absolutely, at which Oz starts to say something about dinner, some night, and then falls silent.
Once they've left, Giles sits down on the dentist's chair, feeling as though he's been holding his breath for the past fifteen minutes. Oz slides in next to him, pressed close on the roomy seat, and offers him what's left of the cider. "That was . . . somewhat less awkward than it might have been," Giles says after he drinks. "I think." What on earth do people do who've got whole strings of former lovers and cast-off spouses? It must feel rather like being haunted. "It's strange, how that discomfort never entirely goes away. It's a pity, in a way, that Paul and I were ever lovers; it's stopped us being friends."
"Was it awkward?" Oz asks, reaching behind him toward the snacks table and nabbing, blindly, some almond-shaped crackers. He offers the handful to Giles, then nibbles the corner off one himself. Giles starts to smile at him. "I'm not used to this. I can't tell awkward from grown-up party stuff."
Considering how well Giles prepped him on the whole Paul-and-Martin backstory, Oz realizes all too late how nervous he must have been for this encounter. With his uncrackery hand, he rubs Giles' knee briefly, then rests his palm on the fine, soft wool, and sighs.
"We could have them over for dinner, though," he says after a bit. "I like them."
He expected all sorts of things once he came to London - culture shock, and difficulty with accents, and finding his way around a massive, crowded city - but navigating these intricate pathways of emotion and past history never really occurred to him.
"You and Paul would make good friends. Cackling over old stuff and things like that."
He smiles, in case that came out awkwardly, and stops himself just before his fingers trail up the bottom of Giles' thigh.
"I'll have you know, I never cackle." Giles pours some of the little biscuits, which he doesn't want, into Oz's hand and watches him eat them.
A dinner party. Deep down, Oz seems to believe that nothing can't be solved with a good meal. But he's not grandmotherly or fussy about it; it's more a kind of bodily optimism, and in practice it always feels natural and wise. "We could give it a try, I suppose. Thirteen years is a damned long time for Paul and me to tiptoe round each other." Their breakup was spectacularly bad, but Giles has been through a worse one since, and anyway, they've both got good reason, now, to be over it.
For a little while he and Oz are quiet, eating biscuits, rubbing knees, and listening to the music, which some merciful soul has switched from brassy pseudo-jazz to Ella Fitzgerald. The party feels rather distant, even though people brush against their backs and nearly trip over their feet. Perhaps Olivia was right to worry about them hiding in a corner--Giles finds himself almost hoping that someone will ask them to make room on the chair so he can have a plausible excuse to take Oz onto his lap.
A new song starts, slow and sweet, and beside him Oz sways to it, just a little. Giles leans in and whispers, "Dance with me."
Once or twice, alone together, they've danced, but never in public. Oz goes still, not answering, and Giles says, "Come on. We won't be the only ones." Near the stereo, a few other couples are clinging through slow-paced circles.
There's a somebody I'm longin' to see, Ella sings. Giles stands up and holds out a hand.
It's been a long time - prom, probably - since Oz danced in public, but Giles is standing there like Astaire and Cary Grant and every other dapper gentleman, reaching for Oz, and it's just a step up, a squeeze of his hand, and then Oz is on his feet, Giles' arm around his waist, and they're dancing.
He folds himself up against Giles, cheek against one soft lapel, their fingers interlocking, and maybe it's a good thing he never learned how to dance officially. This way he doesn't know stuff about leading or counting; he just leans and sways and Giles moves them around in this long, drawn-out, *public* (but he can't think about that) cuddle-to-music.
On the small of his back, Giles' hand is light as air, as the breath through Ella's mouth, and dancing really isn't anything beyond being close and moving slowly.
Plus, it's a pretty song, kind of longing, full of promise, and Oz mouths the words as he feels Giles' hand moving in circles and the pressure, the embrace of it all, really kind of is like losing gravity.
At the chorus, Oz tips back his head and smiles at Giles.
"Good song." At that, Giles' face creases into a smile and Oz adds, "Better dance."
As a small boy, Giles was sent every Saturday morning to the dancing and etiquette lessons that Mrs. Matheson gave in the parish hall. He learned to waltz and foxtrot, to bow at just the right angle when asking a lady to dance, to rest his hand lightly ('never clutch, boys,' Mrs. Matheson said) on the small of his partner's back. Although among the other boys he always claimed to hate it, secretly he thought it was fun. He used to practice with his mum, or, on visits, with his grandmother, who was a marvelous dancer.
And then came the nineteen-sixties, and formal dancing was as unfashionable as Brylcreem and Vera Lynn. Giles has hardly used all those painstakingly-memorized steps, except at family weddings.
This is only dancing in the loosest sense, of course--just a kind of shuffle. But the song's lovely and Oz's hair is mussed where he leaned against Giles' chest, and Giles feels a little like someone in a film. "Wonderful dance," he says, kissing the top of Oz's head when he settles in again.
He can't help thinking of the Sunnydale prom, of how Buffy's eyes shone when Angel came into the room, of how he stood holding her little umbrella, trying not to look at any of the teenage couples showing off their romances. Missing Oz, while Oz was twenty feet away dancing with Willow and whispering in her ear.
That, Giles realizes, is why he wanted to dance tonight. He's writing over that memory. And bragging, too, like those California teenagers. Making sure everyone sees that he's in love.
Love's not tactful. Love's a boaster. Love announces itself with neon and fanfares. Love stands on a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner and shouts Look at me!
The song ends, but another slow one starts, and Giles holds on to Oz. "One more."
Meaghan, smiling apologetically, suddenly notices someone across the room that she needs to speak to. "Ring me next week, Rupert," she says before leaving, and he promises he will. Sophie has already disappeared somewhere, so now it's just the four of them. Still, that's an improvement over past years, with Paul and Martin together and Giles on his own.
Martin, bless him, says, "I've always wanted to visit California. All that wild coastline--that's in the north, isn't it, Oz?" And he and Oz are soon absorbed in the real California and how to avoid the tourist traps.
With a glance at Martin, some vague wordless signal, Paul pulls Giles a little aside. "Sorry. I don't know what's happened to my manners. I didn't mean to interrogate the boy." Cocking his head to the side, an artist's trick that he must have picked up from Martin, Paul looks into Giles' face. "You're happy, Rupert. In love, even."
"Yes."
"Hmmm." He smiles his beautiful smile. "I could almost be jealous. But fortunately I'm many years past that, my dear." Giles remembers, as Paul surely does, ancient quarrels. Paul's voice, pain-rough, saying You think you feel, but you don't, not really. "I'm pleased for you."
There's no way to apologize for not having loved someone enough. And Paul, happily settled for - what, thirteen years? - with Martin, is telling the truth when he says he's long past regrets. "Thank you," Giles says. Paul claps his shoulder and turns back to Martin, who's listening to Oz talk about Catalina.
In a pause Giles adds, "Yes, it's lovely, you'd both like it," and takes Oz's hand.
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"And you managed to trick *Rupert* into eating tofu?" Paul asks as Martin launches into an enthusiastic description of the sausages available at a certain cafe in Blackpool.
Giles and Paul are doing this silent eyeing thing, like commentary by Waldorf and Astoria, but all in the eyes, while Martin spreads his hands to show the length of the sausages and Oz makes him repeat the name of the place a couple of times.
"Dunes Christian Coffee Shop," Martin says, nodding, locks of dark hair poking into his eyes before he pushes them away with the back of his hand. "Paul, the political darling, refuses to set foot inside, but he does accept takeaway. If there's any left."
"I'm not certain *Blackpool* is exactly the best introduction to the country past London," Paul says mildly and Giles grins.
"It's got the Doctor Who museum," Oz says. They all look surprised. "I'm there. Also, a go-kart track. And possibly a bungee jump."
"Not to mention the crassest entertainment outside of, well, America," Paul says.
Okay, this is going a lot better. Oz is leaning a little against Giles, sharing a glass of fizzy cider with him, and time's passing much faster than it had been. It's actually kind of fun; Martin is cool and chattery, his voice all growly and face going pink with excitement and possibly champagne, while Paul's not so much offputting as *elegant*.
But Oz has the coolest suit ever and Giles rubbing the inside of his wrist with his thumb, so he's down with the elegance.
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"It was the longest four seconds of my life," Paul says. "I planned your entire funeral." Not looking at all chastised, Martin hooks an arm over his neck and kisses his cheek.
Giles used to find it a little depressing to be around them; he'd always store up something cynical to say to Olivia, later, on the subject of domestic bliss. Now, watching Oz's face and tracing the soft creases of his palm with a forefinger, he decides he's as great a believer in domestic bliss as any Jane Austen character. (A rather modern and saucy version of Jane Austen, it would have to be.) "Don't even dream of it," he says to Oz. "You can have as many go-karts and Doctor Who museums as you like, so long as you promise not to throw yourself off a tower with a rubber band tied round your ankles."
For answer, Oz leans against his shoulder and listens as Paul offers a rapturous description of York, apparently meant as an antidote to Blackpool.
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"...medieval cathedral in Europe," Paul is saying and Martin has him by the back of his neck, shaking him lightly. "And the city walls, well -"
"There's also a Ghost Walk," Martin tells Oz. "It's not all dust and masonry and the great and glorious past."
"Stained glass is hardly *boring*," Paul says while Martin scowls.
"Not sure about ghosts, actually," Oz says, liberating the cider from Giles' hand and taking a thirsty sip. "I scare pretty easily when it's not, like, physical danger."
Paul smiles at that, this small, private smile that doesn't seem intended for anyone else; then he meets Oz's eyes and murmurs something about sanity and staying sensible.
Weird, how couples talk to each other through other people. Oz feels almost like an anthropologist at this party, fully aware that he's in a couple, too, but hoping against hope that he doesn't talk like that to Giles.
"You said something about Scotland, though, didn't you?" he asks Giles, happy to turn a little and look right up into his face. "Hillwalking and stuff."
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Couples all have their own version of telepathy; a look passes between Paul and Martin, and Paul says, "Well, we'd better go and say hello to Olivia, if we can find her in this crush." Before they go, there's the usual We must get together sometime, silly to meet once a year like this, and Yes, let's, absolutely, at which Oz starts to say something about dinner, some night, and then falls silent.
Once they've left, Giles sits down on the dentist's chair, feeling as though he's been holding his breath for the past fifteen minutes. Oz slides in next to him, pressed close on the roomy seat, and offers him what's left of the cider. "That was . . . somewhat less awkward than it might have been," Giles says after he drinks. "I think." What on earth do people do who've got whole strings of former lovers and cast-off spouses? It must feel rather like being haunted. "It's strange, how that discomfort never entirely goes away. It's a pity, in a way, that Paul and I were ever lovers; it's stopped us being friends."
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Considering how well Giles prepped him on the whole Paul-and-Martin backstory, Oz realizes all too late how nervous he must have been for this encounter. With his uncrackery hand, he rubs Giles' knee briefly, then rests his palm on the fine, soft wool, and sighs.
"We could have them over for dinner, though," he says after a bit. "I like them."
He expected all sorts of things once he came to London - culture shock, and difficulty with accents, and finding his way around a massive, crowded city - but navigating these intricate pathways of emotion and past history never really occurred to him.
"You and Paul would make good friends. Cackling over old stuff and things like that."
He smiles, in case that came out awkwardly, and stops himself just before his fingers trail up the bottom of Giles' thigh.
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A dinner party. Deep down, Oz seems to believe that nothing can't be solved with a good meal. But he's not grandmotherly or fussy about it; it's more a kind of bodily optimism, and in practice it always feels natural and wise. "We could give it a try, I suppose. Thirteen years is a damned long time for Paul and me to tiptoe round each other." Their breakup was spectacularly bad, but Giles has been through a worse one since, and anyway, they've both got good reason, now, to be over it.
For a little while he and Oz are quiet, eating biscuits, rubbing knees, and listening to the music, which some merciful soul has switched from brassy pseudo-jazz to Ella Fitzgerald. The party feels rather distant, even though people brush against their backs and nearly trip over their feet. Perhaps Olivia was right to worry about them hiding in a corner--Giles finds himself almost hoping that someone will ask them to make room on the chair so he can have a plausible excuse to take Oz onto his lap.
A new song starts, slow and sweet, and beside him Oz sways to it, just a little. Giles leans in and whispers, "Dance with me."
Once or twice, alone together, they've danced, but never in public. Oz goes still, not answering, and Giles says, "Come on. We won't be the only ones." Near the stereo, a few other couples are clinging through slow-paced circles.
There's a somebody I'm longin' to see, Ella sings. Giles stands up and holds out a hand.
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It's been a long time - prom, probably - since Oz danced in public, but Giles is standing there like Astaire and Cary Grant and every other dapper gentleman, reaching for Oz, and it's just a step up, a squeeze of his hand, and then Oz is on his feet, Giles' arm around his waist, and they're dancing.
He folds himself up against Giles, cheek against one soft lapel, their fingers interlocking, and maybe it's a good thing he never learned how to dance officially. This way he doesn't know stuff about leading or counting; he just leans and sways and Giles moves them around in this long, drawn-out, *public* (but he can't think about that) cuddle-to-music.
On the small of his back, Giles' hand is light as air, as the breath through Ella's mouth, and dancing really isn't anything beyond being close and moving slowly.
Plus, it's a pretty song, kind of longing, full of promise, and Oz mouths the words as he feels Giles' hand moving in circles and the pressure, the embrace of it all, really kind of is like losing gravity.
At the chorus, Oz tips back his head and smiles at Giles.
"Good song." At that, Giles' face creases into a smile and Oz adds, "Better dance."
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And then came the nineteen-sixties, and formal dancing was as unfashionable as Brylcreem and Vera Lynn. Giles has hardly used all those painstakingly-memorized steps, except at family weddings.
This is only dancing in the loosest sense, of course--just a kind of shuffle. But the song's lovely and Oz's hair is mussed where he leaned against Giles' chest, and Giles feels a little like someone in a film. "Wonderful dance," he says, kissing the top of Oz's head when he settles in again.
He can't help thinking of the Sunnydale prom, of how Buffy's eyes shone when Angel came into the room, of how he stood holding her little umbrella, trying not to look at any of the teenage couples showing off their romances. Missing Oz, while Oz was twenty feet away dancing with Willow and whispering in her ear.
That, Giles realizes, is why he wanted to dance tonight. He's writing over that memory. And bragging, too, like those California teenagers. Making sure everyone sees that he's in love.
Love's not tactful. Love's a boaster. Love announces itself with neon and fanfares. Love stands on a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner and shouts Look at me!
The song ends, but another slow one starts, and Giles holds on to Oz. "One more."
Perhaps someday soon he'll teach Oz to waltz.
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