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."
"...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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