skipping the breakup, going straight to the joyous reunion
glossing somehow, despite the flu, managed to write a beautiful Giles/Oz reunion ficlet.
And here's my profoundly inadequate response.
For this who are following It's Like Jazz, this is one version of how our boys might reunite. Giles/Oz, PG
After Oz left him, Giles used to imagine coming home one day to find him waiting. Imagine, though, is too pale a word for those bright visions, those vivid hallucinatory longings. For two years he pictured it, and then it happened, almost. Oz's voice, the sudden hush, his shape in the doorway, the afternoon light glowing at the edges of his shadowed face. He might have been an angel of annunciation, of apocalypse.
It was Willow he wanted, of course, as Giles would have known if he'd had a moment to think. Later, he was grateful Oz spoke before he could make a fool of himself. After that day, he never let himself imagine Oz coming back.
Life doesn't work like that, except when it does. Except when Oz turns up in London, with a rehearsed speech and a slip of paper that says New Ark Backpackers Flotel, with a thick gray jumper padding the sharp elbow that Giles can't let go of. As though that grip will stop him vanishing again in a cloud of exhaust fumes, vanishing without a goodbye, just like the last time.
Giles guides Oz up the stairs like he's leading a blind man, and he fumbles the door open without unclasping the wool and bone in his fingers. It's all he can do not to talon into Oz's flesh like a preying hawk, not to clutch so hard he wounds. Not until they're inside with the door shut does his hand loosen and fall.
If he'd had a little notice, he'd know what to say. Maybe he'd even be able to look at Oz, instead of into the middle distance over his shoulder. It's not fair of Oz to come with his own part written and then expect Giles to improvise.
It would be nice to close his eyes for ten minutes or so, let his breathing ease and his heart slow, let Oz's presence build gradually in his mind. Like watching someone cross a field, starting tiny and distant and then growing through a long approach, leaving plenty of time to find a greeting. But Oz has never been gradual. He appears and disappears without a warning sound or a trace left behind.
"I need to make a quick phone call," Giles says. Olivia's probably in the pub already, along with Derek or whatever the new boyfriend's called. If it weren't for a briefcase full of books, Giles would have gone straight there. And Oz surely wouldn't have waited for him, not all evening. "Make yourself at home. Sorry it's so cold in here."
Oz has pulled the woolly sleeves down over his fingers. "No problem."
Olivia laughs at Giles' claim of an old friend from America, and says he's probably just picked up a bloke somewhere; he's rather curt with her after that, although he'd hoped to draw the conversation out and give himself time. Instead he makes tea, leaning wearily against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. The sitting room's utterly silent, and he'd like to know Oz hasn't just taken off again. But he doesn't want Oz to see him checking.
By the time the tea's ready, Giles has scripted and rejected three speeches. It's going to have to be improvisation after all. At least now he can look at Oz, who's perched in the armchair closest to the window, full in the setting sun. It's probably the only warm spot in the flat. Oz's eyes are closed, and he's breathing slowly, taking long deep inhalations. If he weren't fingering the polished brown beads wrapped around his wrist, Giles might have thought he was asleep.
Oz is thinner than ever, the bones of his face stark. He looks like he used to in Giles' insomniac imaginings: starving, homeless, begging, turning tricks. Gone feral, the wolf claiming his waking mind. Wandering, naked and cold and bestial. The first few months after Oz's last disappearance, Giles hardly slept at all. Eventually he learned not to think about it, much. The sleeping pills helped.
"Tea?" Giles asks, and Oz's eyes open and he smiles, and he's so beautiful that Giles has to look away.
"Thanks." Oz takes the cup in blue-white fingers and inhales the steam. "Hey. You made the smoky kind. Could never remember the name."
"Lapsang souchong." It's the only kind of tea Oz used to like, except chai, which hardly counts.
"Yeah. Kind of like the dog. Lapsa something? Lhasa? Maybe." Oz shifts in the chair, and takes a sip that must be painfully hot. "Sorry. Kinda, you know. Nervous."
Giles turns back from the chair he was about to sit in. "So am I. There's so much to- Christ, Oz. Two years, almost, since you-" It would take hours to tell all the news, days, and still everything really important could go unsaid.
"Buffy's alive again," he says, because if he doesn't say something he's going to ask what Oz is doing here, whether he's really come all this way for a condolence visit. Whether this is a grown-up version of chocolate bars and mix tapes, a gift meant to take the place of words. Whether he's going--no, when he's going away again. "There was a spell, horribly dangerous thing really, they could all have been killed, and-"
"Giles," Oz says, and Giles realizes he's been staring at the rug and talking very fast. "There's no hurry."
Maybe Giles is dreaming. Maybe he's Caliban, wrapped in visions and phantom music, and he'll weep when he awakens. "Isn't there?" The tea's put a little flush in Oz's face; Giles wants urgently to kiss him.
"Don't think so." Oz's eyes drop. "Hope not."
There are a hundred complications, a thousand things that need talking through, and every one of them can wait. Giles sits on the arm of Oz's chair. It's warm here, in the sun. Warm, this close to Oz. "Then there's not," he says. "No hurry at all." He reaches for Oz's hand, interlaces their fingers, and nothing in years has felt so solid. And if he holds on tightly enough, maybe it won't turn to smoke and drift away.
And here's my profoundly inadequate response.
For this who are following It's Like Jazz, this is one version of how our boys might reunite. Giles/Oz, PG
After Oz left him, Giles used to imagine coming home one day to find him waiting. Imagine, though, is too pale a word for those bright visions, those vivid hallucinatory longings. For two years he pictured it, and then it happened, almost. Oz's voice, the sudden hush, his shape in the doorway, the afternoon light glowing at the edges of his shadowed face. He might have been an angel of annunciation, of apocalypse.
It was Willow he wanted, of course, as Giles would have known if he'd had a moment to think. Later, he was grateful Oz spoke before he could make a fool of himself. After that day, he never let himself imagine Oz coming back.
Life doesn't work like that, except when it does. Except when Oz turns up in London, with a rehearsed speech and a slip of paper that says New Ark Backpackers Flotel, with a thick gray jumper padding the sharp elbow that Giles can't let go of. As though that grip will stop him vanishing again in a cloud of exhaust fumes, vanishing without a goodbye, just like the last time.
Giles guides Oz up the stairs like he's leading a blind man, and he fumbles the door open without unclasping the wool and bone in his fingers. It's all he can do not to talon into Oz's flesh like a preying hawk, not to clutch so hard he wounds. Not until they're inside with the door shut does his hand loosen and fall.
If he'd had a little notice, he'd know what to say. Maybe he'd even be able to look at Oz, instead of into the middle distance over his shoulder. It's not fair of Oz to come with his own part written and then expect Giles to improvise.
It would be nice to close his eyes for ten minutes or so, let his breathing ease and his heart slow, let Oz's presence build gradually in his mind. Like watching someone cross a field, starting tiny and distant and then growing through a long approach, leaving plenty of time to find a greeting. But Oz has never been gradual. He appears and disappears without a warning sound or a trace left behind.
"I need to make a quick phone call," Giles says. Olivia's probably in the pub already, along with Derek or whatever the new boyfriend's called. If it weren't for a briefcase full of books, Giles would have gone straight there. And Oz surely wouldn't have waited for him, not all evening. "Make yourself at home. Sorry it's so cold in here."
Oz has pulled the woolly sleeves down over his fingers. "No problem."
Olivia laughs at Giles' claim of an old friend from America, and says he's probably just picked up a bloke somewhere; he's rather curt with her after that, although he'd hoped to draw the conversation out and give himself time. Instead he makes tea, leaning wearily against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. The sitting room's utterly silent, and he'd like to know Oz hasn't just taken off again. But he doesn't want Oz to see him checking.
By the time the tea's ready, Giles has scripted and rejected three speeches. It's going to have to be improvisation after all. At least now he can look at Oz, who's perched in the armchair closest to the window, full in the setting sun. It's probably the only warm spot in the flat. Oz's eyes are closed, and he's breathing slowly, taking long deep inhalations. If he weren't fingering the polished brown beads wrapped around his wrist, Giles might have thought he was asleep.
Oz is thinner than ever, the bones of his face stark. He looks like he used to in Giles' insomniac imaginings: starving, homeless, begging, turning tricks. Gone feral, the wolf claiming his waking mind. Wandering, naked and cold and bestial. The first few months after Oz's last disappearance, Giles hardly slept at all. Eventually he learned not to think about it, much. The sleeping pills helped.
"Tea?" Giles asks, and Oz's eyes open and he smiles, and he's so beautiful that Giles has to look away.
"Thanks." Oz takes the cup in blue-white fingers and inhales the steam. "Hey. You made the smoky kind. Could never remember the name."
"Lapsang souchong." It's the only kind of tea Oz used to like, except chai, which hardly counts.
"Yeah. Kind of like the dog. Lapsa something? Lhasa? Maybe." Oz shifts in the chair, and takes a sip that must be painfully hot. "Sorry. Kinda, you know. Nervous."
Giles turns back from the chair he was about to sit in. "So am I. There's so much to- Christ, Oz. Two years, almost, since you-" It would take hours to tell all the news, days, and still everything really important could go unsaid.
"Buffy's alive again," he says, because if he doesn't say something he's going to ask what Oz is doing here, whether he's really come all this way for a condolence visit. Whether this is a grown-up version of chocolate bars and mix tapes, a gift meant to take the place of words. Whether he's going--no, when he's going away again. "There was a spell, horribly dangerous thing really, they could all have been killed, and-"
"Giles," Oz says, and Giles realizes he's been staring at the rug and talking very fast. "There's no hurry."
Maybe Giles is dreaming. Maybe he's Caliban, wrapped in visions and phantom music, and he'll weep when he awakens. "Isn't there?" The tea's put a little flush in Oz's face; Giles wants urgently to kiss him.
"Don't think so." Oz's eyes drop. "Hope not."
There are a hundred complications, a thousand things that need talking through, and every one of them can wait. Giles sits on the arm of Oz's chair. It's warm here, in the sun. Warm, this close to Oz. "Then there's not," he says. "No hurry at all." He reaches for Oz's hand, interlaces their fingers, and nothing in years has felt so solid. And if he holds on tightly enough, maybe it won't turn to smoke and drift away.