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glossing June 20 2004, 01:59:30 UTC
Oz's nose is getting colder and colder. It's stiffening with the cold and he concentrates on that, on the whistle of his breath and the stupid thump of his heart in his ear that's pressed against the pillow.

He's waiting for Giles to come back to bed. He's a coward, and he's been lying here since the phone rang, and he heard Giles mumbling and coughing and talking too fast, high and artificial, slipping into organizational mode, and now he can hear Giles out there. Just breathing and pacing.

And he's being a coward, waiting for news he already knows, and he's listening to Giles instead of thinking about what's going on, instead of going to him. But his body's stiff and thick and he can't imagine moving. Nearly a month now since grief burst out of Giles in vomit and tears, and for a while Giles hasn't mentioned - herHer, Buffy, the best thing that ever happened to Giles, gone and a hero so many times over that Oz can't count that high ( ... )

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glossing June 22 2004, 03:40:08 UTC
"Wasn't a sleepy yawn." He's telling the truth; he doesn't feel sleepy so much as slightly wired, strung out in a way he hasn't really felt since his first days here. But Giles is close and warm, and so Oz doesn't feel quite as strung and nervous as, he thinks, he maybe ought to feel, faced with the prospect of Sunnydale and Willow in the next twenty-four hours. "Just an oxygen one ( ... )

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