[btvs fic] the librarian, the witch, and the werewolf, written for the Sandwich Ficathon
title: the librarian, the witch, and the werewolf
author: Carla
disclaimer: Giles, Tara, and Oz belong to Joss Whedon.
distribution: Escritoire Azul, Maren's site, otherwise please ask
dedication: Written for lm as a backup fic for the Sandwich Ficathon. I am sorry it's so late, even for a backup, and probably not at all what you were expecting. Also thanks to illmantrim for the very quick, very last minute beta. I really appreciate it.
setting: alternate universe more or less, breaking off after "The Gift"
rating: 18+
feedback: Yes, please. I always want it.
summary: "Giles kisses as if he's sold his mouth to the devil, and stolen it back."
When Oz sees Tara for the first time, he thinks about eating her, daydreams about it, craves the taste of blood. He knows her skin would catch on his teeth, tear, peel away to entrails and a dark, delicious warmth.
He knows-immediate, visceral-he should lock himself away. All the Zen in the world, all the mental barriers, isn’t enough. He doesn’t know if an actual, physical cage could contain him, either, but it would help, would give her the time to run, to make the hunt more interesting.
His mouth fills, saliva on his teeth; his tongue is too large, too eager, and he nicks it on one sharpening fang. The blood floods, fast, down his throat, and a thin flap of skin separates and cleaves to the roof of his mouth.
Oz’s face tightens; he can feel the muscles tense under his flesh. No matter how he holds himself back, he can’t stop stalking Tara, one slow step at a time.
He’s silent, dangerous, but something, some small whisper of the damned cloth he wears instead of fur, gives him away.
Tara is sitting in Giles’ living room, a laptop resting on her crossed legs. He didn’t think he’d see her here, not in the apartment, not in England, not even on this side of the world.
She looks up at him, and he expects her to be startled, followed by comprehension and fear. Tara is calm, unfathomable, imperturbable, and remains so. She looks at him, right at him, and there’s no shyness in her eyes, no terror. She remembers exactly who he is, what he is, but she’s not scared, not one bit.
Footsteps overhead approach the stairs and Oz hears Giles call out as he descends, out of breath.
“Tara, you’d best move upstairs. Oz will arrive shortly and I don’t want either of you to be uncomfortable.”
Tara continues to watch Oz and waits until Giles enters the room before she speaks.
“Too late,” she says. Oz can hear amusement beneath her words, mixed with resignation and, he thinks, some sort of sadness. He doesn’t know what caused it. He doesn’t want to care. “It’s much too late for warnings.”
She sounds mysterious and all-knowing, despite her simple words.
“Hello, Oz,” Giles says. He’s flustered; he pulls off his glasses, cleans them on the tail of his shirt. “I didn’t think you’d be here this soon.”
“Short lines at the airport,” Oz says. His voice is too low, it rumbles, and he can hear the growl to it, inhuman and far too familiar.
Giles sets his glasses back on his nose and looks at Oz, his gaze focused.
“You’re still able to control the wolf? You aren’t a slave to the cycle of the moon?”
Oz nods. “I can change at will, too, without the full moon. I can change into a wolf whenever I want.” He looks at Tara then, but still she is not afraid.
“You can transform yourself at any given time?” Giles’ eyes are wide behind the glasses and he immediately picks up a small notebook and pen from the table next to the couch. “How fascinating. When did you first learn you had the ability?”
Tara stretches, pushing her fingertips toward the ceiling, sets the laptop on the coffee table, and stands. “I’ll leave you two to visit,” she says. Her voice is low, and then lower when she continues, slow and sweet. “Don’t be up too late, Rupert.” She heads toward the stairs and drags her fingers along Giles’ back. She sways when she walks, all curves and soft flesh.
Oz is staring, but Giles only gives him a sharp look and then takes Tara’s seat. After a moment, Oz sits in the chair perpendicular to the couch. He relaxes again, at ease alone with Giles.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” Giles says. “I hope your trip wasn’t too rough.”
Oz shakes his head. “No worse than averting an apocalypse.” There is nothing more to be said about that.
The silence is heavy, tangible, and Giles clears his throat. “I was surprised when Willow told me you’d been in touch with her. I know you didn’t part on the best of terms….”
Oz’s chest still aches at her name.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Oz says instead, “and without the Slayer.” It’s not quite what he wants to say, because Willow had been upset when she’d told him Giles and Tara had left, hurt but trying her best to hide it.
Shadows pass over Giles’ face. He lowers his head, places his chin in his palm, and stares at the floor. “I thought Willow had told you. Buffy’s dead.” He stops, swallows hard.
“I’m sorry,” Oz says. Despite his normal calm, he’s uncomfortable in this situation. “Doesn’t the new Slayer need you, though? Or does each new one get a new Watcher?”
Giles shakes his head. “There is no new Slayer. Buffy already died and activated the Slayer after her. When Kendra died, she activated Faith. There will be no new Slayer until Faith….”
“So the world’s only hope is a rogue Slayer?”
Giles nods, and covers his face with his hands. “She’s in prison. Children face the forces of darkness on the Hellmouth, and the only Slayer is incarcerated.”
Oz moves to the couch, puts his hand on Giles’ shoulder. “They’re not children any longer,” he says. Giles lifts his head, gazes up at the ceiling, and smiles crooked, one corner of his mouth higher than the other.
“I know.” This time, the silence is comfortable, familiar. “You didn’t travel all this way to discuss the lack of Slayers. Willow said you had information about a pending attack on the Watchers Council?”
Oz realizes his hand is still on Giles’ shoulder. He pulls it away, but his fingers linger and are slow to move. “Werewolves always recognize each other. They know what I am and think I’m just like them. They tell me their plans.”
“They trust a complete stranger? Even if they know you’re a werewolf, that’s a very weak way to operate.” Giles sits up straight and reaches for his notebook again. Oz recognizes the expression on his face. It’s been too long since he saw it, a man on a quest to understand, and he’s missed it.
He’s told himself he only misses the comparative peace of high school, but it’s one of the rare times he’s lied, even just to himself. He’s missed Giles, and being a part of a team.
Oz stares at his hands, curves his fingers toward his palms, and remembers his skin, wet, blood stuck under the nail-claws. “They didn’t trust me easily,” he says, and nothing more.
Giles, for once, allows him peace and does not pursue that line of questioning. “When will they attack?” he asks instead.
“Soon,” Oz says, and looks up again. “I don’t know exactly when, but they were on the move when I left. They’ve found the Watchers’ home base and plan to destroy it.”
“How many are coming?”
Oz shrugs one shoulder. “No more than twenty. Werewolves aren’t as prevalent as vampires.”
Giles questions him for nearly an hour, takes detailed notes, and double checks everything when they are through. He doesn’t stop until Tara appears on the stairs, wearing a long man’s robe. Her hair is wet and pushed back off her face.
Oz decides she’s beautiful, and tries to squelch the thought immediately.
~~*
When Oz sees Tara for the second time, she’s sitting in Giles’ backyard, her skirt tossed haphazard across her legs, blown out of place by the slight breeze. She’s surrounded by flowers. Oz knows Giles brings them home to her from the florist stalls on the main streets, and they are already half-dead, or more.
Tara holds her hands out, palms down, fingers spread wide. She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel the magic radiating off her in slow, pulsating waves.
“I’m sorry,” Oz says, and surprises himself. Tara nods, but doesn’t look at him. He sits down in front of her, careful not to get too close. He wants to say something more, to explain why he’s apologizing, but she smiles. The expression spreads across her face slow and hesitant, but he thinks she understands.
“There’s life, still,” Tara says. “Deep inside. I just have to find it, tempt it.”
She closes her hands into fists, lowers them into her lap. The flowers perk up, stretch leaves, drop roots into the ground. Oz can feel the air change, the warmth of spring, the heat of summer, and finally the first chill of autumn. Petals fall to the ground, disintegrate, and are gone.
The back door opens, but Giles stops just outside the doorway. When Tara looks at him, she grins, big and bright. Her entire face lights up and Oz has to look away. It’s worse when he sees Giles return the smile.
“The Council doesn’t believe us,” Giles says. Oz likes the way he phrases bad news, straightforward and doesn’t try to lessen the blow. Oz also likes the way Giles says “us,” as if Oz belongs.
He’s been around the other werewolves too long. He’s forgotten, or mostly forgotten, how to be by himself.
“What are we going to do?” Tara asks. She twists around to face Giles; her shirt rides up in the back and her skin is pale and luminescent. It looks soft and Oz can imagine how it would feel beneath his hands.
Giles sighs, cleans his glasses. He’s buying time and his frustration is written all over his face in tight lines and tense muscles. “Go back tomorrow and try to convince them Oz’s intelligence is sound. They don’t trust him because he’s a werewolf. Who better to bring us information about a planned werewolf attack?”
“It’s my turn to make dinner.” Tara dusts the detritus of the flowers from her skirt and rises to her knees. Before she stands, she looks at Oz, watches his face, and then, faster than he thought possible, Tara presses her mouth against his. Her lips are dry and lightly chapped, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. Oz closes his eyes, touches his fingers to her exposed calf.
She breaks away, stands, and hurries inside. Oz rolls to his feet smoothly, and runs one hand over his hair. The spikes are rough against his palm. He should dye them again, but not until he meets with the Council.
When he looks up, Giles is watching him, a small smile curving his lips.
~~*
When Oz sees Tara for the third time, she’s half-naked and bloody. He doesn’t think she’s been bitten, but her shirt is torn, her pants, her skin. Her hair hangs in her face, sticky with sweat and dirt. When she looks up at him, he doesn’t see any of the confidence or strength he expects.
She’s young again, sudden and complete, and scared. He smells magic, like burnt oranges and weed, sick-sweet and heavy everywhere. The Council members and their potential Slayers, the ones they’ve gathered from around the world, fight hard and drive the werewolves back.
Tara’s been casting spells throughout the skirmish, confusion on their enemies, strength to the potential Slayers, light when the power was cut. She’s exhausted, her skin grey beneath the bloodstains. Oz offers her his hand and helps her stand; she stumbles before she even takes a step.
When he lifts her, she’s lighter than he expects, as if she’s drained off her very essence, as if she’s done too much. Tara rests her head against his shoulder, half-heartedly wraps an arm around his neck. She droops and dangles; her body threatens to slither out of his hands and he struggles to maintain his grip.
Giles meets him at the bottom of the stairs. His glasses are askew, his shirt untucked. He carries a crossbow and the corner of his mouth is split open, blood drying in the cracks. He stares at Oz holding Tara, eyebrows down, eyes narrowed, and then comprehension slides across.
“Did we win?” Oz asks. He resettles Tara in his arms, holds her tighter to his chest so she won’t slip away. Giles reaches for her, places one hand on her arm, but then looks at the crossbow and drops both hands to his sides.
“I believe so,” Giles says. “For the moment, at least.” He watches Oz’s face, and Oz can see something dark about him, something younger, more violent than any expression he’s seen Giles wear before. He’s intrigued, and if his hands weren’t full, he’d have to reach out and touch Giles’ skin, see if he feels as different as he looks.
Tara makes a noise, a small sound in the back of her throat, and both men look at her instead of each other.
“We should get her somewhere to rest,” Oz says.
“We’ll take her home,” Giles says. He leads Oz to the front door and out into the yard. The sun is setting and somewhere behind the house, a faint wolf howl raises goose bumps on Oz’s skin. A year ago, he would have wanted to answer it, and hated himself for the urge.
Now, it’s just another part of the background, familiar.
It’s awkward, trying to get Tara into Giles’ tiny car. Oz contorts and stretches and finally deposits her in the backseat, leaving him to sit next to Giles. When he changes gears, Giles’ hand brushes against the side of Oz’s leg.
Oz stares at the healing cuts on his arms and holds very still. The backwash of adrenaline surges through him, and he’s half-hard and all too aware of the smell of Giles, sweat, tweed, and the normal human musk of him. Natural. Delicious.
Giles’ place is dark, of course, and chilled. Giles doesn’t bother to turn on the lights downstairs, but Oz can see enough to carry Tara up the stairs. Giles opens the bedroom door, stands back to let him through.
When Oz leans down to place Tara on the bed, she clings to him, her hands clutching his shoulders. He’s inordinately pleased, because he doesn’t want to let her go. It doesn’t matter anymore how she stole Willow or how he lost control of his anger and the wolf. She’s Tara, and she’s strong and she’s wonderful. She’s warm and soft, feels comfortable in his arms.
Tara drops to the bed, releases him at last. Oz straightens again, but she reaches for him, grabs his wrists. She’s careful not to hurt him, not to put any pressure on his wounds, but she pulls him back down until he’s bent over her.
She kisses him then, and it’s even better than it was before.
Oz leans into her, touches his tongue to her lips. Her mouth opens and she pulls him closer. Oz’s mind won’t be still, but his thoughts turn too quick to catch any single one.
When he pulls away, Tara smiles at him. Her eyes are dark and her gaze intense. She removes the ragged remains of her clothes before she lies back on the bed, moving slowly because of her injuries, but languid.
Giles joins them, his shirt already gone. His hands are warm when they cup Oz’s face, and rough to the touch. He traces a line along Oz’s cheeks, and then leans in, taking his time. Oz can pull away if he wants, but he holds himself in place, tilts his head to prepare for the kiss.
It is wonderful, too, heavier than Tara’s, firmer. Giles kisses as if he’s sold his mouth to a devil, and stolen it back. He wraps his arms around Oz and he’s tall and solid, so much stronger than his librarian persona leads Oz to believe.
Oz understands layers, personality, hidden secrets. He touches Giles’ waist, and then the small of his back, and deepens the kiss.
When they part, both breathe hard. Their arms are still around each other when Tara makes a noise, reminds them she’s still present, and involved.
She rises to her knees, heavy breasts swaying with each movement. She stretches her arms over her head, revealing all of her pale flesh. Her nipples are hard, the skin around them flushed and swollen.
Oz releases Giles, reluctant, and reaches for her, runs his fingertips from her shoulders to her thighs. Tara shivers, circles her fingers around his wrists again, and draws him onto the bed.
Giles kneels behind him, pulls Oz back long enough to remove his shirt. Oz can’t stay away from Tara any longer and pulls her forward, tugs her flush against him. Giles’ hands, working at the buttons on Oz’s pants, are trapped between their bodies.
Tara is warm and slithers up and down against Oz. She moans into his mouth, sighs wordless against his lips. He pushes her onto her back, lowers himself over her, careful not to put too much pressure on any one part of her body. He’s compact, but she looks so delicate.
Her hands reach for him again and Oz leans into her. Giles pulls off his shoes and tugs down his pants, but Oz is too caught up in Tara’s mouth, in her desperate kisses, to pay attention, to help.
Finally they are all together, naked, Giles stretched out next to Tara, turned on his side so he can watch and touch as much as he pleases. Tara stretches her arms over her head and smiles at them both, radiant and oh so happy.
Oz runs his hands along Tara’s stomach, lowers himself so he’s settled between her thighs. She parts her legs farther, gives him room, and he takes advantage to slide his fingers from her knees all the way up into the patch of dark hair.
Tara whimpers, twists, and immediately he can feel her body react.
Oz slips one finger inside. Tara is warm and slick; she twitches on first contact and then thrusts against him when he presses his thumb firmly against her clit. He can feel her heartbeat, fast, and the blood surge through her veins, a race toward the end he craves.
Giles leans in to kiss Tara, holding her face between his hands. He’s overwhelming up close, but Oz doesn’t feel ignored or pushed away. Instead he concentrates on making Tara gasp and nip at Giles’ lower lip.
He remembers wanting to devour her, feel her flesh part between his teeth. In penance, and because he enjoys the pleasure, he lowers himself to the bed, settles his mouth over her. His tongue replaces his thumb, works quickly and firmly, until Tara arches her back, and cries out. One hand grabs his hair, jerks at the spikes, and then presses him against her, hard and needy.
When her shaking slows and she releases him, Oz rolls to one side, wipes a hand across his mouth, cleaning. He concentrates on breathing and easing the crick in his neck. Tara and Giles continue, and he’s happy enough to watch and rest for a moment, but soon it’s too much, he’s hard and throbbing and he wants, oh, how he wants.
He rises up between Tara’s legs, moves her as much as he dares without breaking her contact with Giles, and thrusts inside, steady and easy. She looks up at him, smiles, her eyes wide, breath too fast. When Giles looks at him, too, disheveled and panting, Oz fucks Tara, hard and quick.
Tara’s hand looks small wrapped around Giles’ cock. He groans and tosses his head back. Tara flexes her wrists, squeezes, and he grunts and thrusts. Oz’s movements slow again as he watches. This isn’t the first time he’s had sex with two people, but he’s surprised by how erotic it looks, Giles strangely uncontrolled and Tara all-knowing and powerful.
Giles bends down, kisses Tara, and Oz images him on his hands and his knees, or, better still, pressed tight against Oz’s back. It’s a good image, enticing.
When Giles pulls away, Tara guides him closer, leads him into a quick shuffle of body parts before she twists her head hard to the side and tugs Giles down toward her. He grips the headboard with one hand, catches his balance, and Tara guides his penis down to her lips.
Her mouth closes around Giles and Oz can hear her suck, can see the lines appear in her cheeks. She clamps down on Oz, too, and it’s too much, watching and feeling and hearing her tiny, muffled whimpers.
Oz thrusts inside once more and grabs Tara’s hips, hard. He knows she’ll find bruises in the morning, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t let go. Instead he throws back his head and howls. The sound isn’t the same from his human throat, but it’s still the best noise he knows to make. It’s instinct, clawing and howling, and if Tara rolled, he wouldn’t be able to not bite the back of her neck.
Giles comes a moment later. He’s tugged his hair into spikes with his free hand, and he’s gripping the headboard so hard it must hurt. Oz pulls out, falls to one side. He can’t breathe, can’t think, it’s so good, still, this afterglow.
Giles collapses on Tara’s other side. She touches each of them, light and fleeting, and stretches her legs, rubs her hips. She’s smiling, like a cat with cream and a canary, and Oz wants to smile back, but he’s so tired now, all adrenaline gone.
Tara crawls to the end of the bed, movement stiff and slow, and it takes her awhile, even though the bed isn’t big. When she returns, she draws a blanket up over all of them. Oz huddles close, feeling the chill creeping into the room now they are done.
When he closes his eyes, he can still see Tara’s smile.
End
author: Carla
disclaimer: Giles, Tara, and Oz belong to Joss Whedon.
distribution: Escritoire Azul, Maren's site, otherwise please ask
dedication: Written for lm as a backup fic for the Sandwich Ficathon. I am sorry it's so late, even for a backup, and probably not at all what you were expecting. Also thanks to illmantrim for the very quick, very last minute beta. I really appreciate it.
setting: alternate universe more or less, breaking off after "The Gift"
rating: 18+
feedback: Yes, please. I always want it.
summary: "Giles kisses as if he's sold his mouth to the devil, and stolen it back."
When Oz sees Tara for the first time, he thinks about eating her, daydreams about it, craves the taste of blood. He knows her skin would catch on his teeth, tear, peel away to entrails and a dark, delicious warmth.
He knows-immediate, visceral-he should lock himself away. All the Zen in the world, all the mental barriers, isn’t enough. He doesn’t know if an actual, physical cage could contain him, either, but it would help, would give her the time to run, to make the hunt more interesting.
His mouth fills, saliva on his teeth; his tongue is too large, too eager, and he nicks it on one sharpening fang. The blood floods, fast, down his throat, and a thin flap of skin separates and cleaves to the roof of his mouth.
Oz’s face tightens; he can feel the muscles tense under his flesh. No matter how he holds himself back, he can’t stop stalking Tara, one slow step at a time.
He’s silent, dangerous, but something, some small whisper of the damned cloth he wears instead of fur, gives him away.
Tara is sitting in Giles’ living room, a laptop resting on her crossed legs. He didn’t think he’d see her here, not in the apartment, not in England, not even on this side of the world.
She looks up at him, and he expects her to be startled, followed by comprehension and fear. Tara is calm, unfathomable, imperturbable, and remains so. She looks at him, right at him, and there’s no shyness in her eyes, no terror. She remembers exactly who he is, what he is, but she’s not scared, not one bit.
Footsteps overhead approach the stairs and Oz hears Giles call out as he descends, out of breath.
“Tara, you’d best move upstairs. Oz will arrive shortly and I don’t want either of you to be uncomfortable.”
Tara continues to watch Oz and waits until Giles enters the room before she speaks.
“Too late,” she says. Oz can hear amusement beneath her words, mixed with resignation and, he thinks, some sort of sadness. He doesn’t know what caused it. He doesn’t want to care. “It’s much too late for warnings.”
She sounds mysterious and all-knowing, despite her simple words.
“Hello, Oz,” Giles says. He’s flustered; he pulls off his glasses, cleans them on the tail of his shirt. “I didn’t think you’d be here this soon.”
“Short lines at the airport,” Oz says. His voice is too low, it rumbles, and he can hear the growl to it, inhuman and far too familiar.
Giles sets his glasses back on his nose and looks at Oz, his gaze focused.
“You’re still able to control the wolf? You aren’t a slave to the cycle of the moon?”
Oz nods. “I can change at will, too, without the full moon. I can change into a wolf whenever I want.” He looks at Tara then, but still she is not afraid.
“You can transform yourself at any given time?” Giles’ eyes are wide behind the glasses and he immediately picks up a small notebook and pen from the table next to the couch. “How fascinating. When did you first learn you had the ability?”
Tara stretches, pushing her fingertips toward the ceiling, sets the laptop on the coffee table, and stands. “I’ll leave you two to visit,” she says. Her voice is low, and then lower when she continues, slow and sweet. “Don’t be up too late, Rupert.” She heads toward the stairs and drags her fingers along Giles’ back. She sways when she walks, all curves and soft flesh.
Oz is staring, but Giles only gives him a sharp look and then takes Tara’s seat. After a moment, Oz sits in the chair perpendicular to the couch. He relaxes again, at ease alone with Giles.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” Giles says. “I hope your trip wasn’t too rough.”
Oz shakes his head. “No worse than averting an apocalypse.” There is nothing more to be said about that.
The silence is heavy, tangible, and Giles clears his throat. “I was surprised when Willow told me you’d been in touch with her. I know you didn’t part on the best of terms….”
Oz’s chest still aches at her name.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Oz says instead, “and without the Slayer.” It’s not quite what he wants to say, because Willow had been upset when she’d told him Giles and Tara had left, hurt but trying her best to hide it.
Shadows pass over Giles’ face. He lowers his head, places his chin in his palm, and stares at the floor. “I thought Willow had told you. Buffy’s dead.” He stops, swallows hard.
“I’m sorry,” Oz says. Despite his normal calm, he’s uncomfortable in this situation. “Doesn’t the new Slayer need you, though? Or does each new one get a new Watcher?”
Giles shakes his head. “There is no new Slayer. Buffy already died and activated the Slayer after her. When Kendra died, she activated Faith. There will be no new Slayer until Faith….”
“So the world’s only hope is a rogue Slayer?”
Giles nods, and covers his face with his hands. “She’s in prison. Children face the forces of darkness on the Hellmouth, and the only Slayer is incarcerated.”
Oz moves to the couch, puts his hand on Giles’ shoulder. “They’re not children any longer,” he says. Giles lifts his head, gazes up at the ceiling, and smiles crooked, one corner of his mouth higher than the other.
“I know.” This time, the silence is comfortable, familiar. “You didn’t travel all this way to discuss the lack of Slayers. Willow said you had information about a pending attack on the Watchers Council?”
Oz realizes his hand is still on Giles’ shoulder. He pulls it away, but his fingers linger and are slow to move. “Werewolves always recognize each other. They know what I am and think I’m just like them. They tell me their plans.”
“They trust a complete stranger? Even if they know you’re a werewolf, that’s a very weak way to operate.” Giles sits up straight and reaches for his notebook again. Oz recognizes the expression on his face. It’s been too long since he saw it, a man on a quest to understand, and he’s missed it.
He’s told himself he only misses the comparative peace of high school, but it’s one of the rare times he’s lied, even just to himself. He’s missed Giles, and being a part of a team.
Oz stares at his hands, curves his fingers toward his palms, and remembers his skin, wet, blood stuck under the nail-claws. “They didn’t trust me easily,” he says, and nothing more.
Giles, for once, allows him peace and does not pursue that line of questioning. “When will they attack?” he asks instead.
“Soon,” Oz says, and looks up again. “I don’t know exactly when, but they were on the move when I left. They’ve found the Watchers’ home base and plan to destroy it.”
“How many are coming?”
Oz shrugs one shoulder. “No more than twenty. Werewolves aren’t as prevalent as vampires.”
Giles questions him for nearly an hour, takes detailed notes, and double checks everything when they are through. He doesn’t stop until Tara appears on the stairs, wearing a long man’s robe. Her hair is wet and pushed back off her face.
Oz decides she’s beautiful, and tries to squelch the thought immediately.
~~*
When Oz sees Tara for the second time, she’s sitting in Giles’ backyard, her skirt tossed haphazard across her legs, blown out of place by the slight breeze. She’s surrounded by flowers. Oz knows Giles brings them home to her from the florist stalls on the main streets, and they are already half-dead, or more.
Tara holds her hands out, palms down, fingers spread wide. She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel the magic radiating off her in slow, pulsating waves.
“I’m sorry,” Oz says, and surprises himself. Tara nods, but doesn’t look at him. He sits down in front of her, careful not to get too close. He wants to say something more, to explain why he’s apologizing, but she smiles. The expression spreads across her face slow and hesitant, but he thinks she understands.
“There’s life, still,” Tara says. “Deep inside. I just have to find it, tempt it.”
She closes her hands into fists, lowers them into her lap. The flowers perk up, stretch leaves, drop roots into the ground. Oz can feel the air change, the warmth of spring, the heat of summer, and finally the first chill of autumn. Petals fall to the ground, disintegrate, and are gone.
The back door opens, but Giles stops just outside the doorway. When Tara looks at him, she grins, big and bright. Her entire face lights up and Oz has to look away. It’s worse when he sees Giles return the smile.
“The Council doesn’t believe us,” Giles says. Oz likes the way he phrases bad news, straightforward and doesn’t try to lessen the blow. Oz also likes the way Giles says “us,” as if Oz belongs.
He’s been around the other werewolves too long. He’s forgotten, or mostly forgotten, how to be by himself.
“What are we going to do?” Tara asks. She twists around to face Giles; her shirt rides up in the back and her skin is pale and luminescent. It looks soft and Oz can imagine how it would feel beneath his hands.
Giles sighs, cleans his glasses. He’s buying time and his frustration is written all over his face in tight lines and tense muscles. “Go back tomorrow and try to convince them Oz’s intelligence is sound. They don’t trust him because he’s a werewolf. Who better to bring us information about a planned werewolf attack?”
“It’s my turn to make dinner.” Tara dusts the detritus of the flowers from her skirt and rises to her knees. Before she stands, she looks at Oz, watches his face, and then, faster than he thought possible, Tara presses her mouth against his. Her lips are dry and lightly chapped, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. Oz closes his eyes, touches his fingers to her exposed calf.
She breaks away, stands, and hurries inside. Oz rolls to his feet smoothly, and runs one hand over his hair. The spikes are rough against his palm. He should dye them again, but not until he meets with the Council.
When he looks up, Giles is watching him, a small smile curving his lips.
~~*
When Oz sees Tara for the third time, she’s half-naked and bloody. He doesn’t think she’s been bitten, but her shirt is torn, her pants, her skin. Her hair hangs in her face, sticky with sweat and dirt. When she looks up at him, he doesn’t see any of the confidence or strength he expects.
She’s young again, sudden and complete, and scared. He smells magic, like burnt oranges and weed, sick-sweet and heavy everywhere. The Council members and their potential Slayers, the ones they’ve gathered from around the world, fight hard and drive the werewolves back.
Tara’s been casting spells throughout the skirmish, confusion on their enemies, strength to the potential Slayers, light when the power was cut. She’s exhausted, her skin grey beneath the bloodstains. Oz offers her his hand and helps her stand; she stumbles before she even takes a step.
When he lifts her, she’s lighter than he expects, as if she’s drained off her very essence, as if she’s done too much. Tara rests her head against his shoulder, half-heartedly wraps an arm around his neck. She droops and dangles; her body threatens to slither out of his hands and he struggles to maintain his grip.
Giles meets him at the bottom of the stairs. His glasses are askew, his shirt untucked. He carries a crossbow and the corner of his mouth is split open, blood drying in the cracks. He stares at Oz holding Tara, eyebrows down, eyes narrowed, and then comprehension slides across.
“Did we win?” Oz asks. He resettles Tara in his arms, holds her tighter to his chest so she won’t slip away. Giles reaches for her, places one hand on her arm, but then looks at the crossbow and drops both hands to his sides.
“I believe so,” Giles says. “For the moment, at least.” He watches Oz’s face, and Oz can see something dark about him, something younger, more violent than any expression he’s seen Giles wear before. He’s intrigued, and if his hands weren’t full, he’d have to reach out and touch Giles’ skin, see if he feels as different as he looks.
Tara makes a noise, a small sound in the back of her throat, and both men look at her instead of each other.
“We should get her somewhere to rest,” Oz says.
“We’ll take her home,” Giles says. He leads Oz to the front door and out into the yard. The sun is setting and somewhere behind the house, a faint wolf howl raises goose bumps on Oz’s skin. A year ago, he would have wanted to answer it, and hated himself for the urge.
Now, it’s just another part of the background, familiar.
It’s awkward, trying to get Tara into Giles’ tiny car. Oz contorts and stretches and finally deposits her in the backseat, leaving him to sit next to Giles. When he changes gears, Giles’ hand brushes against the side of Oz’s leg.
Oz stares at the healing cuts on his arms and holds very still. The backwash of adrenaline surges through him, and he’s half-hard and all too aware of the smell of Giles, sweat, tweed, and the normal human musk of him. Natural. Delicious.
Giles’ place is dark, of course, and chilled. Giles doesn’t bother to turn on the lights downstairs, but Oz can see enough to carry Tara up the stairs. Giles opens the bedroom door, stands back to let him through.
When Oz leans down to place Tara on the bed, she clings to him, her hands clutching his shoulders. He’s inordinately pleased, because he doesn’t want to let her go. It doesn’t matter anymore how she stole Willow or how he lost control of his anger and the wolf. She’s Tara, and she’s strong and she’s wonderful. She’s warm and soft, feels comfortable in his arms.
Tara drops to the bed, releases him at last. Oz straightens again, but she reaches for him, grabs his wrists. She’s careful not to hurt him, not to put any pressure on his wounds, but she pulls him back down until he’s bent over her.
She kisses him then, and it’s even better than it was before.
Oz leans into her, touches his tongue to her lips. Her mouth opens and she pulls him closer. Oz’s mind won’t be still, but his thoughts turn too quick to catch any single one.
When he pulls away, Tara smiles at him. Her eyes are dark and her gaze intense. She removes the ragged remains of her clothes before she lies back on the bed, moving slowly because of her injuries, but languid.
Giles joins them, his shirt already gone. His hands are warm when they cup Oz’s face, and rough to the touch. He traces a line along Oz’s cheeks, and then leans in, taking his time. Oz can pull away if he wants, but he holds himself in place, tilts his head to prepare for the kiss.
It is wonderful, too, heavier than Tara’s, firmer. Giles kisses as if he’s sold his mouth to a devil, and stolen it back. He wraps his arms around Oz and he’s tall and solid, so much stronger than his librarian persona leads Oz to believe.
Oz understands layers, personality, hidden secrets. He touches Giles’ waist, and then the small of his back, and deepens the kiss.
When they part, both breathe hard. Their arms are still around each other when Tara makes a noise, reminds them she’s still present, and involved.
She rises to her knees, heavy breasts swaying with each movement. She stretches her arms over her head, revealing all of her pale flesh. Her nipples are hard, the skin around them flushed and swollen.
Oz releases Giles, reluctant, and reaches for her, runs his fingertips from her shoulders to her thighs. Tara shivers, circles her fingers around his wrists again, and draws him onto the bed.
Giles kneels behind him, pulls Oz back long enough to remove his shirt. Oz can’t stay away from Tara any longer and pulls her forward, tugs her flush against him. Giles’ hands, working at the buttons on Oz’s pants, are trapped between their bodies.
Tara is warm and slithers up and down against Oz. She moans into his mouth, sighs wordless against his lips. He pushes her onto her back, lowers himself over her, careful not to put too much pressure on any one part of her body. He’s compact, but she looks so delicate.
Her hands reach for him again and Oz leans into her. Giles pulls off his shoes and tugs down his pants, but Oz is too caught up in Tara’s mouth, in her desperate kisses, to pay attention, to help.
Finally they are all together, naked, Giles stretched out next to Tara, turned on his side so he can watch and touch as much as he pleases. Tara stretches her arms over her head and smiles at them both, radiant and oh so happy.
Oz runs his hands along Tara’s stomach, lowers himself so he’s settled between her thighs. She parts her legs farther, gives him room, and he takes advantage to slide his fingers from her knees all the way up into the patch of dark hair.
Tara whimpers, twists, and immediately he can feel her body react.
Oz slips one finger inside. Tara is warm and slick; she twitches on first contact and then thrusts against him when he presses his thumb firmly against her clit. He can feel her heartbeat, fast, and the blood surge through her veins, a race toward the end he craves.
Giles leans in to kiss Tara, holding her face between his hands. He’s overwhelming up close, but Oz doesn’t feel ignored or pushed away. Instead he concentrates on making Tara gasp and nip at Giles’ lower lip.
He remembers wanting to devour her, feel her flesh part between his teeth. In penance, and because he enjoys the pleasure, he lowers himself to the bed, settles his mouth over her. His tongue replaces his thumb, works quickly and firmly, until Tara arches her back, and cries out. One hand grabs his hair, jerks at the spikes, and then presses him against her, hard and needy.
When her shaking slows and she releases him, Oz rolls to one side, wipes a hand across his mouth, cleaning. He concentrates on breathing and easing the crick in his neck. Tara and Giles continue, and he’s happy enough to watch and rest for a moment, but soon it’s too much, he’s hard and throbbing and he wants, oh, how he wants.
He rises up between Tara’s legs, moves her as much as he dares without breaking her contact with Giles, and thrusts inside, steady and easy. She looks up at him, smiles, her eyes wide, breath too fast. When Giles looks at him, too, disheveled and panting, Oz fucks Tara, hard and quick.
Tara’s hand looks small wrapped around Giles’ cock. He groans and tosses his head back. Tara flexes her wrists, squeezes, and he grunts and thrusts. Oz’s movements slow again as he watches. This isn’t the first time he’s had sex with two people, but he’s surprised by how erotic it looks, Giles strangely uncontrolled and Tara all-knowing and powerful.
Giles bends down, kisses Tara, and Oz images him on his hands and his knees, or, better still, pressed tight against Oz’s back. It’s a good image, enticing.
When Giles pulls away, Tara guides him closer, leads him into a quick shuffle of body parts before she twists her head hard to the side and tugs Giles down toward her. He grips the headboard with one hand, catches his balance, and Tara guides his penis down to her lips.
Her mouth closes around Giles and Oz can hear her suck, can see the lines appear in her cheeks. She clamps down on Oz, too, and it’s too much, watching and feeling and hearing her tiny, muffled whimpers.
Oz thrusts inside once more and grabs Tara’s hips, hard. He knows she’ll find bruises in the morning, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t let go. Instead he throws back his head and howls. The sound isn’t the same from his human throat, but it’s still the best noise he knows to make. It’s instinct, clawing and howling, and if Tara rolled, he wouldn’t be able to not bite the back of her neck.
Giles comes a moment later. He’s tugged his hair into spikes with his free hand, and he’s gripping the headboard so hard it must hurt. Oz pulls out, falls to one side. He can’t breathe, can’t think, it’s so good, still, this afterglow.
Giles collapses on Tara’s other side. She touches each of them, light and fleeting, and stretches her legs, rubs her hips. She’s smiling, like a cat with cream and a canary, and Oz wants to smile back, but he’s so tired now, all adrenaline gone.
Tara crawls to the end of the bed, movement stiff and slow, and it takes her awhile, even though the bed isn’t big. When she returns, she draws a blanket up over all of them. Oz huddles close, feeling the chill creeping into the room now they are done.
When he closes his eyes, he can still see Tara’s smile.
End