It's twenty-five minutes into a completely unnecessary meeting, and the new principal is still talking. Discipline, order, zero tolerance for infractions; if Snyder weren't such a ridiculous little man, he'd remind Giles of Quentin Travers. Unfortunately, the institutional crackdown that Snyder's proposing on "troublemakers" isn't ridiculous at all; it could be a serious problem. By her nature, Buffy's always at the center of trouble
( ... )
Books have a way of multiplying around Giles, reproducing like rabbits, and his face is only just visible over the top of today's pile. Oz swings off the edge of the van and takes several books off the top. Steps back
( ... )
Now that the books are in the car, Giles has nothing to do with his hands. His whole body seems misoriented somehow, as though he's woken in some awkward position, limbs tangled in blankets and head off the edge of the bed. There's no movement that feels natural.
Finally he puts his hands in his pockets, where they can't reach for Oz's shoulders. "I'm going home now," he says. "I've some work to do." But already he pictures himself waiting, jittery with anticipation, eyes drifting over uncomprehended words and checking the clock every two minutes.
"Never mind that. I can't work if I'm waiting for you." His smile feels strange, furtive, and pushes his face into a shape that seems wrong, but it's the best he can do. "Give me half an hour, then come round." No need to warn Oz to park that eye-catching van a couple of streets away; they've already had that talk.
Oz really isn't made for concealment. He ought to have brown hair and drive a Honda Accord, and be less unmistakably himself.
Oz nods and he's halfway back to the van before he turns and waves. Half an hour to go, but it feels like he's waving goodbye for a transcontinental voyage. Sometimes, and he doesn't like to ponder quite how often, he's pretty sure he pisses Giles off. It could just be discomfort, and that's what he usually chalks it up to, but there are edges to Giles's voice that catch and snag Oz's attention. Make him worry. I can't work if I'm waiting for you: Could be a compliment, could be a complaint, and Oz just can't tell.
He drives home and showers. It might be well after four, but it feels like the day's just getting started; it's also a good way to use up ten minutes. Scrubs dry his hair and finishes off the roach in his ashtray before lacing up his sneakers - trainers, Giles calls them, though what Oz is in training for remains unclear - and setting off on foot
( ... )
Giles runs his palm lightly up Oz's thigh, following the thick seam that's dark against the faded brown cotton. "I'll bring the guitar if you like," he says, toying with the loose stitching at the pocket and the knob of Oz's hipbone below it. "You should bring yours, too." He's only heard Oz play twice, and both times Oz got red and shy whenever he fumbled a chord. Usually he just shrugs and asks Giles to play instead
( ... )
"I *could* promise," Oz says, inhaling, holding his breath when Giles brushes his thumb over one nipple. So lightly it's probably an accident. He has to wiggle again, because he wants to touch Giles back and usually waits, not so much for an invitation as some kind of signal that it's okay. Giles favors button-downs, though, and it took Oz a while to figure out he could just pop a couple buttons and have more than enough room to slide his hand in. Giles's skin is always warm and full to the touch, solid and flexible all at the same time. Oz presses his palm against his breastbone and smiles
( ... )
"Perhaps if we both keep our fingers crossed for the next three days, we'll be all right." Oz's hand is traveling up towards Giles' neck, so he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, lets Oz touch him. Playful touches, exploratory, knuckles rolling over his adam's apple and up to his chin, nails skritching lightly through beard stubble, thumbs pressing up his collarbone to his shoulders. Giles keeps his own hands wandering and easy, to let Oz set the pace.
Oz pulls his head down, thumbs along his neck and fingers in his hair, and kisses him.
And the telephone rings.
In an instant Oz is off his lap and halfway across the room. Giles scrambles for the phone, and if this is a telemarketer the bastard's going to get an earful.
Every time the phone rings, Giles has that pounding tension in his chest that only used to happen if the phone rang in the middle of the night. Now, any call could bring the worst imaginable news.
"Hello," he says, and his voice sounds choked and rough.
Hi, Giles! It's Buffy."Buffy." For a moment he's relieved
( ... )
He's got electrified barbed wire in his veins and it's going off, humming and sizzling, so Oz just nods. Instead of getting used to this, he feels like he's getting worse. It's the shock of the ringing phone, but more than that, it's hearing Giles talk to his slayer. He sounds like a dad, a good dad, patient and affectionate; he sounds the same when he talks to the other girl, too. Once it was the boy, and Giles sounded like a monitor in detention, telling the guy to calm down and take a breath
( ... )
Maybe he ought to be used to it by now, getting touched and kissed and hearing the sex-roughened edge to Giles's voice, but Oz isn't, and doesn't want to be. Because it all makes him feel floaty, like he's a lava lamp, warm and spinning inside his own skin, and he's loose and held and Giles wouldn't laugh at him, let alone push him away.
Still, talking about it: That's fairly new and freaksome and as he moans he lets the words sort themselves out in the front of his mind, red and gold lights rearranging until he can pull back a little, thrust hard, short, and fast into Giles's hand and say, "Want so much. Want to excite you and -"
Words, images, positions, porn-grade and crude, keep shuffling past his eyes and Oz kisses Giles again, catches Giles's tongue in his teeth and fucks his hand until he's shuddering all the way, liquefying and steaming away, and he can still smell Giles on his own skin and when he realizes that and Giles twists his cock the other way, Oz yelps and can't stop himself from coming.
The cry and the hot spatter take Giles by surprise. Sometimes he forgets what a seventeen-year-old body is like, how quickly and ferociously it reacts.
Another time, soon, he'll give Oz the rest of what he wanted. Everything at once, as much sensation as he can take. Giles' fingers working in him and Giles' mouth tight around his cock, each of them inside the other
With his shirt-tail, Giles mops them both clean. Best to be sure Oz doesn't go home in stained clothes that reek of sex. His mother doesn't seem to notice much, or care, but Giles knows better than to take chances. Oz shivers a little at the touch, sighs, and then wraps an arm around Giles' waist and nuzzles his chest.
Giles holds him, strokes and kisses him and tries not to think. This is the time to let time stand still, but it never can for long.
There's research to do, and his official diary needs updating. But if he asks, Oz might stay a few more hours, have dinner with him, read while he works.
Heat has settled and keeps prickling over his face like stage make-up, thick and impossible to ignore, painted on, and Oz keeps his head down, holds tight to Giles until he gets his breath back and the hot shivers rolling through him start to slow and release him
( ... )
Oz is always bringing gifts: spinach from the farmer's market, tattered paperback novels that usually turn out to be good, mix tapes of bands Giles has never heard of. Giles tries to give him things in return (taped copies of his records, Cadbury bars from his dwindling supply) but nothing that could be noticed or could lead to questions. When Giles walks along the high street things catch his eye, books and CDs and odd bits of silver jewellery that Oz would like, and he always wants to buy them. But he doesn't.
"Thank you." Giles only mentioned the melons in passing one day, but Oz remembers everything. "Can you stay for a bit? I could do pasta or something. Later I do have to work, but even then . . . if you feel like reading and don't mind me being poor company."
He kneads the back of Oz's neck, gently, and dimly remembers a time when he didn't mind spending the evening alone.
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Finally he puts his hands in his pockets, where they can't reach for Oz's shoulders. "I'm going home now," he says. "I've some work to do." But already he pictures himself waiting, jittery with anticipation, eyes drifting over uncomprehended words and checking the clock every two minutes.
"Never mind that. I can't work if I'm waiting for you." His smile feels strange, furtive, and pushes his face into a shape that seems wrong, but it's the best he can do. "Give me half an hour, then come round." No need to warn Oz to park that eye-catching van a couple of streets away; they've already had that talk.
Oz really isn't made for concealment. He ought to have brown hair and drive a Honda Accord, and be less unmistakably himself.
At least he's good at keeping secrets.
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He drives home and showers. It might be well after four, but it feels like the day's just getting started; it's also a good way to use up ten minutes. Scrubs dry his hair and finishes off the roach in his ashtray before lacing up his sneakers - trainers, Giles calls them, though what Oz is in training for remains unclear - and setting off on foot ( ... )
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Oz pulls his head down, thumbs along his neck and fingers in his hair, and kisses him.
And the telephone rings.
In an instant Oz is off his lap and halfway across the room. Giles scrambles for the phone, and if this is a telemarketer the bastard's going to get an earful.
Every time the phone rings, Giles has that pounding tension in his chest that only used to happen if the phone rang in the middle of the night. Now, any call could bring the worst imaginable news.
"Hello," he says, and his voice sounds choked and rough.
Hi, Giles! It's Buffy."Buffy." For a moment he's relieved ( ... )
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Still, talking about it: That's fairly new and freaksome and as he moans he lets the words sort themselves out in the front of his mind, red and gold lights rearranging until he can pull back a little, thrust hard, short, and fast into Giles's hand and say, "Want so much. Want to excite you and -"
Words, images, positions, porn-grade and crude, keep shuffling past his eyes and Oz kisses Giles again, catches Giles's tongue in his teeth and fucks his hand until he's shuddering all the way, liquefying and steaming away, and he can still smell Giles on his own skin and when he realizes that and Giles twists his cock the other way, Oz yelps and can't stop himself from coming.
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Another time, soon, he'll give Oz the rest of what he wanted. Everything at once, as much sensation as he can take. Giles' fingers working in him and Giles' mouth tight around his cock, each of them inside the other
With his shirt-tail, Giles mops them both clean. Best to be sure Oz doesn't go home in stained clothes that reek of sex. His mother doesn't seem to notice much, or care, but Giles knows better than to take chances. Oz shivers a little at the touch, sighs, and then wraps an arm around Giles' waist and nuzzles his chest.
Giles holds him, strokes and kisses him and tries not to think. This is the time to let time stand still, but it never can for long.
There's research to do, and his official diary needs updating. But if he asks, Oz might stay a few more hours, have dinner with him, read while he works.
Maybe Oz won't have to go just yet.
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"Thank you." Giles only mentioned the melons in passing one day, but Oz remembers everything. "Can you stay for a bit? I could do pasta or something. Later I do have to work, but even then . . . if you feel like reading and don't mind me being poor company."
He kneads the back of Oz's neck, gently, and dimly remembers a time when he didn't mind spending the evening alone.
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