London, 09/2001: The past and its traces
Oz straightens up from his crouch by the new bookshelf and takes a deep breath. The windows are open on another clear, dry day and the curtain smacks him gently in the face when the breeze starts up.
It actually looks like an apartment, like someone's - his, their - home, around here now. The walls are painted, the books unpacked and arranged according to Giles' ultra-picky alphabetic system, and the shelves Oz built under the windows look much better than he thought they were going to. The kitchen is neat and warm, all the laundry is finished, and the bedroom doesn't look like two toddlers have been eating sugar and jumping for the long weekend.
Most importantly, Giles is feeling better and Oz is settling in.
Giles returns to the living room with a mug of tea in each hand, dark and bitter for himself, creamygolden and "horribly, toothrottingly sweet" for Oz. The afternoon light, paler even than Oz's tea, washes Giles' face, makes him look young and surprised to see Oz there, rather than the couch where he left him.
"Thanks. Hey," Oz says, accepting his mug and bringing the book around from behind his back. "Can I talk to you? I want - I need to give you this."
Leave it to me, Oz thinks, just when things are going well, to make sure they get fucked.
"Just, before -" he says quickly, taking the book back before Giles has a chance to touch it. "Know that I'm not going anywhere, okay? Not going anywhere."
(the book)