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
( ... )
When Oz switches on the bright kitchen lights, Giles feels as though he's finally waking after falling from dream to nested dream. Blinking, he leans against the refrigerator and watches Oz fill and plug in the kettle, run hot water in the teapot to warm it, and spoon good, rich Darjeeling leaves into the teaball. Everything done exactly as Giles taught him, when he was seventeen and thought that tea came in a red Lipton's box. Everything done exactly the way Giles likes.
"She's alive," Giles says to Oz's back as he fusses, unnecessarily, with the plug on the kettle. "Buffy. They brought her back."
Oz turns then. His eyes look dark, deep-sunk, and his hands can't seem to settle-they grip the countertop, rub Oz's goosefleshed arms, tug at the hem of his t-shirt, dart to Oz's mouth, where he bites a nail ferociously, wincing in pain as he strips it to the quick. But he nods and smiles, face trying to tell a different story from his body.
"You're shivering." Oz nods again, like a reflex, and lets Giles pull him close. Lets him, not
( ... )
Teeth chattering a little, Oz checks the clock next to the fridge after adding the boiling water to the teapot; he used the darkest stuff, so it's going to steep for just a couple minutes.
"Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world," Giles told him a long time ago, and it doesn't matter if it's yak-butter tea or Giles' favorite smoky kind. It's true, and Oz watches his hands, bright white in the light, move like birds, warming the mugs and reaching for the sugar.
Giles is at the table now, his chair pulled out a little, looking down at his own hands, watching them flex, watching the fingers knit together. "Here," Oz says, handing him his mug and pulling up close against his side. Here, he's been saying ever since he got back, here and not going, and it seems unfair somehow, surreal, that Giles should be the one leaving first. Buffy, though, Buffy changes everything, erases every rule and expectation
( ... )
"We?" Surprise makes it spill from Giles' mouth without thought, without a moment's consideration, and of course he should have known how it would sound. But he didn't, not until it's hanging cold and sharp in the air between them, and Oz turns his face away
( ... )
Comments 17
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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"She's alive," Giles says to Oz's back as he fusses, unnecessarily, with the plug on the kettle. "Buffy. They brought her back."
Oz turns then. His eyes look dark, deep-sunk, and his hands can't seem to settle-they grip the countertop, rub Oz's goosefleshed arms, tug at the hem of his t-shirt, dart to Oz's mouth, where he bites a nail ferociously, wincing in pain as he strips it to the quick. But he nods and smiles, face trying to tell a different story from his body.
"You're shivering." Oz nods again, like a reflex, and lets Giles pull him close. Lets him, not ( ... )
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"Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world," Giles told him a long time ago, and it doesn't matter if it's yak-butter tea or Giles' favorite smoky kind. It's true, and Oz watches his hands, bright white in the light, move like birds, warming the mugs and reaching for the sugar.
Giles is at the table now, his chair pulled out a little, looking down at his own hands, watching them flex, watching the fingers knit together. "Here," Oz says, handing him his mug and pulling up close against his side. Here, he's been saying ever since he got back, here and not going, and it seems unfair somehow, surreal, that Giles should be the one leaving first. Buffy, though, Buffy changes everything, erases every rule and expectation ( ... )
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