Giles knows perfectly well that his hangover is his fault, the noise
level is no more than slightly above normal, and that shouting is both
exacerbating his headache and eroding his relationship with the Slayer
and her friends.
He just doesnât care.
He finishes by stabbing a righteous finger at a yellowed poster on the
library wall exhorting students to be quiet, and watches them file out,
reproachful, hurt glances, disgusted stares and all.
Then he makes tea, hot, scalding and strong, and goes to sit down in
his small office, trying not to let his chair swivel, as it squeaks
annoyingly.
The first reviving sips are still travelling down to mix with last
nightâs whiskey when the door opens.
“Hey.”
“Please go away,” Giles says, tiredness swamping the residual
annoyance. “Iâm not in the mood for -”
“Iâd say you were in a mood. A bad one.”
Giles looks up at this, surprise distracting him from a myriad of
bodily ills. “Itâs scarcely your concern,” he points out, aware that he
sounds unbearably stuffy.
“Wasnât. Is now.”
“And why is that?” Giles says, temper flaring as he takes an unwisely
large gulp of tea and is forced to swallow it or splutter tannin-tinted
liquid over a book order.
“Willowâs crying.”
“Ah.”
Silence falls for a moment. Giles glances once more at his visitor, but
he seems to feel heâs said all that is needed, and perhaps he has.
“Iâm sorry for that,” Giles offers eventually. “I will...tender my
apologies in person when I see her next.”
“Sheâd only get flustered.”
“Possibly,” Giles allows. Willow has a deeply ingrained sense of his
elevated status and an apology might be disconcerting.
“So I was thinking Iâd handle it for her.”
“I beg your pardon? Handle what?”
“What do you make to fit a crime?”
Giles finds his brain automatically locating the answer to the riddle
and his mouth speaking it, while another part of him entirely is adrift
on a sea of speculation.
Oz nods and Giles says, with some asperity, “Might I ask what you have
in mind?”
Thereâs a sidelong look and a head tilt that could be interpreted as
being as speculative as Gilesâ own thoughts. “I think Iâd like to see
how good you are at keeping quiet.”
“It being a skill youâve mastered?” Giles says, well aware that sarcasm
is a blunt instrument to use against an opponent whose words are
floating around the room like the first snowflakes of a blizzard, cool
and light, impossible to grasp tightly and still retain. And he finds
he wants to keep them, muse over them, lock them away deep and hidden.
The nod he gets in reply is accompanied by a smile so fleeting that
Giles wonders if he imagined it. Yet he feels absurdly encouraged by
it, real or not, and he pushes back his chair and walks over to the
figure who waits, slouched and silent, against the door.
Their eyes meet; calm clashing with expectant to produce a pact.
Giles follows Oz out into the library and notes, in passing, that the
doors are propped open. “Shouldnât you -?”
Oz shakes his head, marmalade hair catching the light. He leads Giles
up into the stacks, to a place where they are invisible to anyone on
the library floor and stops beside a set of steps, three rungs high,
designed to put the top shelves within reach of even the shortest
student. Oz nods again, thoughtfully this time and Giles wonders when
his covert study of this boy gave him the ability to decrypt his body
language; after a week, a month? Heâs not sure, but it scarcely
matters. Oz pats the top of the steps, solid wood, scarred by heels,
dull with dust and Giles perches on them, feeling awkward.
Oz studies him for a second and then reaches out, tugging at Gilesâ
legs, spreading them, making his feet lie flat against the carpet on
either side of the steps. Giles feels a tremor of need as he is posed,
exposed, feels his cock, hard since Oz appeared in the doorway, jerk
under the additional stimulus of cloth stretched tight and imagination
plucked by an expert finger.
He holds up his hands in silent appeal and Oz considers them, bird-like
tilt of the head conveying the message that, yes, this is a good point,
the hands have to be placed just so. Finally he takes them and puts
them behind Gilesâ back, his cool fingers turning them so that each
hand grips the opposite wrist, so that Giles is cuffed by his own
flesh. Being touched like this, looking down at crisp, curling hair,
feeling the brush of Ozâs legs against his thighs...itâs enough to make
Giles moan, a small sound, barely audible.
Oz steps back, frowning. His head shake is sorrowful and Giles feels
panic, unreasoning and intense, claw at him. His eyes widen in appeal
and Oz steps close enough to lay a long, calloused finger against
Gilesâ lips.
Oz speaks for the last time. “One sound, one word and itâs over. This
is a library. Have to be quiet, remember?”
So many words...Giles watches the mobile lips, entranced by the shapes
they form with each new sound, but most of all by the position they
take when Oz is done talking; parted slightly, the full lower lip
caught between white teeth for a moment. The teeth steal the colour
away and leave fleeting dents. Giles watches the colour flood back and
sees the indentations smooth out.
Oz is so close now, close enough for him to reach for the buckle of
Gilesâ belt, close enough to unfasten it, flick the button of his
trousers free, ease down the zip...In a moment Gilesâ backside is bare
against the wood and his trousers and briefs are around his knees,
stretched tightly because of where his feet are placed. His shirt
cloaks him, barely, and he can feel precisely where his balls are open
to the cool, dry air rather than shielded by cotton.
Ozâs fingers are busy again, delicately unbuttoning the shirt part way,
folding it back, pinning it on either side between Gilesâ arm and his
body. Gilesâ tie hangs down, incongruous against his bare chest and
Ozâs lips quirk up in a grin. Giles finds himself flushing with hurt
and Ozâs eyes catch his, hold them, the smile dissolving in a flash of
warm concern. Giles smiles back, almost forgetting why heâs there, what
theyâre doing. Heâs jolted out of complacency when Oz falls to his
knees and on the way down takes Gilesâ cock into his mouth. Itâs a move
so perfectly coordinated and unexpected that Giles cries out softly,
unable to help it, his cock engulfed in hot darkness, blindly swelling,
surging forward until the tip is against the roof of Ozâs mouth,
rubbing against softly curved hardness, his hips lifting.
The sound, low and soft as it was, echoes in the small space and Giles
shuts his eyes, chagrin wrapping him around like an itchy blanket,
smothering and rough.
Oz sighs in disappointment, his mouth still around Gilesâ cock, and
seems to hesitate. Giles flounders, knowing that to plead his cause
would be too flagrant a breach, yet desperately seeking for some way to
placate. He settles on perhaps his only option and remains silent,
sitting still on the steps so that his cock is pulled slightly back,
swallowing the whimper caused by the drag of teeth against the sides of
his erection.
Forgivingly, sternly, Oz dips his head and begins. Giles bites his
lips, squeezes his fingers around his wrists, tenses every muscle,
controls his breathing so that he is panting silently, screws his eyes
shut, deprives himself of the sight of Ozâs lips against his cock
because he knows his limits and that would be testing them to
destruction...
He knows this will end if he makes a sound. He has no doubt of that. Oz
will stand, turn and be gone, a flicker of unconcerned regret his only
farewell. It will also end when he comes and he wants to make that
moment as far in the future as possible...yet, can he endure this much
longer? Oz is sucking, lapping, biting gently, one hand resting on his
thigh, the other holding Giles in place, squeezing slightly, the
fingers flexing in rhythm with his head as it moves swiftly up and down.
Giles has found an equilibrium of sorts and is even contemplating
opening his eyes in hubristic optimism, when voices shatter the moment,
voices of students, coming into the library, chattering away, sounding
loud, coming closer. Panic seals Gilesâ lips tighter than passion and
his eyes fly open as he looks down. Oz raises his eyes and meets the
frantic gaze serenely before bringing his idle hand up. He slips it
inside his mouth and Giles feels sudden coolness against his hot, full
flesh, tickling as it pushes in and pulls out. Then he arches back, his
head striking leather bindings and wooden shelving as Oz tugs him
forward just enough, so heâs barely on the narrow step, and inserts the
damp finger inside his body, pushing firmly, sliding in just a little,
crooking it and doing just enough to make Giles come in violent, silent
spasms, his hips snapping forward, his head thrown back, mouth open on
a soundless scream.
The students leave and the door closes behind them, quiet seeping out
to coat the room once more.
Giles collapses back, his body loose now, all tension gone. His hands
slip free and he brings one around to touch Ozâs face, a caress too
brief to deserve the name. Oz turns his face so that his cheek is
cupped by the grateful, chastised hand and then stands, nods, and walks
away.
The door closes behind him and Giles is left to listen to himself say
nothing.
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