* * *

From Sonnet #15:

"All in War with Time"
~sequel to "Not What You Might Think: Music, Sadly" ~

*follows almost directly after the events of the previous story*

* * *

His flight to England seems an endless round of torture, and many
times Giles wonders why he didn't simply pay for first class. His
private funds would have stretched to allow it even after all the
globe-hopping he did hunting SITs. He chose good flights for them,
no red-eyes, and a class where they would be treated as special.
Frightened children that they were, for the most part. Many of whom
are now dead.

Giles shivers, displeased with that train of thought. They knew;
they understood. He cannot allow himself to mourn – it's not as if
they were Buffy. Or even Anya, loved so well as his own daughter
would have been if he had one. Or Cho-Ahn, or Amanda, or -

No, no; pointless to think about them. Let them rest in the peace
bought with their lives.

Why suffer then, now on his flight back home to Heathrow? He's not
certain. He just knows that when he booked the tickets it seemed
wrong to allow himself the luxury. Not when Buffy and the others
would be setting out on their own journeys, hunting down new Slayers,
all sandwiched into business and commercial seats. Not for him alone
should there be room for stretching out his legs and champagne
instead of lukewarm soda.

Therefore he's packed in, the proverbial sardine, knees nearly up to
his chin and a child – awake at the ungodly hour of three in the
morning – dribbling and sniveling just behind him. Thanks to be god
for small mercies; the toddler sitting next to him fell asleep hours
ago and has ceased attempting to chew on his arm. He's met demons
less tenacious in wanting a taste of his tough flesh. The child's
mother thought it was amusing; not quite so much so the tight smile
he favored her with.

Once more it hits him with what is quickly becoming distaste: this is
what they've saved the world for. Again.

* * *

He lies awake his first night back in England – or rather, all day.
The all-night flight has left him jet-lagged and uncomfortably
emulating vampire hours. But as the day stretches on and the
sunlight fades, sleep has not yet come.

He's been spoiled by American climate control, he thinks, tossing off
the covers. That's it. Too hot or too cold, never just right. Why
it's grown so warm, he cannot think. Perhaps the rather peculiar
couple in the rooms below him have turned on their space heater?

He is not, very stubbornly not, thinking of Angel and their encounter
in the Hyperion. He cannot still feel that cool hand tracing up his
spine, and it is not that which makes him arch suddenly up from the
tossed sheets. But a frisson of excitement races to his groin, and
he groans with the sudden pleasure and anticipation.

Not a private moment to himself for – well, months – save for a few
stolen, joyless fumbles during a shower timed to the second so
there'd be enough hot water for all. More, he has not known the
touch of another – besides <i>him</i> – for so long. His own fault;
he drew away, wanting them to be strong, and discovered that it left
him the weaker.

He manages a relieved chuckle. That's the explanation for his
restlessness, his perversity of mind. His body is starved for
pleasure, that's all.

It's one thing he can manage to correct, at least a little.

His hand slips down beneath the crisp waistband of his boxers for the
first blissful touch, and he hisses at the contact. Already half-
hard – with anticipation, not with treacherous memories – and eager
to play. It knows this grip, hard and familiar, promising easement.
And finally he has the luxury to do it in, to take all the time he
wants. Though it may not be a great deal – it has been so very, very
long.

And he is not thinking of a male hand on his shoulder. Deliberately,
firmly he rummages about in his mind for better things and comes up
with Olivia. Exotic, tiny Olivia, that jewel of London. How hard to
believe that she should remember him from their old squatting
grounds, with her father on a seat in the House of Lords and her
station so far above his. But then, she always was a bit of a
rebel. Yes, Olivia, with her small sweet hands that knew too well
how to stroke a man just the right way, who undulated beneath one fit
to drive one mad – and how she left him when rebellion became a
frightening thing.

Or Jenny. Brash and deliberately American. Long, lean artist's
fingers and a keen mind. Sweeping dark hair, snapping black eyes.
Corkscrew piercings in the most outré places, which he'd delighted in
finding and toying with. Clever, so clever with her lips and
tongue. Shy and unsure of his new place at the school, he'd fallen
in with her idea of a normal relationship and only understood later
why she always shied back at the last moment, before they reached the
bed.

(But that brings back thought of Angelus, and he will not stoop to
that level. He will not remember the night in the book cage. He
will not.)

His erection flags a little in his pumping hand. No, no! He's come
too far to roll over and fruitlessly attempt sleep again.

Desperate now for release, he sets his mind to combing through
memories. Any memories but *those* will do. And they come, oh, the
thoughts do, unbidden but bringing him surging back to life: Ethan,
before they parted, wicked eyes twinkling up as that clever mouth
opened to swallow him whole. Ethan, later in Sunnydale, bruised and
bloody but still so quick with his tongue in wonderful and wicked
ways. Getting off on the pain as he always did. So easy to just be
himself with Ethan.

Wesley. Years ago he'd ached to turn the lad over his knee and
administer a proper spanking – and oh, his body still likes the
thought of that. But better, he has seen a recent picture of the
man, and time has made a wonderful change in him. No longer a
buttoned-up prat, he has grown rough and ragged, retaining his
brilliance and gaining some common sense. Some. He is fool enough
to be in love with – no, he will not think of that creature. He'll
think instead of Wesley, still wise enough to mind his elders, on his
knees before him. He'll imagine he feels rough stubble chafing his
inner thighs as he's suckled and swallowed, think of how the searing
heat of his channel would draw him straight inside –

His erection lies flat to his belly now, leaking clear strands onto
his stomach. The warmth in the room jumps to unbearable levels, and
with quick, impatient jerks he tears away both singlet and shorts.
Ah, so much better! A luxuriant stretch, relishing the air on his
skin, and the back to the business in hand –

Wild pictures flash before his mind's eye. Things he'd thought of
and cast aside in shame, now past the point of being shocked at
himself – Xander with his huge chocolate eyes, who would have gazed
up in worship and adored him for being properly taught, yes, petted
and rewarded...

Spike, lord, yes, even Spike, chained in his bathtub and knowing
damned well why Giles had such a good set of shackles lying about,
what they had been kept for. The times when he'd crept down to the
loo in the middle of the night just to peek in and witness the hands
he'd placed where they could reach, straining and milking at a column
of barely rosy flesh...

The stupidly good Riley, who he'd have loved to teach a bit of proper
discipline...

Young Andrew, who if he'd dared to think of such a thing and been
able to look past Xander, would have lingered at his knee and been a
pet of utter devotion... and oh, yes, he is a filthy old man, there's
a good thought to lash himself with, and he glories in it as he milks
himself ruthless and hard.

He's almost there – so close, pulsing in his palm, and this will be
good, so very good, he only needs a bit more to shove him over the
edge –

Cryptic green eyes flash into his mind's eye, green bleeding into
feral yellow. There is a confused half-second as he struggles to
remember where he's seen them, and then, oh, yes – Oz, who it seemed
that nothing ever confounded. Oz, who, had he been approached, knows
what he might have said? Something short and cryptic, a "sure" or
a "don't think so" that would have only sweetened the chase.

Giles wouldn't have done that to Willow. But had he the chance, and
the time again, he would have sought the thrill of touching the man
and monster within, riding that fine line between fury and fear and
resting so easy in the knowledge that all of his dark age would have
been accepted – no, wanted – even loved – desired –

He is stripping himself now, hard thumb digging into meaty head,
glorying in hard sharp pulls that are agony as well as ecstasy, and
<i>oh</i> --

Giles's back forms a perfect bow, lifting him away from the sweaty
sheets. He can't quite stifle a muffled yell as he comes, gouts
spurting over his chest and stomach at the thought of those green
eyes finally alive with emotion, with passion.

The convulsions stop and he collapses, panting. His hand aches.

And after a moment, he is sickened by himself.

To have thought such things… but dear God, he is lonely, and he knows
no one his own age. More, he does not want one so weighed down by
years as him. He craves youth, not for its beauty, but for its
purity of heart. For simplicity. Sweetness. These are the things
that he misses.

He thinks once more, a little wonderingly, of Oz. No one knows where
the werewolf is, now, or who he might be with. After reflection,
Giles finds himself fiercely glad of that. Were they to meet again,
he... but no, no, push that notion far away. It was not, is not
meant to be.

He must face the truth: his life is a vast and cavernous empty stage,
himself the sole player in the scenes and acts.

And this is what they saved the world for: that an aging Watcher
might bring himself off to the thought of serene youth.

Dear God.

* * *

There are telephone calls in the morning, or considerately close to
morning. They thought to calculate the time difference, and that
touches him. He is perilously close to depression this day, and to
hear their voices heartens (and shames him, a little). Buffy and
Dawn have made their way to Sheboygan, of all places. Faith and Wood
went straight to Cleveland. Xander chose to drive to San Francisco,
and in the background of that call he can hear Andrew's soft, sleepy
drawl. Xander tells him in an aside to get back to bed, and then
there's an embarrassed silence that nearly makes Giles laugh out loud
for glee.

From LA, there is nothing. Probably far too busy with their own
affairs. Good. Though he might have liked to hear Wesley's voice...
certainly not the others.

He strikes at his forehead. This has sunk in far too deep; it has
become a disease. Purge it he will, or be damned and die trying.

Perhaps a morning's walk in Hyde Park. It's close enough, and always
restful. He might find tranquility there, or at least appreciation
of beauty.

Yes, he'll go in search of green lawns and neatly ordered paths. Put
his mind back in order.

And he will not, though his hateful mind flashes anew on last night's
image, think of Oz or wonder where he might be.

It won't do, and he will not allow it.

For this is his world; he has made it, and he must lie alone in it.

* * *

Later, he decides he really should not have been surprised at all to
round the corner of a hedgerow and come across Oz. Denying that
something shall come to pass ever proves its sure guarantee. This is
true, for there he is, blithely ignoring all "do not tread on the
grass" signs, and seated in the lotus position amidst a grouping of
rocks and flowers. His hands rest palms-up on his knees; his eyes
are closed. The peace that he radiates is enough to shatter Giles.

He has to stare, to be certain his eyes do not deceive. Oz too has
aged, and done it with his characteristic lazy grace. The face is
stronger, more mature; the lankiness has evolved into wiry whipcord
strength evident even through joggers and a loose T. His hair is a
simple red, what Giles thinks is the natural color. Are the eyes
still that same, ever-serene green?

"Daniel?" he blurts without thinking.

Why has he used the young man's given name? He barely even knew it.

Oz's eyes flutter open. He looks up at Giles, and gives the same
small hint of a smile as he did in years past, meaning he is well
pleased at what he sees. "You," he says calmly. "Hoped you'd come
around."

Giles' heart thumps at that. Truly? But why should he? Had he
sensed – ? No, surely not.

Oz pats the pristine grass at his side. "C'mere." Giles
hesitates. "It's OK. The groundskeepers know me."

"And likely want to skin you alive," Giles retorts dryly, then
promptly winces at the poor choice of words. Likely Oz's skin has
been in danger more than once in his travels. But he looks
unoffended and so Giles obeys him, folding down to sit on the
ground. Not a lotus; he'd likely damage something trying that. No
longer so young as he used to be.

Oz doesn't seem to mind that either. He nods at a passing guard, who
ignores them with supreme indifference. "See? They like me. I
patrol during the night sometimes. Keep away kids with cans of spray
paint, lager louts, that kind of thing."

The Briticism makes Giles want to chuckle. "You've been here a
while, then?"

A mild dip of the head. "Long enough. England's a good place.
Peaceful."

Giles glances around. They can hear the noise of early-morning
traffic chaos beginning outside the confines of the park – the
caffeine-deprived commuters on foot and in car, yelling obscenities
that an American would neither understand nor fail to be horrified
by. "Really."

"If you know where to look." Oz unfolds his legs and stretches
luxuriantly. "You want breakfast? I could eat."

If Giles remembers correctly – "There's a cafe a few streets over.
I'll escort you there. It's simple stuff, continental, but –"

"I'm not picky." The green eyes flicker up at him. "I like a lot of
things."

Giles blinks. Gobsmacked? Well, that's one word for it.

What a strange, strange, world.

* * *

Somehow, the walk to the cafe becomes breakfast for two that lasts
through several cups of strong tea (gunpowder black for him, an oddly
scented herbal concoction for Oz), and then a stroll down to the
tube. Oz likes the Tower of London, and without really coaxing gets
Giles to accompany him.

They watch the ravens while standing companionably close. Oz speaks
on occasion; Giles is mainly content to listen. He's through with
speeches himself for a long time to come. Besides, he mainly knows
how to speak of duty. This is... how odd that it should be odd to
say it... pleasure.

And with Oz's small, warm body at his side, he truly does not think
once of a cold hand on his back.

They finish the day where they started it, in Hyde Park, though
decorously using the benches this time. Only, however, because a
brief shower has dampened the grass. Were it up to them, they'd flop
contentedly down and soak up the life that flows through the ground.

"How long have you been here?" Giles asks at one point.

"London? Few months."

"And before that?"

"In Bath."

Bath. Giles has to process that. It's not the sort of town he could
see Oz in – or is it? He has to ask. "What took you there?"

And is that a sly glance through those green eyes, slitted up at
him? "Heard you were around. Then you were gone."

Oh. There's really nothing to say to that.

Nor to the small, warm hand that steals over his own and rests with
light, comfortable certainty atop it.

The world narrows to the touch of those fingers that nearly burn with
their gentleness.

* * *

The evening's worn on, and they've gone back to Giles', sitting on
the stoop of the small set of flats. Oz has his knees drawn up to
his chin, a vague and slightly dreamlike expression on his face.
Insofar as he can express himself through facial features. Giles,
however, is learning quickly to once again interpret the smallest
nuances; when you know them, they shout louder than the loudest
voice.

He touches Oz on the knee, just to be sure that it's acceptable. The
smile he gets tells him `yes'. "Daniel?"

"If you want me to be."

That answer ignites a sudden irritation. Something's off here. His
whole easy acceptance of this strange day, of Giles' feelings –
however he knew of them in the first place – it's too easy. Nothing
is this simple, nor should it be. Life is hard. Love is hell. Lust
is misery.

So he asks - no, demands, angry: "Why? What makes this so simple
for you?" His fingers tighten on the slim leg. "What is it – you've
no choice?"

Oz turns his eyes on him, a faraway glance that yet pierces to his
heart. "Not easy at all." He grips and squeezes Giles' thumb. "But
right. And I just know. That's all."

And he'll say no more. But he holds Giles by the hand, a lifeline,
until his temper cools and he can feel the rough, dry texture of his
fingertips once more. Until he's once again tasting the peaceful
excitement that slowly builds at his surcease of loneliness.

And the world is still and quiet. Waiting.

* * *

Oz is a grown man now, well over twenty-one, but Giles cannot shake
the specter of youth as he takes him in his arms for a kiss, their
first, lips sweetly meeting lips. He's so fresh, though he must have
seen countless fortunes' worth of life; he reminds him of himself at
that age. Daring. Anything once to see if it's worth it.

"You're certain?" he whispers.

The ghost of a smile passes over the narrow face. "You mean, do I
want to join forces with an older guy? Yeah, pretty sure."

"Not just that, Oz."

"Hey." A warm hand touches his shoulder, kneading gently. "I know
you pretty well. Don't kid yourself. And you know me."

No, he really doesn't – and yet, he does. So peculiar.

Then the time for rational thought is past, and in the hot/cold flat,
there is only the stripping of clothes, a sweaty tangled fall to the
bed; writhing limbs and deep tightness with muscles that squeeze and
quake around him until he thinks that he has gone, all undeserving,
straight to heaven. Oz is as quiet in making love as he is in the
rest of his life and Giles loves it, contrasting with his own rasping
yells and strangled moans. The boy feels good, so <i>good</i> around
him that he would stay there forever and ever if he could; and
perhaps he just might…

And this, the world that they have made together, shudders with their
frenzy.

* * *

Later, Oz lies lazily tangled with him, fingers toying at his
earlobe. "You should get that pierced," he says idly.

"It was, once." Giles pulls the youth a little closer. Still not
quite able to believe. A Bible verse pops most irreverently into his
head: who knows, indeed, what a day will bring forth?

And once again, he has to ask, sure he will be understood. "Did you
know?"

"Before? Nah. Wondered, but wasn't sure. You didn't know yourself."

"Last night...?"

Grave nod. "I felt you."

"And you weren't afraid?" He doesn't want to hear the answer, but he
must know.

Oz raises himself on one elbow, stares down into Giles' face with
those green, green eyes. "Not afraid," he says simply. "Glad.
About time, after all."

And they come together for yet another kiss, one that Giles is
laughing into. Oh, but his life is stranger and stranger these days.

He knows Oz won't stay forever. That's not the wolf's nature. Very
well; perhaps he'll go with him when he leaves. He might even be
welcomed.

But for now he is content, and the specter of cold, unwelcome touches
have been banished in the heat of the werewolf's body.

Pleasure. Peace. He finds himself feeling whole again, and salved
of his fears for now in the green and growing silence.

This, then, is what they have saved the world for. And it is good.

* * *
Sonnet 15

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.