Harder
Some nights it would honestly have been easier just to pack it in, pack it up, and head home. If he had a home. Or at least if he knew where it was. But no... he'd been in America for... he forgot how long sometimes. Too long, if you asked. Not long enough, if you asked a minute later.
Missions, responsibilities, laws and rules and codes. Things to abide by, things to count on, things to follow.
Things to abuse, to break, to judge and misinterpret and disregard.
The hardest part wasn't his real job. It wasn't helping Buffy train or helping Buffy fight or helping Buffy paint her nails. It wasn't forcing her to study or trying to distract her from Angel long enough to do what she had to. It was the other jobs he had that were hard.
He didn't come here to play the part of a father. Why did he have to get the bum slayer? The one who'd never been taught of her duties? The one who'd never obey commands. He just had to get one who needed to be asked, cajoled, cared for. That was never in the Watcher's job description. Yet at some point or another, he wound up caring, and everything got harder by a million percent.
She'd live forever, this one. And he'd get dragged along for the ride.
Maybe that was the real reason slayers weren't allowed to have friends. Because it made it more complicated for her and her watcher. Not only did she have to watch out for them, but so did he. And watch he did. And he found himself becoming a father figure to a whole group of misled, broken-homed youths. That was never in the job description, either.
He'd been here too long. Grown too attached. Gotten to close to the ones he wasn't even supposed to know, let alone shelter and protect. He wasn't supposed to invite them into his life, his home, his heart... his bed. And it was that last part he could get in the most trouble for.
Hearts could be hardened. He could always turn his back, run from the connections he'd made. Drag Buffy away to another Hellmouth, keep her from connecting to anyone else, make her do her job. Be a real watcher rather than the father he'd turned into. But want... need... there was something he couldn't turn himself from, because repression only made it stronger.
He couldn't turn into that man, anyway. Because if he did she wouldn't be the slayer anymore. Not his slayer, anyway. Not really. They'd seen that with Wesley. She only responded to love.
No, she wasn't the one in his bed. That would just be sick. Not that this was any better... still underage, still somewhat innocent, still enough to get him slammed in jail forever. Not that anyone would ever know. Because neither of them would say anything.
There was something different about Oz. Maybe it was the way that he didn't seem to be connected to anything... just floating there in the midst of it like he could leave at any time. Yet didn't. He stayed.
Giles found himself drawn to it. That kind of enlightened freedom he found in the youth's eyes. The quiet. The passion that he knew was there but hardly ever saw. Zen was a falsehood, a mask. He'd seen the real Oz. And there was nothing peaceful about it.
It had taken one sideways glance for the teen to know. One slip, early in the morning, after a full moon. A morning when Oz was still naked in the book cage, waiting for Giles to unlock the cage, bring him his clothes, release him.
Control. Something he wanted. Something he had over Oz when he was holding that key in his hand. Something he would never have over Buffy like he was supposed to. Something that lit in his eyes and brought a hitch to his breath.
Something Oz noticed.
And apparently, something Oz welcomed.
Oz. Half his age, two-thirds his weight, entirely male, and twice as soft. And powerless underneath him.
He held the key. And for that split second before he unlocked the cage, he was the one with the power. He was the one deciding what happened or didn't happen. What went on in his life. What he was going to do next. Not Buffy and her slightly-too-instinctive approach to slaying. Not whatever vampire she'd accidentally taken pity on. Not whichever one of her teenage friends had left the rare book on the back porch for the enemy to steal.
Him. Giles. The Watcher. And he'd watch. He'd hold the key and just watch, letting himself be persuaded.
Somehow it had become more. Somehow, it had become something he didn't want to stop. Something that made him consider staying in Sunnydale.
He'd be 18 soon, right?
Some nights, at the meetings where his group of children would sit and research and keep him alive, he would look over and see bright green eyes, and the false mask of tranquility. That little smirk that always hovered there. Power. Want. Control. Want. To be controlled. Want. Lust. Want. Knowledge. Want. Want...
Giles would look down at his book, polish his glasses, avoid contact. He'd close his eyes and think about when he'd be out of here, away from the job he'd never wanted, the things he did that he shouldn't, getting control back in his life.
He'd think of staying here for the rest of his life instead, a warm, youthful body in his bed and a slayer guarding the door. His practically adoptive children supporting him, leeching off him, being there to fuck up and patch up and be sickeningly loyal and perfect and unpredictable.
He'd glance up at Oz again, at the calm he exuded. The calm that evaporated in the bedroom, giving way to a truer nature... something wild and challenging. Something that begged to be fought. Something that would always succumb to him because he had what it wanted.
It was what he wanted, too.
And it only made things harder.