Wild Nights
by KindKit

On the nights he spends alone, Giles longs for storms. Peaceful sunsets and still nights are a mockery then, when inside he's crackling with ozone, shaken by jagged drafts and spirals of winds, vibrating to the low, grief-loaded pitch of thunder. He wants to stand in the flash-illuminated garden, rain-soaked and shivering.

On the nights (they come almost as seldom as rain) he spends with Oz, Giles also longs for storms. The bed's a shelter then, a harbor from wind and weather, quiet even when they thrash and tumble across it. It's safety, port, home.

There are never storms enough.