At The Zoo
It’s raining at the zoo.
Oz has conflicted feelings about zoos. There is the inner-child view, which is that zoos are cool because, y’know, lions and tigers and bears. Then there is the inner-wolf view, which is that zoos are pretty much the same as cages, and the wolf thinks it knows how the animals feel.
Fascination and dread in equal measure.
A wet Tuesday morning in March makes for a quiet zoo, and this corner – the otter enclosure – is quieter still. He is virtually alone.
He’s only worn a hoodie, has not put the hood up and does not own an umbrella, so his hair, au naturelle at the moment, is wet through, fat drips falling from his bangs into his eyes. His clothes too are sodden, heavy on his frame and water now trickling down his back and his sides. He leans on the wooden barrier fence, and looks at the sleek and playful otters, gambolling in their pool, slipping and sliding over one another, squeaking in apparent pleasure, oblivious to the precipitation.
Oz thinks too of one of the previous exhibits, of South African birds, where exotic species with bright plumage soared and chattered amongst tree branches, whilst on the ground, at the edge of a different pool, a rather forlorn-looking African penguin huddled on its own.
His clothes feel uncomfortable, and not just because of the fact they are wet. He contemplates stripping them off, diving into the otter pool. Maybe he can become a were-otter. That’d be cool.
In the distance something issues a shrieking call, a bird maybe.
Oz shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts and then walks towards the exit.
He had been travelling around the world since leaving Sunnydale that final time. Canada, Singapore, India, half of Europe. Never staying too long any on place, only long enough to save enough money for the next flight, belongings eventually being whittled down to a knapsack of worn clothes and a few trinkets.
Some days he didn’t eat, didn’t wash, didn’t sleep, didn’t know what to do next; others days he was experiencing something amazing, like staying in the ashram in Goa or eating Turkish Delight in Sinai.
By the time he met Giles in Dubrovnik, California seemed a lifetime away. Going to stay in London, help out with Watchers’ Council stuff for a while, settling – that seemed pretty radical.
That was six months ago.
The house is on Primrose Hill, and so it is a short walk back from the zoo. He opens the door as Giles walks out of the study into the hall, glasses hanging from his mouth and book open in his hand.
The glasses are extracted so Giles can observe, “You’re drenched.”
Oz nods, then shutting the door, begins to strip his sopping clothes from his body. First the hoodie and the t-shirt all at once, revealing his pale, freckled torso, nipples erect from the cold. Then the shoes and socks with practised feet-shuffle moves, then the jeans and striped boxers. His cock is feeling the effects of the chill too but remains impressive.
A pool of water emanates from the heap of clothes, and Giles sighs a little, a half smile on his lips.
“I’ll get a mop.”
If he is shocked at Oz being naked he does not show it. He turns to move into the kitchen but before he can do so Oz moves forward and catches his wrist. Giles’ head turns and he looks straight into the wide, grey eyes. “Fuck me.”
Giles’ mouth moves as if to say something, but Oz covers it with his own, a ragged kiss with wet lips.
Oz’s fingers move to Giles’ belt, pulling it open. They break the kiss, for Giles to stutter half-words and uncertainties until Oz sinks to his knees, and says, “please.”
It was, in a way, a little like being back at high school. Some research, some stake-sharpening, a little heavy stuff from time to time. Scooby HQ was far more impressive than the old library now Giles was head of the Council, all Georgian architecture and furnishings, plus an impressive array of high-tech gadgetry.
For all the stakes he sharpened, no-one seemed just to just go out and patrol any more. Buffy and Xander and Will were all as important as Giles now, rushing from one potential apocalypse to another, or chasing after rogue Slayers, or resurrecting Cordelia – there was a prophecy, apparently, though Oz thought that maybe they just wanted the old gang all back together.
And it kinda worked, on one level, but even Cordelia, who still had her visions, found her role in the group – whereas, he, Oz, remained on the outside looking in. They weren’t really sure what to do with him, and he wasn’t sure what to do.
Giles had insisted Oz stay with him in the grace-and-favour house that came with headship of the order (“Far too big for me anyway”). It was an arrangement that was only meant to last as long as Oz needed to find a place of his own, but that day had never quite come. For one thing, the house was really convenient for Camden and the music scene.
For another, it was one place he could be useful. He could cook, some, and he could make a mean pot of tea now. Giles always had an air of being mildly harassed, but that had gone up a few notches in recent months, and it was good to take care of him. Though hardly instrumental in the fight against evil.
And, okay, maybe there was more than that. Maybe there was only so many amazing vinyl albums you could discover in one man’s record collection (he’d left quite a lot in storage when he came to Sunnydale), so many stories about seeing certain bands live in their heyday, and only so many visits (two, to be precise) to the British Museum with a man who could tell you more about Japanese netsuke and Easter Island statues than the curators before you fell a little bit in love.
Oz’s left hand is flat against the stair, supporting him as Giles pounds into him from behind. He isn’t the first older man Oz has known – he turned a few tricks on his travels, when things got desperate – but none had the sheer power of the man behind him. Each fast thrust makes Oz grunt, and his arm muscles flex.
His right hand grips at Oz’s own cock, tugging on it haphazardly, occasionally abandoning that duty to fly out to the stairs, when Giles’ thrusting picks up pace and the left arm begins to buckle. It does this now, and Oz shouts, “harder!” without thinking about it and, somehow, Giles is.
There’s frosted glass in the front door, and Oz wonders, suddenly if anyone on the street can see a blur of movement inside, what it would look like. It would look like a very white blur, he supposes, for whilst Giles is naked from the waist down, he still wears his unbuttoned shirt and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. There’s something in the power dynamics of Giles still wearing some clothes whilst he, Oz, is naked that heightens the experience for Oz.
Is that Daddy issues, he wonders? Or maybe it’s something about the counter-culture and notions of authority, or maybe it’s an English gent kink, or...
...he thinks during sex, a lot, because thinking is human and that’s good, and he doesn’t want to let go of that, not too soon...
...the pounding continues, and he gasps and he starts to wish there could be another Giles in front of him, fully clothed in tweed, so he could suck on his cock whilst he was getting fucked by the first Giles...
...so it is an English gent kink, after all...
...and he likes his men like he likes his cheese: strong, mature, English, and he almost laughs but ohfuckohhellyeah...
...Giles had withdrawn completely and then slammed straight back in and he wished Giles wasn’t so reserved because he really could do with Giles getting a bit verbal and Ripper on him – and – and – maybe Giles can read his mind because then he does and Giles swears like he’s never heard him swear and then Giles is going so fast and so hard he’s seeing stars...
...and then it’s over, until after a pause Giles is leaning down against his back, hot chest to Oz’s damp back, whispering in his ear, through heavy breaths, “now, let me.”
And it takes about ten firm strokes with Giles hand, with Giles still inside him, before Oz is climaxing all over the stairs.
It’s still raining outside when Oz, towel hanging low on his slim hips, brings Giles’ tea into the study a little later. He places the cup next to Giles’ papers.
“So, yeah. Sorry I was a little intense there.”
Giles, fully clothed again, sips the tea then says, “I hardly think you need apologise. Indeed, uh, perhaps we should discuss you getting intense a little more often.”
There’s a glint in Giles’ eyes that makes Oz swallow.
“Needed to feel a little – raw. Full moon coming up maybe – ”
Giles chuckles, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Really. Do werewolves get pre-lunar tension?”
A beat. Oz raises his eyes to look at a shelf somewhere to the side of Giles. “I needed to know if I was an otter or a penguin.”
“I see,” says Giles, though clearly he does not. “Is that some sort of gay cultural reference? Like bears?”
“Not that I know of. Maybe.”
“Well, whatever it means, what’s your conclusion?”
Oz’s gaze meet Giles. “Not sure, yet. Maybe I’ll need to conduct further investigations.”
“Well, as you know, I’m always open to more research.” The smile on Giles’ face is wicked.
“Thanks. That helps in itself,” Oz says, trying not to think about the possibilities right at that moment. “But also, fun though being sardonic guy in the corner is, I think I need to find something to do, Giles, with the Scoobies. Aside from making the tea – though y’know, happy to keep that task in my portfolio. And, if there’s not a thing for me – then I figure I need to move on.”
Giles rises from his chair and moves close, placing a hand on Oz’s bare shoulder. It feels warm.
“Oz. You should have said. We’ve got plenty of things to do in the Council, it’s just never seemed polite to ask you take anything on. I – well, I know I don’t want you to leave.” He squeezes Oz’s shoulder. “Apart from anything else, you make excellent tea.”
Oz knows that’s about the highest praise Giles can bestow.
Yeah. Being an otter, even in the zoo? That’s cool.