Some days Oz seems to favor heavy bass.

Not that Giles objects. Particular music demands an increase in throbbing undercurrents. It makes talking difficult, especially with the volume raised as high as it is right now. But neighbors seldom appear around the complex, much less complain, so Giles feels free to indulge his guests. Or, at least indulge the one person who visits in another capacity than membership in what Buffy cheerfully calls her “slayage crew”.

Giles speaks in the pause between tracks. Oz’s eyes remain closed, and he nods, turning towards Giles with a slight shift against the couch.

********

The first time, Giles answers a firm knock-knock to find Oz standing on the other side of the door. He leans comfortably against the jamb, regarding Giles. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

He waves Oz in -- he’s in the middle of checking a reference, and all of the children are used to him finishing a task before starting a conversation.

After he’s marked the proper passage, he’s about to raise his head when he realizes something. Oz actually knocks when he pays a visit. And Giles never noticed this.

Perhaps because today is the first occasion that Oz has come by himself.

********

Oz comes the next evening. He arrives quietly, settles in amidst the project Giles delves into, and slips into the role of DJ. He takes requests.

They go through genres agreeably without discussing the boundaries of one type of music versus another. Strangely, they possess similar ideas about words and music that belong together.

One night, there’s some debate about Loaded versus VU, and Oz good-naturedly concedes. Giles had forgotten what it was like to speak to someone else about licks and riffs, lyrics and phrases.

Oz remarks that he digs “Pale Blue Eyes”. Giles has no answer for that.

********

It occurs to Giles that he ought to ask why Oz isn’t spending these evening times with Willow. Or, he supposes, he might inquire about Oz’s keeping abreast of coursework at the university.

Giles has never involved himself with the affairs of his young people. Buffy stood as an exception. But Willow, Xander . . . unless it had been absolutely necessary . . .

He’d rather not make Oz feel uncomfortable, or as though Giles is checking up on him. It would change the dynamic of their interactions, certainly, and that would truly be a pity.

He doesn’t ask.

********

Oz stays for a few hours normally. The times he doesn’t come over in the evening wear on Giles, make him fretful and short-tempered with the others. It isn’t until he sees Xander turn away, smarting from a retort that he’d been powerless to stop, that he links his behavior with Oz’s absence.

Oz never asks if Giles has other plans, but occasionally Giles does have another commitment, and he wonders whether Oz notices. Oz never mentions arriving and finding Giles missing, so Giles can only assume that either it doesn’t happen, or that Oz doesn’t find that situation disappointing.

********

Then one night, Giles returns home suddenly.

They’d been at the cemetery; an uneventful evening for the most part, but then Anya had shrieked and stumbled over a dagger sticking point up out of the ground. There were the most remarkable engravings on the hilt, and as Xander took a pale and tearful Anya to the ER and the others dispersed, Giles hurried home with it.

Oz is sitting on the stone bench in the courtyard, watching Giles’ front door intently. His right leg is drawn to his chest, and his arm curves around the top of it, resting there.

********

When Giles hands Oz keys before leaving town, he feels suddenly foolish. He explains that Buffy can’t be trusted to water plants, that he’d rather not have Anya and Xander make use of his rooms.

“And of course, you’re welcome to listen to my records. I would think you’d miss – not that that’s the reason I’m asking you – but you seem interested in my collection of music – and I thought . . . ”

Oz takes the keys from the palm of Giles’ hand and regards them seriously.

When he turns to smile widely at Giles, the effect is stunning.

********

Giles returns to Sunnydale exhausted. There’s an orderly stack of vinyl in sleeves on the coffee table, and he reflects that those wouldn’t be there had he not come home a day early. Oz is simply too considerate.

He peers around the room, discovering the album covers on an end table. Next to them is a pad of paper with scribbles. It seems indiscreet to look at it closely.

Shrugging his jacket off and carrying the pile of cardboard covers, he groans slightly as he eases onto the couch. He flips through casings and sorts quickly. It’s calming to him.

********

There’s a creak from the loft above, and he freezes. When he looks up, Oz stands at the top of the stairs, wearing olive green khakis, no shirt, barefoot, toes curling at the rim of the step. Oz passes an elegant hand through the air gracefully, and Giles realizes that he’s waving.

“Hey.”

“Oh, yes . . . hello . . . I didn’t realize . . .”

“Sorry,” Oz offers as he makes his way down the stairs.

“Don’t be silly,” Giles says faintly. Oz scratches across his belly lightly, and Giles’ eyes follow his fingers back and forth.

********

Oz walks over to the turntable and starts it. When he sits on the couch, Giles holds up a hand, a gesture of welcome he hadn’t necessarily intended to make, and Oz slides beside him.

His skin stretches tight over his thin frame, and Giles’ hand glides over its softness. They readjust, Giles propped on his side leaning over Oz.

By the time the record hits the final groove and the needle lifts, Oz shudders and cries out underneath him. The end. Shouldn’t have gone this far.

But apparently Oz adjusted the player on repeat. The first track starts again.