“So,” Oz said, perching himself on the corner of Giles’ desk and giving him a quizzical look, “Two hearts, huh? How’s that working for you?”
The Watcher paused halfway through scribing a sentence in his latest journal and looked up, meeting the young man’s eyes. There was no suspicion in them – and no judgement either. Just wary curiosity and a hint of mild puzzlement.
At least, that’s what it looked like. With Oz, it could be hard to tell.
“Very well, as a rule.” He kept his tone mild, although he was unable to help the slightly wry twist that touched his lips as he spoke. “You might have just made one of them skip a beat, but … I can usually survive that.” He should have known. Should have realised. If a vampire could catch the subtle rhythm that hinted at his alien heritage, then it was highly unlikely that the sensitive ears of a werewolf were going to miss it. Especially one that had spent long hours in the pensive silences of the library, sharing the concentration of research.
Oz probably had them all measured and assessed by now; scent and sound, patterns of identity that gave him an intimate familiarity with his adopted pack.
“Sorry.” The word sounded genuinely apologetic. “Just a little – obvious. You know? To me, anyway.”
Giles nodded. “I suppose it is. It’s a long story, Oz. A very long story.” He hesitated for a moment, assessing the quiet wisdom that lurked behind darkly haunted eyes. “Nearly a millennium’s worth.”
Those eyes widened in momentary astonishment. “That long? Could be here all night. And the night after. Even the night after that.” Oz paused to consider implications, and his lips twitched with a sudden hint of humour. “You don’t look that old.”
The Watcher put down his pen and carefully closed the journal before turning to give his company his full attention. “Looks can be deceiving,” he pointed out, leaning back in his chair and steepling his forefingers under his chin. “Yourself, for instance.”
It was Oz's turn to nod. “True. Only - with me, what’s inside gets outside three days a month. You don’t change. Do you?”
There was a moment in which the Watcher wondered how to answer that. If he said no, then he’d be lying. But could he tell this earnest, curious young man the truth he was asking for? Could he trust him with more of his secrets, now that he’d become aware of one of them? Could he tell him that the face he currently wore was only one in a whole sequence of multiple lives – and that, should anything seriously untoward happen to him, he’d be forced to change again? Buffy had struggled with the concept – and she’d met his previous incarnation.
The moment passed. This was Oz. Oz with the mind of a quiet genius, the soul of a musician, and the curse of the werewolf running in his veins. He wasn’t going to struggle with the idea at all.
“Only when I absolutely have to,” Giles said, and smiled. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable? This really is a long story – and - um,” he added with a rather embarrassed grin of realisation, “I’m afraid it begins: a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away …”