15 sheep in the heap
title: faded
pairing: oz/gil
word count: 2383
rating: pg-13ish
(possibly incomplete? unsure)
Rain, again. He could hear it tapping on the roof, on the window pane. Steady, rhythmic, calming. The blankets came up to his chin again, and he huddled into them, curled in on himself, shut his eyes tight and then opened them again a moment later. It was still dark, but he couldn't be sure how late it was exactly. It felt like he'd been laying there for hours upon hours, maybe even days. Every once in awhile he heard footsteps passing slowly outside his closed door, the occasional quiet murmur of people talking as they went by. Never loudly enough for him to pick up on what they were saying, and he really wasn't listening very hard, either. It was only through fortune, he assumed, that no one had come to check on him yet.
When they'd arrived back from their excursion that day he'd deposited himself in bed and slept. And slept, and slept, and slept, so deeply that when he woke he had the sensation of crawling out of a well. Of having been dead for a hundred years, and now he was clawing his way back up to the surface, slowly, struggling. In a way, it was a downright frightening way to wake up. But once he was fully conscious again he did nothing but lay there, wrapped in the blankets and the clothes that suddenly felt far too big on his small body.
There was of course the vague thought that he oughtn't stay cooped up like this forever. He needed to be sure everyone was alright, needed to reassure everyone that he was alright. But instead he lay there listening to the rain, the quiet pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Slowly, he let his eyes shut again. It was still dark out. He could stay here a little longer.
Across the room, the doorknob slowly turned, obviously by someone trying to make as little noise as possible, and then the door creaked open, allowing one beam of steadily widening light to filter in, partially obstructed by the tall figure in the doorway. Oz didn't react; he kept his eyes closed and listened, breathing evenly, quietly.
"Oz?"
He continued feigning sleep, albeit not all that convincingly. Maybe some others would've been fooled. But if he had seen himself, he would have known right away. The visitor crossed the room in a few even strides, steps muffled by the carpet. "Oz?"
Of course it was only a matter of time before Gilbert would come in to check on him. He'd assumed that everyone would've given him the rest of the night to recover, which led him to believe it'd been more than a day since he'd left his room. That would explain the faint pangs of hunger that he'd started to feel some time ago but had since ignored. His eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Maybe Gilbert would give up and leave if he made it apparent that he was still sleeping and not about to wake up.
The mattress squeaked as Gilbert took a seat on the side of it, right next to Oz. Alright, maybe not. There was a long moment of silence, aside from the falling rain outside. No words, no movement, no sounds. It wasn't the first time he'd pretended to be asleep, laying in complete stillness while Gilbert sat and watched him this way. In fact, it was a fairly common occurrence. He thought very little of it anymore, and for a long time let the man have his moment. Gilbert would sit there without moving, without hardly breathing, for so long that oftentimes Oz really did fall asleep waiting for him to leave, so he really didn't expect anything to differ this time.
Time ticked on, the rain alternating between clattering heavily on the roof and softening to a gentle patter on the windowsil, their only indication that the world around them was still spinning. Oz began to feel drowsy, bored, even. It was nearing that time where he would fall asleep for real again, but in the back of his mind, buzzing and ringing from both silence and stress, he hoped that he could stay conscious a little longer. His shoulders trembled a little; uncontrollable spasms of pre-sleep slackening. The movement roused him awake again, but only slightly - before he knew it he had quivered again, stirred again, drifted off and yes, interrupted by another tiny twitch. Is this what fighting sleep really felt like? Somehow, it felt unfamiliar to him in spite of the many nights that he'd struggled with himself for hours this way.
The perfect stillness was interrupted by the rustle of fabric - something that would have normally been too quiet to notice, but so rare and sudden that it seemed to be amplified a hundred times. Oz's body stiffened, alert and yet still dreary, and before long the rustling began again, the mattress beneath him squeaked softly, another shift-- and he felt a hand plant itself on the small of his back. Although it startled him, he remained still, eyes closed, his senses all heightened by his inability to see what was happening around him. He could feel something warm beside him-- breath, right near his neck. Cigarettes, the faint irremovable scent of blood. The hand on his back traveled upward, a gentle, reassuring gesture.
Gilbert knew he was awake.
Finally, Oz's eyes slowly opened, partway and then fully, glancing back toward the face that was so close to his. Seeing it now, it really wasn't as close as it felt, but he could tell that Gilbert had his eyes closed, which prompted him to close his own again, before the man noticed that he was alert.
"Oz."
All the pain in his body that he'd gone to sleep with started to throb in him again at the sound of his name. Up until that point, he'd assumed that he'd slept it all off, that he was rejuvenated. But there it was again, the dull ache, the fatigue.
"Oz."
It was practically a whisper. Oz was momentarily overwhelmed by the desire to whisper back, but refrained, continued his charade of sleep even though he was postive he'd given himself away already. Remained still as that hand rubbed his back again, comforting, gently rousing. This wasn't simply the watch-and-wait game anymore. He was being distinctly beckoned back into the world of the awake.
"Oz."
His eyes opened again, and he glanced back in the same way he had before. Gilbert was watching him now, his expression as solemn as it always was, only to unwittingly melt into something more fond upon recognition. Once more, "Oz."
"Mm." Oz went through the motions of stretching slightly, blinking his eyes hard, acting as if he'd only just been woken up, then going tiredly slack against the bed as Gilbert gave his back another gentle rub.
"No, don't get up," Gilbert murmured, seemingly right against his ear though that was hardly the case. Oz stiffened again, bewildered, silent. "I was... only checking."
"I'm fine," Oz mumbled back, his words partially obscured by the blankets and the pillow his face was half pressed into. Now that he was actually fully awake, he was really beginning to feel the hunger, drowsiness and pain. Just how long had he been out? He contemplated asking Gilbert, but decided against it and instead let himself settle, limp against the bed as Gilbert continued rubbing his back. It was more of a constant motion now instead of only once every few moments, and although odd, Oz felt soothed and pacified by it.
Gilbert didn't say anything, just hovered where he was, seeming to Oz to be as placated by the gesture he was making as the boy was, himself. For this reason, Oz kept quiet for as long as he felt able to, shuddering once and then quietly murmuring some nonverbal sound of approval into the pillow before his eyes shut again. It seemed as if this would go on for some time, much like the watch-and-wait game did, only with physical contact, but as suddenly as it had started, Gilbert pulled away and stood. Oz was immediately alerted by the lack of presence and turned his head, craning it in an uncomfortable way to look up at Gilbert. "Gil?"
"Sorry." Gilbert was frowning, eying the doorway with the obvious intent of hastily retreating through it once he was finished speaking - if he even got that far. "I shouldn't have woke you."
"But it's fine." Oz was sitting up already, biting back a grimace as he did so. All that rest and it was as if it had never happened. He felt as beat up as he had when he'd collapsed into bed. He started to say something more, but as he untangled himself from the pool of blankets around him, realized that he wasn't dressed in what he'd fallen asleep in. It wasn't even in his own clothing, but a white button-up shirt, collared, slightly wrinkled. One of Gil's. So large on him that the sleeves came down over the tips of his fingers, that the bottom of the shirt reached a fair distance down his thighs. An appropriate bedshirt, save for the fact that it was all he was wearing. There was a clean change of his own clothes (including underwear) in the dresser, so why...
Gilbert, having seen that Oz noticed how he was dressed, was making overtures of leaving again, glancing from the boy to the door and back again, uncomfortable. "Your clothes were torn and bloody, and when you didn't wake up, I changed them for you."
"Oh." He began fumbling with the long sleeves, pushing them back over his hands and rolling them up on his arms a little. Well, that made sense, at least. "Thanks, Gil. This is a lot more comfortable." Gilbert was watching him, obviously trying to seem as if he wasn't between longing looks at the partially-open door, and yet stealing furtive glances at the boy in the dress shirt that Oz was easily able to detect. "What's wrong?"
The man shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor entirely. "Nothing. I'll... get you some clean clothes to wear now." And without further ado, he departed, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Oz watched him go, blinking. His eyelids felt heavy, almost sore as well. Once Gilbert's footsteps had died down the hall, he let himself fall back into the pillows, the blankets. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep again, but part of him knew it was important that he get up. As soon as Gilbert came back with his clothes, he'd have to eat, go talk to whoever was up, take care of himself.
As his eyes slid shut again, he felt a twinge of excitement for breakfast. He'd ask Gil to make pancakes. With butter, and syrup, and... a glass of...
"Nnn."
He woke to the feeling of soft fabric on his bare legs, something warm, a quiet, silken sort of rustling. His eyes opened with several rapid, bewildered blinks, and there Gilbert was again, a pile of clean clothes on the bed, seated beside him and pulling one of the blankets up over him. Upon realizing that Oz was awake, Gilbert recoiled a little, almost apologetic. "You fell asleep again."
"Guess I did," Oz murmured sleepily, legs shifting underneath the sheet. "Sorry."
Gilbert shook his head. "I brought your clothes."
For the first time since all of this had started, Oz actually yawned, fingers curling over his mouth as he tried to stifle it. "Thanks." Gilbert nodded, and without further ado, Oz began unbuttoning the shirt he'd been dressed in, drowsily fumbling with each one before, by some sort of miracle, managed to get it undone. All the fatigue of the time he'd spend in bed was catching up with him, and he was amazed with himself for being able to stay conscious long enough to change clothes. One button, two, three-- and on the fourth, halfway down his chest, he seemed to have a little trouble.
Gilbert watched him without a single word, a mixture of amused and uncomfortable. As Oz struggled with the button he shook his head, leaning over and reaching underneath Oz's hands, effectively brushing them aside, and undid the button for him.
Oz laughed, sheepishly thanked him again. Still several more buttons to go, and he didn't feel the least bit like dealing with them. Instead, he began squirming about in place, trying to wriggle the shirt up and over his head, which proved an interesting task when laying face-up in bed.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to get this thing off. I don't want to do the buttons," Oz explained with a quiet grunt, bending his knees to raise his hips up off the bed so he could pull the shirt out from underneath him. Obviously a more taxing job, Gilbert shook his head again, and (with distinct discomfort), motioned for Oz to stop.
"I'll do it."
That was all it took, and Oz let himself flop weightlessly onto the bed again, limbs spread-eagle and the blankets askew. Gilbert leaned over once again and began working on the buttons, deftly flicking his thumb and going down the line, one at a time as Oz lay still. Once he reached the part of the shirt where the blankets obscured his path, he looked to Oz's face with unsurity, then, averting his eyes only slightly, brushed the covers aside and unbuttoned the rest of the shirt, a noticeable tremble in his hands. Once finished, the shirt fell open and Oz, still dreary and unconcerned with the activity, slowly sat up, gathering the open ends of the shirt around him to cover himself as he reached for the clothes on the corner of the bed.
But Gilbert stopped him, reaching with one hand for his shoulder to prevent him from leaning any further forward. At Oz's confused stare, he simply took the material of the shirt in his gloved hand, then the other side in his other hand, and, swallowing, slid the garment off of Oz's shoulders, his arms, over his hands, curled into fists, and tossed it away, onto a nearby chair.
pairing: oz/gil
word count: 2383
rating: pg-13ish
(possibly incomplete? unsure)
Rain, again. He could hear it tapping on the roof, on the window pane. Steady, rhythmic, calming. The blankets came up to his chin again, and he huddled into them, curled in on himself, shut his eyes tight and then opened them again a moment later. It was still dark, but he couldn't be sure how late it was exactly. It felt like he'd been laying there for hours upon hours, maybe even days. Every once in awhile he heard footsteps passing slowly outside his closed door, the occasional quiet murmur of people talking as they went by. Never loudly enough for him to pick up on what they were saying, and he really wasn't listening very hard, either. It was only through fortune, he assumed, that no one had come to check on him yet.
When they'd arrived back from their excursion that day he'd deposited himself in bed and slept. And slept, and slept, and slept, so deeply that when he woke he had the sensation of crawling out of a well. Of having been dead for a hundred years, and now he was clawing his way back up to the surface, slowly, struggling. In a way, it was a downright frightening way to wake up. But once he was fully conscious again he did nothing but lay there, wrapped in the blankets and the clothes that suddenly felt far too big on his small body.
There was of course the vague thought that he oughtn't stay cooped up like this forever. He needed to be sure everyone was alright, needed to reassure everyone that he was alright. But instead he lay there listening to the rain, the quiet pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Slowly, he let his eyes shut again. It was still dark out. He could stay here a little longer.
Across the room, the doorknob slowly turned, obviously by someone trying to make as little noise as possible, and then the door creaked open, allowing one beam of steadily widening light to filter in, partially obstructed by the tall figure in the doorway. Oz didn't react; he kept his eyes closed and listened, breathing evenly, quietly.
"Oz?"
He continued feigning sleep, albeit not all that convincingly. Maybe some others would've been fooled. But if he had seen himself, he would have known right away. The visitor crossed the room in a few even strides, steps muffled by the carpet. "Oz?"
Of course it was only a matter of time before Gilbert would come in to check on him. He'd assumed that everyone would've given him the rest of the night to recover, which led him to believe it'd been more than a day since he'd left his room. That would explain the faint pangs of hunger that he'd started to feel some time ago but had since ignored. His eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Maybe Gilbert would give up and leave if he made it apparent that he was still sleeping and not about to wake up.
The mattress squeaked as Gilbert took a seat on the side of it, right next to Oz. Alright, maybe not. There was a long moment of silence, aside from the falling rain outside. No words, no movement, no sounds. It wasn't the first time he'd pretended to be asleep, laying in complete stillness while Gilbert sat and watched him this way. In fact, it was a fairly common occurrence. He thought very little of it anymore, and for a long time let the man have his moment. Gilbert would sit there without moving, without hardly breathing, for so long that oftentimes Oz really did fall asleep waiting for him to leave, so he really didn't expect anything to differ this time.
Time ticked on, the rain alternating between clattering heavily on the roof and softening to a gentle patter on the windowsil, their only indication that the world around them was still spinning. Oz began to feel drowsy, bored, even. It was nearing that time where he would fall asleep for real again, but in the back of his mind, buzzing and ringing from both silence and stress, he hoped that he could stay conscious a little longer. His shoulders trembled a little; uncontrollable spasms of pre-sleep slackening. The movement roused him awake again, but only slightly - before he knew it he had quivered again, stirred again, drifted off and yes, interrupted by another tiny twitch. Is this what fighting sleep really felt like? Somehow, it felt unfamiliar to him in spite of the many nights that he'd struggled with himself for hours this way.
The perfect stillness was interrupted by the rustle of fabric - something that would have normally been too quiet to notice, but so rare and sudden that it seemed to be amplified a hundred times. Oz's body stiffened, alert and yet still dreary, and before long the rustling began again, the mattress beneath him squeaked softly, another shift-- and he felt a hand plant itself on the small of his back. Although it startled him, he remained still, eyes closed, his senses all heightened by his inability to see what was happening around him. He could feel something warm beside him-- breath, right near his neck. Cigarettes, the faint irremovable scent of blood. The hand on his back traveled upward, a gentle, reassuring gesture.
Gilbert knew he was awake.
Finally, Oz's eyes slowly opened, partway and then fully, glancing back toward the face that was so close to his. Seeing it now, it really wasn't as close as it felt, but he could tell that Gilbert had his eyes closed, which prompted him to close his own again, before the man noticed that he was alert.
"Oz."
All the pain in his body that he'd gone to sleep with started to throb in him again at the sound of his name. Up until that point, he'd assumed that he'd slept it all off, that he was rejuvenated. But there it was again, the dull ache, the fatigue.
"Oz."
It was practically a whisper. Oz was momentarily overwhelmed by the desire to whisper back, but refrained, continued his charade of sleep even though he was postive he'd given himself away already. Remained still as that hand rubbed his back again, comforting, gently rousing. This wasn't simply the watch-and-wait game anymore. He was being distinctly beckoned back into the world of the awake.
"Oz."
His eyes opened again, and he glanced back in the same way he had before. Gilbert was watching him now, his expression as solemn as it always was, only to unwittingly melt into something more fond upon recognition. Once more, "Oz."
"Mm." Oz went through the motions of stretching slightly, blinking his eyes hard, acting as if he'd only just been woken up, then going tiredly slack against the bed as Gilbert gave his back another gentle rub.
"No, don't get up," Gilbert murmured, seemingly right against his ear though that was hardly the case. Oz stiffened again, bewildered, silent. "I was... only checking."
"I'm fine," Oz mumbled back, his words partially obscured by the blankets and the pillow his face was half pressed into. Now that he was actually fully awake, he was really beginning to feel the hunger, drowsiness and pain. Just how long had he been out? He contemplated asking Gilbert, but decided against it and instead let himself settle, limp against the bed as Gilbert continued rubbing his back. It was more of a constant motion now instead of only once every few moments, and although odd, Oz felt soothed and pacified by it.
Gilbert didn't say anything, just hovered where he was, seeming to Oz to be as placated by the gesture he was making as the boy was, himself. For this reason, Oz kept quiet for as long as he felt able to, shuddering once and then quietly murmuring some nonverbal sound of approval into the pillow before his eyes shut again. It seemed as if this would go on for some time, much like the watch-and-wait game did, only with physical contact, but as suddenly as it had started, Gilbert pulled away and stood. Oz was immediately alerted by the lack of presence and turned his head, craning it in an uncomfortable way to look up at Gilbert. "Gil?"
"Sorry." Gilbert was frowning, eying the doorway with the obvious intent of hastily retreating through it once he was finished speaking - if he even got that far. "I shouldn't have woke you."
"But it's fine." Oz was sitting up already, biting back a grimace as he did so. All that rest and it was as if it had never happened. He felt as beat up as he had when he'd collapsed into bed. He started to say something more, but as he untangled himself from the pool of blankets around him, realized that he wasn't dressed in what he'd fallen asleep in. It wasn't even in his own clothing, but a white button-up shirt, collared, slightly wrinkled. One of Gil's. So large on him that the sleeves came down over the tips of his fingers, that the bottom of the shirt reached a fair distance down his thighs. An appropriate bedshirt, save for the fact that it was all he was wearing. There was a clean change of his own clothes (including underwear) in the dresser, so why...
Gilbert, having seen that Oz noticed how he was dressed, was making overtures of leaving again, glancing from the boy to the door and back again, uncomfortable. "Your clothes were torn and bloody, and when you didn't wake up, I changed them for you."
"Oh." He began fumbling with the long sleeves, pushing them back over his hands and rolling them up on his arms a little. Well, that made sense, at least. "Thanks, Gil. This is a lot more comfortable." Gilbert was watching him, obviously trying to seem as if he wasn't between longing looks at the partially-open door, and yet stealing furtive glances at the boy in the dress shirt that Oz was easily able to detect. "What's wrong?"
The man shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor entirely. "Nothing. I'll... get you some clean clothes to wear now." And without further ado, he departed, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Oz watched him go, blinking. His eyelids felt heavy, almost sore as well. Once Gilbert's footsteps had died down the hall, he let himself fall back into the pillows, the blankets. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep again, but part of him knew it was important that he get up. As soon as Gilbert came back with his clothes, he'd have to eat, go talk to whoever was up, take care of himself.
As his eyes slid shut again, he felt a twinge of excitement for breakfast. He'd ask Gil to make pancakes. With butter, and syrup, and... a glass of...
"Nnn."
He woke to the feeling of soft fabric on his bare legs, something warm, a quiet, silken sort of rustling. His eyes opened with several rapid, bewildered blinks, and there Gilbert was again, a pile of clean clothes on the bed, seated beside him and pulling one of the blankets up over him. Upon realizing that Oz was awake, Gilbert recoiled a little, almost apologetic. "You fell asleep again."
"Guess I did," Oz murmured sleepily, legs shifting underneath the sheet. "Sorry."
Gilbert shook his head. "I brought your clothes."
For the first time since all of this had started, Oz actually yawned, fingers curling over his mouth as he tried to stifle it. "Thanks." Gilbert nodded, and without further ado, Oz began unbuttoning the shirt he'd been dressed in, drowsily fumbling with each one before, by some sort of miracle, managed to get it undone. All the fatigue of the time he'd spend in bed was catching up with him, and he was amazed with himself for being able to stay conscious long enough to change clothes. One button, two, three-- and on the fourth, halfway down his chest, he seemed to have a little trouble.
Gilbert watched him without a single word, a mixture of amused and uncomfortable. As Oz struggled with the button he shook his head, leaning over and reaching underneath Oz's hands, effectively brushing them aside, and undid the button for him.
Oz laughed, sheepishly thanked him again. Still several more buttons to go, and he didn't feel the least bit like dealing with them. Instead, he began squirming about in place, trying to wriggle the shirt up and over his head, which proved an interesting task when laying face-up in bed.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to get this thing off. I don't want to do the buttons," Oz explained with a quiet grunt, bending his knees to raise his hips up off the bed so he could pull the shirt out from underneath him. Obviously a more taxing job, Gilbert shook his head again, and (with distinct discomfort), motioned for Oz to stop.
"I'll do it."
That was all it took, and Oz let himself flop weightlessly onto the bed again, limbs spread-eagle and the blankets askew. Gilbert leaned over once again and began working on the buttons, deftly flicking his thumb and going down the line, one at a time as Oz lay still. Once he reached the part of the shirt where the blankets obscured his path, he looked to Oz's face with unsurity, then, averting his eyes only slightly, brushed the covers aside and unbuttoned the rest of the shirt, a noticeable tremble in his hands. Once finished, the shirt fell open and Oz, still dreary and unconcerned with the activity, slowly sat up, gathering the open ends of the shirt around him to cover himself as he reached for the clothes on the corner of the bed.
But Gilbert stopped him, reaching with one hand for his shoulder to prevent him from leaning any further forward. At Oz's confused stare, he simply took the material of the shirt in his gloved hand, then the other side in his other hand, and, swallowing, slid the garment off of Oz's shoulders, his arms, over his hands, curled into fists, and tossed it away, onto a nearby chair.