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Be Still and Know
by MorpheaPosted to the RoswellSlash mailing list December 30, 2000
Title: Be Still and Know
Summary: Someone keeps taking the books on Buddhism. Crossover with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Colloquial Kyle/Oz slash. PG.
Disclaimer: Katims owns Roswell, Whedon owns Buffy, and I own this fic. Make no changes, and you have my permission to distribute and archive this where ever you wish.
Notes: I've been having trouble with my more massive, refined fics so I took a break and let this fly right off my fingers. It's been some year and half since I've slashed Oz, and I've got to thank Faithtastic, Dolores, and the righteously good Part 6 of "Erase/Rewind" for jump-starting my PROACTIVE eternal love for that boy.
So there's that same scruffy, sparkly kid in the back going through the 294's. He's reading the same books as I am; he's couple ahead. He's ahead because he isn't in school. He isn't on the wrestling team. He isn't involved in an extensive alien cover up. Noooo. He's got all the time in the world to sit in the Roswell public library and *know* days, pages, before me. Rubs me the wrong way. Yeah. And I knows that boy knows that, too. God, I feel so obvious. The wisdom we edge through fills centuries, volumes; I am so easy to understand. Which makes it twice as frustrating that no one from around gets it and no one from around here could ever get it. Partly, yeah, because I'm not going to tell them. Partly because they just wouldn't. Okay? I know this. I'm resigned to this, and it makes me vivid tempted, reckless even, towards that small, quiet, transcendently cute thing ensconced in the back of the library where no one ever goes.
After few days of weaving back, in, through, and out of that stack, our stack, of all the myriad, labyrinthine stacks to choose from, I get caught. He looks up and offers to share. He says he's seen me eyeing it and you know, there's something kind of pointless about coveting.
He smiles. He has blond eyelashes.
I introduce myself, Kyle. He smiles again, Oz. Oz says hi, little heart over the "I" from the moment he opens his mouth. There's something strange to him, but then again there's something strange to just about everyone interesting I know and so I sit down when he pats the floor next to him. He spreads the heavy, leather-bound book across our laps. Oz's fingers brush my thighs when he turns the pages. We sit and read and let our knees touch under book until the lights dim for closing time. Oz is there tomorrow, and we read again. Our shoulders touch. For a few minutes, he dozes off, leaning on me. His hair tickles my face; I laugh and wake him up. He rolls his eyes, kisses me on the cheek, and goes back to reading. I just stare at his hands. I want to put my arm around his waist, but, I swear, I cannot move.
I stop by before school the next day, and Oz is there. I bolt at the end of third period -- fourth is gym, I can get away with it -- just to see if Oz is really there during the day. Yeah, he's there.
And he's quiet. It's a relief he's so quiet, as nervous as I get that he's going to start talking to me about what we read and I won't have anything solemnly brilliant to say about the text. Then he won't be back. He'll be off to find another library and another small town Eastern Philosophy collection and boy who reads and covets and loves Buddha articulately.
He'll be here tomorrow. Some things you just know.
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