And now for something completely different . . .
In late April, sweptawaybayou did a picspam that included this pic: 
The pic led to: this comment, and before I knew what hit me, I was writing Angel/Oz. Which is weird, because I've never actually written Oz, and wasn't sure I could. But apparently I will try anything once (especially for someone whom I adore), so here is Clair de Lune for Snow. What? I've just spent six weeks agonizing over my attempts to write Vamp!dick/Wolf!sex pr0n; you expect me to come up with a sexy title, too?
For Snow
Clair de Lune (Moonlight)
by spikeNdru, written for sweptawaybayou
Pairing: Angel/Oz
Rating: Adult
Once again, many many thanks to makd, beta extrordinaire.
As the moon rose over the tops of the trees on the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountain Nature Preserve, the look and scent and feel of the night changed. What had once been an undifferentiated mass of evergreens was now comprised of individual and recognizable trees in various shades of gray. The short-needled Douglas Fir looked and smelled very different from the darker gray of the Western Pine, and the smoky blue-gray of the Blue Spruce carried a hint of luminescence when touched by the full moon. Vague rustlings in the underbrush resolved into the warm, succulent scent of a snowshoe hare that made his mouth water. The mournful howl of a gray wolf, many miles distant, carried over the clean, crisp air and caused his hackles to rise. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth in anticipation of the kill as he bounded after the rabbit. He could sense its fear in the flutter of its heart as it caught his scent and ran for its life, and he salivated in response.
There were times-like these-when being a werewolf didn't suck.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz shivered as the clear, cold, morning air flowed over his skin and caused the hairs on his body to rise. His hand flew to his chest to make certain the tightly-woven leather thong that held the small chamois bag was intact. It was, and he smiled as his hand closed around the bag.
His small, peaceful smile turned into a grimace as he shivered more strongly in the crisp air, and his teeth began to chatter. He hurriedly moved from the shadows of the trees into a patch of sunlight and vigorously rubbed his arms and chest in the hope that the friction would bring some warmth. His knees rose and fell as he jogged in place until the blood circulating through his body warmed his cold muscles and he could run without injury. He raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes as he slowly turned until he caught the faint, familiar scent of metal, leather, gasoline and engine grease. He nodded his head in thanks to the spirits of the trees and earth and animals of this place. A half-smile formed as he added his gratitude for the cold morning air-his balls had shrunk to tightly tuck up against his groin and that would make his run a lot easier.
He then began to run with a slow, easy lope that ate up the miles-toward his bike, civilization, and his final test.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz began his journey in the early morning, on rarely-used two-lane roads. As the day wore on, they became more heavily traveled, until he found himself in the congested freeway system. It wasn't a change for the better, in his estimation. The peace he had found in the wilderness dissipated as the sounds and smells of a large city threatened to overwhelm his senses. The cacophony of sounds hurt his ears, and he flinched from the heightened emotions broadcast by millions of people that buffeted him with the strength of blows.
He left the freeway as soon as possible. The surface streets he traveled were only marginally better, but at least the majority of the teeming mass of humanity was closeted within buildings. The barriers of concrete and steel and glass walling them away afforded him a modicum of relief.
He'd spent years attempting to control the wolf within. He'd searched out various disciplines all over the world. Some were more successful than others. He'd had real hope for the techniques he'd learned in Tibet, until everything had come crashing down around him when Willow-
But he'd learned from that mistake. It wasn't about rigid control-it was about accommodation. He couldn't build a psychic cage in his mind and will the wolf to stay there, as if it were a separate entity and not a part of him. That way led to badness, and madness, and possibly other -adnesses. Definitely sadness-but the jury was still out on 'plaidness'.
Veruca had given in and let the wolf control her-he refused to do that. So he had continued to search and study, and he incorporated aspects of many different philosophies into what he hoped was a workable paradigm. He had learned to co-exist with the wolf-not as separate entities, but as an integrated whole. Oz touched the bag, hanging from his neck inside his shirt. The wolf totem helped. The most recent Shaman he'd studied with had taught him how to turn into an actual wolf. He could pretty much do it at will now, but he preferred to wait for the call of the full moon. The Rocky Mountain Nature Preserve helped, too. He accommodated the wolf part of his nature by allowing it free rein for the three nights of the full moon, whenever possible. Once the threat of killing or biting a human was removed, he discovered he enjoyed those nights-running free, at one with the earth in a way few humans were ever permitted to experience. It was . . . freeing.
It was also solitary. So one final test remained. He needed to know if his integration of the wolf was as successful as he hoped. Things had fallen apart before when he'd been ravaged by primal emotions-what had made him think he could control his wolf part when he couldn't even control his Oz part?
He needed to know if this time he'd succeeded. And there was only one person he knew that could help him find out. One person that he didn't have to worry about killing or maiming or turning if he lost control of himself. One person strong enough to subdue the wolf, if necessary.
He'd spent the last two nights at the Preserve, allowing the wolf ascendance. This night was for the man.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz pulled up in front of the Hyperion. He leaned his weight on one foot as the bike idled. His nostrils flared as he scented the air. He smiled. Angel was here-and the others of his crew . . . weren't. Oz twisted the grip as he fed gas to the bike. He leaned into the curve as he pulled around the Hyperion to the back. Things just got interesting.
Angel heard the motorcycle, of course, but he was surprised when it stopped in front of the hotel. He started down the stairs, then paused as the bike revved again. He listened. Apparently, the biker was just going around to park in the back. He took a deep breath. Oz.
He hurried down the stairs and stood at the courtyard entrance to the lobby. The sun slanted through the glass doors to the left, so he stood to the right of the entrance where he could remain in the shadows.
Oz meandered up to the door. His brown leather jacket was slung over his shoulder and held in place by his thumb hooked under the collar. The nylon strap of his helmet was held loosely in his right hand.
He placed the helmet on the bench in the courtyard and raised his hand to knock, then lowered his hand as he caught sight of Angel. He pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby.
“Angel.” He nodded.
“Oz.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How've you been?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Not bad.”
“Is Buffy . . .?”
Oz shrugged. “Haven't seen Buffy in . . . awhile. Or anyone, really.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So, she didn't send you with a message or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Just here for a visit, then?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
“Why am I here? In the non-existential way?”
“Yeah.”
“You still help people?”
“Yeah.”
“That include werewolves?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I need help.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The sun slips below the horizon and the Hyperion is bathed in a rosy glow that gives Angel's pale skin a semblance of life. Oz's milk-white skin takes on a lavender glow as the living and the dead see themselves mirrored in each other. Angel slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving Oz's, and lets it slip from his shoulders to the floor. Oz lifts the hem of his T-shirt, breaking Angel's lock on his eyes only long enough to pull the shirt over his head. Angel shivers as he feels the first stirrings of supernatural power begin to rise in Oz and his scent changes. Oz smells muskier . . . warmer . . . more alive and primal. Angel's cock hardens in response. The corners of his mouth curve in a predatory smile as he contemplates the next few hours.
He has a thing for small, delicate types that look fragile, but aren't. Always has. And right now Oz is hitting all of his buttons. Almost all. He wonders if he can talk Oz into dressing up like a nun at some point during the night.
Oz's heart rate accelerates and he wonders if this time he's finally found the key, or if he'll be disappointed again. He tries to remember that one night with Veruca but can't, because that was all wolf and the man was walled away. He's tired of denying one or the other. He's tired of the man carrying all the weight of reason and responsibility, afraid to experience any of the primal emotions because they belong to the wolf. He senses that Angel feels the same.
The moon rises and Oz's eyes turn amber, but his human form holds. Both slowly begin to circle in a predatory dance, eyes locked on each other. Anticipation rises as they each wait to see who will make the first move.
Oz growls low in his throat. His scent rises, hot and musky. Angel licks his lips as he tastes it on the air. Angel's eyes flash gold, but his face remains human. They are circling faster and Oz feels his phantom tail twitch. The aura of the wolf is all around him and his lips curve into a slow smile. He begins to pant as the adrenaline floods his system.
In the space between heartbeats, perception tilts. They seem to be moving in slow motion, although both strike faster than the human eye can follow.
Oz springs at Angel and sinks his teeth into Angel's chest muscle above the nipple. The momentum brings them both crashing to the floor. Angel bites Oz's shoulder-both using blunt, human teeth, but both manage to draw blood. The scent of their blood combines as they roll across the floor, first one on top and then the other, as they compete for dominance.
Angel is bigger and stronger, and he pins Oz to the floor. He lowers his head to lick at the blood slowly trickling down Oz's shoulder. It tastes warmer and richer than pure human blood, and his demon silently roars in frustration, wanting to sink his fangs into the blue vein pulsing under the milk-white skin of that smooth throat to drink his fill.
Angel tamps down his demon. This isn't another vampire; this is Oz. And he doesn't want to hurt Oz-much-he wants to fuck him.
A shaft of moonlight slants obliquely through the glass door and Oz raises his head. He tastes blood in his mouth. He runs his tongue experimentally over his teeth, looking for the source. His pulse jumps as Angel's mouth covers his and Angel's tongue thrusts into his mouth, unerringly finding the cut on the inside of his cheek. Angel's tongue laps at the blood and he can feel Angel's lips curve into a satisfied smile.
His own tongue explores the coolness of Angel's mouth. Angel's knees bracket his own, and Angel's heavy cock grinds into his groin, the weight pressing the small of his back flat against the floor. Without conscious awareness of doing so, he thrusts upward in response.
Hands savagely rip at clothing, and then slow as hot and cool flesh meet. Angel's large hand wraps around Oz's cock and Oz's hands pause. He ceases dragging at Angel's pants; his hands release the fabric and his nails dig into Angel's hips instead. Angel's hand tightens in response. Oz's hands cup Angel's ass, gliding over the silky skin and kneading the underlying muscles. With a sinuous twist of his hips and a kick of his legs, Angel slides out of his pants; Oz's jeans follow.
Angel shudders as the heat of Oz's mouth engulfs him and his hand tightens on the back of Oz's neck. He feels the delicate bones shift under the skin as Oz moves his head, sucking Angel's cock deeper into his hot, tight throat. Angel knows he could snap that slender neck in an instant; he chooses to stroke the pad of his thumb across the fine hairs and the dip of the the soft hollow between the straining tendons at the base of Oz's skull instead.
The rhythm cycles from slow and seductive to hard and violent and back, again and again throughout the night-like ocean waves rushing toward the shore as the swell builds, crashing and breaking, and then slowly retreating with the ebb, only to advance again.
The moon falls lower in a sky that has lightened to pearlescent gray, as their movements become slow and languid and finally cease. Oz's ragged breathing is loud in the stillness. Angel's hand hovers near Oz's face, and then retreats, as if embarrassed by the potential tenderness of the motion.
With a half-realized grunt that acknowledges the stiffness and soreness of his muscles, Oz props himself on his elbows and stares at his body-no longer milky white, but dusky with scrapes and bruises. The sky lightens, accentuating the contrasting shades of his skin. Oz grins triumphantly. He looks at Angel, who is studying him intently, and raises an eyebrow.
Angel rolls unto his back and addresses the ceiling. “Did you get what you came for?”
Oz nods. “Yeah. . . . . . thanks.”
Angel nods his acceptance and slowly gets to his feet. He casts a glance at the sky, plainly visible from the glass doors and windows of the lobby. He turns to the stairs and begins to climb. Oz leans on his elbows on the floor of the lobby and watches him go. Angel stops at the landing and looks back at Oz.
“Stay,” he says and it is neither an order nor a plea, but rather a validation of a connection of which they are both aware.
Oz nods and pushes himself to his feet.
Angel continues up the stairs. A small smile curves his lips.
Oz follows.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The pic led to: this comment, and before I knew what hit me, I was writing Angel/Oz. Which is weird, because I've never actually written Oz, and wasn't sure I could. But apparently I will try anything once (especially for someone whom I adore), so here is Clair de Lune for Snow. What? I've just spent six weeks agonizing over my attempts to write Vamp!dick/Wolf!sex pr0n; you expect me to come up with a sexy title, too?
For Snow
Clair de Lune (Moonlight)
by spikeNdru, written for sweptawaybayou
Pairing: Angel/Oz
Rating: Adult
Once again, many many thanks to makd, beta extrordinaire.
As the moon rose over the tops of the trees on the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountain Nature Preserve, the look and scent and feel of the night changed. What had once been an undifferentiated mass of evergreens was now comprised of individual and recognizable trees in various shades of gray. The short-needled Douglas Fir looked and smelled very different from the darker gray of the Western Pine, and the smoky blue-gray of the Blue Spruce carried a hint of luminescence when touched by the full moon. Vague rustlings in the underbrush resolved into the warm, succulent scent of a snowshoe hare that made his mouth water. The mournful howl of a gray wolf, many miles distant, carried over the clean, crisp air and caused his hackles to rise. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth in anticipation of the kill as he bounded after the rabbit. He could sense its fear in the flutter of its heart as it caught his scent and ran for its life, and he salivated in response.
There were times-like these-when being a werewolf didn't suck.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz shivered as the clear, cold, morning air flowed over his skin and caused the hairs on his body to rise. His hand flew to his chest to make certain the tightly-woven leather thong that held the small chamois bag was intact. It was, and he smiled as his hand closed around the bag.
His small, peaceful smile turned into a grimace as he shivered more strongly in the crisp air, and his teeth began to chatter. He hurriedly moved from the shadows of the trees into a patch of sunlight and vigorously rubbed his arms and chest in the hope that the friction would bring some warmth. His knees rose and fell as he jogged in place until the blood circulating through his body warmed his cold muscles and he could run without injury. He raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes as he slowly turned until he caught the faint, familiar scent of metal, leather, gasoline and engine grease. He nodded his head in thanks to the spirits of the trees and earth and animals of this place. A half-smile formed as he added his gratitude for the cold morning air-his balls had shrunk to tightly tuck up against his groin and that would make his run a lot easier.
He then began to run with a slow, easy lope that ate up the miles-toward his bike, civilization, and his final test.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz began his journey in the early morning, on rarely-used two-lane roads. As the day wore on, they became more heavily traveled, until he found himself in the congested freeway system. It wasn't a change for the better, in his estimation. The peace he had found in the wilderness dissipated as the sounds and smells of a large city threatened to overwhelm his senses. The cacophony of sounds hurt his ears, and he flinched from the heightened emotions broadcast by millions of people that buffeted him with the strength of blows.
He left the freeway as soon as possible. The surface streets he traveled were only marginally better, but at least the majority of the teeming mass of humanity was closeted within buildings. The barriers of concrete and steel and glass walling them away afforded him a modicum of relief.
He'd spent years attempting to control the wolf within. He'd searched out various disciplines all over the world. Some were more successful than others. He'd had real hope for the techniques he'd learned in Tibet, until everything had come crashing down around him when Willow-
But he'd learned from that mistake. It wasn't about rigid control-it was about accommodation. He couldn't build a psychic cage in his mind and will the wolf to stay there, as if it were a separate entity and not a part of him. That way led to badness, and madness, and possibly other -adnesses. Definitely sadness-but the jury was still out on 'plaidness'.
Veruca had given in and let the wolf control her-he refused to do that. So he had continued to search and study, and he incorporated aspects of many different philosophies into what he hoped was a workable paradigm. He had learned to co-exist with the wolf-not as separate entities, but as an integrated whole. Oz touched the bag, hanging from his neck inside his shirt. The wolf totem helped. The most recent Shaman he'd studied with had taught him how to turn into an actual wolf. He could pretty much do it at will now, but he preferred to wait for the call of the full moon. The Rocky Mountain Nature Preserve helped, too. He accommodated the wolf part of his nature by allowing it free rein for the three nights of the full moon, whenever possible. Once the threat of killing or biting a human was removed, he discovered he enjoyed those nights-running free, at one with the earth in a way few humans were ever permitted to experience. It was . . . freeing.
It was also solitary. So one final test remained. He needed to know if his integration of the wolf was as successful as he hoped. Things had fallen apart before when he'd been ravaged by primal emotions-what had made him think he could control his wolf part when he couldn't even control his Oz part?
He needed to know if this time he'd succeeded. And there was only one person he knew that could help him find out. One person that he didn't have to worry about killing or maiming or turning if he lost control of himself. One person strong enough to subdue the wolf, if necessary.
He'd spent the last two nights at the Preserve, allowing the wolf ascendance. This night was for the man.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Oz pulled up in front of the Hyperion. He leaned his weight on one foot as the bike idled. His nostrils flared as he scented the air. He smiled. Angel was here-and the others of his crew . . . weren't. Oz twisted the grip as he fed gas to the bike. He leaned into the curve as he pulled around the Hyperion to the back. Things just got interesting.
Angel heard the motorcycle, of course, but he was surprised when it stopped in front of the hotel. He started down the stairs, then paused as the bike revved again. He listened. Apparently, the biker was just going around to park in the back. He took a deep breath. Oz.
He hurried down the stairs and stood at the courtyard entrance to the lobby. The sun slanted through the glass doors to the left, so he stood to the right of the entrance where he could remain in the shadows.
Oz meandered up to the door. His brown leather jacket was slung over his shoulder and held in place by his thumb hooked under the collar. The nylon strap of his helmet was held loosely in his right hand.
He placed the helmet on the bench in the courtyard and raised his hand to knock, then lowered his hand as he caught sight of Angel. He pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby.
“Angel.” He nodded.
“Oz.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How've you been?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Not bad.”
“Is Buffy . . .?”
Oz shrugged. “Haven't seen Buffy in . . . awhile. Or anyone, really.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So, she didn't send you with a message or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Just here for a visit, then?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
“Why am I here? In the non-existential way?”
“Yeah.”
“You still help people?”
“Yeah.”
“That include werewolves?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I need help.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The sun slips below the horizon and the Hyperion is bathed in a rosy glow that gives Angel's pale skin a semblance of life. Oz's milk-white skin takes on a lavender glow as the living and the dead see themselves mirrored in each other. Angel slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving Oz's, and lets it slip from his shoulders to the floor. Oz lifts the hem of his T-shirt, breaking Angel's lock on his eyes only long enough to pull the shirt over his head. Angel shivers as he feels the first stirrings of supernatural power begin to rise in Oz and his scent changes. Oz smells muskier . . . warmer . . . more alive and primal. Angel's cock hardens in response. The corners of his mouth curve in a predatory smile as he contemplates the next few hours.
He has a thing for small, delicate types that look fragile, but aren't. Always has. And right now Oz is hitting all of his buttons. Almost all. He wonders if he can talk Oz into dressing up like a nun at some point during the night.
Oz's heart rate accelerates and he wonders if this time he's finally found the key, or if he'll be disappointed again. He tries to remember that one night with Veruca but can't, because that was all wolf and the man was walled away. He's tired of denying one or the other. He's tired of the man carrying all the weight of reason and responsibility, afraid to experience any of the primal emotions because they belong to the wolf. He senses that Angel feels the same.
The moon rises and Oz's eyes turn amber, but his human form holds. Both slowly begin to circle in a predatory dance, eyes locked on each other. Anticipation rises as they each wait to see who will make the first move.
Oz growls low in his throat. His scent rises, hot and musky. Angel licks his lips as he tastes it on the air. Angel's eyes flash gold, but his face remains human. They are circling faster and Oz feels his phantom tail twitch. The aura of the wolf is all around him and his lips curve into a slow smile. He begins to pant as the adrenaline floods his system.
In the space between heartbeats, perception tilts. They seem to be moving in slow motion, although both strike faster than the human eye can follow.
Oz springs at Angel and sinks his teeth into Angel's chest muscle above the nipple. The momentum brings them both crashing to the floor. Angel bites Oz's shoulder-both using blunt, human teeth, but both manage to draw blood. The scent of their blood combines as they roll across the floor, first one on top and then the other, as they compete for dominance.
Angel is bigger and stronger, and he pins Oz to the floor. He lowers his head to lick at the blood slowly trickling down Oz's shoulder. It tastes warmer and richer than pure human blood, and his demon silently roars in frustration, wanting to sink his fangs into the blue vein pulsing under the milk-white skin of that smooth throat to drink his fill.
Angel tamps down his demon. This isn't another vampire; this is Oz. And he doesn't want to hurt Oz-much-he wants to fuck him.
A shaft of moonlight slants obliquely through the glass door and Oz raises his head. He tastes blood in his mouth. He runs his tongue experimentally over his teeth, looking for the source. His pulse jumps as Angel's mouth covers his and Angel's tongue thrusts into his mouth, unerringly finding the cut on the inside of his cheek. Angel's tongue laps at the blood and he can feel Angel's lips curve into a satisfied smile.
His own tongue explores the coolness of Angel's mouth. Angel's knees bracket his own, and Angel's heavy cock grinds into his groin, the weight pressing the small of his back flat against the floor. Without conscious awareness of doing so, he thrusts upward in response.
Hands savagely rip at clothing, and then slow as hot and cool flesh meet. Angel's large hand wraps around Oz's cock and Oz's hands pause. He ceases dragging at Angel's pants; his hands release the fabric and his nails dig into Angel's hips instead. Angel's hand tightens in response. Oz's hands cup Angel's ass, gliding over the silky skin and kneading the underlying muscles. With a sinuous twist of his hips and a kick of his legs, Angel slides out of his pants; Oz's jeans follow.
Angel shudders as the heat of Oz's mouth engulfs him and his hand tightens on the back of Oz's neck. He feels the delicate bones shift under the skin as Oz moves his head, sucking Angel's cock deeper into his hot, tight throat. Angel knows he could snap that slender neck in an instant; he chooses to stroke the pad of his thumb across the fine hairs and the dip of the the soft hollow between the straining tendons at the base of Oz's skull instead.
The rhythm cycles from slow and seductive to hard and violent and back, again and again throughout the night-like ocean waves rushing toward the shore as the swell builds, crashing and breaking, and then slowly retreating with the ebb, only to advance again.
The moon falls lower in a sky that has lightened to pearlescent gray, as their movements become slow and languid and finally cease. Oz's ragged breathing is loud in the stillness. Angel's hand hovers near Oz's face, and then retreats, as if embarrassed by the potential tenderness of the motion.
With a half-realized grunt that acknowledges the stiffness and soreness of his muscles, Oz props himself on his elbows and stares at his body-no longer milky white, but dusky with scrapes and bruises. The sky lightens, accentuating the contrasting shades of his skin. Oz grins triumphantly. He looks at Angel, who is studying him intently, and raises an eyebrow.
Angel rolls unto his back and addresses the ceiling. “Did you get what you came for?”
Oz nods. “Yeah. . . . . . thanks.”
Angel nods his acceptance and slowly gets to his feet. He casts a glance at the sky, plainly visible from the glass doors and windows of the lobby. He turns to the stairs and begins to climb. Oz leans on his elbows on the floor of the lobby and watches him go. Angel stops at the landing and looks back at Oz.
“Stay,” he says and it is neither an order nor a plea, but rather a validation of a connection of which they are both aware.
Oz nods and pushes himself to his feet.
Angel continues up the stairs. A small smile curves his lips.
Oz follows.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~