"Runaways" Fred/Oz fic
Title: "Runaways"
Fandom: Buffy x Angel
Pairing: Fred/Oz
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Timeline: AU "Fredless"
Notes: Posted to Buffyverse1000, but started before I discovered that wonderful community. Technically, started as a Wes/Lilah fic, but I got side-tracked...
Runaways
Fred is a little frightened, but she's getting used to that. She's been on the road for a month already, and she's gotten used to being jumpy. She can't really remember not being on the road. No. Not true. She went to school, in L.A. She read books and was going to write one, one of these days, and not on the walls, either. Fred didn't write on walls. She looks over her shoulder. He's still there, the boy. He's been there for thirty-seven minutes and two seconds. She taps her watch, as if she could make time go faster. Or slower. Or stop altogether.
"You waiting for the bus?" he asks, like he hasn't been watching her for thirty-eight minutes and eleven seconds, like he just arrived here. Maybe he's been thinking of those words all this time. Maybe it takes him that long to think of something. Fred thinks so many things all at once she can't imagine it taking longer than ten seconds to think of something to say. But other people move slow. And some people move fast. Fred should move fast, get away from here. She's scared. But Fred is always scared now.
"Yeah, I'm waiting. For the bus. I mean, I've been waiting, even though it's not time for it yet. So not really waiting for the bus. Waiting for it to be time for the bus to be here. And it's not time yet. I'm waiting for time."
The boy gets an odd look on his face. He shakes his head, like he's trying to remember something, or maybe to forget something. Fred's been trying so hard to do both that she can't really tell the difference anymore. She looks around. There's still that old woman on that bench. She's been there since Fred got to the bus station, probably a lot longer. But she's not wearing a watch, so how will she know how much time has passed? How will she know?
Fred walks, tightrope style, past the loitering homeless people. The boy isn't homeless. He's too clean for that, wearing faded jeans but recently washed, and his hair is black with a hint of blue, like a dye job while the dyer was stoned. Suddenly she forgets Pylea, forgets everything, and just wants some weed. It's gone in a second, and the boy is looking at her, even more curious.
"You look familiar," he says.
Fred avoids looking at him, her eyes darting from the ground to the homeless woman's flyaway skirts to the sky, bigger than anything else in the world, bigger than she is, bigger than the boy is, shorter than her, compact, skinny, even his spiked hair stuck close to his head.
"And you look strange. But maybe familiar. Like you contain multitudes. Whitman. I'm seeing America. There's so much space in America, so many fields, and towns. I don't like towns so much. People look at you. But maybe it would..."
"Hey," he said. "Where are you from?"
"Everywhere?" she says, furrowing her brow. "I can't remember anymore. I think I used to come from Texas. Or maybe I just dreamed that. How do you tell the dreams from the not dreams anymore?"
The boy doesn't say anything. Fred moves a step closer to him.
"You smell like ozone," he says.
"I sometimes like to use computers," she says. "We had a computer, in LA. I mean, they did. And they let me use it. But I'd rather not have to use other people's stuff anymore."
"You're a runaway."
"Yeah. I guess I am. Because I'm running. And I'm going away. Well, not running. Walking. Walkabout. Cakewalk. I should remember that. Walking is like running, but slower, and away is always so far away."
"Me too. I'm running away from hell."
"You're from hell?"
The boy looks at her like he's evaluating something, then shrugs nonchalantly. "Originally."
She shudders as he says it, like something of incredible weight is hanging in the big, empty sky, pressing them down.
"Full moon tonight," he says, and then, a huge exertion, "Where are you headed?"
"I don't know. Away. How do you know? Wouldn't it be nice if you could taste the moon on your skin? What would moonlight taste like? Do you have a place in town? I should think about that. The taste of moonlight. I should think about everything. Moonlight must taste like--"
"Blood," he says.
Fred thinks. It's what she's best at. Thinking. Fingers plugged in her ears so she can't hear the sound of a bus arriving, whoosh, grey smoke. Eyes shut so she can't see him, short and spiked black hair and casual jeans. Think. The scents he recognizes, the moon, the way he looks at her, the blood.
"You're a wolf, aren't you?" she says. She is frightened again, but this time the fear tastes stronger, realer. He can smell it on her, probably. Wolves who look like men. She spent all summer in a cave but learned that things aren't always what they look like, that sometimes, men look like beasts. That shouldn't be a surprise. In Pylea, slaves look like princesses.
"Only sometimes," he says. "It's something I'm working on." The words are almost in jest, so she knows he really means them.
"Where are you staying?" she asks, knowing she's going to follow him home. Wolves are stronger than little girls. An army of wolves could protect a princess, could keep the bad men away. They would all be too scared of getting bitten, of turning into wolves themselves. "I could come home with you."
"Sure," he says. "It's not much, but there's an empty patch of floor."
"I could sleep on the floor, sure," says Fred. "I suppose you wouldn't want me sleeping in your bed. I'd get it all dirty; I've been running for an awful long time and I'm afraid I haven't had time to shower." She smiles, embarrassed.
"I've got water," he says. Then, as an afterthought, "And a bed."
The bus has pulled in, the exhaust smelling familiar in a way that only public transportation can, an intimate invasion of Fred's senses and yet as impersonal as every bus she's ridden since she left LA. Oz looks at the bus, and at Fred, bagless, hands hanging at her sides. He grabs one of her hands, and he is smoother than she expected, and holds it until the bus, full of travelers, pulls away from the sidewalk.
She expects him to want to kiss her. After all, that's what wolves do. They take lost girls and find them. She means, finds them, then takes them. He should take her, now, while her hand is still wrapped in his. But he lets go of her. She looks at him questioningly.
"You just need some sleep," he says. "I'll take you home."
~~~~
The man -- Oz, his name is Oz and he is a wolf creature -- is so courteous, the kind of man momma and daddy wouldn't mind her bringing home. They'd think he was sweet, if a little bit strange and soft around the edges, like he hasn't really lived much. She can tell that's not true, even as she thinks it, but there's something about him, something untouchable.
"I'll get blankets," he says. "So you won't be cold."
"Sure," she says, beaming. The apartment is tiny, just a cramped living room with three doors, leading to, she assumes, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. A messy pile of sheet music, some neatly stacked CD cases, a guitar -- he makes music with his hands. "Do you sing?" she calls into the bedroom.
"Nope," he says. "Write songs though."
She wants to ask if she can hear, but that might be too forward. Sleepin' in a boy's apartment is kinda forward, she supposes. The sounds of Pylea are quieter here, and a soft, jazzy peace fills the whole apartment.
"Hungry?"
She's always hungry, it seems, and she remembers Charles bringing her tacos, Cordelia sitting on the edge of her bed, gingerly, and asking if she'd like to come downstairs to eat. She remembers creeping around the old hotel, and never finding Angel.
Oz is a strange rescuer. He's too short to be a knight; he'd probably fall off his horse.
"Yes, please," she says. "Do you have Mexican? I'm starving for Mexican."
"Uh, got some corn chips," he says. "Not much else, really. Got any money?"
She laughs for far too long at that. "Runaways aren't supposed to have money, are they?"
"Guess not," he says.
Back at the hotel, they tread on eggshells around her because she was crazy. She thinks Oz probably acts this way around everyone, quiet in a way that's unnerving after the constant activity of Angel and Cordelia and Wesley and Charles.
He brings her the bag of corn chips, then perches on an inflatable chair, watching her eat. He finally says, "You smell familiar."
Her eyes widen; she doesn't like the idea of her smelling like anything, not after all the showers she took, so many showers, to get clean of Pylea.
"Know a girl named Cordelia Chase?" he asks, like the question is a long shot.
"Yes..." she says, hesitantly, not entirely sure they haven't been trailing her, that Wesley and Charles aren't going to come out of the far door, crossbows pointed right at her if she refuses to come home with them.
"Huh."
If he's going to say anything else, she's going to have to wait. She pops another chip into her mouth, then another. The ravenous feeling at the pit of her stomach has vanished, but she's still hungry all the time. Hungry and dirty and tired. She wants to curl up somewhere safe, somewhere that isn't a cave.
"Know a girl named Willow Rosenberg?" he asks in a tone that is too self-consciously unconcerned, even for him.
"Pretty girl? Red hair? Very sad?"
His eyes shift from her face to his hands, then back again. "That's my girl," he mutters softly.
She wants to devour everything about Willow and Oz, everything that makes Oz look like that, thoughtful and sort of sad, his eyes darting everywhere. It's important, part of the story that she didn't understand when she first met him. Another prince who's already met his princess, another knight who's already rescued his damsel. She looks at her lap. Her skirt is too short. She looks like the kind of girl who runs around with bad boys. The kind of girl who would go home with a strange wolf-man and not be scared she'd get bitten.
"How's she?" asks Oz.
"Willow? She's good. Sad. She's sad, but good otherwise. Her friend died. The pretty girl, with the funny name. But isn't it strange? Then she got better. Buffy. The girl who died. So I guess Willow isn't sad anymore."
She peeks up at Oz and sees him watching her intently. She should say something else. But she has nothing else to say about Willow, nothing that she remembers. She would like to tell Oz all about this summer, about her cave, about how Charles brought her tacos. So she does. She starts with the beginning, and her voice keeps on slipping and sliding and the chronology shifts and turns and eventually she tells the story in reverse and she's saying, "and then I met you and that was the beginning, the best beginning, because at the end I fell into hell and I hated it and now I'm here and you found me and Angel found me and I won't be lost again. Please." Her voice breaks and Oz puts an arm around her shoulder, so gently that she hardly feels it. "Please don't let me run away again."
"Hey," he says. "If you want to run away, that's your thing."
"No," she whispers. "No, no, squared, cubed, hypercubed no."
Oz says nothing.
"I don't want to be alone."
"That's okay," he says. "You can stay here as long as you want. The floor's not going anywhere. The chips might, but we can always buy more."
Fred stops the sob that hasn't quite reached her throat yet and feels Oz's arm around her shoulder. "Do you want to kiss me?" she asks.
She feels Oz tense, not like he's scared though, but like he's thinking. He thinks so much. It hurts her. His thoughts fill the whole room.
"Not yet," he says.
"That's okay," she says automatically. "What about later?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Oz's mouth twist up into an almost-smile. He doesn't say anything.
Fandom: Buffy x Angel
Pairing: Fred/Oz
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Timeline: AU "Fredless"
Notes: Posted to Buffyverse1000, but started before I discovered that wonderful community. Technically, started as a Wes/Lilah fic, but I got side-tracked...
Runaways
Fred is a little frightened, but she's getting used to that. She's been on the road for a month already, and she's gotten used to being jumpy. She can't really remember not being on the road. No. Not true. She went to school, in L.A. She read books and was going to write one, one of these days, and not on the walls, either. Fred didn't write on walls. She looks over her shoulder. He's still there, the boy. He's been there for thirty-seven minutes and two seconds. She taps her watch, as if she could make time go faster. Or slower. Or stop altogether.
"You waiting for the bus?" he asks, like he hasn't been watching her for thirty-eight minutes and eleven seconds, like he just arrived here. Maybe he's been thinking of those words all this time. Maybe it takes him that long to think of something. Fred thinks so many things all at once she can't imagine it taking longer than ten seconds to think of something to say. But other people move slow. And some people move fast. Fred should move fast, get away from here. She's scared. But Fred is always scared now.
"Yeah, I'm waiting. For the bus. I mean, I've been waiting, even though it's not time for it yet. So not really waiting for the bus. Waiting for it to be time for the bus to be here. And it's not time yet. I'm waiting for time."
The boy gets an odd look on his face. He shakes his head, like he's trying to remember something, or maybe to forget something. Fred's been trying so hard to do both that she can't really tell the difference anymore. She looks around. There's still that old woman on that bench. She's been there since Fred got to the bus station, probably a lot longer. But she's not wearing a watch, so how will she know how much time has passed? How will she know?
Fred walks, tightrope style, past the loitering homeless people. The boy isn't homeless. He's too clean for that, wearing faded jeans but recently washed, and his hair is black with a hint of blue, like a dye job while the dyer was stoned. Suddenly she forgets Pylea, forgets everything, and just wants some weed. It's gone in a second, and the boy is looking at her, even more curious.
"You look familiar," he says.
Fred avoids looking at him, her eyes darting from the ground to the homeless woman's flyaway skirts to the sky, bigger than anything else in the world, bigger than she is, bigger than the boy is, shorter than her, compact, skinny, even his spiked hair stuck close to his head.
"And you look strange. But maybe familiar. Like you contain multitudes. Whitman. I'm seeing America. There's so much space in America, so many fields, and towns. I don't like towns so much. People look at you. But maybe it would..."
"Hey," he said. "Where are you from?"
"Everywhere?" she says, furrowing her brow. "I can't remember anymore. I think I used to come from Texas. Or maybe I just dreamed that. How do you tell the dreams from the not dreams anymore?"
The boy doesn't say anything. Fred moves a step closer to him.
"You smell like ozone," he says.
"I sometimes like to use computers," she says. "We had a computer, in LA. I mean, they did. And they let me use it. But I'd rather not have to use other people's stuff anymore."
"You're a runaway."
"Yeah. I guess I am. Because I'm running. And I'm going away. Well, not running. Walking. Walkabout. Cakewalk. I should remember that. Walking is like running, but slower, and away is always so far away."
"Me too. I'm running away from hell."
"You're from hell?"
The boy looks at her like he's evaluating something, then shrugs nonchalantly. "Originally."
She shudders as he says it, like something of incredible weight is hanging in the big, empty sky, pressing them down.
"Full moon tonight," he says, and then, a huge exertion, "Where are you headed?"
"I don't know. Away. How do you know? Wouldn't it be nice if you could taste the moon on your skin? What would moonlight taste like? Do you have a place in town? I should think about that. The taste of moonlight. I should think about everything. Moonlight must taste like--"
"Blood," he says.
Fred thinks. It's what she's best at. Thinking. Fingers plugged in her ears so she can't hear the sound of a bus arriving, whoosh, grey smoke. Eyes shut so she can't see him, short and spiked black hair and casual jeans. Think. The scents he recognizes, the moon, the way he looks at her, the blood.
"You're a wolf, aren't you?" she says. She is frightened again, but this time the fear tastes stronger, realer. He can smell it on her, probably. Wolves who look like men. She spent all summer in a cave but learned that things aren't always what they look like, that sometimes, men look like beasts. That shouldn't be a surprise. In Pylea, slaves look like princesses.
"Only sometimes," he says. "It's something I'm working on." The words are almost in jest, so she knows he really means them.
"Where are you staying?" she asks, knowing she's going to follow him home. Wolves are stronger than little girls. An army of wolves could protect a princess, could keep the bad men away. They would all be too scared of getting bitten, of turning into wolves themselves. "I could come home with you."
"Sure," he says. "It's not much, but there's an empty patch of floor."
"I could sleep on the floor, sure," says Fred. "I suppose you wouldn't want me sleeping in your bed. I'd get it all dirty; I've been running for an awful long time and I'm afraid I haven't had time to shower." She smiles, embarrassed.
"I've got water," he says. Then, as an afterthought, "And a bed."
The bus has pulled in, the exhaust smelling familiar in a way that only public transportation can, an intimate invasion of Fred's senses and yet as impersonal as every bus she's ridden since she left LA. Oz looks at the bus, and at Fred, bagless, hands hanging at her sides. He grabs one of her hands, and he is smoother than she expected, and holds it until the bus, full of travelers, pulls away from the sidewalk.
She expects him to want to kiss her. After all, that's what wolves do. They take lost girls and find them. She means, finds them, then takes them. He should take her, now, while her hand is still wrapped in his. But he lets go of her. She looks at him questioningly.
"You just need some sleep," he says. "I'll take you home."
~~~~
The man -- Oz, his name is Oz and he is a wolf creature -- is so courteous, the kind of man momma and daddy wouldn't mind her bringing home. They'd think he was sweet, if a little bit strange and soft around the edges, like he hasn't really lived much. She can tell that's not true, even as she thinks it, but there's something about him, something untouchable.
"I'll get blankets," he says. "So you won't be cold."
"Sure," she says, beaming. The apartment is tiny, just a cramped living room with three doors, leading to, she assumes, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. A messy pile of sheet music, some neatly stacked CD cases, a guitar -- he makes music with his hands. "Do you sing?" she calls into the bedroom.
"Nope," he says. "Write songs though."
She wants to ask if she can hear, but that might be too forward. Sleepin' in a boy's apartment is kinda forward, she supposes. The sounds of Pylea are quieter here, and a soft, jazzy peace fills the whole apartment.
"Hungry?"
She's always hungry, it seems, and she remembers Charles bringing her tacos, Cordelia sitting on the edge of her bed, gingerly, and asking if she'd like to come downstairs to eat. She remembers creeping around the old hotel, and never finding Angel.
Oz is a strange rescuer. He's too short to be a knight; he'd probably fall off his horse.
"Yes, please," she says. "Do you have Mexican? I'm starving for Mexican."
"Uh, got some corn chips," he says. "Not much else, really. Got any money?"
She laughs for far too long at that. "Runaways aren't supposed to have money, are they?"
"Guess not," he says.
Back at the hotel, they tread on eggshells around her because she was crazy. She thinks Oz probably acts this way around everyone, quiet in a way that's unnerving after the constant activity of Angel and Cordelia and Wesley and Charles.
He brings her the bag of corn chips, then perches on an inflatable chair, watching her eat. He finally says, "You smell familiar."
Her eyes widen; she doesn't like the idea of her smelling like anything, not after all the showers she took, so many showers, to get clean of Pylea.
"Know a girl named Cordelia Chase?" he asks, like the question is a long shot.
"Yes..." she says, hesitantly, not entirely sure they haven't been trailing her, that Wesley and Charles aren't going to come out of the far door, crossbows pointed right at her if she refuses to come home with them.
"Huh."
If he's going to say anything else, she's going to have to wait. She pops another chip into her mouth, then another. The ravenous feeling at the pit of her stomach has vanished, but she's still hungry all the time. Hungry and dirty and tired. She wants to curl up somewhere safe, somewhere that isn't a cave.
"Know a girl named Willow Rosenberg?" he asks in a tone that is too self-consciously unconcerned, even for him.
"Pretty girl? Red hair? Very sad?"
His eyes shift from her face to his hands, then back again. "That's my girl," he mutters softly.
She wants to devour everything about Willow and Oz, everything that makes Oz look like that, thoughtful and sort of sad, his eyes darting everywhere. It's important, part of the story that she didn't understand when she first met him. Another prince who's already met his princess, another knight who's already rescued his damsel. She looks at her lap. Her skirt is too short. She looks like the kind of girl who runs around with bad boys. The kind of girl who would go home with a strange wolf-man and not be scared she'd get bitten.
"How's she?" asks Oz.
"Willow? She's good. Sad. She's sad, but good otherwise. Her friend died. The pretty girl, with the funny name. But isn't it strange? Then she got better. Buffy. The girl who died. So I guess Willow isn't sad anymore."
She peeks up at Oz and sees him watching her intently. She should say something else. But she has nothing else to say about Willow, nothing that she remembers. She would like to tell Oz all about this summer, about her cave, about how Charles brought her tacos. So she does. She starts with the beginning, and her voice keeps on slipping and sliding and the chronology shifts and turns and eventually she tells the story in reverse and she's saying, "and then I met you and that was the beginning, the best beginning, because at the end I fell into hell and I hated it and now I'm here and you found me and Angel found me and I won't be lost again. Please." Her voice breaks and Oz puts an arm around her shoulder, so gently that she hardly feels it. "Please don't let me run away again."
"Hey," he says. "If you want to run away, that's your thing."
"No," she whispers. "No, no, squared, cubed, hypercubed no."
Oz says nothing.
"I don't want to be alone."
"That's okay," he says. "You can stay here as long as you want. The floor's not going anywhere. The chips might, but we can always buy more."
Fred stops the sob that hasn't quite reached her throat yet and feels Oz's arm around her shoulder. "Do you want to kiss me?" she asks.
She feels Oz tense, not like he's scared though, but like he's thinking. He thinks so much. It hurts her. His thoughts fill the whole room.
"Not yet," he says.
"That's okay," she says automatically. "What about later?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Oz's mouth twist up into an almost-smile. He doesn't say anything.