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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Blind Ones Author: Voleuse Pairing: A/Oz Rating: R Setting: Anytime i. wet with the waters of august One evening, close to midnight, Oz arrives at what functions as Angel's doorstep. Angel feels him before he sees him, a sudden stillness in the air that speaks of predator. He turns his head, and there Oz is. "Oz." "Angel." Oz looks up at the sky, not worried, but still with purpose. "I need the ocean." He looks at Angel, again, purposefully. "Come with me?" Angel nods and follows Oz outside. The moon is full, so he offers to drive the van. Oz smiles and thanks him, and slides into the passenger seat with a sigh. "Which ocean?" Angel thinks to ask. "Whichever's closest," Oz replies. They drive. ii. cut through the full moon Traffic is relatively light, and Oz directs Angel to an even lonelier highway. They travel north, past the crowded cities, and sandy beaches littered with cigarette butts. Soon they're the only ones on the road, and the sand gives way to stone, and they can both smell the fresh of the ocean, untainted by the scent of burnt oil and rubber-scarred cement. The trees are no longer gaudy palm, but twisted evergreen, and Angel darts glances at Oz, captivated by the verdure. The highway curves and curves again, and Oz slides a hand over Angel's elbow. "Here," he murmurs. "Stop here." Angel eases to the road's shoulder and rolls down the windows of the van. iii. the full light of an apple They idle in the moonlight, motor humming for several minutes before Oz reaches over and twists the key. Then they sit in silence, slumped peacefully in their seats. The ocean rumbles in their ears like an earthquake, or a lover, and Angel thinks for a moment that maybe nothing else exists but this: he and Oz and the moon. The ocean, the van, and gravel under the tires. Then Oz opens his door, and the shift-click of it breaks the moment. Angel might mourn that, later. iv. the autumn's fruit Oz hovers at the side of the van for a moment, lips parted but words not slipping through. He's listening to the waves, Angel thinks. He wonders what they're telling him. "I have some stuff in the back," Oz finally says. "Help me carry it down?" Angel nods, opens his own door, silences the alarmed pinging by yanking the keys out of the ignition and tossing them onto the driver's seat. They leave the doors unlocked, of course, because they're the only two people in the world. No. They're not people, really, Angel thinks, as he walks around the van to the back door, and Oz hands him a plastic packet of blood. "Thought you might be hungry," Oz explains. He pulls an apple, green and blushing, from a paper sack and bites into it chastely. Angel thanks him, turns his head as he changes into his other face. He bites into the plastic without pretense, and drains it dry. v. the vague net of the day The moon is bright enough to make Angel squint, reminds him of that fragment of a documentary he caught once, while drinking from a physics major's veins. The moon is the sun's mirror, the narrator had droned, and he had been startled enough to stop drinking, for a moment, and worry. Nothing about him is scientific, however, and nothing about Oz, either. They slide down the scrub-littered sand and gravel, down the steep hillside and onto the shore. Oz spreads out a woven mat, and Angel sets his crate down next to it. As he crouches on the beach, he looks up at the amber disk of the moon, and imagines it lined with copper. vi. swells with cold dreams, noises Angel lies supine on the sand while Oz sheds his shirt, his jeans. Around his wrists are laced a dozen charms, twine and gem and magic. When Oz sprawls on the mat next to Angel, his arm brushes against Angel's elbow, and Angel's skin hums in response. It's gentle, strong, and spiky magic, and Angel shivers under the moon. "Weird, isn't it." Oz says, his voice almost inaudible under the ocean's whisper. Angel turns his head, watches the shimmer-ripple of Oz's skin. "It's hard to believe." "Yeah." Oz holds a hand up, watches as it twitches to sinew and claws, then back again. "I know what you mean." vii. fights against the land The night wanes, and Angel watches Oz's body arch, his hands dig into hemp and sand, his teeth bare, sharpen, and blunt. He reaches out, once, and Oz snarls, shakes his head. Looks at him with sorrow and patience. Angel waits. viii. the ocean trembles over When the worst passes, Oz sighs. Angel takes it as a signal, rolls onto his side. Oz does the same. "Why'd you bring me?" Angel asks. Oz shrugs, one-shouldered. Inches toward him, skin rasping against the mat. Reaches out one hand, to balance, and a lavender braid stings Angel's fingers before he's distracted by Oz's lips. ix. everything is concentrated Bits of gravel grind into Angel's back. Oz lazily strips him of clothing, pulls him onto the mat with a grin. They kiss, and Angel tastes pennies and heat on the back of his tongue. He rolls and pins Oz against the mat, grins as Oz repeats the motion, surprising strength in his limbs. Their limbs tangle together, and soon Angel's the one fighting the urge to howl. x. we are the only blind ones Angel wakes as Oz stirs against him purposefully, shaking his shoulder. "It's almost dawn, Angel," he whispers urgently, and Angel comes fully awake. The moon is gone, and Angel quivers, naked under the gray sky. "Come on," Oz urges, and they gather their things, climb up to the van. Angel jumps inside the van, wraps himself in a blanket as he feels the sun as it rises. Oz hops into the driver's seat and pulls his jeans on, movements graceful when they should be awkward. "You can feel it?" Angel nods, leans his head against the wall of the van. "Is it like that for you?" Oz nods. "Yeah." Then he starts the engine, and drives. xi. of motion, farewell, of departure They arrive back in Los Angeles before the day's end, but Oz finds a parking garage with sewer access. Angel hesitates before he slips away. Oz rolls down the window and smiles. "I'll see you." "Yeah." Angel nods. Oz drives. A/N: Title, summary, and headings taken from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet LXXIV. -End Feedback |