September 29, 2000

        Disclaimer: If they were mine I'd make sure they had plenty of bottled
        water.

        Spoilers: Possibly vague ones.

        Summary:  Oz on the road after New Moon Rising

        As always, for my Spike and Te.
 

*

A desert is a place without expectation.
--Nadine Gordimer
 

The Nevada desert at night is a little surreal.   The waning full moon
makes the saguaros look just like the ones in the old Warner Bother
cartoons.  Sans sombreros.

Oz thinks there is a distinct possibility he's a little punch drunk from
lack of sleep.  He *should* pull over and grab a nap.  But he's still
trying to put as much distance between himself and Sunnydale as
possible.  That's the plan, the only plan.  Distance.  As plans go, it
pretty much sucks, but it's the only one he can come up with at the
moment.

Distance.

So he cranks down the window and lets the cool night air wash in.
Tastes sage and creosote.  Dusty, but somehow clean, and he likes that.

He likes the desert.  Heat never really bothers him and the nights are
always cool.  And pretty.  There's really nothing like the desert sky at
night.  Oz knows that stars aren't really any closer, but they look like
they hang a little lower in the sky, glow a little brighter.

There are no UFO's, as the clerk at the last gas station assured him
there would be.  Not that he's seen yet, anyway.  But that's cool.  Oz
has seen enough weirdness for awhile.

And, whoa, spoke too soon, because one of the saguaros up ahead just
split in two.

Oz blinks and rubs at his eyes with one hand.  Still there and walking
toward the road.

This, he thinks, qualifies as weird.  While the clerk had talked about
secret military bases and black ops units and aliens of all shapes and
sizes, Oz doesn't recall him mentioning walking cacti.

He spends a few seconds pondering what sort of evolutionary process
would result in a mobile cactus and decides it must be the need for
water.  Or, as his headlights touch the figure, that he's really tired
and it's not a cactus at all.

A guy.

Walking.  Or no.  Limping.

And the lessons of childhood make vaguely uneasy noises when Oz slows
down, but they're drowned out by the more recent lessons of the road.
You get help, you give help.

The guy stops when Oz pulls over, but doesn't say anything.  Just peers
at him through the shadows.  Featureless in the darkness, except for the
gleam of his eyes.

"You need a ride?"  Said in Oz's mildest 'we're cool' voice.

"And they say they are no nice people in the world anymore."  Light
voice.  English accent.  The man tilts his head and adds, "Need isn't
the word I would use, but yes.  I think I would actually prefer not to
walk."

Oz nods.  "That's cool.  Where are you headed?"

That gets a small chuckle and, "Away from here."

And Oz is definitely cool with that.  So he nods again, this time toward
the passenger door.

The guy gets in and the brief flash of the overhead light shines on an
old/young face, wide mobile mouth and dark eyes.  Lines around the mouth
and eyes, like he smiled a lot.  Smiling now, in the dim glow of the
dashboard lights, a gentle, unthreatening little smile. "Ethan," he
offers.

"Oz."

Silence for awhile, while Oz drives and Ethan stares at the interior of
the van with polite interest.  For a moment Oz wishes he'd picked up
some of the burger pods and empty Styrofoam cups, but then shrugs.  It
wasn't like he was competing for this month's edition of Van Beautiful.

"What an extraordinary vehicle."  Ethan twists around in his seat, looks
at the back.  No fast food detritus there, but a tangle of blankets on
the air mattress and piles of books.  "You, er, live in it then?"

"For the moment."

"And where is home?"  Looking back at him now, mild curiosity in his
voice.

"California." Amazing how he can say that without a tremor.  "You?"

Ethan leans back and chuckles.  "Oh, the world is my home."

And Oz can definitely read the message in that.  Don't pry.  Not that
he's the prying type.  Yet he can't resist saying apologetically, "The
accent is kind of a give away."

That gets another chuckle and a dry, "Indeed."

Social amenities having been observed, they lapse into silence.  Oz
divides his attention between the road and his guest, observes him
shiver a little and rolls up his window.

And he really *isn't* the prying type, but in the now still air, Oz
can't help but smell him.  Tired smell with the sour undertones of
pain/fear sweat.  Ozone.  Cordite.  A familiar smell that makes Oz's
teeth itch and want to grow.  Blood, but not a lot and not fresh, so Oz
hesitates before quietly saying, "Do you want me to aim for a town with
a doctor?"

Ethan gives him a sharp glance.  Raises an eyebrow.  "You're a
perceptive young man.  But no."

New smell now.  Also familiar.  Thick and heavy, like molten glass, and
the hair on Oz's arms lifts.  Old magic.  Possibly bad magic.

But when he glances over, Ethan just gives him that genial smile again.
Okay, maybe a bit more teeth this time, but his hands are folded on his
lap and he doesn't smell pissed.  Just wary.   So, "Okay."

The eyebrow raises even higher, but the smell subsides and Ethan
abruptly laughs. "Of course.  You're the werewolf."

And he must be tired, because his only reaction is to raise his own
eyebrow and mildly say, "I actually prefer were-person."

A delighted laugh and, "I beg your pardon." Ethan turns in his seat,
openly studies Oz with a quizzical expression.  "Well, well.  Oz.  How
extraordinary."

"We've met?"

"No.  But we have a mutual friend."

And suddenly it clicks.  "I don't think Giles referred to you as friend,
you know."

"Really.  He spoke of me then.  How sweet."  Evenly said, but there's a
spike in Ethan's scent, a complex mix of emotion Oz can't even begin to
sort out.

So Oz keeps his posture relaxed, his voice casual.  "You're not going to
force feed me candy bars, are you?"

Ethan laughs again, a little wearily this time, then says, "No.  I
rather think you're safe from that."  He slumps a little in his seat,
rubs at his ribs and sighs.  He doesn't look even vaguely demonic.  Just
tired.

"So.  What's it like being an evil sorcerer?"

"Mostly tedious, with brief periods of exhilaration."

This is said so dryly that Oz laughs in a soft snort.

"You are a rather unflappable young man, aren't you?"

"I've been known to flap."

That gets, there's no other word for it, a giggle.  "I do trust," Ethan
says on a yawn, "you will alert me if this ever happens again."

"Deal.  Hey," when Ethan yawns again, "feel free to crash in the back."

Ethan gives him a curious stare, then an amiable nod and clambers to the
rear of the van.

And Oz thinks maybe the rules of the road don't cover the etiquette of
offering a probably evil sorcerer a place to crash.  But, then, he's
willing to bet half the people who helped him along the way had no idea
of his true nature.  So.  It seems fair.

He drives.  Listens to the sound of Ethan breathing softly in the back,
cracks open the window again and breathes in the desert.

When his vision starts blurring and the van starts drifting into the
center of the road more often than not, Oz pulls to the shoulder.  Kills
the lights and hits the door locks, then climbs into the back.  Nudges
Ethan's shoulder until the other man rolled to the side, then  climbed
in next to him.

It does occur to him, just before he falls asleep, that being tired can
excuse only so many things.  But then Ethan rolls back.  Drapes an arm
over him.  Snores in his ear.  And Oz is dimly aware that he's smiling
as he falls asleep.

*

He's pulled out of sleep when the arm around him reflexively tightens
right on a bruise.  A decidedly masculine arm, so Oz, half awake,
murmurs, "Dev?"

There's a chuckle in his ear and, "Unless that's a pet name for me, no."

Fully awake now and fully aware of the man pressed against his back and
the rising heat of the van under the desert sun.  Both feel surprisingly
good.  "I don't think," Oz says slowly, "that you're the type for pet
names."

Warm, moist breath on the back of his neck as Ethan says, "Oh, I've had
a few in my time." He nestles a little closer and when Oz doesn't tense
up or move away, he exhales on a little sigh.

Oz nods.  "I've been known to be wrong.  I didn't think you were the
type to cuddle, either."

"Is that what we're doing?  Cuddling?" His fingertips find and
delicately explore a bruise under Oz's thin tee shirt.

"That, or you're going to seduce me."

"I think that's a distinct possibility."

And here Oz thinks this is probably where he should take a moment and
ponder this.  But Ethan's scent of sleepy, unhurried lust has bypassed
the rational portion of his brain and went right the animal sub brain,
the part only interested in the immediate gratification of various
hungers.  Maybe it's that his scent is *right*.  Not kin, not pack, but
not quite human either.  So he merely closes his eyes and murmurs,
"Okay."

That gets a nuzzle to the back of his neck and a softly laughing, "You
really *are* an extraordinary young man.  Lift up a moment."

Oz obligingly raises his torso slightly so Ethan can slip a hand under
the shirt, then lightly stroke the skin of his abdomen, his fingers just
skirting the welt there.

"So tell me, Oz.  How long did they have you?"

"A couple of days.  You?"

"Oh, a bit longer."  Warm puff of breath on the back of his neck.
Ethan's fingertips find every place that he aches, even where there
isn't a betraying mark and, "They hurt you."

"Yes."

"Did you get to hurt any of them back?"

"No."

"Poor pet."

"No.  I don't want to hurt anyone. Ever."

"Never?"

Flash of Tara's fear pale face and the remembrance of wanting to tear it
off and eat it.  And Oz can smell the acid change in his body's
chemistry.

Ethan must be able to smell it too, because he chuckles knowingly.
"That's all right, pet.  Your secret is safe with me."  His fingers
follow a welt to the waistband of his jeans, slip under, trace it to the
base of his cock.  Pauses.

Oz closes his eyes.  Can feel the question, both questions.  He shifts a
little, rubs his cock against the back of Ethan's hand.  Nods.

And Ethan lets out a long sigh, then eases his other arm around him,
pops the button free, slides the zipper down.  Pushes the jeans down
until Oz can kick off.

Oz's feet brush Ethan's bare legs and he wonders if Ethan had taken his
clothes off last night, or just magicked them away.

He kicks the blanket away for good measure, since the van is almost
steaming now.  Oz takes a deep breath of the heavy air, sage and sweat
and lust, then pulls his shirt off too.

And he just lies there for a moment, eyes closed, feeling Ethan look at
him, but mostly just feeling Ethan behind him, all sharp points and hard
edges, like he's been honed down to bone and skin and sinew.

Ethan's smell spikes a little, and there's a definite hint of ozone in
the air, but his hands are gentle, tracing the central vein of his cock,
cupping his balls.  Not so much caressing as exploring, unerringly
finding each spot where they'd hurt him the worst, like Ethan was
learning the shape of his pain.

When Ethan asks in a mildly curious voice, "Cattle prod?" the skin on
his balls tighten.

He shifts, mutters uncomfortably, "I don't know.  Something like that.
Look, I don't-"

But Ethan hushes him, brushes a dry, oddly paternal kiss on the back of
his head and continues to explore.  Skims his fingertips over his thighs
until they part, then up to his perineum.  Strokes him there and Oz
shudders even as he drapes one leg over Ethan's.

He feels weirdly vulnerable, open and exposed like this. It has nothing
to do with being naked, nothing to do with Ethan's fingers gently
stroking the sensitive skin of his ass.

It's more, he thinks, that Ethan *knows*.  Everything.  Not the
specifics, not the details that makes him Oz, but rather the everything
else.  The things he couldn't say, or even think without feeling
not-Oz.  And he thought he was over this, that he'd accepted all of it,
all of him, even the beast.  But now he sees that even if *he* had, he'd
never thought that anyone could.  That anyone would *want* to.

Oz can't quite decide if this is good or bad.

"Still with me, pet?"  Dry, slightly amused voice, totally at odds with
his scent and the heat of his hands, his body.

And Oz laughs a little.  Maybe not good *or* bad, but even. Enough
anyway for him to stop thinking about it and just appreciate the moment.
"Right here."

"You are quiet little thing aren't you?"

That should probably sting.  No one likes to be called little.  But Oz
likes his body the way it is, small and compact and comfortable.  So he
lets another laugh ease out and languidly rubs against Ethan, and says,
"Yes."

Ethan makes an approving little noise and for a moment just runs both
his hands over Oz's parted thighs, drawing aimless patterns with his
fingertips.

It tickles, and Oz squirms a little, pauses when the slim length of
Ethan's cock slides easily between his cheeks.  Squirms again, with
purpose this time, and Ethan's fingers grip his legs, just hard enough
to hold him still.

"Impatient as well, I see."   Still amused, but indulgent, so Oz smiles
a little and pushes against Ethan's grip.

"Yes."  Mildly.

A quiet spurt of laughter and, "Well then."  Ethan's hands move, but
slowly, one up to his cock, the other to his chest.  Idly strokes him,
long, easy pulls at his cock.

And Oz closes his eyes, rocks his hip up.  Easy and slow, liking the way
he and Ethan smell together, the way the sweat makes them slippery.  He
drops his head back, rubs his cheek against Ethan's, likes the way their
stubble catches and pulls too, like soft velcro.

Likes too how Ethan feels.  His fingers have no calluses, are curiously
smooth and soft.  Soft like his mouth tasting the sweat between his
shoulder blades. Soft voice in his ear,
too low for him to catch anything more than the occasional word, but
what he can hear is nice.  No one had ever told him his cock was pretty
before.

When he comes, it's long and slow and silent.  Ethan's voice trails off
and his body goes still, then shudders and Oz feels him come against the
small of his back.

And he thinks if it wasn't so hot, he could fall asleep again.  Feels
for the first time in days, maybe weeks, that he doesn't have to rush to
or away from something.  It feels incredibly lazy. Good.

The air is rich now with their smell and that's good too.

Oz rolls over to his stomach.  Rests his head on his arm and watches as
Ethan licks his hand clean, then sends Oz a lazy smile.

"I was going to say that I have pop tarts if you're hungry."

The skin around Ethan's eyes *does* crinkle when he smiles, as do the
lines around his mouth.  "I am," he says mildly, "almost always
hungry."  He sucks at his finger, eyes still crinkled at the corners.

And Oz decides perhaps Ethan deserves better than stale pop tarts.  "If
you want a real breakfast, the next town is a couple hours away."

Ethan gives his finger one last, slow lick, then asks, "And if I just
want you again?"

"We can do that too."

That gets him a smile and, "As I said, extraordinary.  But food first, I
think."

They dress and Oz takes the opportunity to look at Ethan's body.  Pale
skin, like he hadn't been in the sun for a long, long time. The bruises
are almost neon bright in comparison.  Oz has the sudden urge to ask
Ethan if *he* hurt anyone on his way out, but decides it doesn't matter
in the here and now.

Back in the cab, Ethan gives him a curious look.  "Which way are we
headed?"

"I was thinking east."

"Just east?"  And when Oz nods, "What happens when you hit the ocean?"

Oz shrugs.  "Turn north.  Or south."

Ethan tilts his head and half closes his eyes.  "I know people in
Mexico."  Said lightly, but with a considering look.

And Oz doesn't even have to think before saying, "Hey.  I left my bass
in Mexico."

"Well then.  Breakfast first?"

Oz nods and soberly adds, "And then sex.  Yes."  But he lets his lips
curve in a slight smile when Ethan gives him a delighted laugh.

As Oz starts the van and pulls back on to the road, he thinks that as
plans go, this is a pretty decent one.