by Voleuse

The elevator descends grindingly-slow, so Angel has plenty of time to realize that Oz is sitting in his living room. When it finally halts, he ambles his way to the sofa, where his guest sits. Waiting.



"You weren't in Sunnydale."

A pause. "You were?"

"Talked with Buffy."

"About Faith?"

"And Riley."

Silence for a time. Then: "Willow?"

"Didn't see her."

"It's over."


A nod.

"I'm sorry." Angel seats himself, quiet and close to Oz, who is also quiet. "Full moon tonight."

Oz holds his wrist up, displaying an intricate tangle of beads and thread. Mumbles a few words in three different languages, breath scented green and sharp.

Angel contemplates this. Then, offers Oz a place to sleep.


It's close to sunset the next day when Angel wakes to his guest's pacing. He considers ignoring Oz, but decides against it, and pulls on a pair of sweats for decency's sake.

Oz is similarly clad, and his pale feet slap softly against the kitchen linoleum.


He stops pacing for a moment, skin squeaking against the floor. "Can't sleep. Can't do anything."

Angel shrugs. "Full moon."

"Yeah." Oz laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair. "Makes me restless."

"It's the full moon." Angel ambles to the fridge, catches a bag of blood in his hand. Drinks, with his back to Oz. "It does that to everyone."

Angel hears Oz sit, hears his fingers start jittering against the tabletop, then hears...something else.

A slipping, skritching noise, followed by a gasping growl, and Angel whirls to see Oz changing back into a human being.


Oz smiles, wearily. "I'm supposed to stay calm."

"That's such a change?" Angel takes the seat next to Oz. "What's going on?"

"It's Willow. Ever since we..." Oz's eyes flash for a moment. "I'm having trouble relaxing."

Angel looks at Oz, sees pale-as-his skin, wiry muscles, and exhaustion. He turns a few suggestions in his mind, puts them aside, and kisses Oz.

The boy is hot on his lips, burning energy like kindling. Angel can taste fear on Oz's tongue; not of him, but of what he might become.

He tastes wild, and not at all like blood.

Not at all like a human being, either, and therein lies the fear.

"Angel." His voice doesn't tremble, but there's a question in it.

"This okay?" He eases his hand against Oz, over his arm, across his shoulder, trailing down his throat.

Oz nods. Leans forward. Kisses Angel, and there's no fear at all, now. Just warmth, and languorous want.

It's slow like honey, Angel kissing down that whip-tight body, and it's nowhere near as fast as he wants it. He is a vampire, after all, and the difference is more than blood and crosses.

He wants bruises, and whimpering, and slickhot moans pouring out of Oz like pain. He wants scratches like fire to run down his back. He wants pain, and he wants it now.

That, however, is not what Oz needs. And tonight, last night of the wolf's hour, is about what Oz needs.

So he gives Oz what he can, tongue whispering over the boy's torso, circling and skipping and wet. Kneels in front of him, hands softly kneading thighs.

Ever-so-slowly, and Oz watches Angel's every move, the ghost of a smile tracing against his mouth. Not gasping, not taking deep, shuddering breaths, but the quiet gust of a sigh. He stands.

Angel, still kneeling, gathers fabric in his fists, and pulls until there's nothing between his mouth and Oz but air. Leans forward.


Oz halts him with a word, and Angel stares up at him, wanting like the ocean.


"You want--"

"Easier on your knees."

Angel stands, twists his body down until Oz can meet his lips, and they kiss for a while, Angel looming over him, surrounding him.

Oz in complete control.


When Angel wakes the next morning, he isn't sure where Oz is. The rumpled sheets indicate where he used to be, and the bed still hums with human warmth. It feels the way Angel remembers sunlight.

There's a quick-patter of sandals descending, and Angel wanders out of the bedroom in time to see Oz appear on the staircase, bagel in hand, and something in a brown bag.

"Morning." Oz doesn't smile any differently the morning after, apparently. "I got breakfast."

He sets the bag on the table, it clacks, and Angel peers in to discover a jar of blood.

"Stopped by the deli, and the butcher." Oz sets tea to boil, then perches on the kitchen counter. "It's fresh. Pig's blood."

Angel opens the jar and sniffs. Sips. "Thanks." Gulps, and doesn't turn away.

The jar is half-empty when Angel sets it down, and Oz gazes at him, finishing his bagel.

The teakettle whistles, and Oz hops down from the counter. Gracefully pours two cups, and hands one to Angel.

"You don't have to--"

Oz shakes his head. "Drink it."

Angel does, then sets the cup down. Almost startles when Oz grabs his neck, and kisses him again. They part, and Oz grins.

"Oz." He's not sure what to say. "Why?"

"Full moon's over." The boy's skin is flushed, and Angel can hear his heart, thrumming staccato. "You did me a favor."

"It wasn't a favor, Oz, and you don't have to--" Angel is stopped by another kiss, and wrists gripped with strength a bit more than human.

"It's not quid pro quo." Oz is on tiptoes, and he licks at Angel's throat. Bites it, gently. "I want to."

Angel can smell blood under Oz's skin. His wrists throb, and he wants to retaliate in the best way possible. "I might hurt you."

"I could say the same." Oz leans forward again, and his bite isn't gentle anymore. "I am the wolf."

"But, last night?"

"That's different." Oz places his hands on Angel's hips, steps flush against him. Grinds. "I chose."

Angel's head falls back, and he doesn't quite purr.

"I choose."

Angel smiles, looks back at Oz. "Bed?"

Oz tilts his head. "Why?"

"Easier on your knees."

And it was.


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