STORMS
by Abbie
Notes

 

The trap surprises Oz. Maybe he wasn't paying attention--he should have smelled the guns and metal and been more wary. Or maybe he wanted to get caught, wrestled back into that other shape. He planted his left foot square in the center of it, hidden by pseudo foliage, and now it's too late.

He wishes his reaction could be like the ones made by cartoon characters, with great iron teeth hanging off one leg while he hops around the clearing, howling, on the other. It's nothing like that though. There's blood and pain and tears and falling to the ground and he's just damn lucky the thing didn't snap his ankle.

Scent in the air of, of, something, had been telling him to move quickly all morning, get out of the rocks and pines and wind-twisted oaks and into a town. That muffled voice grows desperate now. He pries the trap loose, cursing stupid hunters because he knows traps this big are illegal in this state and his hind brain is screaming that he must hurry when he cuts his fingers on jagged edges and it's all too much and carmine swims up over his eyes and he fights/welcomes the change and the animal and the driving rage against the thing that hurt him. Pulls it apart with hands that are good for clawing, not for holding, thumbs there but the human-ape long forgotten. Bends it until the hinges ping and snap and it still isn't enough and licks at the blood pooled there and rips his tongue and howls and tears at the thing some more, longing for a whimper or a whiff of fear but what hurt him comes from them and him that part of himself that will not let him run and rend and hunt. So he throws the thing hard and far into the bush knowing that he could find it again but they won't be able to because they can't scent his blood and he remembers the blood and licks at his wounded leg and whimpers and comforts himself some.

He knows he needs to go, this clearing isn't safe--it reeks of them and the hard gray places he hates. He also must be clever and mask his trail, make his way to a safe cave before the white cold comes, doesn't want to hide behind him but he has to run and he can't and the coaxing soothing chanting voice surrounds him and he growls and shakes and everything condenses into untold hurts as claws slam back into hands and fangs into head and the pain in his ankle is echoing and repeating and Oz gasps and drops onto the ground and isn't sure he can move, though he wants to. Needs to. Must.

The change helped heal the wound, as Oz knew it would, though he hates admitting it to himself. He examines the shadows, gauging how long he was gone, how long the wolf was free. Not too long. But not long enough--Oz finds the beast more docile after a longer run. Caged again, he can't stop its roaming in his brain, pain gnawing at the bars, at his leg, at his lungs.

Then the other scent, the one that drove him since dawn, comes floating back. Recognition finally dapples its surface.

Snow. And soon.

#

Everything in the Wyoming three-stoplight town closes up early because of the storm: bars, restaurants, hotels. He'd found his trick, itinerate salesman, but not a place to sleep once he'd been dismissed. While retracing his steps back to the hotel lobby, a familiar scent tugs at his brain. Follows it to a different door.

Knocks.

Xander throws it open, the familial growl of "What?" dying on his lips. He's not covered himself, either his chest or his eye, letting his disturber see all.

Oz refuses to be sucked in, shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, says, "Hey."

With a nod, Xander steps to one side, gesturing for Oz to enter without making a formal invitation. Oz nods at the Hellmouth courtesy and limps in.

The overhead light shatters the darkness of the room. Oz blinks, trying to adjust. New place. New smells.

Same Xander.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing toward the bed. Xander squats down, takes Oz's damaged leg in one hand, fingers gently tracing the pattern of teeth still showcased by Oz's fair skin. "Stay," he orders next as he gets up and walks toward his bag.

Oz can't help but laugh. One night together, months and seasons ago, and now Xander thinks he's domesticated? "Woof," Oz replies.

"Is that it? Was this some kind of wolf thing?" the young man asks, white container in hand. Smell of wild cherries and sage and her flood the room when he opens it. Slips off Oz's sockless shoe and smears orange-yellow paste on the wound.

Oz wants to refuse, but the gesture is without pity or scorn, argument or offer. Xander gives. Oz is cornered and must receive. Xander's wave of kindness drenches Oz's shore, blessing and overwhelming with abundance.

Heat spreads up his leg, across his sole, makes him twitch. Xander grabs his calf, fingers neatly wrapping all the way around the muscle, holds him still, keeps rubbing. Looks up now. Does he expect an answer? Gratitude? Who thanks the rain?

The ruined eye is black-bruise colored, with scaly skin edging it, creeping across the center of it, vein-red vines twisting through it, grabbing at him. Oz shakes his head to break free of it. "Naw. Not a wolf thing. Just careless. And you?"

He doesn't know what happened, not the details. Assumes it was part of the last days of battle. Unsure he really wants to know more.

Xander laughs and peers at him and the cunning that Oz sees calls to the cage inside him and he finds he's bending forward like a sapling in a gale. "You, careless?" is all Xander asks before the wind hits him too and they lean into each other and lips meet lips and there isn't a blessing or curse between them anymore. Xander surges up then follows Oz down back onto the bed and the beeswax sticky hand is pushing up his shirt and heat radiates from finger-tracks swiped across his belly and he wiggles and his skin jitters. Xander pulls back and raises the magic hand, plays an arpeggio with his fingers and asks, "More?"

Oz nods, imagined tingling already shooting across his skin and he has to feel it, will wonder if he doesn't and Xander undoes his jeans with the clean hand, not wasting the dirty hand and Oz gasps when his cock is ensnared and the heat cloaks it instantly and pushes through channels and tunnels and a delta of cannels he didn't know existed around and through his dick and he gasps again into Xander's mouth as a hand twists and pulls on him expertly bringing him closer faster harder than he should be and the unexpected keeps happening when the matching wet tongue leaves the safe cavern of his mouth and climbs over his face, cheeks, eyes, licking them clear bathing them warm then cool and another hand tugs his face around and teeth in his neck and he wants to ask why the throat what does it mean to his friend and where are the lights in the dark places of both of Xander's eyes when a final twist and push and moan and he's riding out the storm on top of cyclone winds spinning him around while the heat radiates out and down and over.

The laughter remains and the remembered joy and Oz is ambushed again because he wants to stay but he doesn't, not where invisible bars mar his skin with cold or even the golden rule. Xander doesn't seem to notice the stillness in his partner--or maybe he does and doesn't care--just asks, "You back?" with a kiss and a lick and a promise that Oz can't quite hear.

He reaches out to do his duty though, hand sneaking into Xander's black boxers, rescuing his cock. Oz starts his work, the echoes of snow fences still rattling in his ear, when he's grabbed and kissed again and another hand joins his and the quiet is whipped away as groans zephyr in and Oz is seen by an eye and a hole and it isn't just anyone doing this anymore but him even though only half can be seen it doesn't matter because that's all he wants to be noticed.

The bites continue though, and Oz wonders which face his partner watches.

Xander comes with an exclamation that Oz can't decipher, trail leading to unknown caves. After a sigh and a stretch Xander gets them both off the bed and he purposefully tickles Oz as he strips him and dumps him into the shower, washing dirty hands clean and setting unhealed skin buzzing. Oz doesn't hide his bones or thin skin and Xander licks at unknown bruises along his hip from where he'd fallen that morning. Dried off and anointed once more, every hurt covered and toasted with cherries and Xander holds him and suddenly they're both crying from menthol warmth that stings as it repairs and rebuilds bars and walls and cages.

#

Wind still carries snow the next morning. Passes are closed. The den they've made isn't safe from all storms though. Xander whines to go out, and they travel to food, to the bookstore, to the Salvation Army and Oz suddenly has more than his backpack will hold.

Giving. Receding.

Unending heartbreak from the radio proceeds to quiet, panes bouncing from gusts as constant as the wash of cars along a California freeway. Stories creep in between the turned pages, not the big adventures they'd shared last time but the little ones, of holding a seven-year-old's hand as streets are negotiated, listening to an old man's story about oranges, of a dog with dreadlocks who sleeps in an abandoned yard and reminds Xander of a drunken soldier. Dinner and beer and talk like islands surrounded by silence. It isn't the eye of the hurricane--there is no more erupting to do. They pile together on the bed later, happy sighs and wiggles accompanied with chaste kisses and puppy licks and Oz dreams of both harbors and jails.

Come morning the storm is broken, white bones piled high. Oz leaves half the clothes but still takes the warmest things, slipping through the bars he always carries with him. Gets a ride with a trucker, back up into the hills, into the wilderness. The cold won't last forever. And Oz wants to be there when the green creeps back in.

 

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