Angel knows how the story ends; monster defeated,
kingdom saved, damsel returned to the bosom of her
family, and that is where the movie screen goes black.
But he knows about the scenes left on the cutting
room floor, the cunning of the villain, the way the
hero falters and is seduced and felled by that
overpowering attractive death. And the maiden is
tossed down and impaled most viciously, or perhaps she
uses her feminine confidence to bring a measure of
security to herself. Prince Charming is laid out on a
rack, pried open and explored in ever possible sense
of the word.
Now, now, we're not near done, a bit of spine
here, there it is..
The cinema tries to reassure the humans that there
is justice in some form, eventually there will be a
successful foray into darkens and that Light shall
spear the Eternal Night at it center, rending it and
allowing the protagonists to have a celebratory drink
Congratulations of Living, let's have our
Happily Ever After
He has never received one of those cards and
doubts that they exist anywhere.
If only he had not experienced so much, then
perhaps he might accept the guarantees handed out by
the PTB, they are like so many used care salesmen,
pretty pictures, small-print restrictions and time
limits on every offer.
He's only seen the Oracles, but he speculates that
some, like Whistler, wear bad suits and strive to be
vague and omniscient.
And then there are his friends. They seem to
think that he is without anyone else. Taken as a given
that he will run to them, for there is nobody else
that would accept one such as he.
And the regular implications that he prefers men.
Not true, he likes breasts and dewy eyes with lips
that form soft pouts, but he also welcomes sinews and
hardness. They didn't get that he had been alive for
so long that his tastes should not be a thing to joke
Though he is so painfully inept at verbal battle
with a soul, that it is almost unheard of for him to
adequately express himself, and be taken seriously.
Such a sugary violence. He could be standing still
and still be breathing the same oxygen that fed his
friends, and when they looked at him, it was a death
with chocolate sauce that they saw.
A much-loved illusion, death that is courteous and
will put one to bed with a hot cuppa'.
No one ever said that the wolf would lay them down
gently, teeth might tear and cut, but there would not
be any sort of 'tucking into bed' behavior.
Fur and blood would fly instead.
Oz stared without the troublesome concern of
manners; here they understood one another, there would
not be any rebukes when he did not turn away.
The clothes, a covering for the humans, and new shades
had come out. He didn't remember a blue shirt, or
much color at all.
Sure he'd noticed the fact that Angelus liked to
dress well. But Angel just wore dark colors, yet with
the color coordination evidenced before him, it was
clear that Angel was not ignorant of fashion and
matching, simply uninterested or unwilling.
So he looks around, and comfortably abandons
thoughts of words.
Those silent must communicate with other means;
though for them, teeth were sometimes a far more
Oz Remembers. Trees that he's never seen in this
lifetime, the smell of earth, turned and soaked with
the blood of a kill made with claw and canine
know-how. Man has it too easy he thinks, staring
around at humans, so out of touch with themselves and
their inner, essential strength that they are very
nearly useless, except as food.
A casual assessment of the crowd around him told
him that all of the bar's patrons were imbibing to
supplement the stores already building in their pudgy
bodies. He rarely drinks liquor- fouls up the
mechanisms, slows him down, so he finds its numbing
properties to not be worth the rest of it. Some of the
idiots would be so easy to pull down, not even funny
how simple it would be.
With Angel, he envied the years of experience
which allowed him to convey, with silence, a dip of
the head, or, most dangerous, the eyes. The guy said
things without chatter, though when Angelus spoke, he
incorporated, using gestures to add to his already
formidable well of character traits that made him very
much not the proper boyfriend material. Especially for
some one who hadn't been places.
Oz wonders what the Buffy of college would have
said to her demon and how they might ahve handled
things. He wouldn't bet on the Initiative over
Angelus. The bastard might have been an enemy, but he
valued his opponents enough to play with them, pull
things out until something snapped- only understands
that better now. Though, how to bring it up to Angel-?
He doesn't know a good way. The vampire might not
appreciate being compared with his alter ego all that
much. Brings up bad memories.
Yet, he thinks that this Angel has changed. More
collected than he was while in Sunnydale, being held
back without protest by the Slayer. Here he has the
chance to make himself more whole, with the results of
letting go visible around him.
Angel smiles like sunlight dappled with falling
leaves. Oz thinks this as the vampire looks at him and
beams. Kinda scary for him to be that happy and
still not a fatal acquaintance. He'd been having 'ah
ha' moments for years, what that billboard meant, dust
that used to be bipedal moments ago, and the entire
'furry thing,' which wasn't so
much 'ah ha,' as 'in, that's different.' Life changes
without notice or sense of justice, so it has to be
He never minded not being the lead in the
conflict, that was for people who had more control,
more strength, or just the need to be in front. Of
people. An ownership thing maybe, the way that Buffy
owns Sunnydale. It will be hers when she is dust in
the mouths of those who speak of her with the proper
He is sure that there must be someone who would be
able to converse with Angel, while he sits and murmurs
a phrase at unpredictable intervals. But perhaps,
Angel just wants someone around who doesn't need to be
entertained. An individual with whom he can sit
without speaking, or not be judged on it. Everyone
needs a bit of personal time, and with who he works,
that may not be so easy to find anymore. Therefore,
he expects nothing in the way of words from Angel.
He doesn't reflect on what 'innocent' means. If he
eats the man who harassed him on the street, a reason
plods out of the mess of shucked tissue and presents
itself to him. Slower every time.
Doesn't lie to himself in those moments. He is the
wolf, and he is on furred haunches, tooth shiny
laughter from his mouth. Later he may try and feel
Someday he would like to take Angel hunting; he is
sure that the vampire knows how, if he lived on the
streets, he would have to know something, and it would
be nice to run with someone. Not afraid. Sympathetic,
supportive, or just silent. And all of that listening
is for him and only him alone. A promise of endless
Distances between words that could fuel cities.
Not about love, eternal or fleeting, they have had
that, and it didn't work out. So they've moved on and
this might be about friends, or just two predators
agreeing not to use or conceal their arsenals.
A truce of reciprocating comfort.