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Slip Into Something The night air is humid; clouds obscure the sky and trap the heat from the day before. A crescent moon glows dimly through a thin veil of cumulonimbus, outmatched by the burnt sodium of the street lamps. Sweat sticky, his shirt clings damply to his back, and the fabric under his arms is several shades darker. The mansion looms ahead, the trees and shrubs in the front yard black and ominous by night. Xander is suspicious. This is not an unnatural state, especially so when regarding the inhabitant of the house in front of him. This time, though, he knows that it's more than just general mistrust. Much of that has to do with the van parked at the front of the mansion. Oz's van. The van of the man who should be playing a gig tonight, not parked outside a vampire's house. What would Oz need to do here? And why would he have to lie about it? Xander's conscience demands that he should tell Buffy, or Giles. Someone with authority; one of the people that usually deals with this sort of odd mystery. But his pride demands that he figure this out himself.
Smooth silk ripples across his skin, the faint whisper of friction a background noise to the clicks and the commands that fall from the other's lips. The clicks pause, and a shadow falls across the bed on which he lies. Glacial fingertips reach to the hem of his shirt; he flinches at the touch, but lets the garment be pulled upwards, cold-aroused nipples on alabaster skin exposed to the silk -- and the lens.
His hand moves rapidly, the grunts of his exertion accompanied by the clicks, in a staccato rhythm that doesn't match that of his arm. A murmur echoes in the room, and he spreads his legs wider, one hand moving between them and underneath, a solitary finger extended, dancing across the knot of muscle it finds. Then the rush begins; he can feel the liquid moving in his testes, a high speed dash to embrace the cool air, to arc in time to his hips up, up and down again, landing with a small, wet slap on his torso. His eyes are screwed shut, ecstasy enough sensation without the need for sight. The clicks too reach their own crescendo. The shudders subside but the clicks do not. The white mess of his climax is a viscous goo on his stomach, needing cleansed from his body. But he doesn't move, yet. The clicks must stop first. By the time they do the ejaculate is cool and congealing; the tissues tossed in his direction needed to be rubbed against his skin to lift it all off. Once he has dressed, covering the dried sweat and semen from the world, he is handed some bills, which he stuffs in his pocket. With a cursory glance of farewell to his benefactor he leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. Angel returns to his darkroom, and, watching the films develop in their chemical womb, jacks off in silence as the naked Oz is revealed.
Xander is waiting at the van when Oz emerges from the house. Oz can smell his sweat, pungent and musky, floating on the night air. He looks mildly pissed. "Hey, Oz. Fancy meeting you here." Xander's tone is questioning. Faking surprise and oozing curiosity. The humidity artificially cranks up the tension. "Hey." "So what's the deal with the home visit to Deadboy? A pause, and Oz simply looks at Xander. Then, "it's wolf stuff. He's helping me with the whole lycanthropy deal." "Because he would know all about that, being a vampire." "I'm not the first werewolf that he's met. He can tell me stuff that Giles can't." "But why tell us you were at a gig?" A good question. Oz blinks once, twice, slowly. "I'm . . . ashamed." Not a lie, not exactly. Xander looks surprised. "Ashamed? Of what? We don't. . ." Oz interrupts, a rarity. "Angel understands." The tone suggests, he hopes, finality. Xander is quiet, looking guilty almost, accepting that he has pried too far in this line of questioning. Oz offers an olive branch. "Do you want me to drive you anywhere?" Xander shakes his head. "Actually, no. I was . . . I have to give a message to Angel. From Buffy." Oz nods. "See you at school?" "Yeah." Oz opens the van door, and steps inside. Xander moves towards the front door of the old mansion and rings the bell.
Angel takes some time to open the door. When he does, looming in the doorway, he looks faintly annoyed. "You're early." Xander shrugs. "Will helped me with my chem homework, so I thought we could get this over and done with." Angel stands aside. "Sure, come in." "I just met Oz," Xander says as he walks in, missing Angel's sharp look as he walks past the taller man. The vampire keeps a neutral tone. "Did you?" Xander turns to look at Angel. "For an undead guy, you're all heart, Deadboy. You go out with Buffy, you help Oz deal with the dog thing, and you help me with my finances. Speaking of which, I need to take a shower before I'm ready to meet my public." Angel watches in silence as Xander starts to peel off the sweat soiled clothing. "Hey, we could do the shoot in the shower. That'd be a change. You could sell these ones on for more!"
The notes burn a hole in Oz's pocket as he drives home. He feels bad about the whole experience, but the van needed work and he doesn't get enough money from gigs to cover it. The only thing that comforts him is that he isn't the only one to do it. Xander's scent was all over the place. He'd always wondered where Xander got money from, and now he had an answer. Woah.
Xander rubs damp hair as he pulls on his clothes. "Well, that was fun." Angel fiddles with the camera, giving Xander a cursory glance. Willy expects the photos before midnight so he needs to get developing soon, and he doesn't need Xander prattling in his ear. "You get a lot of money for these photos, then?" Xander stands up, moving towards Angel. Still ignoring the mortal, Angel concentrates on the camera. "Enough." "But you'd get more if I wasn't solo, yeah?" Angel stops, intrigued. "Probably." Xander is close now, inches from Angel's face. "Cuz, well, we both know Oz wasn't here for Obedience classes." A laboured pause. "No." Xander smirks. "Just when I need more money for my road trip fund." |
