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Conversation "So, dude. Werewolf." Oz nods, Devon takes a long toke. Exhales slowly. "Explains a lot." "Thought it would." They relax in the park, neither of them paying much attention to the night. It's a weird feeling. The unconcern. Like they could be any two people, anywhere. But they're not. "Who turned you?" "Remember Sheila? High school?" "Oh, yeah. She disappeared after the whole parent-teacher thing." "Yeah, her. Said some British vamp turned her." Oz nods, reaches for the joint. "Working out for you?" Dev nods. "The world is... deeper, somehow, man. I think you'd get off on it." "Not my thing." "I getcha. Plus, you've got all those wolf senses and stuff. That must be pretty cool." "Sometimes." Dev punches him in the arm. It'll leave a bruise, but Oz doesn't think Dev means it. "What's up? You're all Downer Boy." "Hm. I think I'm grieving for you, Dev." "But I'm right -- oh. That soul thing." "Yeah." "Heavy shit." "Yeah." "I think my soul's off somewhere partying, dude. Don't worry." Oz rests his head against a tree. Wonders if he can shift fast enough to fight if Dev goes for his throat. If he would. Eventually Dev rests his head in Oz's lap and closes his eyes. Not sleeping, or even really resting -- Oz would sense that -- but just... being there. One night creature to another. Is this what he is now? What it all comes down to? Devon's eyes snap open with an eerie suddenness. Fix Oz with a look of mischief far more cunning than the old Dev would've managed. At least not with half a joint in his system. "We could hunt, Oz." "We could." "Well?" "I'm not really up for the trauma aspect of watching you rip someone's throat out, man." "Isn't that what werewolves do?" "Some of them." "What about you?" "Not so much." "No?" Wants to tell him not to push, but... enough Dev left to make it feel like one of those rare occasions when the old, human Dev had actually taken an interest. Too nice a memory. He shouldn't have come back here. "Once. Another werewolf was going to kill Willow." Dev nods, cool press and rub of his head against Oz's thigh. "So you went all territorial on his ass." "Hers. And pretty much." "And the blood didn't get you? At all?" Oz has no answer for that, so he just rests his hand on Devon's chest. Looks up at the leaves in the trees. "I thought about turning the band." Oz swallows. He's definitely grieving. "Yeah?" "Wouldn't have been the same without you, dude." "I guess it would've given the band name a whole, new, disturbing meaning." "Yeah. Though maybe too literal." "Maybe." Devon is dead. "So what are you going to do?" "Not sure. Sheila wants me to join her in L.A. She always did know how to party." "True. You should probably get out of Sunnydale before Buffy gets to you." "Yeah, I know, but there's a real... I don't know how to describe it. Like a pull. You know what I mean?" Oz nods. "The Hellmouth." "I guess. It just... feels good. Is it the same for you?" "Sort of. I try not to pay attention to it." "But you're still here." "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am." "It's not a bad town, Oz. Not really." Devon's hand on top of his own. Oz holds his silence, and tries not to think. |
