Dawn's always thinking. *Sorting*, really, and evaluating. She can't help it; teachers call it daydreaming, Janice says it's because she's a big geek, but Dawn's not sure what it is. Besides just what she does.
Xander saved the world, Buffy didn't want to die, Giles came back: file those under Good Things.
Willow went full-on crazy-loca-mean, Tara's dead, Spike left after doing the worst thing imaginable: Badness all around.
Few things were good any more. The good stuff she remembers was all fake, anyway, so it didn't count at all.
She can't turn off this impulse to sort. She wishes, sometimes (not always), that she *could* just go with the flow and experience what's out there and stop appraising, judging, classifying it all.
But other times, most of the time, naming something as Good or Bad gives her the best feeling in the world.
Until this.
Because kissing Oz is better than good. It's unclassifiable. He fits into too many categories — Willow's boyfriend, Tara's opposite, older man, werewolf, big honking secret — and none at all, all at the same time.
Very secret. Not that he's asked her, in the past couple weeks since he just *appeared* across the counter of the pretentious gelato place she's working this summer, to keep his presence a secret, but she knows it's expected. Knowing that Oz is *here* in town — even all the way on the other side, deep in the student ghetto, such that it takes her half an hour to walk over — is a thrill roughly akin to the one she got (*used* to get, she doesn't do it any more) when she'd look over the stuff she stole.
She didn't steal to get attention, no matter what anyone says. Just like this — Oz — isn't anything like Janice parading around her new boyfriend. This is private, and better for it.
He's clean-shaven today — just woke up, she can tell, because his hair is damp, the spikes curling over on themselves, and there's a nick on his jaw. His lips taste like toothpaste, his skin like moisturizer, like Lubriderm. Same brand she uses. But he's sleepy, too. His eyes were heavy at first, almost cloudy, as he padded around the room, offering her water, putting on some music.
More strangeness in his choice of music. He's a rockstar, right? He should play her forgotten and/or ignored geniuses, heavy on the feedback. Instead, it's Bach. One of the cello suites.
Crouching in front of the stereo that teetered atop an orange crate, he glanced over his shoulder after he hit play. Looked at her, like he wanted to see her reaction.
She didn't know what to make of that.
His expression was sharp, watchful, and she held his eyes.
And then he was getting up, his unbuttoned shirt flapping around his waist, and crossing, sinking back down in front of her. She was perched on the couch. She couldn't look away.
His square hands on her knees as he leaned in, and his face rearranged into something pale and vulnerable.
She kissed him.
Heavy-lidded eyes, parted lips — she's pretty sure he wanted to kiss her. All the same, he sucked in a breath as severe as the Bach and went still for a long moment, long enough for all her doubts to crowd in, before he kissed her back.
And now, still, they're kissing.
Mint, and cream, and his lips are softly chapped and dry against hers. The brush of their lips heats up her whole face, prickles at the roots of her hair, slides down her chest to pool warm and slippery in her stomach.
*Kissing.*
Kind of dizzy now, even though she's sitting down, so she puts one hand on his shoulder for balance, the other on his neck. Her palms ache, somehow, and she realizes he's got goosebumps to match her own.
Older—Willow's—werewolf. Too many attributes to make sense out of. She's now made out with a vampire *and* a werewolf. What's next? Zombies don't kiss, probably, unless it's to suck out your brains.
Giggling, Dawn kisses Oz harder, hard enough that their lips mash against teeth, then curl over and cut. She doesn't really know what she's doing, but she's sure *that's* not supposed to happen.
"Sorry—" Still giggling, so it comes out stammery, but Oz smiles against her mouth. *Into* her mouth, really, warm and, oh God, *tongue*, just the blunt, warm tip working over her teeth and the inside of her lip and Dawn starts falling backward. Back into the cushions, because, *God*, tingles and vertigo and *kissing*.
Oz is rising up, then forward, kissing her more deeply. He's not on top of her, though her chest feels achey and bare, but *over* her, supporting himself on one arm, kissing her neck before his mouth slips and tugs back up to her own.
She slides her hand up and down his arm — he must've shrugged off his overshirt because all she feels is *skin*, dense soft hair on his forearm, smooth twisting ropey muscle up higher — up and down as she kisses him back.
Her lips're numb, then hot, back and forth. She's imitating him, nipping at his upper lip, then licking deep inside, behind his teeth, and she's shivering amid all the heat pouring and shimmering around them. Oz over her, hovering, a raincloud (white, bright, heavy), and she loses herself because — *kissing*. Kissing is good and he tastes *good* and he makes sharp, deep noises, half cut-off, in the back of his throat, and they vibrate as they pass into her. He cups the back of her head, fingers working in her hair, over her scalp, and kissing's more than just your mouth. It's this twisting, spreading feeling inside you, and your hands moving over skin, and the thirst and heat. It's *good* and it's more.
"Hey," Oz says. Later, so much later, rolling off to lie on his side next to her, arm across her waist. He touches her chin, then the tip of her nose. "Hungry?"
Dawn presses her lips together. They're still burning. It's *not* numbness, she just thought it was; it's overload.
"Not really," she says finally and her head lolls over until she's looking at him. "I—" and then she can't think of what to say.
Oz waits her out. It's *bizarre*, and maybe he learned patience from being with Willow, whose talkativeness makes Dawn look calm as a pond, or maybe he was always like this.
He doesn't fit. He fits everywhere.
It's not just good. It's *cool*.
His fingers tap to the sarabande movement, right on her throat, above her jugular, soft tip-tip-tap.
"Speed of a resting heart," he says hoarsely. "Baroque music, I mean."
"Yeah," she says and then she's on her side and kissing him again. His t-shirt's rumpled, folded, suddenly manifold and strange under her fingers. "Like that."