As he stands up, Oz brushes the dirt off his knees and stretches against the kink in his lower back. He has spent a good month and a half emptying the vault that Spike found last fall, then cataloguing all the junk.
If he never sees jewelry again, it might be too soon. The money's good, the company better, but the trinkets and jewels and just general *junk* is getting to be a bit much.
"What's up?" He scrubs the side of his neck and takes a deep breath of the fresh air in the doorway behind Giles. Somehow, even though he leaves the door propped open all day, it never gets much farther than the threshold.
Giles glances over his shoulder. "Are you still going to Los Angeles over the weekend?"
"Affirmative. Well, Friday night's the Kahuna --"
Frowning, Giles shakes his head.
"Like the Bronze, but other side of town. Leaving from there for the big city," Oz says. He's both roadie and probationary bassist for the band now; the new guitarist's the one who suggested probation. He's pretty much an asshole. Still, Oz knows he should be relieved that Dane-the-asshole pissed off the Bronze's manager enough that the Dingoes will never play there again. He doesn't need all the familiar faces, not to mention the memories, of that place. "Should be back Sunday, though, if you need me?"
"Oh, no. No, nothing --" Giles glances away. He's fidgety whenever they talk, and Oz has a feeling it has to do with *him*. Because he looks at Giles, sometimes, when they're in the storage room together. Alone with his thoughts, Giles is *still*. Stiller than anyone not in Tibet, anyway. So it's Oz's presence that causes the fidgets. They've been doing this dance for several weeks now and if Oz isn't mistaken, Giles is...well. *Responding* to him. Something along those lines. Maybe he's just guilty about keeping Oz's secret. "Nothing like that."
"'kay," Oz says. Waits while Giles squints in the general direction of his chin. Or his mouth.
"Might you be persuaded to make a delivery?" Giles asks. "While you're there in Los Angeles?"
Oz touches his lower lip, wondering if he's got a smudge there. Must have, because Giles is squinting right *there*. "Sure."
He probably shouldn't have agreed so readily, he thinks, once he finds out he's going to see Wesley. But there's a big box of stuff Giles' books aren't giving him anything on, and maybe Wesley knows better.
As to how Wesley hooked up with Angel and Cordy, Oz figures he missed that part of the story. Running away from home tends to put you out of the loop.
*
"Are you deaf or retarded?" the girl says. "I'm. Not. Interested."
Devon doesn't have to take this. Half an hour til they go on and all he needs is a little lift. One sweet thing to up his buzz and get him ready to go on stage.
It can't be too much to ask, but the girl he's talking to apparently thinks the fact that Devon *exists* is over the line.
"Nah, babe. Just think it over." Devon leans back, forgetting that the stools at the Kahuna have no backs, and has to switch quickly to faking a cough to cover his almost-fall.
The chick -- loose blonde curls, fat pink lips he could chew on for *hours* -- sneers at him. Fucking *sneers*, dumps her drink in his lap, and insults his outfit before she struts away.
"I won't forget this!" Devon calls after her as the crowd swallows her up, but all he gets is the back of her hand and the finger. "You'll be sorry!"
He mutters the last part, because she's long gone and it feels like the bitch took part of his soul with her. Like he's empty inside, and now he's only got twenty minutes to feel better again, and where the fuck is Oz, anyway?
Big Dane, the new guitarist, is pointing and laughing at him as Devon passes. Devon shoulders him aside. "Fuck you. Seen Oz?"
"Lose your pet?" Dane asks and hooks his arm tighter around his girlfriend's neck.
"Huh?" Devon says, twisting the ring that Oz lent him around his finger. He's got the jitters now, they're about to go on, and he just needs to *chill*.
Easier said than done.
"Little guy, always at your heels," Dane says. "Can't play to save his life?"
"Hey, Oz can *play*. Better'n you, anyway." The jitters are morphing poisonously into angry itches, the kind that crawl up his arms and down his back, the kind that make Devon want to hit someone very hard and laugh at the blood.
Dane jerks his head to the left. "Think he's in the back. Lighting candles. Probably praying for some talent."
Devon pushes through the crowd, the itches speeding up. Oz does have weird new rituals since he got back. Lots of candles, and silence that's not like his old quiet, but concentrated. Like it takes a lot of effort to be quiet. It's spooky, but given a choice between spooky ritual-doing Oz and no Oz at all, Devon knows there's no choice. He's heading for the backstage door, weaving through stupid drunk college kids and girls he wouldn't have looked at twice but now is appraising, evaluating his options of nabbing one good blowjob before they hit the stage.
Oz could hook him up. If he could just *find* the little bastard.
He's almost there, hand on the door, when the girl he was flirting with appears in front of him. She tosses back her hair and raises her glass.
"So I was thinking --"
"Gives you wrinkles," Devon says. She smells like gardenias and lilies of the valley, and she's *stacked*, and maybe he'll take his chances. Oz is probably busy with his fucking candles, anyway. Bracing his arm on the doorframe, he drops his head close to hers and smiles slow and easy. Touches her cheek and says, "So. You came back. How can I do you?"
She's not so hot when she scowls like that. Hand on his chest, she starts to push him away.
Devon holds up his hands. "Sorry, sorry! What can I do for you? That's what I meant, I --"
Shaking her head, the chick shoves him, *hard*, too, way harder than was necessary, and he's already got a soaked crotch thanks to her; now he's hitting the sticky floor and his head bounces and he flails, trying to catch her heel as she stalks away.
Nobody helps him up. Devon has to push himself up onto his knees, then hold onto the doorknob and pull himself to his feet. He sways a little, and this is going to be one fucking horrible set, he already knows. No Oz, no blowjob, and now he's seeing little bluebirds and stars twinkling and chirping before his eyes. Or chirping and twinkling, only, no, the birds are shining and the stars are singing.
"Fuck-fuck-fuck-motherfucking-fucker-with-no-lube-of-rabid *monkeys* --" He stumbles into the greenroom that's no greenroom, just an old cripple restroom, and no one's there. Cursing, he strips off the nice shiny trousers that stink of Cosmopolitan and pulls on the jeans he wore over.
With the gold shirt Oz scored him in Santa Cruz last week, he looks okay. He's just jittery and angry and itchy and he's running out of curses. He combs his hair back with his fingers, the ring catching and tugging at the roots, making tears spring to his eyes, and this just can't get any worse.
Gripping the edge of the sink, Devon stares at himself. His cheeks are blotchy like some blind thirteen-year-old did his make-up and he's breathing hard.
"Fucking *hell*. Just wish I could have a real woman, the perfect woman, a chick who knows what she's doing and fucking *likes* it. That too much to fucking —"
The room flashes pink and gold around him, the sink slides away out of his hands, and a long gold tassel, like something off God's curtains -- if God was a fussy old lady like his Great-Aunt Lucie -- drops in front of him. Shrugging, figuring not much worse can go wrong, Devon takes hold of the rope and it yanks him up.
Up, and up, and motherfucking *up*, the roof of the club flying away, clouds streaking past, all that pink and gold light spinning around him like more tassels, and this is *way* better than any shitty blowjob.
Dude, it's better than *Space Mountain*.
The cord whips through dark and light and he's *flying*, flying, then dropping softly on his ass, bouncing a little on a wide bed, and no time must've passed because he's still talking.
"— ask?"
"I'm sorry?" A woman peeks around the screen, brushing her curly hair off her face.
Not just any woman. A *wo*man, a fucking beauty, her arm over seriously bodacious tits, smiling at *him*.
This is more like it.
"Nothing to be sorry for, darling," Devon says and grins at her. He glances around; he's in some kind of silk-strewn den, all dark fabric and weird carvings and *naked hottie*. He lies back, crossing his arms under his head. "You just take your time."
*
Oz and Devon used to have a ritual before playing a gig. It was nice and simple, a long meditative time over a fat joint, some messy necking, maybe a handjob or something more. Devon'd get jittery, Oz'd get freaked, and they evened things out the way they knew best.
Oz misses that. He misses a lot of things these days, but that's the one that's on his mind now. So he finishes up his practice before the little card of the red dakini early. Blowing out the candles and shouldering his bass case, he hops out of the back of the van and heads inside.
"Dev?" Oz calls, pushing open the door to the greenroom. "Dev, you in --?"
It smells like burned rosehips in the tiny room, and there in front of the sink are two scorch marks the size of Devon's feet. Oz looks closer, and he can make out the Converse logo burned into the linoleum. Tipping back his head, he gazes up at the smoke rising away. Magic, no doubt about it.
"That's some serious mojo," he hears himself say, then shakes himself back into the present and pushes open the door.
He needs to find Giles.
Like, five minutes ago.
*
Devon lies on his back, totally drained, flashing hot, then hotter, wearing what he's pretty sure is the goofiest smile *ever*.
She'd blown him away -- not just how she looks, but how she *feels*. Even now, he's like *floating* on this tapestry of total hotness.
Devon had wanted to sleep, but Inara suggested a bath. He's not about to say no.
After the bath -- which Inara takes charge of, sponge and fragrant soap and he's getting hard again just *thinking* about it -- Devon air-dries like he always does, sitting on the floor, watching her.
He's never met anyone like her. She's more than gorgeous, she's -- he doesn't know what the word is. He watches her wrap a pale sari loosely around her still-damp body, admires how it clings to her thighs and hips and the small of her back.
She takes a seat at a little table that he figures is for make-up -- girls like moisturize after they shower, he knows that -- but then she tugs off another piece of fabric from the wall and uncovers a screen. Like a computer monitor, but totally flat and set in a pretty silver frame.
Devon sits up to see better. "What's that?"
"Guild database," she says without turning around. "Interfacing through the Cortex."
"Huh?"
"Hmm." She touches the screen several times, cycling through images and row after row of numbers and text. "You're from -- where're you from?"
Devon stretches, enjoying the whole after-sex laziness and warmth still humming through his veins. If he plays this right, he could probably sweet-talk her into another round, which'd be -- round four, he's pretty sure. She's insatiable, a wild girl, at least if that thing she did with the cup and handkerchief suggests anything. "Los Angeles, sweetheart."
Inara glances over her shoulder, the sari slipping down slightly. She's frowning, those perfect arched brows knitting together. "Which is -- where, exactly?"
"Um, LA?" Who hasn't heard of LA? Isn't that like not having heard of air? "City of Angels. Entertainment capital of the world. LA."
"Yes," Inara says. Fuck but her voice is as soft, coaxing, *perfect*, as her hands are. When she talks, it's like she's caressing him. But with *sound*. "But which world?"
She must be on some really good shit. "Huh?" Devon slumps a little. "*Earth*. Duh."
Inara twists around in her seat, her expression slipping back and forth between a smile and a frown. But when she speaks, she sounds just as sweet as ever. "No, really, Devon."
"Really Devon what?"
"I'll be frank --" Inara says.
Lazy grin, the one that makes people weak in the knees. "Thought you were Inara."
She smiles at that, but there's hardly any warmth to it. Devon might not be a world-travelling bookworm like some people, but he knows a couple things really well. Music, definitely, and chicks. Sex in general. So he can tell that Inara's getting pissed, not having a good time any more, and that's distinctly uncool.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Go ahead."
Inara touches her weird screen again. "There's something wrong with your account."
"My what?"
Her eyes move off him. "Your bank account."
"Nah, babe. I got overdraft and shit." Even if he paid his share of the rent this month, which he's pretty sure he did, because otherwise Oz gets cranky, he should have like a hundred left. Maybe more, because he's been getting Dane's girlfriend to pick up groceries, promising to pay her back when his birthday money comes in.
Except, wait a fucking minute. What's this girl, no matter how great she looks and mindblowingly she touches and kisses and sucks and even *bites*, God, just little nibbles of sharp white teeth --. what's she doing looking at his checking account? How'd she get in?
Devon sits up, feeling a stripe of goosebumps break out across his back. "Why do you want to know? What, is this some kind of -- Hey. You're not going to, like, knock me out and take my wallet and steal my face to sell in Indonesia, are you?"
Inara's nose crinkles up as she looks at him. "I'm just trying to get paid."
"For what?"
God. Her *smile*. Makes him -- shivery. And horny. "For --" Her eyes track over him, so slow and sexy *he* could have done that look. "-- services rendered."
"Okay," Devon says. Best to just play along with the psycho fembot. "Right. But. Why am *I* paying *you*?"
She leans forward, long damp curls brushing the tops of her breasts. "Devon. I'm sure it's just one of the Cortex's periodic aneurysms. But I do need my payment."
"I'm on board with that," he says.
It's really hard to play along with you have no goddamn clue what words mean. He disregards "aneurysm" because the only thing that means to him is his Nana Sally, which just makes him really sad. There's no room for sad, not when he's sitting here naked in front of one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen, let alone *met*, not after sex that he's already ranked in his Top Three Ever (the other two are reunion sex with Oz -- not when he first got back, but when he showed up two days later with bandages and bruises and circles under his eyes -- and the blowjob from a Sebadoh roadie of indeterminate gender).
When he realizes that Inara's still looking at him, Devon shakes himself back awake. "Really on board with that. I just -- just fucking *confused*."
"As am I," she says, turning halfway around and pointing at the screen. "Not only is your account information dubious at best, your Cortex biography has you down as being born in --" She chuckles, her bare shoulders lifting. "-- 1979."
She says the date funny -- "one thousand ninety-seven and nine" -- and it takes him a minute to work it out.
"79? Yeah, that's right." He'll push up his birthdate later in his career, he's always figured. Right now, he's still young enough, and nothing sells like a prodigy. Like Alanis and Timberlake. And what's her name. Baby Jane.
Inara's smiling at him again, the expression stretching for a long, long moment, before she turns all the way around and reads off the screen. "Born May 12, 1979. Though moderately successful as a singer --"
"Hey!"
"-- of rock music, an important twentieth-century and early twenty-first century genre derived from --"
"What?" Devon's on his feet, touching her shoulder, trying to turn Inara around and *not* get distracted by the soft, damp texture of her skin. "Dude, what are you doing?"
"Reading the biography that's coming up under your name." Inara shrugs elegantly, dislodging his hand as she glances up at him. "And your account information is flashing in and out. It's from an outfit calling itself Wells Fargo --"
"That's right. Opened it when I was six and won Beautiful Boy of the Southwest."
"That's what I'm trying to understand," Inara says. "The southwest of *what*?"
"Southwest of -- the southwest." He was never any good at geography and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to imagine a roadmap. "Like, Cali, Arizona, Nevada. Maybe New Mexico, not like I fucking remember."
When he opens his eyes, Inara's just gazing up at him blankly. It's that empty look a lot of people wear when Devon starts talking one of his pet theories. Except he's not defending Rick Astley right now, or outlining his assassination-of-Kurt-Loder plans or anything like that. Not even explaining impatiently why Adam is the hottest member of U2. This is just geography, so what the fuck?
"Where?" she asks. Her hands are balled up in her lap now, knuckles going white, and for a second Devon thinks she's scared.
He drops down to his knees and touches the weightless cloud of curls, brushing it back over her shoulder and saying, as gently as he can, "Los Angeles, California, U.S. of motherfucking A., Earth."
"You're from Earth," Inara says flatly.
"*Yes*. Why?" This has to be a joke. Where else would he be from? "Where're you from? And don't say Uranus, 'cause that joke's not even funny to *me*."
"Sihnon," she says. It sounds like a cleaning product: 'nice to meet you, welcome to Javex'. "Which you would know, since you've read my profile."
"Suck at computers," Devon says. It's nothing to be embarrassed about; that's what Oz is for. But she's still looking empty and distrustful, so he adds, "Rock the Dreamcast, though."
"I'm sure you do," Inara says, straightening up and now she doesn't look *empty* so much as angry. Quietly angry, which Devon hates, because you can't do anything about it. She was such a sweet chick, too, when they were fucking, her legs around his waist and her head falling back when he moved just right inside of her.
No trace of that girl now. Inara grabs his wrist, pushing him away at the same time, giving him this steely glare as his bones grind in her grip. Okay, he shouldn't be surprised by her strength, because he knows firsthand she knows how to use *all* her muscles. But still. "Um, *ow*?"
She releases him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Not until we clear up this payment problem."
She's gorgeous, fucking *sexy*, hotter than any hot thing, and she's holding out for -- payment.
She's -- a hooker?
"Oh, *fuck* me," Devon says, stumbling backward until he lands on the edge of her unmade bed. "*No*. No, this does not happen to me. I am not -- I -- you're a fucking *hooker*?"
"I'm sorry?" she says, tilting her head and smiling vaguely.
At first, it sounds like she's apologizing. Then, as he squints at her, it occurs to Devon that she doesn't know what he's talking about. Like she's never heard the word before.
Same as she's never heard of motherfucking LA.
So she's a hot-ass braindamaged hooker. Or maybe she's like Rain Man, one of those Doug Savants, since she seems to be pretty good at computers. But he can't stay mad at her, especially if she's braindamaged, because she's way too pretty.
"How much do you want?" he asks. Admit defeat like a man, he figures, and it's not like she's not worth it.
"The standard Guild rate's 250 credits," she says. "Platinum or coin, of course. No paper."
"Right," Devon says slowly. "Um. You're doing that weird vocab thing again. Can't I give you a check?"
"Devon," she says, very firmly, like his *mom* or somebody.
"Yeah?"
"We have a problem."
"I get that. I'm not *totally* stupid. I'll get the coin, okay? Just point me to an ATM. And then, I guess, an arcade or something."
"A bigger problem," Inara says, still calm, still firm.
"Oh." That's good news, actually, because he doesn't *have* a platinum card and he's pretty sure no arcade's going to give him 250 bucks in *quarters*. So if he can get out of paying, at least delay it, that'd be *sweet*. "Okay. What's the deal?"
"You --" Inara tilts her head the other way and presses her lips together. "You actually believe you're from Earth?"
"Don't believe, honey. It's a -- a *fact*. You know. Like a truth or something."
She smiles at him, but it's a pity-smile. He really fucking hates pity-smiles. "Terrestrial delusions," she starts to say, then stops. "The bio didn't mention --. So you think you're the reincarnation of a rockstar from Earth-that-was?"
He's cold now, long after the bathwater's dried off his skin, and he reaches down to grab his pants, tangled in a knot with the bedsheet. Nothing's right -- his pants feel rough on his legs, this hotass crazy hooker's looking at him with pity all over her face, and he just wants to be home. Back in the band's house, kicking back on his shitty futon that's not a tenth as comfortable as this bed but at least it's his own. His own, and Oz put up postcards that have pictures of the same fucking *strange* carvings that Inara's got hanging over the bed, but at home, they're just a part of the scenery. They don't glower at him the way they're doing now, elephant heads and naked chicks with knives in their hands and three eyes.
"Devon?" Inara's in front of him, kneeling down, and as much as he might have liked that half an hour ago, now he's just freaked. "Devon, we need --"
Something shudders. The whole *room* shudders and quivers, like they're dropping off the crest of a roller coaster. Bowel-deep and he knows earthquakes when he feels them, so Devon pulls Inara up and rolls over the bed with her, shielding her when the freaky carving falls off the wall and everything *shakes*.
"Tzao gao!" she yells and he doesn't know what that means, but it sounds bad.
Soon as it started, the shaking stops and Inara sits up, pushing the hair out of her eyes, reaching for a sheet to wrap around herself.
"Hell is going on?" Devon asks her, stumbling to follow her off the bed. He pushes in front of her, blocking her way. "Would you give me *one* fucking straight answer?"
"It's 2783," Inara says. "We're --" She stops places her hands on his shoulders. Devon leans in and sure enough, she kisses him. Brief and soft, like she's trying to apologize. "Think we better see the captain," Inara says and nudges him forward. Her breath is warm on his neck. "Welcome to the future."
The door's tricky to open, and after he fumbles with it for a bit, Inara reaches past him, jerks the handle, and he steps out into --.
"Fuck is *this*?" Devon asks. Inara's room was nice. This *sucks* -- gray and metal everywhere. *Old* metal, bad as any club he's played. Probably worse. He looks down a catwalk to several sets of stairs and his voice echoes in the huge space. "Damn. The future's *crappy*."
*
Oz drives like a bat out of hell across Sunnydale. Screeches up to Giles' curb, grabs his guitar case with the artifacts and sack of oranges he bought from Guillermo on the way to the club, then runs flat-out to the door. He's banging on it before he even thinks to check the window.
If Willow's there, he'll just have to deal.
Giles answers the door, looking serene at first. His face crumples as Oz pushes past him.
"We've got, um. A situation." He finally looks around, over at the couch where Xander and Anya are standing up, looking at each other, then over at the door. "Hey."
"Oz?" Anya asks and he raises a hand.
Giles touches his shoulder and, distantly, Oz hears the door click shut. His chest hurts from the run. It shouldn't, though; he didn't go too far. Maybe it's nerves plus the run.
"What are you doing here?" Anya continues, looking back and forth, between Xander and Oz and Giles. She raises her voice. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
"I need Giles --" Oz turns, finding Giles right there. Right, hand on his shoulder. "I -- sorry to interrupt. I need you."
"Oh my God," Xander says. "You're dating Giles?"
"Not as far as I know," Oz replies as Giles dissolves in a fit of coughing. He scrubs his palms up and down his thighs. "Really got an emergency going down here."
"Yes," Giles says. "Do sit down. What's going on?"
The story comes out in fragments, cut up by his wheezing for breath and interruptions from all three of them. Finally, however, he gets to the end. "So I think Devon borrowed something. And now he's gone."
"You let *Oz* play with the booty?" Anya says. "All that treasure?"
"Cataloging," Oz says quietly. Over him, Giles sighs. "Really, Anya, this isn't --"
"But he's a, a -- a *werewolf*." She looks at Xander expectantly, but Xander just looks down at his feet. "Not to mention a runaway."
Oz would wince, but he's suddenly thirsty. Sitting here around Giles' table like some weird family dinner isn't helping his nerves, either.
Giles watches Oz rise and says to Anya, "And you're a vengeance demon --"
"Ex --"
"-- and I'm an ex-Watcher, Xander is a delivery man for --"
"He's doing construction now, actually." Oz leans over the counter of the kitchen.
"Oh, really?" Giles asks Xander. "Since when?"
"How do you know that?" Anya asks Oz. Oz shrugs and glances at Xander.
Xander runs one hand, then the other, through his hair. He mumbles something and Anya elbows him. Still not looking up, Xander says a little more loudly, "Kept in touch."
"You didn't tell me!" She sounds -- excited, actually. "And Willow doesn't know?"
Oz does wince now. Giles is looking at him, and they've never exactly *discussed* the fact that Oz is hiding in plain sight, right here in town. But it's pretty obvious. And Giles is a smart guy. He twigged on pretty quickly, stopped inviting Oz to the house, kept everything businesslike and never asked how he was getting along.
"No," Oz says, exiting the kitchen, handing his glass to Giles. Giles looks like he could use a real drink, but Oz doesn't know where he keeps it. Maybe if he'd accepted a dinner invitation, he would, but that's not important. "Will doesn't -- doesn't need to know."
Snorting with what might be derision or just allergies, Xander rubs his cheeks like someone coming in from the cold. He won't look at Oz or Giles, just Anya. "That's, you know, debatable. But, yeah. Willow doesn't know. Oz's call, anyway."
Anya grins at Oz. "I'm very flattered that you trust me with this big news. I won't breathe a word, you can rest easy."
"Thanks," he says. "But there's bigger fish."
She frowns at that and sits back, tugging Xander's arm off his lap and twining her own arm around it.
"Indeed," Giles says, draining the glass and setting it down so heavily it clinks on the table. "So you let someone wear the jewelry? Jewelry the power of which I specifically said I could not ascertain?"
"Not as such, no," Oz tells him. When he puts it like that, it sounds really bad. And not exactly germane. Devon's *gone*. "But he -- you don't know Devon, okay? If he saw something shiny, he'd just grab it and ask later. If he remembered. But the thing is, he's *gone*."
"Good riddance, it sounds like," Anya says. Xander starts to say something, but she raises her voice again. "Someone that untrustworthy? *I* certainly wouldn't have let such precious commodities out of my sight."
There's a silence now. Xander's studying the floor like it's a roadmap to Cameron Diaz's house, Giles is scowling into the middle distance, and Oz doesn't know where to look.
"He's my friend," Oz says finally. It's all he's got. "I need to --. He's my friend."
"So were we," Xander says and looks up. Looks up at last, but he's scowling just as much as Giles is. "Sucks when friends disappear, doesn't it?"
"Shush," Anya says lowly, slipping her arm around Xander's shoulders. "You don't want to get him angry. Remember what happened last --"
Oz stands up so quickly that it takes a second for his vision to catch up. Rocking on his heels, the chair tipping over behind him, Oz grabs the edge of the table for balance.
"*Please*," Giles says. He looks up at Oz, his expression unreadable. "We have more important issues to discuss --"
"That's what I've been trying to say," Oz says. Giles opens his mouth but shuts it when Oz raises his hand. "Look, Xander --"
"What?" Jesus. Xander's cheeks are red and with his hair in his eyes, he looks like a little kid up way past his bedtime, demanding another snack.
Oz can still feel himself swaying. He swallows hard and fingers the mala around his wrist. Peace, serenity, calm: the monks make it sound so easy and not for the first time does it occur to him that *mountains* are pretty easy places to find that kind of calm.
"I'm sorry," Oz says. "About --" He's tried to apologize twelve, fifteen times to Xander. Bought him pizzas, got him drunk, tried to explain and make his amends, but whatever's pissing off Xander about Oz keeps shifting. Sometimes it's the fact that he left, sometimes it's that he's stayed, sometimes it's that he hurt Willow. By leaving, by coming back, by hiding. Xander's anger is a mutable, deep thing, like oil bubbling up in unexpected holes. "I'm sorry. And I'll -- whatever, when I find Devon? And get him back? I'll do what I can to make you not, you know. Pissed off."
"I'm not pissed off," Xander mutters, crossing his arms and looking away.
"Okay," Oz says. "Still sorry." He turns to Giles. "I'm sorry Devon stole your jewelry. But the only way to get it back is to find *him*."
*
Inara leads Devon across narrow catwalks, up and down stairs, through a wide kitchen and back into a tunnel, until she strides up a short set of steps and into -- holy *crap*. Like a cockpit. They're on a spaceship.
Outside the big bay window, those are *stars* out there, all bright and twinkly and moving fast. It's better than any fucking trip he's ever tripped, and Devon's tripped his face *off* more times than he count. Outer space, and he wonders if they've got a hyperdrive, because he's always wanted to see the stars streak out past.
There're several people there and Devon grins at them all. Dopey as hell, probably, but he can't seem to bring himself to care.
Inara, though, it's like she only sees one person. Hand on the guy's shoulder, her voice rising, she says, "What do you think you're doing?"
The guy in brown turns, his mouth curving in a smile. "What do you think *you're* doing? Bringing company aboard, that ain't like you. Not without days and days of explicit warnings and obscure threats against my manhood, that is."
"I told you."
"You most certainly did not."
"Of course I did."
"No, you didn't."
They're sniping back and forth while Devon slides farther into the cockpit. Little guy at the controls, a bigger guy with arms crossed and mean eyes who stops him from getting too close. And an Amazon, all hair and boobs and wide hips, just watching it all like it's funny, even though she isn't smiling.
"Mal, we're getting some interference --" the pilot says, punching keys the big guy won't let Devon see.
Cute guy in brown says to Inara, "-- and so we had to take our leave a tad earlier than planned on account of the seals. And also the guns," then turns smoothly to the pilot and adds, "what've you got, Wash?"
"But don't fret," the big guy tells Inara. "We got us our loot, and Cap'n and Zoe nabbed a little extra."
It looks like, as he hangs out here at the edges of things, that Devon came at a bad time. In his experience, though, when people're unsettled and on edge, those are the most *interesting* times. He gets introduced around, even as Mal and Wash are trying to make sense of the computer problems -- Oz should be here, he's fucking *amazing* with computers -- and listens as hard as he can.
It's Jayne, the big guy, who goes over in grinning detail what kind of thing they're running from. Loot, and a lot of it, and "no rutting middleman to take all the profit".
"You're *pirates*? In *space?" Devon can't stop laughing, because it's just way too cool.
He'd never noticed how boat-stuff, like "Captain" and shit, got transferred to airplanes and spaceships. It was pretty cool, when you thought about it.
So if they are pirates, and this is a pirate/space-ship, he starts thinking, then it's kind of like some of his favorite porn -- *Naval Maneuvers* and *Deep Divers, 2-6* and *Nautical Twinks*. *Long Dong Silver*, of course, and *Treasure Anus*. All of which could only mean one thing -- "Hey, you need a cabin boy?"
Jayne blinks and starts laughing. Inara winces, while Mal looks startled and the tall, busty chick, the one who could break him in half just by thinking it, says, "I don't know. What do you think? *Sir*?"
Mal's eyes just get wider. "Uhhh --"
"It's traditional," Devon says. Mal seems too young to be a captain, like that Horny Hornblower guy, and he's *hot* in a frazzled kind of way. Devon moves closer. "Need somebody to, um. Swab the decks. Polish your knobs."
Mal's mouth still forms the 'uhhh' shape and Devon shakes his head.
"And I guess, like. Put away your booty. Keep things shipshape. Shit like that."
"We don't got to put it away?" Jayne asks. "Mal, that'd be *tasty*."
"Can you pay your way?" Mal asks, like Jayne never spoke. "This here's a ban lun. Ain't running a charity asylum, no matter what some'd say."
"Yeah, well --" Devon glances at Inara.
"He's got the equivalent of sixty-eight million credits," she says.
News to him. *Good* news to him. "No *way*!"
Inara smiles briefly at him, but keeps her eyes on Mal. "Just a matter of getting to them, but he's good for it."
"And he'd prefer to stay?" The big lady cocks an eyebrow at Devon and he gets that deepdown body shiver. Man, she could break him a hundred ways and leave him begging for more.
"Yeah," he says at the same time that Inara says, "He doesn't have much choice, does he?"
Whatever. He's *in space*; Devon's good to go.
*
It's been hours. The morning light is starting to glimmer under the horizon, the dark turning into bluish dusk, shadows pulling apart, and they're still *here*.
Oz feels like he ought to be pacing, but he's stuck in place. Behind Giles' couch, watching Anya and Giles get the mojo-stuff together -- sand, liquid, candles -- and Xander, who's sitting in the armchair very obviously *not* looking at any of the rest of them.
For all he knows, Devon's gotten himself stuck in some dragon dimension, where he's gored through and dying slowly. Or one of those Ancient Greek places, where centaurs roam the streets and everything's kind of cardboard-looking.
First they had to go through every single piece of jewelry Giles had entrusted to him to find which one was missing. Oz knows Giles couldn't help emphasizing "entrust" like that, but it still stung like hell. They narrowed the missing stuff down to a platinum circlet and a ruby quartz and pink-gold ring.
The circlet turned up in Anya's pocket, so it was the ring.
They've tried locator spells, and honing in on the ring's mystic energy, and so far there's been nothing. Anya's going to do the spell she and Willow did to get her necklace back, the one that brought Willow's bad vamp self to Sunnydale.
"With suitable alterations, I assume," Giles says, casting a searching glance at Anya.
She huffs and scratches her chin. "Alterations, schmalterations. This should work just fine."
Xander cups his cheek in his hand. "Funny how this'd all be a lot easier if our resident witch was, like. In residence."
Rolling her eyes, Anya sits back on her heels. "I can do this. Giles is an adequate secondary." She tilts her head at him. "You are, aren't you? No crazed magicky helter-skelter's going to go down? Right?"
"Is that a possibility?" Xander asks. "I don't like that as a possibility."
Giles' shoulders slide downward a fraction and Oz coughs lightly as he touches Giles' elbow. "You can do it."
There's a kind of worried gratitude on Giles' face as he turns and meets Oz's eye. He doesn't say anything, but that's because Anya's standing up and calling Oz over.
"Okay, what you need to do is think about your friend. Giles will take care of the ring. It would be better if we got them back together, I suppose."
She positions him in the middle of the circle of candles, then she and Giles sit on either side of him.
"What do I do?" Xander asks.
"Chant," Anya tells him and hands him a piece of paper. "Just read exactly what it says. Like a pizza order."
Oz closes his eyes and thinks of Devon. In a way, it's like the meditation exercises the monks gave him in Tibet, all about bringing his focus to bear on the obvious. Thinking of Devon is like thinking of air: until he does it, he'd never quite noticed how *pervasive* the guy is.
Eryishon. K'shala. Meh-uhn. Anya's voice, hoarse and hopeful.
Go back in time, all the way to day care and pre-school, and there's Devon, always a little taller than everybody else, his hair just like Rapunzel's, his hand hot around Oz's wrists as he pulls him down the ravine to show him the dead hummingbird. In the tub together, sculpting Mohawks out of baby shampoo for each other, at T-ball and soccer and arts camp tossing clay at each other, huddled down in the last seat of the schoolbus, Devon's arm around his shoulders, breath blowing loud in Oz's ear as he described what his second-cousin Jackie's new breasts felt like when he copped a feel after she fell asleep. In sixth-grade detention, Oz drawing as quickly as he could to keep up with the tall tales Devon was spouting, and they were going to be *famous*, better than Stan Lee, even. Devon always listened to him, not usually with comprehension but always sympathetically, not that Oz talked that much. He didn't need to, not around Devon.
The child to the mother. The lamb to the shepherd, the sheep to the wolf. Giles and Xander. The river to the sea -- the night to the dawn.
He was just *Devon*. Logic fails Oz, because it's all so obvious. He controls his breathing as he pictures Devon's face -- lengthening, thinning out into rough prettiness as he aged, but when Oz first met him, he'd been as round and chubby as the rest of them. Year after year, they watched *The Wizard of Oz*, switching off houses, and if Devon was the Scarecrow *and* the Tin Man, Oz himself was Dorothy and a Munchkin, and every single time, the witch and her flying monkeys scared the bejeezus out of them until they were too old to be scared but they touched each other under the blankets out of habit, out of need.
Eryishon, hear our prayers.
Devon still reads *Ziggy* and *Peanuts* and *Marmaduke*; in fourth grade, he tried to take up *Calvin and Hobbes*, which was Oz's favorite, but he hated how Hobbes always reverted to stuffed form when other people were around.
When Oz got his braces, Devon snuck some of his mom's Tylenol-3 to help with the pain, and they got *blasted* on that and Kahlua, and passed out in the backyard. Oz woke up feeling like he'd died, and Devon was still out, his mouth open, lips curved into a smile, and Oz tried to move away because he had a chubby, but instead he moved closer and, well aware that their braces could lock together, kissed Devon anyway.
The star to the night, the boy to the father, the wolf to the howl, the river to the dawn.
Devon's silhouetted against a night sky, perfectly dark and endless. He floats like he's dancing, wearing his three-beer grin and shaking the hair out of his eyes.
Dimly Xander, that's not -- but the voices fade quickly, like the volume's getting turned down, and then a wind starts up, a tornado spinning fast right behind Oz, and the pictures start to slide past his eyes faster and faster.
Dorothy, huddled in her room with Toto, all her enemies and loved ones blowing past. Devon's making out with a pretty, round-faced girl, then pushing a mop around and using the handle as a mic, and Oz is falling, blowing, then rising, as Devon admires the biceps on a muscular guy, and Oz hits a warm body that smells likes Giles, and he is flying on a magic carpet, on Giles, and when they hit, the floor is very hard and cold and he blacks out.
*
If he has to have a job, and supposedly *everybody's* got to work, even in the future, Devon figures he picked pretty good. He keeps stuff neat on board, cooks the meals (thanks to Oz, who taught him all about spices), and makes rounds, checking that everyone's okay.
Basically, he hangs out and schmoozes. It's *awesome*.
The first time he did rounds, each and every one of them looked at him funny. Except for Zoe and Wash, who laughed and accepted the tea he offered, and Jayne, who just grunted at him to go away and not rutting even touch the door. And Kaylee, who...Devon rubs his chin. She's a firecracker.
Tonight's gone a lot better. He made tea for Book, who's some kind of Shaolin fighting monk, totally badass with amazing hair, and the doctor, who reminds him of all the AP nerds in high school, only *worse*. He sang a song for River, who kind of fell in love with his shirt as soon as she met him.
"Shiny," she said and Kaylee caught her arm as River stroked the material. "Shiny *shiny*."
"She's working on her slang," Kaylee said and grinned apologetically.
But it wasn't like Devon minded; River isn't his type -- too skinny, too *weird* -- but she's sweet and pretty, so he let her touch as much as she wanted.
"Like stars," River said.
"That's right." Devon smiled down at her. "You like stars, sweetie?"
River shrugged. "Big balls of gas. They're okay."
She likes his songs, though, wraps her arms around her waist and closes her eyes and *listens*. It kind of sucked to leave her there and move on to the crew's quarters.
He knocks on Jayne's door and waits for the grunt of dismissal. Instead, Jayne calls out "C'mon in. And lock the gorram door."
He backs down the ladder, but Devon looks over his shoulder.
Jayne's sitting on the edge of his bunk, wearing a lavender button-down shirt that's too small for him. His hair's damp and his spine like ramrod-straight. He doesn't meet Devon's eyes, but as Devon hops off the ladder and grins, he gets a big whiff of cologne.
All dressed up with nowhere to go, but Devon to do: Jayne must've heard good things from Kaylee about last night.
"Hey, hey, hey, at your service," Devon says. "Need anything? No coffee, but -- tea? Me--Mmmmpf."
Jayne's *kissing* him, big hands on Devon's neck squeezing hard as his tongue pushes inside, down to the back of Devon's throat, his goatee scratching against Devon's cheek. Fucking *hot*, and Devon's body does its impression of melting taffy, caramel and hot fudge, all slippery and clingy as he wraps his arms around Jayne's waist and kisses back.
Jayne's hand settles down on Devon's shoulder and pushes gently as his hips rock forward. Oh, yeah, this is going to be good; a guy as built as Jayne? Has *got* to be packing some serious meat.
"You know what--what you're doing?" Jayne's voice against his ear sounds kind of distorted. Like, almost shy or something.
"Got it down," Devon whispers back, sliding down as he nudges Jayne backward onto the bunk. Guys are easy. He fucking *loves* that. Jayne fumbles open his fly but Devon pushes his hands away -- it's easier to do it himself. Fuck, yeah, he's hung like an outer-space stallion, uncut and *hot*. Jayne's head knocks against the wall, all the weapons shuddering, as Devon takes just the head of his cock between his lips and closes his eyes, moving his tongue around, tasting it like he's got all the time in the world.
He hums in time with the engine, all the tremors running through the floor and through him, and he's getting harder and harder, the more Jayne tenses underneath him, fists in Devon's hair, weird Oriental cusses stuttering out his mouth.
Devon tongues up the underside, worrying at Jayne's foreskin, thanking *God* that it's there because it's so much *fun* to play with, before he pushes his face down and takes it all, jaw stretching into that mindblowing cocksucking burn he loves so much, and Jayne comes up off the bed, biting back grunts as he thrusts hard.
When Jayne starts trembling different, miniature seizures up his legs and down his torso, Devon eases back a little and starts swallowing. Jayne doesn't disappoint, shooting hard and fast. He tastes like saltwater and the tea they all drink, smokey and hot.
Wiping the back of one hand across his mouth, adjusting himself with difficulty with the other, Devon sits back on his heels, taking in Jayne all flushed and splayed across the bunk, breathing hard.
"Biaozi de erzi," Jayne mutters. "Rutting *hell*, boy."
Devon grins. "Like I said. At your service."
An alarm sounds somewhere and then the comm system crackles up. "Jayne, get your lazy *fang pi* down to the hold. And bring Vera."
Mal, and he sounds pissed off. Jayne pulls himself together hastily and extends his hand to help Devon up.
"Raindate," Devon says, kissing Jayne one more time, and the big slut actually *sucks* his come off Devon's tongue before hurrying up the ladder.
Devon kicks back on Jayne's mussed-up bunk and eases open his jeans. It won't take long, now that he's got his fist wrapped loosely around his dick, but he closes his eyes and makes himself go slow. Savors the burn and buzz running around his body like drunken sorority girls, giggling and shrieking.
He's just wiping up when the alarm sounds again and won't stop.
He better go see what the fuck's up. He's all warm and lazy inside, melted and slow, so it takes a while to make it up the ladder and down the walkway.
*
Oz wakes up with a splitting headache. He's slumped against Giles and, somehow, wordlessly, they help each other to their feet.
They're somewhere dark, sirens going, mechanical shudders running.
They're also surrounded by three very angry looking people, two men and a woman, armed to the hilt with big guns.
The slighter man says out of the corner of his mouth to the woman, "Jing cha. Gorram *jing cha*, must be."
She nods and cocks the safety off her rifle. The bigger guy just prods at Oz's chest with his gun. His face is red with exertion, and he smells like -- sex?
"Excuse me," Giles starts to say, "I think --"
"Sshhh," Oz says under his breath. "They think we're cops. Government agents."
"How did you --?"
"Tibet's occupied, remember?" Oz takes a careful step forward. "Um --"
"Shut yer trap," the big guy says and Oz nods.
"My Mandarin is rather thin," Giles admits sadly. "Can you --?"
"I'll try." Oz raises his palms and clears his throat. He addresses the not-so-big guy who's still nothing to sneeze at, either in the size *or* the guns department. "Um. Lai dao. He ping."
Giles backs up against Oz when the woman narrows her eyes at him. "What did you say?"
"We come in peace. I think."
Giles starts laughing, and the people with guns exchange glances, but Oz laughs, too. It's pretty stupid; what else are you going to say, though?
"You didn't," Giles says helplessly.
"Best I could do," Oz replies and shrugs. They're in a massive, cavernous space, dark as anything, and it feels like they're *moving*. He needs to find Devon.
The gun-toting people look confused, and then two things happen at the same time: a loudspeaker shrieks as a man's voice says, "Mal, we're getting *more* interference," just as a girl calls from somewhere above them, "And they huffed and they puffed and blew themselves in."
The big guy keeps his gun trained on Giles and Oz while the other man crosses quickly and speaks over the loudspeaker. The woman calls out to no one in particular, "Doctor, see to your sister. We've got a situation here."
"Computer's rutting *fried*," the one called Mal says, spinning round. "Got feds just *appearing* in my hold, and loopy girly-girl singing to herself. This is *not* a good day."
"They speak English," Giles whispers.
"Yeah, got that," Oz says. He tries to meet the woman's eye. "Excuse me? We're not the police."
"Bounty hunters?" the huge guy grunts. "Don't take kindly to bounty hunters neither."
"Erm, no," Giles tells him. "We're here -- where are we? We're in search of --?"
"We don't have any weapons," Oz says to the woman. Something about her face, tough as she looks, he thinks he can make out sympathy, or at least not hair-trigger violence.
She kicks his guitar case. "Really? And this would be?"
"How'd that get here?" Giles asks.
"I don't know," Oz says. He raises his eyes to her. "You can open it if you want. Nothing dangerous, just --"
What does he have in there, anyway? Guitar's back in the van, so it's just some sheet music and the oranges from Guillermo. The stash, of course, and rolling papers, but that's all tucked under the lining -- then again, if these people are worried about cops, they're not going to care that he's carrying.
She kicks it open and the oranges roll free.
"See?" Oz says. "We're really not bad guys. Actually, he's --" He jerks his head at Giles. "He's a really *good* guy."
"No one's evil here," the girl who sang says now, tripping down the stairs. She breezes past the woman and comes right up to Oz. She looks up at him with enormous brown eyes that make him think of something not-human, a cat or a bear, terribly wise. "You went to the zoo but didn't like getting looked at."
In response, Oz's ribs ache, the old burns from the Initiative's tasers sparking up again, and all he can do is nod. "Yeah."
"Me, too," she says and takes his hand. Her palm is tiny and cool in his, her hair floating behind her as she leads him over to the stairs. "We both got away, though."
He sits with her, still holding her hand, while Giles splutters and tries to explain himself. Mal seems to be the guy in charge, and he keeps looking over at Oz and the girl -- River -- with his arms folded over his chest as he listens to Giles' explanations.
It's pretty calm, except for when Giles introduces himself. Mal and Zoe's faces twist in unison and they hock and spit. Shocked, Giles hunches in on himself and tries again.
There's no *sign* of Devon, even though there are traces of him everywhere, in the air and somehow down the back of Oz's neck, like he just knows. River squeezes his hand and chatters on.
"A desert is defined by lack of humidity, not the heat," she says, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You can have a desert with snow, did you know that? Were you cold?"
Holding himself in that cell, naked, he'd never been colder. Six ribs broken, silver pumped through his veins, poison and *cold* all around, throughout, him.
"They took all the life away," she continues after a pause, as if he'd replied. "Sucked it out til their hands turned blue." She closes her eyes like she's listening to far-away music. "Here he comes. Your Rapunzel."
Oz twists around, looking up the stairs, and she's *right*.
Holy compassionate Vajradakini, she's right. Devon.
Devon's loping across the catwalk, his grin getting wider and wider.
"Holy *fuck*, Oz, man! You came!"
Devon's a blur, all gold and pink, racing down the stairs and hauling Oz up into a hug, spinning him around and around.
"You know him?" Mal asks when Devon sets Oz down on dizzy feet.
"You know them?" Oz asks at the same time. "How the hell did you *get* here?"
*
Oz'll believe him, Devon knows that much. So he explains about the bitch who blew him off in the club, and the rope, and how he ended up in Inara's bed, and what he's doing now.
"You're a pirate groupie?" Oz has got that tiny smile, the one that lifts up the corner of his eyes. "An outer-space pirate groupie."
"Pirate *roadie*, man," Devon says and punches his shoulder. "Jackass."
The old guy that Oz is always hanging around coughs. "Excuse me, you said there was a *rope*?"
"Yeah, yeah," Devon says. "God, how many times do I have to say this?"
Oz slips his arm through Devon's and pulls him closer. His voice is low, full of warning and a lot of disappointment. "What did I tell you about making wishes, man?"
"Dude, I know, but this one *worked*. Look around you!" Mal grins at that -- he's like Oz gets with his van when it comes to the ship -- and Devon bobs his head. "It's fucking *amazing*, isn't it?"
"I'm not sure --" the old guy, Jeeves, Worcestershire, whatthefuckever his name is, tries to say, but Zoe interrupts him.
"And the computer, sir?"
Mal shakes his head. "Humped. Wash can't --"
"Dude!" Devon pushes Oz forward. "Oz is like a geek *genius*. He can totally fix it."
Oz glances back at him, then squares his shoulders and nods at Mal. "I could try, anyway."
"Yeah, you'll try," Jayne says and rests his hand on the holster around his waist. Big hardass. "Because if you don't --"
"Give it a rest, Jayne," Zoe says.
Devon grins at Jayne when he rolls his eyes and sighs. "This *rocks* so hard! Oz, man, you're gonna love it here, it's all futuristic and shit."
"Pardon me," the old guy says. "But -- Oz. We need to return."
"Gimme a minute," Oz says and rubs his chin. "Dev, you sure it's cool here?"
Devon spreads his arms. "Cooler than fucking *ice*."
"'kay." Oz touches the old guy's shoulder, and that's fucking *weird*, because of course it's gentle, it's Oz, but it's also -- that's like a private Oz-thing, that touch. All reassuring and shit. Devon's stomach clenches and he makes himself relax his hands. He'll get the story out of Oz later. "We'll stay, fix the computer, then get going."
"No," the old guy says. Prick. "Oz, really. Don't be foolish."
Mal steps between them. "Fix my computer," he says to Oz, and then to Old Jerk, he says, "As for you, if I had a brig, you'd be in it. Since I'm lacking in that area, you'll keep to your cabin and not speak a gorram *word* to me or my crew."
Oh, man. *Sweet*. The old guy looks shocked and offended and starts to splutter, but Oz just squeezes his shoulder and says quietly, "It'll be okay, Giles. Promise."
Jayne drags the old guy off to the passenger cabins and Zoe goes to check on Wash; River floated away at some point, and that leaves Mal and Devon alone with Oz.
"You two look..." Mal's mouth twitches. "Comfortably sly. Good to share a bunk? You can start work tomorrow."
"Hell, yeah," Devon says and starts to pull Oz away, but the little fucker's stubborn and strong when he wants to be, and he stays in place.
"Giles, he's not --" Oz says to Mal. "He's cool, really, he's --"
"I know what he is," Mal says with that bitchy flatness he seems to get around everyone except Zoe and Kaylee whenever his authority's questioned. Top on the ship, probably a really hot bottom in the sheets. "You see to your friend, Devon."
"You heard the captain," Devon says, pushing Oz up the stairs. He takes him down to his cabin, right next to Kaylee's -- and where is Kaylee, anyway? She doesn't like guns, so she's probably lying low and talking to her engine.
"-- so then I was like, make me cabin boy!" Devon finishes when they get inside and Oz sets down his guitar case next to the bunk.
Oz grins, and *fuck* if Devon hadn't realized til just now how much he missed that. "You a *fancy lad* now, Dev?"
"Yeah, charmed 'em all with my moronic innocence," Devon says and Oz laughs as Devon tugs off his shirt, tossing it across the small space. Oz just stands there, grinning, chuckling, his face gone all soft but crinkled-up, as Devon pushes his hands up under Oz's shirt and Oz tips back his head. "Fuck. Missed you, man."
It's just like when Oz came back, with all those bandages and bruises, his eyes dark. Except not, because Oz isn't hurt, he's grinning and sucking on Devon's throat, and it's *better*. It's reunion sex, version 2.0, and even though Devon just jerked off an hour ago, he's getting hard again, grinding against the sharp bones of Oz's hip, running his hands down Oz's back, kissing him deep and slow.
Oz ripples against him, and they're down on the bed, and Oz is rolling on top, cupping Devon's face with his small, square hands, kissing him hard and shallow, both of them breathing hard.
It's good and simple, like it always is with Oz, their dicks lined up against each other, Devon's hands clutching and spreading Oz's ass as they thrust together, kisses turning into nibbles (Oz) and full-on bites (Devon), and they don't need to say anything, just breathe and feel and spread out, suck it all in, feel every fucking nerve vibrating and celebrating.
Oz comes first, and Devon's cock pushes into the hot slickness on their bellies until his arms are back around Oz's neck, pulling him down as his balls squeeze up and he comes in long, desperate spurts.
"Fuuuuuuuuck, fuck me, *Oz* --" and Oz is right there, kissing him, grinding into their come, and Devon almost passes out, hyperspace streaking past his eyes.
"Just did," Oz whispers and Devon punches at his back without any strength at all.
Wishes aren't so dangerous after all. He got *here*, right? And now Oz is here, and Devon's pretty sure life can't get any better.
TBC in II: The Persistence of Data.
Title, subtitle, & cut-text from Madonna. Cabin Boy
and associated moronic innocence is Chris Elliott's.