Fic - Oz/Ethan, Rated PG
This is for the year_of_oz Oz/Obscure Character ficathon. Somehow I got Oz/Ethan which was incredibly difficult for me. But I hope it's a success. For anyone who's worried about icky slashiness for this pairing, no fear. For those who want yummy slashiness for this pairing, I'm sorry there's no smut here.
Author: Moosesal
Title: Restraint. Release.
Pairing: Ethan/Oz
Rating: PG
Request: This was written for lm. Two things wanted: Oz's van and roadside attractions. One thing not wanted: Talking about Sunnydale. I hope this works for you.
Beta: Many, many thanks to ladycat777 for feedback on the first draft and for catching some timeline problems. And, as always, thanks to silvertedy for making my writing clearer, cleaner, and more in line with what I meant to say. Love you both.
Note: The title for this was difficult. I was trying to come up with something that fits the feel of the piece and I’m not sure I’ve succeeded. The words come from a description I found of a flamenco dancer’s style combining the perfect blend of restraint and release. I like the notion of Oz and flamenco with it’s ties to the Gypsies, especially as he’s a traveller and a lover of music. Anyway. That’s the reasoning. Enjoy.
Oz had been driving along the coast for days. He was taking his time -- nowhere to be, no set destination or schedule to follow. In the evenings he'd find a spot along the water and watch the sunset. Some nights he'd build a fire on the beach, curl up next to the heat, and think of his time in Tibet. He slept in the back of his van, night after night alone and dreaming of the moon.
He'd stopped at all kinds of shops and stands along the road. Early in his trip picked up some old cassettes of flamenco music, and he'd started picking out the rhythms on his guitar. He had all the time in the world to learn to play the intricate songs. In his dreams the wolf danced to the beat of the flamenco, stamping his feet and gnashing his teeth. But Oz never danced the flamenco; he instead sat on the beach and rocked to the rhythm of the waves lapping against the sand just inches from his toes. He was cool and calm. Restrained.
Too restrained to pick out the music, too restrained to dance. He’d locked away his passion in favor of control.
Occult Supplies. Voudoun. Herbs. Crystals. Incense.
The handpainted words caught his eye. The sign by the road was chipped, weather-beaten. So was the store. Oz pulled up in front of a building that defied gravity by standing and stared at the window in the front door. There was a dreamcatcher hanging in the window and below that a black sign with orange lettering. Come In, We're Open.
Oz needed some herbs and incense for his meditation. He could feel the energy rolling from the building and had little doubt he'd find what he was looking for. Taking a couple deep breaths to center himself and shake off the instinctive fear of the magic, he got out of the van and walked to the door.
As soon as he walked into the shop, Oz felt like he'd entered another world. Inside, the air was cool and damp. Despite the lack of light, Oz found he could see clearly whenever he looked closely at something. The room was vast, defying the space that should have been there based on what he'd seen from outside. It was also newer. Glamour, he thought. For whatever reasons, the shopkeeper must not want just anyone stopping here. The store's exterior would keep away tourists and New Age wannabes looking for a crystal to help them stop smoking or lose weight. Oz felt the corner of his mouth quirk in a half-smile. This was a shop for people who knew exactly what they wanted.
“Can I help you?”
Oz turned to find an older gentleman standing behind him. Tall and thin, hair cut close, a look in his eye that was both welcoming and a bit scary at the same time. There was something familiar about him, but Oz couldn't place what it was. Perhaps it was simply the voice. His accent was clearly British, although Oz couldn't place it anymore specifically than that. He'd yet to make it to Europe in his travels. He only noted that it differed from Giles, Spike, and everyone who'd ever played James Bond.
Oz shook his head then nodded to the shelves beside him. “Just getting some herbs. I can manage.” Turning back to the shelves, he proceeded to gather everything he needed. No need for any of the more obscure items kept behind the counter in most shops--his needs were simple. He'd picked these items up in dark apothecaries in Asia and in Chinatowns of several cities along the coast. But he had also found them prepackaged in magic shops in suburban strip malls.
Once he'd gathered the herbs he wanted, he turned away from the shopkeeper and walked down an aisle, seeking the incense. He followed his nose to a vast selection of sticks and cones, as well as loose blends and charcoal blocks. He preferred to make his own incense blends, but meditating in the van had led to the practicalities of sticks.
“Excellent choice.”
Oz jumped, startled by the shopkeeper's presence. His senses had failed him; he hadn't heard the other man’s approach. Neither had he smelled him for the scents of the shop surrounded him, overwhelming his normally keen nose. But there he was, right behind him. Close enough that if Oz rocked back on his heels, he’d be leaning into him.
“Uh... thanks.” Oz looked over his shoulder, smiling weakly.
“For meditation? To keep...” he stepped back and studied Oz. His gaze was sharp as he eyed him from top to toe and up again. “Ah, of course.” He nodded to himself. “To keep the wolf in check.”
Instinctively, Oz spun and stepped back, bumping into the table. His head tipped back slightly as he looked up at the man, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“I'm sorry. You must think me very rude.”
Oz still said nothing, only narrowed his eyes, studying the man as he’d been studied just moments before. He fought to scent the stranger over the power of the herbs and incense in his arms and all around him.
“I can feel the energy radiating from you, young man. I've only ever felt this type of energy from lycanthropes.”
“Others? Where?” Oz couldn't deny his curiosity. After his previous experiences, he wasn't eager to run into any more of his kind for a while.
“Back home, in England.”
Oz nodded.
“You're the first I've encountered here. Are there many of your kind in these parts?”
“I don't know. I'm just passing through.”
The man smiled, “Ah. A lone wolf on a journey.”
There was something in his look that was no longer welcoming. Something sinister. As Oz went to step back, he found that he couldn't move. He looked down at his feet and saw nothing, but he felt as if his legs were bound. His eyes once more met those of the shopkeeper, who smiled and held out his hand.
“I'm Ethan. Ethan Rayne. I'd very much like it if you'd join me for tea.”
Ethan? He knew that name, someone Giles had mentioned. And he didn’t recall Giles smiling at the time. “I--,” Oz started to protest that he couldn't move, when he felt the restraining force disappear. “I don't really have time.” This time Oz successfully stepped back and turned toward the front of the shop. “If I can just pay for these...” He looked back, expecting Ethan to be behind him, and found himself alone.
“Take what you need, wolfling. And be careful. You never know what evil lurks around the next bend in the road.” Oz swung back toward the counter, and there was Ethan--placing his items in a bag as though this were an everyday trip to the supermarket.
Oz nodded, accepted the package, and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, he felt Ethan at his back. A soft kiss was pressed to the crown of his head. “Good luck controlling the wolf. If you ever decide to embrace a bit of chaos and let yourself run free, call me.” Oz felt Ethan’s hand slide something into his back pocket and shivered at the touch. “I can teach you things you’ve never dreamed.”
Oz slipped through the door and was blinded by the sunlight. Ethan. Chaos. It was all coming back to him. He climbed into his van and started it; the sounds of flamenco flowed out of the stereo. He let the rhythm roll over him as he pulled away, and as the occult shop grew ever smaller in his rearview mirror, he gave into the passion of the music, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel until he heard a voice in his head, “Careful, wolfling. I wouldn’t want to see you lose that precious control.”
He shivered, looking around him. He was alone. But there was the bag of supplies on the seat next to him. Oz pulled over and tossed the bag out his window.
The End
Author: Moosesal
Title: Restraint. Release.
Pairing: Ethan/Oz
Rating: PG
Request: This was written for lm. Two things wanted: Oz's van and roadside attractions. One thing not wanted: Talking about Sunnydale. I hope this works for you.
Beta: Many, many thanks to ladycat777 for feedback on the first draft and for catching some timeline problems. And, as always, thanks to silvertedy for making my writing clearer, cleaner, and more in line with what I meant to say. Love you both.
Note: The title for this was difficult. I was trying to come up with something that fits the feel of the piece and I’m not sure I’ve succeeded. The words come from a description I found of a flamenco dancer’s style combining the perfect blend of restraint and release. I like the notion of Oz and flamenco with it’s ties to the Gypsies, especially as he’s a traveller and a lover of music. Anyway. That’s the reasoning. Enjoy.
Oz had been driving along the coast for days. He was taking his time -- nowhere to be, no set destination or schedule to follow. In the evenings he'd find a spot along the water and watch the sunset. Some nights he'd build a fire on the beach, curl up next to the heat, and think of his time in Tibet. He slept in the back of his van, night after night alone and dreaming of the moon.
He'd stopped at all kinds of shops and stands along the road. Early in his trip picked up some old cassettes of flamenco music, and he'd started picking out the rhythms on his guitar. He had all the time in the world to learn to play the intricate songs. In his dreams the wolf danced to the beat of the flamenco, stamping his feet and gnashing his teeth. But Oz never danced the flamenco; he instead sat on the beach and rocked to the rhythm of the waves lapping against the sand just inches from his toes. He was cool and calm. Restrained.
Too restrained to pick out the music, too restrained to dance. He’d locked away his passion in favor of control.
Occult Supplies. Voudoun. Herbs. Crystals. Incense.
The handpainted words caught his eye. The sign by the road was chipped, weather-beaten. So was the store. Oz pulled up in front of a building that defied gravity by standing and stared at the window in the front door. There was a dreamcatcher hanging in the window and below that a black sign with orange lettering. Come In, We're Open.
Oz needed some herbs and incense for his meditation. He could feel the energy rolling from the building and had little doubt he'd find what he was looking for. Taking a couple deep breaths to center himself and shake off the instinctive fear of the magic, he got out of the van and walked to the door.
As soon as he walked into the shop, Oz felt like he'd entered another world. Inside, the air was cool and damp. Despite the lack of light, Oz found he could see clearly whenever he looked closely at something. The room was vast, defying the space that should have been there based on what he'd seen from outside. It was also newer. Glamour, he thought. For whatever reasons, the shopkeeper must not want just anyone stopping here. The store's exterior would keep away tourists and New Age wannabes looking for a crystal to help them stop smoking or lose weight. Oz felt the corner of his mouth quirk in a half-smile. This was a shop for people who knew exactly what they wanted.
“Can I help you?”
Oz turned to find an older gentleman standing behind him. Tall and thin, hair cut close, a look in his eye that was both welcoming and a bit scary at the same time. There was something familiar about him, but Oz couldn't place what it was. Perhaps it was simply the voice. His accent was clearly British, although Oz couldn't place it anymore specifically than that. He'd yet to make it to Europe in his travels. He only noted that it differed from Giles, Spike, and everyone who'd ever played James Bond.
Oz shook his head then nodded to the shelves beside him. “Just getting some herbs. I can manage.” Turning back to the shelves, he proceeded to gather everything he needed. No need for any of the more obscure items kept behind the counter in most shops--his needs were simple. He'd picked these items up in dark apothecaries in Asia and in Chinatowns of several cities along the coast. But he had also found them prepackaged in magic shops in suburban strip malls.
Once he'd gathered the herbs he wanted, he turned away from the shopkeeper and walked down an aisle, seeking the incense. He followed his nose to a vast selection of sticks and cones, as well as loose blends and charcoal blocks. He preferred to make his own incense blends, but meditating in the van had led to the practicalities of sticks.
“Excellent choice.”
Oz jumped, startled by the shopkeeper's presence. His senses had failed him; he hadn't heard the other man’s approach. Neither had he smelled him for the scents of the shop surrounded him, overwhelming his normally keen nose. But there he was, right behind him. Close enough that if Oz rocked back on his heels, he’d be leaning into him.
“Uh... thanks.” Oz looked over his shoulder, smiling weakly.
“For meditation? To keep...” he stepped back and studied Oz. His gaze was sharp as he eyed him from top to toe and up again. “Ah, of course.” He nodded to himself. “To keep the wolf in check.”
Instinctively, Oz spun and stepped back, bumping into the table. His head tipped back slightly as he looked up at the man, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“I'm sorry. You must think me very rude.”
Oz still said nothing, only narrowed his eyes, studying the man as he’d been studied just moments before. He fought to scent the stranger over the power of the herbs and incense in his arms and all around him.
“I can feel the energy radiating from you, young man. I've only ever felt this type of energy from lycanthropes.”
“Others? Where?” Oz couldn't deny his curiosity. After his previous experiences, he wasn't eager to run into any more of his kind for a while.
“Back home, in England.”
Oz nodded.
“You're the first I've encountered here. Are there many of your kind in these parts?”
“I don't know. I'm just passing through.”
The man smiled, “Ah. A lone wolf on a journey.”
There was something in his look that was no longer welcoming. Something sinister. As Oz went to step back, he found that he couldn't move. He looked down at his feet and saw nothing, but he felt as if his legs were bound. His eyes once more met those of the shopkeeper, who smiled and held out his hand.
“I'm Ethan. Ethan Rayne. I'd very much like it if you'd join me for tea.”
Ethan? He knew that name, someone Giles had mentioned. And he didn’t recall Giles smiling at the time. “I--,” Oz started to protest that he couldn't move, when he felt the restraining force disappear. “I don't really have time.” This time Oz successfully stepped back and turned toward the front of the shop. “If I can just pay for these...” He looked back, expecting Ethan to be behind him, and found himself alone.
“Take what you need, wolfling. And be careful. You never know what evil lurks around the next bend in the road.” Oz swung back toward the counter, and there was Ethan--placing his items in a bag as though this were an everyday trip to the supermarket.
Oz nodded, accepted the package, and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, he felt Ethan at his back. A soft kiss was pressed to the crown of his head. “Good luck controlling the wolf. If you ever decide to embrace a bit of chaos and let yourself run free, call me.” Oz felt Ethan’s hand slide something into his back pocket and shivered at the touch. “I can teach you things you’ve never dreamed.”
Oz slipped through the door and was blinded by the sunlight. Ethan. Chaos. It was all coming back to him. He climbed into his van and started it; the sounds of flamenco flowed out of the stereo. He let the rhythm roll over him as he pulled away, and as the occult shop grew ever smaller in his rearview mirror, he gave into the passion of the music, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel until he heard a voice in his head, “Careful, wolfling. I wouldn’t want to see you lose that precious control.”
He shivered, looking around him. He was alone. But there was the bag of supplies on the seat next to him. Oz pulled over and tossed the bag out his window.
The End