Date: Monday, May 05, 2003 4:02 PMTitle: Gris Author: Scy Feedback: email@example.com Disclaimer: Not even in the sand dunes. Fandom: Xmen comics/BTVS Spoilers: All seasons of BTVS involving Oz. Xmen- the trial. Rating: PG-13 Pairing: Remy/Oz
Summary: A disconnected and somewhat uncaring werewolf meets the mutant thief on a Northwest beach. There is more evidence of Scy's fondness for the Pacific Coast and much quiet thinking, perhaps some smoking and conversation that doesn't need words.
Author's Notes: Originally Victoria P. suggested this to me. It's taken awhile. The title is Spanish for 'grey'.
An expert nomad doesn't have a map or destination. Being on the journey is the only concern.
There is no one place that draws every wanderer, but the ocean is at the very top of a master list.
In the lore, wolves do not romp on the shore, digging their toes into wet sand. Oz is unopposed to breaking a mold.
The Pacific Ocean is cold. In California the sun made water temperature refreshing. Up north, cloud cover makes almost every day a gamble with rain.
It is a good place to reflect on the disagreeable turns life takes, and does Fate really single out individuals and make existence a steep incline.
Oz doesn't think of himself as an easily deterred sort of werewolf, but the hill stretches up and the bottom would hurt or just rush to cushion him.
The air is heavy with salt and birds spin their wide circles high above.
Oz sits on an impressive piece of driftwood, appreciating the smoothness of naturally polished wood.
When the moon calls him he has miles of beach to roam, and in cold weather it's less likely he'll happen across anyone.
The coast has land and sea conflicting, which appeals to him.
The man isn't obviously aggressive, more wary, the stance of someone who doesn't take people at what they first seem. Such a thing is learned through hard experience, and that makes Oz keep his hands where they can be seen.
His clothes aren't flashy, but not out of a bin. This is one who knows how to dress. The stocking cap he wears covers ears and only the very bottom of his ears are visible, that small glimpse is enough to reveal several earrings. He is wearing sunglasses on a day when there is very nearly no sun to be felt.
A nod in Oz's direction- fellow connoisseur of the more deserted shoreline.
Oz doesn't have any real bias against smoking, but since his first shift, there is a part of him that knows fire to be a threat- be it in small flames or rushing blaze.
He declines the universal offer of a cigarette and works his pile of sand into a pillow.
A curl of smoke ascends to join dense clouds.
A downpour never failed to find where clothing joined and seep through. Oz couldn't suppress the thought that if he were in wolf shape, the different layers of fur would keep unwelcome moisture away from his skin.
Sand and water didn't so much disappear as coalesce into a gray curtain that seemed to go past imagined horizons.
It makes Oz's hollowed-out place an outpost of sorts. Closing his eyes beachrainsalt fold around him and being warm isn't important. Just finding the inherent rhythm of natural medley.
He debates he benefits of being a mer-creature for a minute, then pulls out- back to the dunes.
The air is heavy with cold wetness. Sharpness to it-wind could come up at any time. This place knows its power.
Oz glances sideways at his companion when he feels something heated.
Smothered laughter as Oz tried to shake himself dry. Impulse and ineffective but some instincts aren't wholly of the wolf.
Their silence isn't the nervous waiting of a conversation that has to start at an agreed juncture-that nothing or anything might be said is a nice concept that soothes.
He does have the sense that this man isn't naturally reticent, but that with living has come a more careful of approach.
Ever-ready wariness the only obvious hint of threat. Warning of other more concealed weapons.
The defensive coloring of an individual not about to seek a fight, but capable of ending it. And if one took him at looks- strange but pretty- then slipping inside and leaving a wound was ever so much easier.
Sun returns as though it's late to a date, and Oz stirs as light presses down- apology for long absence.
Wolves are social animals, and those forced to live solitary lives often suffer from illness or mental snapping.
In rare moments Oz considers how good of a hunter insanity must be. It can creep up and not be noticed until the restraints clamp down and breakfast comes as gruel.
Being around this man is an improvement on 'alone,' and so he closes his eyes to listen to the ocean.
Later he will find woods and see what can be hunted there. For now a silent companion is enough.
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