Giles/Oz/Nina
Dec. 20th, 2004 11:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleHalfway through my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide assignment when I got distracted by an open request on buffyverse1000.
Self: But I've already *done* post-apoc threesome fic involving Nina in a ruined Los Angeles with an overuse of stream of consciousness and run-on sentences!
Brain: Or, to put it another way - you haven't done it *enough*!
Self: This is true.
Oz gets back close to dawn, bringing freshly-killed meat and a story about finding another survivor, a guy he used to know, in one of the encampments on the other side of the city.
"One of us?" Nina says, and wonders when she started thinking that way. Us, werewolves; them, humans and demons and everything else.
"Not a wolf." Oz tips his head, gives a shadow of a smile that makes her wish she'd known him when he dyed his hair, played in a band, forgot what he was twenty-eight days a month. "He's a librarian."
But when she meets Giles she thinks that Oz got it wrong. Nina grew up an army brat, new base every year till her dad died and her mom moved them to California. She knows a soldier when she sees one.
Some mornings she wakes up in the cage, curled to Oz's back and both of them bitten and clawed and starving, and just beyond the bars there's the trace-scent of Giles. She can pick out the path he paced in the night, the place where he sat to watch them. Some mornings there's just stale air, and that means someone's died, been injured, and if it's the second then she knows she'll find the basement doors locked. Those times Oz sits in the cage practising the meditation she's never been able to learn, and she sits at the top of the stairs and inhales the scent of blood.
But there are better moments, when she forgets that Giles is human and she and Oz aren't, and when she thinks that Giles forgets how many people are dead and dying and depending on him. The cot's not big enough for three but she's small and so is Oz, and it's good for them to have to move carefully. And she can imagine how they were before, Oz with his band and Giles with his books, her with the art that she barely remembers, covering the canvas, moulding the clay.
She is always so, so careful not to bite.
yuletide assignment when I got distracted by an open request on buffyverse1000.Self: But I've already *done* post-apoc threesome fic involving Nina in a ruined Los Angeles with an overuse of stream of consciousness and run-on sentences!
Brain: Or, to put it another way - you haven't done it *enough*!
Self: This is true.
Oz gets back close to dawn, bringing freshly-killed meat and a story about finding another survivor, a guy he used to know, in one of the encampments on the other side of the city.
"One of us?" Nina says, and wonders when she started thinking that way. Us, werewolves; them, humans and demons and everything else.
"Not a wolf." Oz tips his head, gives a shadow of a smile that makes her wish she'd known him when he dyed his hair, played in a band, forgot what he was twenty-eight days a month. "He's a librarian."
But when she meets Giles she thinks that Oz got it wrong. Nina grew up an army brat, new base every year till her dad died and her mom moved them to California. She knows a soldier when she sees one.
Some mornings she wakes up in the cage, curled to Oz's back and both of them bitten and clawed and starving, and just beyond the bars there's the trace-scent of Giles. She can pick out the path he paced in the night, the place where he sat to watch them. Some mornings there's just stale air, and that means someone's died, been injured, and if it's the second then she knows she'll find the basement doors locked. Those times Oz sits in the cage practising the meditation she's never been able to learn, and she sits at the top of the stairs and inhales the scent of blood.
But there are better moments, when she forgets that Giles is human and she and Oz aren't, and when she thinks that Giles forgets how many people are dead and dying and depending on him. The cot's not big enough for three but she's small and so is Oz, and it's good for them to have to move carefully. And she can imagine how they were before, Oz with his band and Giles with his books, her with the art that she barely remembers, covering the canvas, moulding the clay.
She is always so, so careful not to bite.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2004-12-20 11:31 pm (UTC)