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 Keepsakes and Eastward

Author: Abi Z
Rating: NC-17 (but Keepsakes is only R)
Summary: 1: A lawyer examines his life. Because, damn it, redemption isn't just for vampires and rogue slayers. 2: On his way to a new life, Lindsey meets someone else looking for the same thing.
Disclaimer: What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. Unless you're Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (grr argh), in which case what's yours is *so* not mine.
Spoilers: 1: "Blind Date" in a major way, but call this an AU as far as everything that happened afterwards. 2: Not many for Angel, since I'm basically ignoring everything that happened after "Blind Date" (and some things that happened during it). In the Buffyverse, spoilers for "New Moon Rising" and general late season four (US). In both worlds, consider this an AU: I've played fast and loose with timing, not to mention characterization.
Category: Oz and Lindsay
Author's Note: Keepsakes isn't slash, but its sequel (which you won't understand unless you read this) is. It's rampant rambling and meandering. Nothing really offensive, just some bad language and non-explicit booty. I tried to put some smut in it, I really did, but it just didn't happen.  Eastward's got booty, baby! And it's Y-chromosome booty, so if you don't dig that, you don't know what you're missing. Oh yeah, and always practice safe sex when sleeping with werewolves or lawyers.



He was not the type of man for keepsakes: his apartment was spacious but spare, decorated with bare walls except for an Alfred Stieglitz print of a winter night in New York, a kind of cold he swore he would never know again. His dishes were black, his countertops white, and you could have eaten off the hardwood floors if you'd wanted to. But people were never impressed by the cleanliness, and his dates had always insisted that he come to their places.

But he had a few things, beyond the basics of suits and ties and cutlery and shampoo. He had his sister Letitia's seventh grade picture--the year of her death, that February when influenza had struck the Maine coast and sent her to what their mother believed was a better place. He had Lana's picture, too, from fourth grade: in March, three weeks after Letitia's death, not so much out of sickness but loneliness from missing her sister. And then the survivors, taken two years later, the year he'd graduated high school. Larissa, the oldest, at nineteen, already working in the mill; Lambert, sixteen, who would drop out of high school and join the Marines; Leander, at fourteen, with his bright eyes and shaggy hair; and Lindsey himself in the center, seventeen, smiling, knowing he was getting out. He kept the pictures in his wallet, behind his California driver's license, and sometimes, idly, he looked at them, trying to divine the thoughts behind the faces, most especially his own.

Those ridiculous names, all L's after their parents, like it was some sort of cosmic miracle that Larry MacDonald and Leda Cunningham had wound up marrying each other. Lindsey had gotten strong because of his name, blacking the eyes of the latest person to call him "girly-man" or "faggot" or any number of small-town taunts. He wasn't sure which variety of insult he fought harder: his name he couldn't control, but the sex part he could, and all the adolescent Lindsey could think was that he had some genetic defect, something that ran in the MacDonald family just like alcoholism, that made him ache for a man. Girls were tantalizing, too, but he couldn't imagine that they wouldn't guess his secret, and so he defended his name and his honor, and he made it through high school celibate and undiscovered. He was the first in his family to apply to college, and he prayed to a God he didn't believe in that it would get him out of Maine.

It did: it got him to Hastings University in the heart of Boston, surrounded by trees and seventeenth-century churches and tony clothing stores. And there, much to his surprise, his name served him well, just feminine enough to seem upper-crust. He arrived with two suitcases, and he found himself rooming with Hunter Kirkland, whose family looked at his name and his Maine origins and assumed that he was just like them. They were Bostonians who summered in York Harbor; they didn't know one Maine hole in the wall from another, and Johnstown, Maine, might as well have been Kennebec for all the Kirklands knew. Hunter pulled Lindsey onto the lacrosse team, ignoring his lack of experience, and they played together for four years. Lindsey stayed in Boston for Thanksgivings, Easters, and even one Christmas, and he lived for a summer, between his sophomore and junior years, in the Kirklands' airy Cambridge house while he interned with a law firm downtown.

The right thing to do that summer would have been to succumb to the attentions of Ginger, Hunter's nineteen year-old sister, but it was instead her best friend who captivated him. Therica Albright's family were cousins of the Kirklands who lived in Wellesley. Therica was doing a summer dance program in the city, and rather than commute the hour, she was staying with her relatives in town. The kinship was distant, but Therica was clearly related: she had Ginger's sun-blond hair, and Hunter's patrician nose. Lindsey had met Therica in passing around the Hastings campus--he remembered dimly that she had been to one or two of the lacrosse matches--but he recalled her only vaguely. But it was the sight of her out on the back porch early one morning, using the old wrought-iron loveseat as a barre for her ballet stretches, that stuck in his mind.

He started riding the T with her every day: Therica's studio wasn't far from the firm where he was working, and she only left about twenty minutes after he did. Her wit was sparkling, sometimes edgy, and she missed nothing. She had mild dyslexia, which made reading and school a struggle, but she gave directions to tourists in fluent French, German, or Japanese. She was weirdly awkward around the opposite sex, but with Lindsey she let herself shine. He fell in love with her every day on the T, back and forth from downtown to Cambridge. They lived chastely enough with the Kirklands: Therica was hesitant to sneak around in her relatives' house, and Lindsey was too shy to do any more than kiss her. Hunter walked in on them in the kitchen late one night--Therica sitting on the counter, Lindsey standing, her legs around his hips, his hands in her hair--but had simply laughed, said, "Excuse me," and left again.

School started just after Labor Day. Hunter and Lindsey moved into a suite in one of the campus houses, and Therica moved into an off-campus co-op with two friends. Lindsey was invited to spent the night, but never did: he was embarrassed to tell Therica that he'd never had sex before. That Thanksgiving, though, Hunter's parents were in Greece, and Therica was in a fight with her mother, and so they had dinner at Therica's apartment. Lindsey and Therica cooked a turkey, Ginger and her boyfriend brought potatoes and a pie, and Hunter's girlfriend brought her grandmother's green bean casserole and pound cake. Afterwards, sleepy with food and zinfandel, Lindsey and Therica had fallen asleep on the sofa, and he had woken several hours later from nightmares of hunger and cold.

They were bad enough that he woke Therica, too. She pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned Lindsey back against her. "Who was Letitia?" she asked.

"Just someone I used to know."

"Did she die?"

Lindsey whipped his head around to meet calm blue Brahmin eyes. "What makes you ask that?"

"You kept telling her to wake up."

And so he told her about Letitia, and Lana, and the rest of them. Larissa, at home in the sock factory; Lambert, who'd been shipped off to Somalia; Leander, who had already lost an eye in a knife fight; and finally himself, who had escaped. Therica believed him, and she listened to him quietly for most of the night. Then she tucked Lindsey into her bed, told him she loved him, and let him sleep for the next ten hours.

They'd made fumbling, exploratory love the next morning--Therica, Lindsey was delighted to discover, was no more experienced with men than he was with women. She was remarkably verbal in bed, and if she didn't like something, she told him; if she did like it, she just moaned. They went out for orange juice and Chinese food on Saturday, but beyond that stayed in the apartment for the entire weekend, and only got dressed when Therica's roommates returned Sunday night. He lived with her unofficially for most of that year, and officially the next, when Therica talked her parents into paying for a one-bedroom in Jamaica Plain. Lindsey loved her, and he wanted to do things the right way. It was easy for him to ignore other girls--it was what he did anyway--and less so for him to ignore other men, but he did, and he was faithful, and he told himself that he always would be.

Senior year, Lindsey applied to six law schools, each of which waived his application fee, and he got into all of them. UCLA gave him the best aid package, a full ride plus living expenses, and he would not know until years later that the offer was underwritten by a UCLA grad and managing partner of Wolfram and Hart. Lindsey moved west in August, and Therica, who had put off auditions and gotten a job teaching dance at a day school in Westwood, moved with him.

And there, Lindsey thought ten years later, looking out from his office onto the lights of Los Angeles, his troubles began.

Los Angeles was different from Boston--not to mention Maine--in every way. It was sunny all the time, and everyone there seemed beautiful and well-fed: even the migrant workers seemed better off than most of the people he'd known in Johnstown. When he walked to class, both men and women openly appraised him. One evening in the grocery store, a man about his age, handsome and clean-cut, dressed in a fraternity cap and faded blue jeans, had been making casual conversation for about ten minutes when Lindsey realized with a shock what he really wanted. Matt, his name was, and two weeks later, in his bed, Lindsey slept with a man for the first time. Clearly, Matt had done this before, and Lindsey was content to spread his legs and let Matt fuck him into oblivion. It was a pattern Lindsey found remarkably easy to establish.

But what really startled him was how easy it was to lie to Therica afterwards.

She found out, though--they always do, Lindsey thought. It was idiocy to think that she wouldn't: her father had cheated on her mother for years, and Therica knew what to look for. Lindsey realized, later, that she checked for signs of infidelity as subconsciously as he made sure that the apartment was always warm, and that there was always five days' worth of food in the refrigerator. He really didn't think they were going to starve, and she really didn't think he would cheat, but she smelled it out like a werewolf smelling fear, and she left. Lindsey dug himself into school, and then into Wolfram and Hart, and he filled his bed with actors and models of both sexes, and one day he was thirty and about to defend a child-killer.

He had made his choice and allied himself with Angel, and then he had remade it, and he had sat at his desk in the empty office that was now his, and he had thought, all this is mine.

But now he thought: it has to end. He closed the blinds, cutting the room off from the outside, and without the city lights, it looked like what it was: empty and sterile. It was time to leave, and it looked like Wolfram and Hart might just let him go.

Lindsey put the phone back on the hook and called his banker at home. In ten minutes, the transaction was done: five thousand in cash, awaiting him at Western Union, and the rest in a trust fund, for Larissa and Leander's kids. When he left, he taped a note to the door: I QUIT. He smiled at the guard on the way out.

There wasn't much to pack. He folded some sweaters and jeans into a suitcase, and threw in a ski jacket. He had a friend in Worcester who ran a Legal Aid office. He could support himself working there for a while, and then maybe he'd leave the law completely. Get a master's in legal theory and teach somewhere: live in a college town, drive a Hyundai, and watch the leaves change every year. Marry a former student and have a couple of kids. Forget about demons and dark-eyed vampires and blind murderesses.

The Western Union was five blocks from his house. He parked on the street and had the money in ten minutes, and then back into the Jag. It was about a three-day drive to California, four if he slept. He could stay with Hunter for a few days--remarkably, after the Therica debacle, Hunter still spoke to him, although Ginger didn't--until he got on his feet, called his friend in Worcester, found an apartment. He hadn't been back East in years. He wondered if it still looked the same. Los Angeles was a living, volatile organism in a way that Boston, settled so many years ago, would never be. L.A. glittered and expanded and shone, while the East seemed to writhe within limits written years before and never changed.

But at heart, he was still a Maine hardscrabbler, and he'd gotten in over his head out here. Hunger and cold he could fight, and he'd thought he could juggle demons and vampires and living an hour from the Hellmouth (because what was Maine if not a colder version?). He'd thought he could do it, and he had watched it fall down around him. He pulled off the highway in Santa Monica to get gas and coffee. He filled up the car and then got the largest size of coffee they had, loading it with sugar--black as sin, sweet as love, as Hunter might have said--before paying at the counter. "You're gonna be up all night with that," the clerk, a young blond man with a lip ring, remarked.

"I have a long drive ahead of me."

"Going on a trip?"

Lindsey shook his head. "No. Leaving for good."

The boy smiled at him. "Seems like a lot of people around here want to leave for good. Not many of them do it, though." He handed Lindsey fifty-seven cents in change. "Good luck to you, man."

Outside, underneath the half moon, the night was filled with stars and possibility.


He drove like he was possessed, not crazily, but compulsively, unable to stop. He passed cities and towns, crossed rivers, wound through mountains, and it was nearly a day later, in a national forest in Colorado, when finally his body made one last, insistent demand that he stop. He pulled over at a rest stop which was, as far as he could determine, located just west of nowhere, and he went into the men's room and wet his hair and stared at his bloodshot eyes echoed under gray bathroom light in the mirror.

Outside, the Western sun was having one last hurrah before setting, and the sky was red from horizon to horizon. He took his road atlas out of the Jag's glove compartment to check the next part of his route. At some point he would have to sleep, but not now.

"Mind if I have a look at that?" a quiet, gravelly voice asked, and Lindsey looked up to see himself regarded by a small, pale man with spiky red hair. Lindsey handed over the atlas and watched as the young man traced an eastward path with a long, callused index finger.

"Where you headed?" Lindsey asked.

"Vermont. You?"


"Long way from here. Been on the road a while?"

"Just under a day."

A glance from the red-haired man. "You look tired."

"Haven't slept in a few days."



The man flipped the atlas closed. "I was about to eat. Join me?"

He was laconic, his eyes intense, but he looked harmless. "Sure," Lindsey said.

"Oz," the man introduced himself.


Neither commented on the strangeness of the other's name.

Oz was driving an enormous brown van, and he opened the back doors to reveal a spacious and remarkably clean interior. Some musician's paraphernalia--a guitar, the case to what looked like some kind of large woodwind instrument--was stored inside, along with Oz's belongings. Oz climbed inside the van and opened up a backpack, removing several items from within. "Come in. Have a seat."

A high school friend had had a van somewhat like this, only dirtier; it had been large enough to keep Robbie and Lindsey warm during their weekend drinking bouts from driving age until graduation. Then Lindsey had gone to Hastings, and Robbie--now Bob--had traded the van for a used Bronco after he'd joined the Navy and moved to Portsmouth.

Dried fruit, thick brown bread, some kind of jarred fruit spread, two apples, some bananas, tangerines, a tomato, and a large jug of water. "I-- I don't have any food," Lindsey started, "but I can pay you--"

Oz waved him off. "No need. I offered."

The fruit spread turned out to be tart cherry preserves, clearly homemade, and the bread crunched with the husks of grains. "Been living on an organic farm," Oz said. "Got enough food to get me across two continents." Oz took off his leather jacket and threw it into the front seat; underneath he was wearing a T-shirt with a worn Jane's Addiction logo. His faded jeans were several times patched, and his work boots were battered. Lindsey started to relax, and he sat back against the van wall and divided a tangerine into sections. Oz picked up the tomato and took a bite out of it.

"Never seen anyone eat a tomato like that," Lindsey observed.

"My favorite way. They're better fresh off the vine, but this is almost as good." He held it out for Lindsey to taste. "Try it."

Lindsey did, and the flesh of the tomato was spicy and succulent. He wasn't sure he'd ever really tasted one before; usually they were dismembered in sauces or coated with salad dressing. "Tomatoes are actually a fruit, right?"

"Right." Oz took a drink of water and offered it to Lindsey. It went against his Wolfram and Hart training, where nothing was so casually shared. But who was he kidding? The worst he could catch from this man--this boy--was a cold; the worst he could have gotten at the firm was dead. He drank. The water was warm but pure.

"You coming from L.A.?" Oz asked.


"Going back or leaving for good?"

"Leaving for good."

"What made you decide?"

"I made a lot of mistakes in L.A. You coming from there, too?"

"I come from a lot of places. I was in L.A. yesterday. Last week I went back home to Sunnydale, where I grew up. Thought I would stay. I didn't."

"Didn't miss it as much as you thought?"

"Missed it more. But I made mistakes, too, and they caught up with me."

"Sunnydale. I hear some crazy shit about that place."

"It's all true."

The sun had gone down, and the red sky was fading into the dark sapphire blue of oncoming night. Oz took another item out of his backpack. He unwrapped it, broke off a chunk, and handed it to Lindsey.

"What is it?" Lindsey asked.


It was dark and on the bitter edge of semisweet, just enough sugar to make it palatable. "It's from South America," Oz said. "Don't have much of it left. It's almost pure cacao. You won't find it in this country."

Oz pulled his jacket from the front seat, folded it over a few times, and leaned back, resting his head on it. He was not, Lindsey saw, as small as he looked; compact was perhaps a better term. His T-shirt was loose, but gravity draped it to reveal a leanly muscled torso; the man's hands and arms were clearly strong. He was young, Lindsey could tell, but it was hard to tell how young; Oz would spend his life as a person whose age could not be easily determined.

Oz handed him another piece of chocolate and Lindsey lay back, too. His brain, no longer forced for safety's sake to keep his body frenetically awake, had started to slow, and he realized how tired he was. The evening was cooling off, and it seemed like a fine thing to lie here in this van like he had not since he was a teenager and eat farm-grown food with this amiable, succinct stranger.

He felt Oz looking at him again. "You think you can clean up your mistakes in Boston?"

"I think it's too late for that. But I think I might be able to try again."

"I thought I cleaned up my mistakes, but I got back home and they just came back again. Maybe it's a hometown thing; you can't be anything other than what you were."

"That's why I've never gone back to mine."

Oz shook his head. "Can't do that. I love too many people there."

Did he love anyone in Johnstown, Lindsey wondered? His siblings, but not enough to go back forever. His father was dead; his mother was smoking her way there. Boston was almost a hometown; he'd spent good years there, once he'd learned to forget where he was from. He'd heard from Hunter that Therica was back East, teaching dance at a day school in Brookline. She should have her own studio, her own company; she deserved better. He realized after a moment that he'd said it out loud.

"She?" from the stretched-out lump that was Oz.

"The woman who moved to California with me."

"She still there?"

"She left me years ago. Last I heard she was back in Boston."

Silence from the red-haired boy. After a moment, "Boston's big but not so big as to hide an ex-lover forever."

"Few cities are that big."

A small laugh from Oz. "True that. Even in L.A. you can't hide forever."

Some people did. Angel seemed to be trying to. "So you left Sunnydale. Are you going to try to clean up your mistakes again?" he asked Oz.

"I don't know. Seems like that route didn't work. Maybe I should just stay away--settle somewhere else, try to forget."

"What's in Vermont?"

"Commune of people in the northern part of the state. They're all like me."

"How are they like you?"

"They're… strange… like me."

"You're quiet. Solitary. But you seem pretty normal."

In the semidarkness Lindsey could see that Oz's smile was charmingly crooked. "The strangeness doesn't manifest itself most of the time."

Lindsey was led to wonder what kind of strangeness the boy might be talking about, but these days who knew; there were communities for more cultures and subcultures and sub-subcultures than Lindsey could possibly name. Perhaps the boy would be happy in Vermont with the people who were supposedly like him. Perhaps they all had angular bodies and beautiful hands. But that did not bear thinking about.

"So you got other friends in Boston besides the ex-lover?"

"She's hardly a friend. But yes. My best friend from college lives there with his wife, and a buddy of mine from law school is in Worcester."

"That's not Boston."

"It's not L.A., either."

"The woman I love is in Sunnydale," Oz said; his voice was so quiet that Lindsey wondered if he was talking to himself.

After a moment, Lindsey ventured, "Why aren't you there with her?"

"I left the first time, and she moved on. Found someone else. Still loves me, but found someone else."

"And you didn't want to stay if you couldn't have her?"

"I would have… killed the other person."

Oz didn't seem the type to kill anyone. "She ran around on you while you were gone?"

Another laugh, harsher this time. "No. I left. Didn't stay in touch, didn't say where I was going. She grieved. Then she recovered. The other person is good for her. But there's a side of me that needs to be away from them both."

The sun had set completely; the part of the sky that was not deep sunset blue was now black. The air had gotten colder, and Lindsey felt the chill eating through his sweater. Oz sat up and pulled a blanket from some cranny of the van. He shook it out to its full size and offered part to Lindsey.

It was a thick wool, scratchy but comforting, like some of his father's old camping blankets. Sharing it meant moving slightly closer to Oz, though by no means close enough to touch; it was a strange, easy closeness born of convenience and exhaustion.

"Got the blanket up in Manitoba. Traded lunch and a Nepalese beaded necklace for it."


"I was in Tibet for a while last year. Passed through Katmandu on my way out."

"You been everywhere?"


"How long have you been on the road?"

"Little over a year. I expect I'll stay on it for a couple more."

"You don't think you'll stay in Vermont?"

"Maybe for a while. It's just hard to imagine calling anything home right now."

"I know that feeling."

"Hey," Oz said, turning over. Part of the blanket came with him. "I almost forgot I had this." He sat up and reached back into the backpack, but in the darkness Lindsey couldn't see what he took out. Whatever it was, it rustled. "Peppermint candy," Oz said. "A little gooey from the heat. Open your mouth."

Some non-rational part of Lindsey's tired brain took over, and he did. There was the bright tang of peppermint and then the low salt of Oz's fingers, which Lindsey might or might not have intentionally licked in taking the peppermint. It was sharper than anything he'd ever tasted, nothing more than a bit of sugar and essence of peppermint and something to hold the confection together.

Lindsey swallowed and looked up. Oz was still leaning close, watching him. And then Oz was leaning closer, and his mouth tasted like peppermint and chocolate.

The last man Lindsey had kissed was someone he'd met at the gym, a broad-shouldered man, clean-shaven, his black hair cut sleekly. They had kissed for perhaps a minute before the man had pinned Lindsey's hands above his head, nudged his legs apart, and fucked him in a way he never argued with. Kissing Oz was what Lindsey should have done at age twenty, instead of jerking Therica around; he should have found a boy his age, someone in his political theory class, or maybe a closeted Catholic boy from B.C., or a dark-eyed medical student from Brandeis. They should have done this on a back sofa in a teahouse in Harvard Square, or maybe sitting on the floor of a friend's apartment late at night, or even at a fraternity party, against a wall, too drunk and too horny to care who saw.

Oz's hair was soft underneath Lindsey's fingers, and Oz's hand was warm as it rested lightly on the side of Lindsey's face. He couldn't remember what that last anonymous man had tasted like, but the skin of Oz's neck was spicy, and kisses to it made him moan. Oz pushed them over gently, and Lindsey did what he always did, which was to move onto his back to let the other person do what he wanted.

But Oz stopped. "You do that like it's some kind of habit."

"It is."

"It's-- strange. It's like… a beta surrendering to an alpha."

It was bizarrely phrased, but it was not, Lindsey thought, an inaccurate way to put it.

In the dark, Oz was looking intently down at him. "You're older, stronger, wealthier."

"Not anymore."

"Older and stronger, at least. Seems like you ought to be the top."

"I like it this way."

Oz rolled down to Lindsey's side. "No, I don't think you do. I think it's just a habit." He hooked a leg over Lindsey's hip and suddenly Lindsey was looking down at him. He felt Oz's body move underneath him and it was like being with a woman but it wasn't, because the body under his was strong and hard and male and absolutely what he wanted right now.

"Close the doors," Oz whispered, and Lindsey did. Three days ago, he would have thought that Oz meant to take him and sacrifice him to some demon god, but tonight Lindsey was pretty sure that Oz had other, much simpler things in mind.

Lindsey had changed into jeans at his apartment, but he was still wearing his blue oxford lawyer's shirt, and Oz was working at the buttons, and when he had them undone he pushed the garment off Lindsey's shoulders. The Jane's Addiction shirt came off quickly, and Lindsey bent down to lick the hard nubs of Oz's nipples--and was surprised when his mouth touched cold metal. "How long have you had those?"

"Got them in London."

"Are they OK to be touched?"

"Hell yes."

Lindsey pulled at the steel circle with his tongue, and Oz arched up against him, whimpering. Lindsey cupped the younger man's erection through the soft denim of his jeans, and Oz moaned a quiet, "Please."

"Please what?" seemed like a good response.

Lindsey suspected that, just as he wasn't used to being on top, neither was Oz used to being on the bottom. "Please… please touch me."

"I am touching you."

A laugh, nothing like the ironic ones of earlier, burst out of Oz. "Oh God… what are you, a lawyer?"



Lindsey rubbed softly, and Oz tried again, shuddering. "Please… please take off my clothes and touch me."

Lindsey kissed Oz's temple. "OK."

The button fly opened easily, and then Oz remembered that he was still wearing shoes. He sat up for a moment and removed them, and Lindsey rid himself of his, and then Oz guided Lindsey's hands back to his hips. So maybe Oz wasn't technically on top, but he was still in charge.

Lindsey found Oz's cock and began to stroke, and Oz's fingers dug into his back. His jeans came off easily, and then Lindsey's, and suddenly they were naked and wrapped around each other and writhing in the cool air. Lindsey kissed his way down Oz's chest, licked the crease of his hip, and gently bit the inside of Oz's thigh, listening to the other man's breathing become ragged. And then Lindsey took Oz's cock in his mouth, and Oz howled.

Even for the most submissive of men, Lindsey had to think, there was an incredible power trip in this act, holding someone completely helpless with nothing more than well-timed suction and motion. He wrapped his hand around the base of the shaft and tongued the head, listening as Oz descended into wordless pleas. Hands that had stroked his hair began to tug and pull and Oz moaned "ohgodohgodohgod" and then there was his come, salty and tasting slightly of apples.

Oz sank back and surprised Lindsey by pulling him into a kiss, licking the last traces of semen out of his mouth. They lay still as Oz's heartbeat slowed. "The backpack should be next to you. Take the plastic bottle out of it, please."

Lindsey did. "What is it?"

"Massage oil." A leg snaked around Lindsey's hips, pulling him hip to hip with Oz. "I want you to fuck me."


"Probably haven't done it before," Oz finished. "It's OK. I have."

Oz took the bottle from Lindsey and poured out a bit of something that smelled like almonds. And then there were marvellously slick hands on his cock, stroking up and down and around, and Lindsey did not want to fuck; he wanted to lie there and let the slickness dissolve him into orgasm. But Oz turned over, pulling a bundle of something under his hips. "Push in gently," he said. "It'll be more intuitive than you think."

Any number of men--more than he cared to think about--had done this to Lindsey, and he had never attempted turnabout. He covered Oz's body with his own, his chest to Oz's back, and lay there for a moment. Then he moved up on his knees, found Oz's opening, and started to enter the other man's body. Oz pushed back up against him. "That's it… oh God… yeah, like that."

"Does that feel good?" To Lindsey it always had, but on someone else he had no idea.

"Oh yeah. More. Come on. Deeper."

And then he was all the way inside and it was hot and tight and oh God. He started to move, slowly, and then Oz bucked up against him and there was no need to go slow. Fast and faster and the moans couldn't be his own but they were and oh God why hadn't he tried this when he was twenty? This was it, this was perfect, just two bodies in sync with each other. Oz moved to brace himself on his forearms and yes that was exactly it, that was right, and Lindsey came with his head thrown back and a hoarse, delighted cry. And then he collapsed bonelessly next to Oz. The van smelled like almond and sex.

Oz pulled blankets back around them and wrapped strong arms around Lindsey. "Thank you," Lindsey murmured, so softly he hoped Oz wouldn't hear.

But Oz did. "Thank you," he answered.

Lindsey's mind wandered--to the first man he'd slept with, the first time he'd kissed Therica (who, actually, had kissed him--he'd been too shy to try), to the precise onyx quality of the vampire Angel's eyes.

A gentle kiss on his neck. "You're not awake," Oz observed.

"I'm not asleep."

"You will be soon."

Lindsey tried to remember the last time he'd slept next to another human being. Since Therica, yes, but not for a while. He was naked and sticky and in a van that probably dated back to the Reagan administration. But that was OK. Oz's hand had settled gently at the small of Lindsey's back. Lindsey fell into sleep easily, and didn't wake for fourteen hours.

When he did come to, Oz was awake, picking out a melody on his guitar, shirtless and barefoot but with jeans on. His skin was pale and creamy, and in the light of the morning, Lindsey could see the piercings--ears and nipples, as far as he could tell--as well as tattoos, intricate lines around Oz's wrists and ankles. Oz looked at him but kept going with the tune. He smiled his crooked smile. "Hi."

Lindsey smiled back. He felt no regret. "Good morning."

"If you want to put some clothes on, there's a family making breakfast not too far away. I told their kids stories this morning and they talked their parents into feeding us."

"How long have you been up?"

"Couple hours. Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in a long time."

Oz reached for a shirt and started to put it on. Lindsey realized that it was his, the oxford which was now almost unrecognizably wrinkled. He tossed a bundle of cloth to Lindsey; it was a thermal shirt which was probably loose-fitting on Oz but which settled with little room to spare around Lindsey's gym-built muscles.

"Good," Oz said. He watched Lindsey dress with a small, satisfied smile on his face.

The family had built a grill fire and put a frying pan on top of it. They made blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, and they handed out plastic cups of orange juice to everyone seated at their picnic table. There were two parents, fairly close in age to Lindsey, and three children, two boys and a girl, the oldest of whom was maybe eight. Oz told another story--about a girl who had been cursed to live her life as a nightingale, who could only be human for an hour every year, and how she tricked the wizard who cursed her into not only revoking the hex but accidentally placing it on himself as well. When Oz finished the story, he bowed with a flourish, and both children and parents clapped.

After breakfast, the family, whose had Kentucky license plates, went on their way--they had plans to visit family in Fort Collins--and Lindsey and Oz took out the atlas again. They traced the route east: 76 to 80, loop around Chicago. Lindsey was going to take 90 through New York State, but Oz vetoed it: "Thankless stretch of road." They decided on 80 through Pennsylvania to 81 to 88, and then 90 out of Albany. Oz would pick up 91 in Springfield, up north to Vermont, and Lindsey would continue east to Boston.

Oz looked at Lindsey in the bright late morning sun. "So I'll meet you in Omaha tonight."

And Lindsey knew he would.

The End

Copyright Tania 2003-2004
Violators will be forced to ride in the trunk.

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