“So, you got me watching over you tonight. Anything I should know
about? Never baby sat a wolf before.”
Oz watches Faith smile, lips black cherry ripe, eyes hungry and
restless. He can feel the change prickle under his skin, scab picking
time, painful but satisfying.
“Not really. Just donât get too close. And if I get out...”
“What?” Faithâs glance drifts to the rifle, loaded with tranquiliser
darts, and Oz nods approval before turning away.
Something deep inside is telling him that this one would kill him if
she had to. Well, so would Giles, but heâd be sorry about it. And so
would Buffy, but only in the last resort and so ... Ozâs thoughts get
tangled for a moment, trying to picture Willow killing him. Canât do
it. Funny; knowing Faith wouldnât work hard finding alternatives to
snapping his neck doesnât make him hate her; makes him feel safer in
fact. If sheâs what stands between him and a life taken by the wolf, he
wants her to be a good defender.
“Oz?”
Her hand's on his bare arm and he shivers. The others know not to touch
him this close to the time. Xander did it once. Once. And the next full
moon, he rubbed the arm Oz hadnât bitten, hadnât,
until the skin was raw and ragged, his eyes skittering from cage to Oz,
swallowing non-existent spit from a fear-dried mouth until Oz wanted to
scream and hit him and he really didnât feel able to blame the change
for that reaction.
Faith doesnât flinch, but she lets her hand drop and steps back
carefully.
He lets the door clang shut and shakes it to make sure itâs locked,
then steps back and waits. Faith comes close, wraps slender, strong
fingers around the metal and fucking attacks it, just hammers and yanks
and wears herself out. Then she smiles, breathing harder than she
should have been, and steps back.
“Nighty-night,” she says and turns to her chair, her can of soda, her
comic, as Oz starts to strip.
But sheâs watching. Oz gets an earring stuck as he pulls off his shirt
and for a long moment his eyes are blindfolded as he curses and fiddles
and deals with it. But a T shirt isnât opaque when itâs tissue thin
from wear and he can see her head turn, eyes wandering over his chest
and down, lips pursed, and fuck she looks at him like heâs meat and his
cock hardens as he yanks his shirt off, taking the earring with it, a
minor ouch but his earâs bleeding now and he can smell it. Sends him
wild but thereâs enough of him left to channel it and his cockâs
pointing the way.
His hands go to his belt and sheâs reading again now, flipping pages
like a speed reader or an illiterate, and the blanket on the doorâs
hiding him, but it isnât because heâs pulled it down and heâs waiting
for her to notice.
And she does. Yards away but he can hear her pulse quicken, catch the
sound she makes as she watches him peel out of his jeans. Heâs not
stripping for her, not trying to turn her on. He stumbles getting a
sock off, shoves his ass back as his boxers come down, does it all just
exactly how he would have done if heâd been alone. No flex of muscle,
no sucking in of a gut he didnât have anyway, no presentation at all.
Just letting her see without sneaking. Letting her watch. Call it
payment for her time. A bonus for being able to kill him.
And she does look. At his face mostly, after that one glance down. Itâs
a refinement he wouldnât have thought her capable of and it gets him so
hard he seriously thinks about jerking off but thatâs more than he
wants to give her.
And when he starts to change and itâs then that she comes over to
watch, a bare inch out of reach, and her eyes cold and appraising,
blasé and distant, heâs glad he didnât.
Faithâs a cold bitch. Something to remember.
And a night spent watching her finger fuck her way to heaven, lips
sneering at the animal watching as she splits her legs wide, doesnât do
much to change his mind.
And Oz wonders who told her he didnât remember anything, and then
realises no one did.
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