quick and/or dirty

minervacat wanted a little Oz-distraction. I think this is the Oz of It's Like Jazz.

He remembers hurrying home from Giles' place, lonely and sad, cold with secrets, sneakers slap-slapping on the sidewalk as he rushed from one streetlight's bright circle to the next. Sunnydale was always either dark or bright.

Never in between.

This flat's filled with the familiar -- same turntable and brown speakers, writing desk that used to be next to the kitchen, books he knows by their spines, brass Buddha still squatting on the table next to the sofa -- in new arrangements. Same but - not. Not at all. He curls up in the same overstuffed horsehide armchair by the window. It used to look out over the garden; now it looks out over a crowded street, crooked, old buildings jostling each other, their bricks darkening and blurring in the rain. The light here is watery and silvery, never intense, shades of gray lifting and drifting in their own tidal rhythms.

He sips his tea from the spare an animal - eat a carrot mug he left at Giles' place right before Jordy bit him. Weird and lovely that cheap porcelain endured separation and a few transatlantic moves, that Giles kept it at all, that steam gathers over his face, warms it, that there's no leaving any longer.

That he's home.


Unconventional drabbles for open_on_sunday:
Dream Kill (Oz/Tara during 'Restless', PG)
Spin the Bottle (S/X, R)
Soul Kiss (A/S, NC-17)