Title: Haemothermia
	Author: Dolores
	Email: dolores_l@hotmail.com
	Summary: We all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun.
	Rating: R or thereabouts.
	Disclaimer: Alas, they all belong to Joss who wasn't nice and didn't make 
	them all gay.
	Notes: Stupendously late, this is my Angel/Oz ficathon fic for Moosesal, who 
	has been extremely patient and I do sincerely apologise to her for my 
	tardiness. She wanted the Gem of Amara and humour but no romance. The 
	combination of all three seemed impossible to write at first but I did my 
	best.  The summary is courtesy of John Lennon. Thank you to Kate and Gloss 
	for their encouragement, whether they realised they were giving it or not.
	


i. Ectothermic

The only place Angel ever truly felt warm was the bathtub.

He'd been in there for nearly an hour; the water had completed its slow 
decline from scalding hot to barely tepid. The raw, pink scars that marked 
where hot pokers had skewered him still throbbed, sharp pain turned dull. 
They'd healed quickly though, quicker than they should have.

Quicker than he deserved.

It was probably the Gem's fault. It was still on his finger, tarnished 
silver and dark stone. Cordelia had already remarked that it looked like 
costume jewellery from a bad B-movie, and she was right.

The water sloshed over the side when he got out, and shards of glass from 
shattered cologne bottles vanished into the liquid, waiting like crocodiles 
to catch the unwary.

His entire apartment was a catastrophe, strewn with the detritus Spike had 
created in his futile search for the bauble currently adorning his finger. 
He stepped gingerly onto safe parts of the floor, grabbed a towel, and 
exited the bathroom in search of clean clothes.

Angel reached the lounge, towelling down his chest.

He froze when he realised he had company. The damp towel hung limply at his 
torso, protecting his modesty, but only just.

Lounging, appropriately, on the sofa, Oz was gazing idly at a patch of the 
wall a few feet to Angel's left, head turned politely away from the 
near-naked Angel, but not in such a way that Angel wasn't still well within 
his field of vision. If Angel didn't know better - and he wasn't sure he did 
- he might have thought Oz was trying to stare without making it seem that 
way.

"Hey."

Water dripped from Angel's hair and trickled down his back. He felt very 
cold.

"Uh. Hey."

"Feel better?"

"Not really." He felt weak, even if he no longer had open wounds. He needed 
some blood.

"Understandable."

Angel wrapped the towel around himself in an awkward manner that attempted 
to maintain some dignity, but didn't really manage it. "Um. I just need to 
find some clothes."

"Sure."

Angel turned, and he thought he could feel Oz watch him go.

When he returned Oz was trying to tidy up, gathering books that had been 
scattered on the floor and putting them back on their shelves.

"You don't have to do that," Angel said, in black shirt and pants and 
feeling more himself.

Oz ignored him and carried on tidying. "You need anything?"

"I need to eat."

They walked through to the kitchen; when Angel pushed open the door Oz 
immediately recoiled, faced twisted in discomfort. Angel's own nostrils 
burned. Inside, pig's blood congealed on every surface, blackened and 
rancid. A quick search proved that all of the jars Angel kept in his fridge 
had been destroyed, but then that wasn't any great surprise.

Angel closed the door and returned to the lounge, where Oz sat, bowed, 
taking deep breaths, face tinged green.

"You ok?"

Oz ran a hand through his hair. "I could kinda smell all that through here. 
But that close... not really too cool."

"Sorry."

Oz glanced up at him, and made a tiny move with his shoulders that might 
have been a shrug.

Angel waited a couple of seconds then asked, "Oz, you've already done much 
more than you need to - but could you drive me to the abattoir? I'm going to 
need to get some more supplies."

"I would, but I can't. Doyle took the van to some guy he knows who can fix 
it up cheap. The bumper got pretty smashed up driving into that warehouse."

"Sorry."

"All in a good cause."

"Didn't you want to go with him?"

"Couldn't; apparently his friend's not so keen on werewolves. Why I'm here. 
And, I figured you might want some company, what with having just been 
horribly tortured and all."

Angel sat down, perched on the arm of a chair, feeling a little 
light-headed. Oz was looking less green, more pink. It made him think of 
blood and he grimaced.

"Or maybe not."

Angel shook his head a little, partly in answer, partly to clear it.

"Besides, my only other option was to go to a pool party with Cordelia and 
Devon. Not so much my style."

Brows furrowed. "A pool party?"

"Yeah. Devon's sorta screwing this A&R guy, and he's having a barbeque 
thing. Industry guys, so Cordelia wanted to go so she could network. Kept 
going on about how Courtney Cox was in this Bruce Springsteen video once."

"Devon's gay?" Angel was faintly surprised, but then he'd never been good a 
picking those things up. Took him fifteen years to figure Spike out.

"I don't get this. He wears sparkly clothing and never actually sleeps with 
any of the girls he dates. Why am I the only one to work it out?"

"That's all it took for you?"

Oz smiled a faint, thin smile that was a conversation all of its own.

The silence lasted for a few minutes after that, and Angel moved from the 
chair arm to the chair proper, in dark contemplation of the day, the ring, 
and some shameful thoughts about Oz.

"I could open a vein if it'd help."

Angel's head snapped up. "What?"

"If you need to drink. Be just like blood donation."

"Oz…"

Just then, the clatter of the lift signalled someone was coming in to the 
apartment. Over the mechanics, someone was singing "Molly Malone" rather out 
of tune. Doyle.

"Well, the offer stands."

"I think I owe you enough."

"It'll pay itself back. Karma. Instant or otherwise."

Karma. He thought of the ring. That was instant karma; at least, it looked 
like it. But had he done anything to deserve it? He hadn't even taken Spike 
out of action.

So, probably not.

Angel got up to greet Doyle, and he felt Oz's stare at his back again.



ii. Endothermic

The only place Oz ever truly felt cold was Los Angeles.

Even Tibet, regularly doused in snow and scoured by winds so bitter you had 
to hide under half a ton of yak fur to prevent frostbite, didn't make him 
feel like this.

He reflected he was feeling melodramatic and that Los Angeles was probably 
getting the brunt of it. He was feeling very tense and that often led to 
Meryl Streep moments. Dingoes ate my baby and no mistake.

For a long time Oz had coped with being solitary. He'd sought solitude, 
actually; tried to be away from people. In keeping with the highly ironic 
path his life was taking, he'd reached the point where he wanted to be with 
friends but, thanks to the military-industrial complex, he was being kept 
apart. Sunnydale was suddenly out of bounds.

So he'd come to LA because, aside from a remote monastery several thousand 
miles away, the only non-Sunnydale friends he had were there. But the 
building they'd last occupied was a pile of rubble, and no sign of Angel, 
Cordelia or Doyle remained, save for the faint trace of expensive perfume 
and pig's blood lingering over the debris.

Nobody had ever said he gave up easily. Which, admittedly, wasn’t to say it 
wasn't true sometimes. But he had nothing better to do, so he might as well 
have a look for them. A mystery to be solved, or something.



Drive around LA for long enough and you saw most things the world had to 
offer. Or at least, it seemed that way.

Find a man shuffling along the sidewalk in a tattered raincoat and hat 
arranged in such a way that most of his features are obscured, and determine 
his scent is not human, then you got yourself a demon. And $20 and a bit of 
persuasion and you're told exactly where most of the demons go to find a bit 
of sanctuary from the human world.

Get there, and, somewhat against expectation, you find it's exactly the sort 
of bar Devon kept taking you to every time you came to LA.

Oz surveyed the gaudy colours and multi-limbed customers, but saw no-one 
that resembled Angel, Cordelia or Doyle. He was about to leave when a tall, 
bright green demon sashayed up to him, clutching a cocktail.

"How can I assist you, my small, lupine friend?"

Funny how some people just knew.

"I'm looking for a guy."

The demon sighed. "Oh, aren't we all?"

"A vampire, actually."

The cocktail was waved emphatically in Oz's face. "Honey, I know young 
Bradley looked good in "Interview", but trust me: it's less homoerotic than 
you'd think. Well, mostly."

"No; I've met this one already. Kinda tall, wears black, sorta manic 
depressive. Got a soul."

"Ah! You mean Captain Morose!"

"Sounds like the one."

"Well, I don't know him per se – but he comes in here on occasion to meet 
with the odd patron or two. Alas, never myself."

"So you don't know where I'd find him?"

"If I knew that, I'd be there with a bunch of carnations and a copy of 
Beaches. But you may be in luck, sweetie. Inasmuch as he seems to have 
friends at all that demon over there would be the one – so I guess he might 
be of some help." One emerald finger extended in the direction of a shifty 
looking demon crouched over a beer.

"Thanks," Oz said, and made for the table.

"Pleasure!" the demon called after him, then swayed off across the bar.

This second demon, apparently named Merle, told Oz just to wait – Angel was 
expected in the very near future because Merle had some information he 
wanted to sell. Which was kinda lucky, but then maybe it was some karma for 
the electro-shock sessions.

Angel was predictably concise in his dealings with Merle, and seemed rather 
pleased to encounter Oz – partly because it seems he could do with some back 
up on his next job. He swept out of the bar with Oz trailing in his wake, 
quietly amused that it seemingly hadn't occurred to Angel in his avenging 
zeal to actually ask if Oz wanted to do a Robin.

But he figured that so long as he didn't have to wear pantyhose he might as 
well tag along.

A mission briefing in the van revealed that Cordelia was visiting her 
mother, who'd moved to Bakersfield since the divorce and now lived in a fog 
of benzodiazepines and Marlboro Lights, and hadn't even seemed particularly 
bothered when Cordelia took a 'funny turn' and had to phone her boss in LA 
with some urgent news.

Doyle, it turned out, was dead but they had acquired the assistance of 
Wesley, now somewhat less of a stuffed shirt than when last encountered in 
Sunnydale. He was at home recovering from a nasty concussion from the job 
before, and so Angel was saving the world on his own. Or at least, he had 
been.

Oz reflected that the mission briefing hadn't actually briefed him on the 
mission, but he was willing to play it by ear.

"So what are you doing in LA? A gig?"

"Looking for some company, actually."

"You can't get that in Sunnydale?"

"Not any more," Oz said, and quickly brought Angel up to date with the last 
few months, although he glossed over Willow's new romance. After all, he 
figured that was something for Willow to share when she wanted to.

Angel just nodded, gave Oz directions, and didn't ask any questions. Which 
was how Oz preferred it.

They reached a warehouse down by the docks, and Angel muttered something 
about how bad things always seemed to happen down there. It was late, but 
various workers still moved about loading and unloading and paying yet 
another van no attention.

"Park here," Angel said of one building, indistinguishable from the rest 
apart from the number 487 painted in white on the side.

It wasn't hard to get inside, and they soon found their quarry – three guys 
in suits standing around a cage. Inside, a creature that appeared to be half 
moose and half vicious dinosaur stalked around and growled threateningly.

>From their vantage point in the shadows, Oz hefted his crossbow and 
whispered, "I bet that hasn't gone through customs."

"Actually, it's not coming into the States – they're sending it out."

"Where?"

Angel produced a machete from inside his coat. "Someone in New Zealand has a 
grudge, let's say."

The plan was simple. Angel would rush the guards and put them out of action 
and Oz would shoot the beast with a poisoned dart. Once it was down, off 
came the head and all would be well.

It worked for the most part – they were human guards and once one was 
knocked unconscious and the other had a broken leg, the third fled and Oz 
was able to shoot. Unfortunately, the poison took time to work and the 
creature, enraged with pain and probably kinda pissed off it'd been locked 
up in the first place, managed to bust out of its prison.

By the time it did collapse, Angel's shirt was in ribbons and claw marks 
scored across his chest. Oz was on the deck, a little winded and probably 
with a bruised ass, but otherwise unhurt. Angel performed the decapitation 
and then they made for the exit.

"It’s not that I don't want you to visit," Angel said, "but I seem to go 
through a lot of shirts when you do." He was stripping it off in the back of 
the van, Oz having driven them a few blocks away for safety. Oz was 
scrabbling around for his first aid kit. He found it and began to clean 
Angel's wounds with some antiseptic wipes, kneeling behind Angel to face the 
broad, smooth back and interesting tattoo.

It was the first time he'd ever got to touch Angel and it was kind of like 
touching a snake. You thought he'd be cold and clammy but instead he was dry 
and kinda cool and it was quite nice. He figured his fingertips must seem 
really hot by comparison. He could ask.

"Am I hot?"

Angel's head snapped round. "What?"

"My hands, I mean. Do they feel hot? Having warm blood and all that," Oz 
clarified, and laid a palm of Angel's shoulder.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so."

Oz carried on cleaning, taking his time and not moving his other hand from 
Angel's shoulder.

"Thanks," Angel said after a moment. "You were key. Again."

"No problems. It was actually kinda fun. I needed a bit of fun."

Angel was quiet.

"I've done your back. Turn round."

Angel did so, and suddenly reached up to grip Oz's jaw. "Just some fun?"

Oz smiled a thin smile. "Yeah."

"One good turn deserves another, right?"

They moved closer still. "It's karma."

Angel's skin felt even nicer against Oz's lips than it did his fingers. Lips 
against lips was something heavenly.

Later, when they were naked and straining against each other on the 
threadbare carpet of the van, Oz found that he enjoyed it when someone else 
took the lead. It had always been him before, even with Devon, who was 
surprisingly timid when it came to sex. Angel was take-charge though, 
perhaps the more so because he didn't do this very often. Oz was quite 
willing to be taken charge of, at least for tonight.

Because they both knew that would be all it was.

Oz stayed for a few days in the end, but the first night in the van was 
never repeated. Wesley got better and Cordelia came back from Bakersfield 
and it was comfortable for a while. Oz got a glimpse into a new life where 
he was part of Angel Investigations and he was tempted to stay.

He'd been rejected in Sunnydale and he could find acceptance in LA. Instant 
karma, or so it seemed.

But then he also knew it wasn't right for him. His path was taking him 
somewhere else. Which is not to say it wouldn't bring him back to LA at some 
point, but just now, it led away.

"I'm pretty much the Littlest Hobo," he explained to Angel from the window 
of the van, who looked nonplussed at the comment, standing in the grey light 
just before dawn.

"It's been good to have you here," Angel offered. "Always is."

"It's appreciated."

"Anytime you need some company..."

Oz nodded. "I know where you are. Or where I can find you."

And as he drove off he knew Angel's stare followed him away.