He hadn't planned to kiss the girl. He hadn't planned to take her home. The moment took over, when he asked it to, settling into the state - that feeling of being below the horizon, under the earth.

He'd it learned with months of training, and teaching by monks who thought that everything he did was funny, absurd (he didn't take it personally, they were always like that, monks).

It was a habit now, to slip into that quiet place, where he could be himself and the wolf and not himself. Filled and empty. He pulled her down on top, but she pulled back. She was full of a mischief that Willow had never....

Don't go there.

He kissed her to clear his mind, thinking - be awake to the sensations but beneath them. The girl was part of him, he was part of her. Her long brown hair, tangled, hung over him, her hands twined in his, fingers locked. She gripped, a little pain as her nails dug in. She was over him - brown eyes met his, a momentary smile, turning wicked as she leaned to kiss him. He pushed back, and moved her - a flip, but gentle - onto her back. He liked to see her spread below him. She was not letting go of his hands, or of control.

He had to let go, but not let go. Stay in that place where it was safe.

They'd only just met, but it was not a one night stand. They'd always been here, on his bed, with the smell of cut flowers - his landlady's touch, Marie. It sometimes made the place feel like a hotel, but he didn't want to tell her that. She liked doing it.

He was wandering away, and feeling the heat like this, that was not safe. Distraction was not safe, with his defenses down.

Wolfing out on top of a naked girl, really not cool.

Don't think.

The moment, or the wolf, led his hands here, there, touching again, waiting.

He kissed her neck in a spot chosen because Willow did not like to be kissed right there - it tickled, she'd said. Not there.

Don't think.

Don't...

He felt his skin shift, and his bones crack. The girl recoiled in horror. He pulled away and she screamed.

He ran. Grabbed pants, made out the door. Running away from his own room to get away from himself - to jolt himself out of the moment that was turning bad and turning him into...

He was out in the street, and suddenly, he was back to a normal world - Rue Rivoli, midnight, drizzle, and a seriously pissed old Parisian lady glaring at his bare chest. She pulled her bag towards her.

"C'est degoutant!" she gasped, and turned back the way she came.

But he smiled. He was Oz. He took a few steps, until he was behind a newstand - closed, no one else around. He leaned against it for a few moments until he heard footsteps coming down the steps from his appartment. Heeled shoes. A girl.

His date for the evening, getting the hell out of there.

Leaving her a minute more to get out of sight, he walked back up the stairs, the wet soles of his feet keeping him grounded, and up the stairs into the warmth of his studio.

It was dark in there. He stood for a moment, looking at the bed where they'd been so busy just a few minutes before.

He clearly wasn't ready for that. Oz sighed. Thinking about your ex when you're with a new girl. Never helpful. Then he laughed. He was as absurd as the monks thought he was. But, least it wasn't fatal.