Log. December 09, 2007. New York City - Central Park North.

It's a damp sort of day, which has left the park relatively void of visitors. Compared to better days, at least. Though it isn't currently dripping, low clouds hover menacingly over New York, threatening more precipitation to come. The girl leaning against a tree trunk looks like she's been there since before the rain stopped, long black leather... coat?... obscuring just about everything below her chin. She looks up at the clouds as if gauging the weather, but gives the surrounding park an oddly wary glance every now and again, perhaps to spot anyone trying to sneak up on her. Not that anyone is.

Well, most wouldn't consider Oz as the sneaky type, so there's no use for Aerin to be suspicious of him. After all, when you're close to hitting 6'5", there's no use trying to be sneaky. Someone is going to see you coming. However, Oz is sneaking up on anyone on this rather not so sunshiny day. Hands shoved into his overcoat pockets, (even for the currently halted rain the coat isn't closed) the Irishman blinks a bit of water out of his eyes as it slides down from his damp hair. Shows how long he's been outside today. Head tilting like a curious dog as she catches sight of Aerin, Oz slows to a halt as he reaches her, placing a slightly damp cigarette between his lips. "Got a light?" Of course, there is a chance that for some odd reason, Oz doesn't have a lighter, but it's doubtful.

When it becomes clear Oz is heading her way, Aerin stops watching the park so much and just keeps an eye on him. It's not that she's /suspicious/, exactly... more uneasy. For which there's any number of possible explanations. The girl raises a brow at his question, mentally reviewing her current list of handy possessions. A couple times. "Don't think so..." Finally, she shakes her head. "No, can't say I do, sorry."

Shrugging, Oz rolls the cigarette between his fingers. "Well, what can ya do?" He mutters, staring down morosely at the cancer stick. "Thanks anyway, love." Placing the cigarette back in his pocket, he turns to leave, before halting, staring down at the ground. Scarred eyebrow slowly arching, he can't help but comment. "Well... that's interestin'."

A corner of the girl's mouth pulls back in what isn't quite willing to be an amused smirk at Oz mourning the lack of light. It fades abruptly when he switches to staring at the ground, guarded and wary for just a fleeting moment before Aerin adopts a puzzled expression instead. "What?" She looks down at where her bare toes aren't quite covered by her 'coat', then back up to Oz. "Really? Why would that be?"

Well, other than the fact that something about her feet aren't quite right - Oz doesn't really look at people's feet enough to know what, so he doesn't bring that up. - he instead goes with the only reason left. considering this is the most logical reason, that's maybe a good thing. "'s the middle of bloody December, and you ain't got shoes on. That /don't/ strike ya as odd?"

Aerin looks down at her toes, and shrugs. The reason he comes up with seems to settle her a bit, but she's still annoyed at herself for giving him the opportunity to notice anything. It's probably fairly apparent, that mood. "I suppose it is," the teen admits. "I just don't really think about it." It's the usual state of affairs for her.

"...Alright." Leaving it at that - Perhaps it's because he has two sisters, one of them pregnant, and his girlfriend is slowly training him, but Oz is now wary of all annoyed females, regardless of age. - Oz shrugs again. "If you ain't lost a toe to frostbite yet, don't guess you're gonna in the long run. Ain't my place to care anyhow." Perhaps that wasn't the best way to have worded that sentence.

The sky's overcast, and while not raining right this minute, it did earlier and probably will do so again. Soon, too. Leaning against a tree, Aerin eyeballs Oz when he gives up easy. But she seems okay with it. "Probably not," she agrees. She falls quiet for a bit, considering him from the corner of her eye. "Kinda raises the question of why you asked to start with, though," the teen points out, now more curious than on edge.

A fit of coughing erupts from a nearby cluster of bushes closeby - its small evergreen limbs taking on subtle lives of their own as something shifts its weight beneath them. Jamie quiets himself down quickly enough, holding his breath somewhat in the hopes that he might not draw any attention to himself. Sure.. he was listening in.. but only because he was here to begin with..

Being taller than most, Oz has always had a problem with judging people's ages since he usually towers over people older than him. Add in the fact that Aerin doesn't look all that old anyway, and you get, "You're what, fifteen? Think anyone would be wonderin' why ya didn't - " Ending suddenly with the coughing fit from nearby, the clone curiously peers at the bushes, eyes narrowing slightly. "'s that just me, or did ya notice that too?"

At the fit of coughing, Aerin spins to face the bushes, stepping away from them and the tree she'd been leaning against. Her ears, miss something like that? ...Not so much. Her coat doesn't seem to move quite with her - nothing really obvious, as she's only tense and thinking about if she'll need to bolt rather than actually preparing to, but the (additional) oddity's there. "Eighteen," the girl corrects automatically. "And, yeah." Think she just might've noticed.

Jamie feels his stomach tighten as he tries to hold his breath - his throat tightening around itself. A small grunt comes from the bushes under which he is hiding as he fights down another cough - shivering in on himself and pulling the blanket he has wrapped around himself a bit closer in.. Shit.

Bouncebouncebouncebounce/bounce/. This bouncing, for once, is not Jackson; his small white ferret comes skittering helter-skelter down the path, straight past Oz and Aerin. Where Squishy is, though, Jackson is never far behind, and the skinny teen scurries after the overexcited creature, black-and-red striped scarf fluttering behind him as he runs to catch her. "/Squishy/ I swear if you don't come back I will /eat you/." Not, perhaps, a very frightening threat from the vegan boy, but the ferret does come to a stop, tumbling off the path to frolic happily in a patch of mud at the edge of the grass, damp white fur quickly becoming stained brown. Jackson skids to a halt beside her, and only then does he look up at the /humans/ standing nearby. "Am I late I hope I'm not late nobody's gonna eat /me/ are they oh hey it's you how are you healing?" His words tumble out without noticeable pause, or without much indication as to which part of his speech is directed to whom.

Mouth opening to answer Aerin, Oz doesn't get a chance to answer as he watches the ferret and the ferret owner rush past. Well, this day is just getting odder and odder, isn't it? Girl with no shoes, mysteriously shaking and coughing shrubbery, and a boy who can make CareBears cry. With a ferret. All he needs is a herring and he can cut this tree down. Blinking for a moment, the still wet Irishman decides to deal with first things first. "I'll get back to ya in a moment, lad." He answers, though the fact that he can correctly talk might say how his tongue is. Walking over to the bushes, Oz reaches a many ringed finger into the bushes, pushing the branches aside. "Hi. Who the fuck are you?"

The white streak that darts past distracts Aerin from Jamie, and she can't help but snicker at Jackson. The presence of someone /familiar/ also helps. Although the need to interpret his questions causes the teen to pause, looking from Jax to Oz and back. "I don't think you're late; you're the second one here," Aerin says after a moment. "And..." Healing? At this late date? "...I don't think you mean me," she concludes, giving Oz - or his back, as the case might be - a curious glance.

Jamie shrinks back from the sound of branches moving. Hidden beneath his dampened blanket - or at least the top half of him - he can't very well see Oz.. but he knows who the man is talking to.. His muddy, jean-clad legs turn inward in the direction of his stomach. Not here. Go away. Nobody's here. He chokes on his own cough, inevitably falling into another fit - forced to bring both of his hands to cup over his mouth.

"Oh /good/," Jackson replies, beaming as he crouches to scoop his muddy, bedraggled ferret into his arm (she quickly turns the front of his jacket fairly muddy as well), "cuz I totally had put down 'get eaten' in my day planner for tomorrow an' I wouldn't want t'get ahead of things." He straightens, and with one free hand brushes dampened blue hair back from his forehead. "How're you doing? Do you know Mr. Oz? Have you met Squishy? Is there someone /in/ the bushes? They aren't dying, are they?" This time, at least, he does pause between sentences. But only slightly.

"Well, there's someone here. Dunno if they're dyin' or not. And don't call me Mr." Oz dryly answers, before kneeling, reaching under the bushes to grab onto Jamie and pull him out. Considering Oz could lift a fire truck or three, it isn't too much of an issue for him. "Again, who the fuck are you, kid?"

Aerin grins at Jackson. "Who's going to eat you tomorrow?" She looks over at Oz and Jamie, while replying to his rapid-fire questions. "Reasonably well; cold, but that's nothing new." Not at her body weight. "No, I don't; yes, I have; yes, there is; and no, I don't /think/ so." Watching Oz pull Jamie out, the girl frowns faintly, studying Jamie.

Jamie stumbles out, flailing about some as he continues to cough. His blanket is kicked away after falling from around him and getting a bit tangled in his legs. Shabby and ill-groomed, the boyish looking young man stumbles back and falls onto his back after being pulled free from his hiding place. He might reply if he could just stop coughing, pounding a fist against his chest as he glares up at the man who grabbed him with angry, wide blue eyes. "Fuck y-y-y-youu," he manages to growl out, nostrils flaring and bunching up as he reaches to snatch up his blanket from the wet ground, his tired form visibly shivering.

"Pterodactyls," Jackson responds earnestly. "They've been hungry lately. Do you want my jacket? I ain't that cold." Jamie's expletive catches his attention, and pierced eyebrows knit together as his attention turns to the man. "You shouldn't curse, sir," he says sternly. "And /you/ look like you could use a good jacket, too. That cough don't sound so good." At this he fidgets slightly; he has only one coat to offer, and it /is/ cold. "D'you want my sweatshirt?" he offers uncertainly.

Rolling his eyes, Oz keeps his grip on Jamie as he stands, helping the kid steady himself on his feet. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Maybe if Oz were a nicer person - or maybe if the jacket he was wearing wasn't his only jacket, and he just about had it worn in - he might have gave his duster to Jamie. As it were, Oz is not a nicer person, so Jamie doesn't get an offer. However, another scathing remark is cut off before it can be said, by a ringing coming from somewhere within Oz's pockets. Apparently, someone managed to convince Oz out of his technophobia, if not a small bit. Digging the phone out, he doesn't answer it, only looking at the number. "Oh, bloody hell." Not really giving any information to who called him and what it meant, Oz instead casts Jamie another annoyed look - He does not like being eavesdropped on, purposely or not. - he sends a wave Jackson and Aerin's way, before briskly walking off. Bye, or whatever.

Log. December 15, 2007. West 46th: Sunset's Apartment.

The apartment is somewhat plain, though for now, Sunset manages to make it work. Soft gray carpeting covers the floor in all the rooms but the kitchen and bathroom, the walls a normal white, though random photographs of places or people Sunset knows hang in places. A somewhat dingy couch and armchair takes up space in the living room, along with a coffee table and end table, both having seen better days. There's no TV, but a good stereo on a stand takes it's place, a few stacks of CDs surrounding it. the shelves of the stand are filled with books, or somewhat witchy knick-knacks. Next to the stand, is a tall, 6 shelved bookshelf, nearly filled to the brim with books, and also holding knickknacks and collectibles.

The kitchen has worn tile floor, but the counters, cabinets, and appliances are all clean, if not somewhat outdated. Opening the fridge can find a supply of bottled water, milk, somewhat questionable chinese/mexican/greek/italian/etc. take-out, and perhaps the occasional cooking ingredient.

In the bedroom, there's a full size bed, with nightstands on either side of the bed. The bed is covered by a dark blue heavy blaket, with white sheets underneath, and white pillowcases over the pillows. One door leads to a medium sized closet, while another leads to a normally decorated bathroom, though there is oddly no makeup in sight for it being a female's apartment.

One thing about giving out keys to your apartment, is to expect people to come over during emergencies. Like, when they run out of Doritos, or need to borrow a take out menu, or run out of beer. While it's usually Angelika coming over when Sunset isn't around for the first two, Oz is currently over for the last. Even if the redhead is pregnant, she still apparently knows her 'siblings' better than they do, and prepares for 'emergencies' such as this. Opening the fridge, the Irishman kneels behind the door, peering into the cold abyss. Lessee... Take out, take out, cereal, milk... If he didn't know better, he'd say /he/ lived here.

Someone who certainly /doesn't/ live here, is the person approaching the apartment's front door. Zachery appears his usual scruffy self, tiredly rubbing his face. Even though he's been walking around in the cold for a couple of hours - and his hands and face feel positively /freezing/ to match - he looks like he might have just woken up. Too much sleep will do that to a person. "... Keys are overrated." He mumbles quietly to himself, casually leaning against the doorpost as he knocks. "Voooodoo lady?" It's an affectionate term, really. Maybe. A little bit. Probably.

Looking over the fridge door as the knock sounds, Oz stands - /Still/ without a beer. Sad. - closing the door behind him as he moves for the front door. Who does the beatnik know that would /knock/? Not bothering with the peephole - Pff, what does he care about being safe? He can lift a friggin' fire truck. - Oz instead opens the door, eyes narrowing slightly. "...Who the bloody fuck are you?"

Zachery's eyes narrow likewise, though he soon composes himself and pulls away from the frame to straighten himself. Don't remember? Haven't we met, with this host? ... Splendid. The bodysnatcher fights to keep a smirk off of his face, looking as though he meant to stroll right into the apartment, rather expect answers. "... A friend of Sunset's." He answers, faking his best generic American accent. Or lack of an accent, if you wish. And with years of practice, he really /does/ sound like he could have been born and raised just around the corner. Oz is stared at inquisitively. What are /you/ doing here, then?

Arms crossing over his chest, Oz leans again the doorframe, doing his best to look intimidating. Not that he really has to try, what with the... tall and muscle thing he has going. "Well, she's not here." So go away so he can get back to finding beer. "But I'll tell her ya stopped by..." Whatever your name is.

Zachery can't help but look slightly nervous, despite efforts to look less so. Ahem. "I don't... think so." He replies, matter-of-factly. "I don't really like leaving messages. Where's she off to?"

"No bloody clue." Oz answers truthfully. She was gone when he got her. "And don't gotta leave a message. I'll just tell her ya stopped by." No, he is not going to invite you in without good reason.

Zachery sighs, slapping a hand over his own face as he thinks, slumping a bit. "Uungh. Well," He goes back to his usual accent, and when the hand slides off of his face and he looks up to Oz's, his expression is decidedly stuck on annoyed. Arr. "Just tell her thanks for the bottle, and I'll be disappearing for a while." Which, he figures, at least Oz would be happy about.

Eyes narrowing into slits, Oz doesn't move from his position against the door frame, though it perhaps seems like he's grown a bit in bulk in the last few milliseconds. Oh, the aura of sheer annoyance and anger. "One question. Ya wanna tell me what the bloody hell someone like ya is doin' visitin' my sister?"

Zachery opens his mouth, still looking disgruntled, before closing it again. After a bit of thinking, he answers, "I would really like to say 'Because we /love eachother/' in jest, but I'd probably regret that joke." Then, quickly, he adds, "I'm just trying to be polite. Grateful." And it sounds like he's regretting it already.

That better be in jest, considering Zach would never past the brother test. Really, if he were anywhere other than Sunset's place, Zachery would have been beaten up by now, but even when the redhead isn't present, Oz still fears her... And who can blame him, really? Eyes unnarrowing a smaaaaall bit, Oz looks disgruntled by the fact that he can't beat up the bodysnatcher, answering. "I'll tell her you stopped by."

Zachery smirks, humorlessly. Yeah. Right. He appears to momentarily search for a response, but then simply gives up and turns around. He can't think of anything that wouldn't result in Oz wanting to beat him up even more, and he's not about to risk that. "Good bye, Oz." Mentalhisss.

Mentalhisss back. Not bothering with his own goodbye, Oz shuts the door, turning back to head for the fridge again. Now where's that beer...

Log. December 21st, 2007. The Bronx: North Central Bronx Hospital.

Evening has set and for the most part the hallways are clear of visitors. Visiting hours as a whole are pretty much done with but for the first floor area closest to the ER it's still as bustling as ever. Security have been exhausted in maintaining the privacy of the patients but have formed some semblance of a victory in that the most blatantly obvious reporters have been kicked out. The others, have the sense not to get kicked out so they can come again and try tommorrow. It's probably because of this that Oz feels it safe to come into the cafeteria. Avoiding the coffee, and the food all together - He'll stop somewhere on the way home, thank you. - he sits at one of the tables near the doors, chair leaning on it's two back legs, feet resting on the table. Dressed in leather pants, and a black, well fitting t-shirt, a barbell in one eyebrow, the other scarred,and the usual amount of earring in his ears, his duster resting on the table beside his feet. While most people might have to struggle with keeping the chair balanced like he is, Oz makes it seem easy, eyeliner ringed eyes closed, an air of relaxation, confidence, and oddly, gracefulness about him, though a slight tension in his shoulders almost ruins the effect.

Whether evening has set in in this world is not as obvious for this one Bridget as she still puzzled to why she found herself back in the hospital dressed in her paramedic attire. Finding it quite odd being that she quit she managed to locate of all things, her street clothes in the locker area of the hospital. Well, at least she was in the main base for Emergency Response. Having switched her gear for the more familiar riding gear, she was somewhat uncomfortable due to the slight tightness of it against her MAv2PE. Silly Bridget, apparently she grabbed the wrong size exterior outfit. She pats her attire, frowning as her identification seemed to be missing. But no fear! Her emergency money and motorcycle key is still in the street clothes! Yay! First things first... Food. With that she heads towards the cafeteria, barely missing a familiar looking blonde entering the locker room a couple minutes later to a less than happy sight.

One eye opening as he feels the air current change as the door opens more than hearing the door open, Oz opens the other as he spots Bridget reentering the cafeteria. "Figured you'da gone home by now."

The former medic looks over to Oz, frowning in confusion as she walks across the somewhat barren cafeteria, avoiding the puddle of coffee that rest near Oz's table, "This is going to seem unlike me, Oz but... I seem to have forgotten something." She shakes her head looking concerned, plopping herself down across from Oz. "That alone is freaking me out..."

An eyebrow raising, Oz looks... well, confused. "Uh... You're worried cause you forgot somethin'?" He repeats, making sure he got that right. "/Everyone/ forgets things. Unless it was something important, like directions to a ransom drop off or somethin', don't see what the big deal is."

Bridget's jaw drops slightly at Oz's somewhat unthought out response, "In case /you/ forgot," She murmurs, voice kept rather low, "I shouldn't be able to forget things. Much less something so simple as why the hell we're even here in the hospital, why I found myself in my old uniform, or how my street clothes ended up in the locker."

"Uh..." Okaaaaay. "I'm here 'cause me drummer was kidnapped by a psychopath and I went in and rescued him 'fore he got killed. S'all over the bloody papers, not to mention we /talked/ about it about ten minutes ago. /You're/ here 'cause you /work/ here." head tilting back some, Oz peers warily at Bridget. "Maybe you should be here anyway if ya already forgot that. And /why/ aren't ya supposed to be able to forget things since everyone does and you're a part of everyone?"

"Because that's my ability," Bridget hisses, "Like your 'super strength' is yours." The irritated look fades away as she processes the rest of what Oz said, "Wait... Rich got kidnapped? When? How? Was it Rine again?" She pauses, looking to Oz's face... In particular the eyebrow. "When did you...?"

Eyes narrowing, Oz looks more than wary, now viewing Bridget with suspicion. "How do you know about that?" He asks, voice deathly serious and quiet. "And who the bleedin' hell is Rich?"

"Considering how much we sparr together and you can hold your own against the MA v2 PE suit, and you flat out /telling/ me, of course I'm going to know about that," Bridget replies, voice still low, "And how can you not know who your drummer is if you're here after rescuing him? And when the hell did you get a new peircing?!"

"Okay, you're off your bloody nut." Oz replies after a long pause of simply staring at Bridget in a mix of high annoyance and confusion. "I only met ya ten bloody minute ago, ya mentallin' bird! My drummer's name is /Mike/ and I've had this piercin' for half a bloody year. Any other insanity ya wanna ask me before I leave?" Taking his feet off the table, his chair going back to all fours, the singer stares at Bridget, waiting to see what /else/ she's going to babble.

Bridget blinks, "Oz. If this is a joke you're playing on me, it's not funny. But fine.... if you're going to act like this...what if I told you something about yourself I seriously doubt you told the public?"

Giving a snort, Oz leans back in his seat, arms crossing. "Had the bloody tabloids followin' me 'round God knows how long. The things they don't know, I sure as hell know you don't know."

"Very well, I apologize for bringing this up but you leave me no choice," Bridget leans closer to Oz, tilting her head to whisper in Oz's ear. "You killed dad." She tilts her head up, stepping back, "Justified in my opinion but still not something you share with them. Now can you quit making fun of me ?"

Jerking back, Oz does not look relieved, or enlightened. Instead, he just looks more annoyed and more confused. "Who the bloody fuck are you confusing me with!?"

"No one!" Bridget snaps, "I'm not confusing you for anyone. You are one Oz Delaney. Well, second edition if you want to get technical. Oz, you're not helping... quit playing with me here. You're freaking me out and you of all people should know I don't need to be freaked out with all the other crap I've gone through this past year."

"...How many times I gotta say it!? Only known ya for ten goddamn minutes!" What the fuck is it with him and crazies lately?

Bridget's eyes widen, "Oz, you're going too far. I'm ... really close to ignoring what I promised Sunset. Frankly I'd think she'd consider me justified. What happened to you Oz? You have your temper but... this is just too much. It's like a nig-." Bridget pauses, realization on her face, "... Emma."

Scowling, Oz's eyes narrow, before he growls. "Gettin' really sick of you mentioning people like I should know 'em."

Bridget doesn't reply to Oz as she starts glancing around the cafeteria suspiciously, "That goddammed... LISTEN YOU DAMN TELEPATH! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HEAD!"

Not really expecting that, and already on edge with the conversation anyhow, Oz jerks back in surprise as the shout wtih such force that the chair topples over, him going with it. Quickly righting himself, Oz keeps the table between himself and Bridget. "What the /fuck/ is your problem!?"

"What the hell is my problem?" Bridget repeats, giving a slight laugh, "My /problem/ is in the form of one bitchy telepath who apparently likes to screw with the minds of those who don't like to kiss up to her." She gets up from her seat, a somewhat challenging sneer on her face as she glances around the fortunately empty cafeteria, "What's the matter, Frost? The blatant physical torture not enough anymore that you have to make alternate reality dreams to plop me in?! There's no way my Oz would be so much an a-... well... Ok you had the personality down but you screwed up on a LOT of things!"

Spluttering, it takes Oz a moment to focus on just /one/ thing in that rant. "/Your/ Oz?"

Bridget turns around looking to Oz, "Not /you/. Hell, why am I even /talking/ to the fake Oz? You're nothing more than the concoction of a PMSing mutant with mind manipulation techniques. All I have to do now is just wait to wake up."

He's reallllly tired of this. "Well, gee golly!" Oz sneers, obviously having reached his limit for this... WTF-ery. "Let me help you with that, then!"

Sure, whatever," Bridget murmurs. Glancing over to the opening Cafeteria door to see a rather confused blonde enter in. Door closing after her. "Frost's pulling out all the stops I see. Hello fake Bridget!"

"My riding gear!"

Really, /really/ tired of this. Glancing between the two Bridgets, the Irishman gives an annoyed sigh, before leaning across the table, raising a hand to soundly flick Bridget in the forehead. "Wake up." Or just... get knocked out by that, for some odd reason.

"Hmm?" Thunk! To the ground Bridget goes.

'Fake' Bridget glances down to the fallen Bridget and then up to Oz, "...Shape changing mutant?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Had to deal with too many damn crazies in the last week, and I was tired of dealin' with her." Oz answers, sounding less than happy as he slips on his duster. "M'gettin' outta here before she wakes up and starts babblin' again." Stepping around the unconscious Bridget as he heads for the door, he gives one last warning before leaving the cafeteria. "Watch out for that one. Bloody insane, she is." And goodbye, cafeteria.

Fake Bridget glances around, seeing nothing but the faint image of someone on the floor turning to nothing, "Oz!"

****************************

Eyes open and the blonde head shoots up "GAH!"

Jerking back to keep from being headbutted, having been leaning over the blonde trying, and obviously succeeding to wake her up, Oz peers at Bridget with a smidgen of worry. "You alright?"

Blinking, Bridget turns her head to look to Oz and then around the room. Alright, own apartment... good. "Quick, today's date, who is your drummer, and anyone you know in the hospital right now?"

"Er... December 21st, Rich Malone, and not that I know of... /Why/?"

"...Nothing. Bad dream."

Log. December 25, 2007. West 46th: Bridget's Apartment.

Christmas evening. The gifts have been delivered, the food has been eaten, and the guests have headed to their respective homes with the exception of two. One of them busies herself at the dishwasher, moving her head back as she opens the door slowly, allowing for the hot steam of the just finished dish washing cycle to escape.

Well, not /all/ gifts have been delivered. Oz has one more to give, at least, and part of him is hoping there's at least one more for him. Though, even if there isn't, who is he to complain about what he does have? Watching Bridget from his position at the entrance to the kitchen, the Irishman moves behind Bridget after a moment, arms wrapping around her waist, and chin going to rest on top of her head. "I got any more presents?" He asks, managing to sound like a little boy on Christmas morning, in tone, at least.

The former medic smirks, allowing the air conditioning of the apartment to counteract the steaming glasses and plates that lay below. Yes. There is no way she's touching those hot dishes right now. "Considering how many fights you've gotten into this year, shouldn't you be happy that Santa didn't give you coal?"

Pffft. "For mosta those, I was defendin' my /honor/, thanks much. Woulda been wronger to /not/ fight." Yeah. /That's/ what it was. "...S'that a no?" Pout.

Bridget reaches over to the counter, grabbing a clean dishtowel and flinging it over her shoulder, covering Oz's face with fabric. "Help me put up the dishes you goof."

Grinning despite himself, Oz shakes the dishtowel off, reaching over to grab a few glasses off the top rack. Placing the glasses in one hand down so he can successfully open the cabinet door, he turns around to look at Bridget. "Actually, speakin' of presents..."

Bridget slides the upper rack of dishes into the washer to expose a large platter, lifting it up, "Oz, could you put this in the bottom cabinet? Use the door on the opposite side of the island, that's where it goes."

Okay, never mind. He'll just get to the presents thing later, then. Leaving the glasses where they are, and taking the platter, Oz disappears behind the island... only to pop up a moment, later, eyeing the cereal advertisement wrapped box. "Yanno, dependin' on how awesome of a present this ends up, I might not even give ya your last one, since your choice in wrapping paper don't fill me with Christmas joy." Moving next to Bridget again as he begins to viciously, and somewhat childishly, tear off the wrapping paper with one hand, Oz sets the gift down as it's fully unwrapped. Staring at it as if he's about to drop to his knees, bow down, and worship the bottle of alcohol in all of it's glory, he instead turns to Bridget, pushes her against the counter, and proceeds to kiss her silly. There's a good chance he really, /really/ likes his present.

Bridget surpresses a laugh at Oz's reaction, waiting 'til the shower of affection dies down before speaking. "You know Oz, if you don't like it we could always exchange it..."

"The hell we will." He growls back, pressing his lips to hers one last time. "Well, if anythin', this makes me less nervous 'bout your last gift." Oz murmurs, suddenly slightly nervous and fidgety. "Go look in your nightstand."

Bridget archs an eyebrow. "Alright." With a turn, Bridget heads into her bedroom, peeking into the drawer. Upon spotting the small box, she gives a slight sigh of relief. As she reaches in to pull the box out to examine it's contents. A Claddagh Ring. Pulling it from it's box, she studies it curiously.

Yes, that is an actual sapphire. Yes, those are diamonds. Yes, it is white gold. Who says Oz doesn't know fancy? Having followed Bridget to peek in at her reaction, the nervous tension around Oz only seems to heighten at the supposed lack of reaction. "Figured you might know the meanins of all the ways to wear it, but if ya don't..."

"One way for marriage, one for engagement, and one for dating, right?"

"And one for being single and looking for a relationship, or single and not looking for a relationship." Wow, he actually knows something she doesn't. Moving behind her again, Oz slips the ring onto Bridget's ring finger on her right hand, facing the heart towards her. "This way means you're dating and committed to someone."

Well it's more that Bridget's citing the original meaning and not the altered one. Bridget glances to the ring, "It's lovely."

Leaning down to rest his cheek against her shoulder, nuzzling her neck slightly, Oz gives a small smile. "'ll admit, expected you to react more like I did a minute ago." He answers.

"I blame all those times of playing politics with supervillains. You learn not to be overly expressive."

"Couldn't play politics if I wanted too, and I ain't crazy or smart enough to be a bad guy. Feel free to go 'squee.'"

Bridget grins. Squee.