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1. Home Repair
Come home, try to make amends and start again, and what happens? Zombies crash your party. That's her life, right there, and she's right back in the game.
The next morning, Buffy oversleeps, but it's not like there's anything to do on a Sunday when you're a runaway and high school dropout.
Not that she says anything like that.
Mom's doing the careful-speaking, *everything's all right, perfectly fine, don't worry* thing. It's sweet and incredibly annoying all at the same time. Buffy's torn between wanting to hug her and slap her back to normal. She just pushes the button on the juicer harder, faster, throb-throb-throb while Mom checks the waffle iron.
"Never a dull moment with you," Mom says when the food's on the table and the doorbell starts ringing. She smiles, though, as Buffy gets up to answer the door.
"You wouldn't have it any other way," Buffy says over her shoulder, halfway into the hall, and that's a good thing because talk about awkward moments.
Xander and Oz are standing there on the stoop, each carrying a tackle box. Tool box, maybe. Grinning at her and they really are Mutt and Jeff, opposite sizes but dressed like every guy everywhere, t-shirts and pants that are way too big.
"Guys?" she asks when they keep smiling. Everyone's so *polite* since she got back. Polite until they go nuts and start yelling at you, anyway.
"Harris and Osbourne, cleaners and fixer-uppers, at your service," Xander says as Oz coughs into his hand. "Or Osbourne and Associates. We're in negotiations."
"Hi," Oz says. "Came to --"
Xander goes up on his toes to peer over her shoulder. He sniffs the air. "Waffles?"
Buffy steps back from the door. "Good timing. Come on in."
"*Ex*cellent," Xander says, clocking Oz's elbow with his tool box as he hurries inside. "Morning, Mrs. Summers!"
Oz is still loitering outside, box at his feet, rubbing his elbow. He's eyeing her a little, and she's getting a little sick of this, of everyone checking her out, seeing if she's still herself.
"Hungry?" Buffy asks.
Oz blinks and maybe she was just imagining the hairy eyeball. Knowing Oz, he probably barely noticed she was gone. "Could nosh, yeah."
"C'mon, then."
In the kitchen, Xander's doing his very best Eddie Haskell, chatting up her mom -- "sorry about your friend going all zombie like that" and "excellent waffles, like air with super-crispiness around it" -- and there are only two left for Buffy. One, actually, since Oz is here.
Still, good-tasting carbs and plenty of syrup and Buffy can just sit and eat, not watch other people eating and hope they remember to leave her more than a nickel as tip. Things could be a lot worse.
Mom's in hog heaven, mixing up more batter and accepting the compliments flying her way fast and furious. She *lives* for this, being den-mother and happy homemaker, and she keeps smiling at Buffy, almost gratefully. Even Oz is a little more talkative than she remembers.
"So we're here to do the manly thing and fix broken stuff and patch together other broken stuff and maybe also grab a broom and help sweep up broken stuff," Xander says, in a single breath, with his mouth full of waffle, and it's like a hellmouth gift that he can make himself at all clear.
"Also, eat waffles," Oz notes, stabbing at the corner of his.
Xander says hastily, "Not that we planned on that. More like a pleasant surprise."
"Yeah. We took it in stride."
"Striding right through carbloading, yes, sir," Xander says. Sitting back, he rubs his stomach and grins at Buffy. "Missed us, didn'tja?"
"Horribly," she says and taps the edge of the empty platter of waffles. "Hungrily, even."
Eyebrow tilting up, Oz pushes his plate, complete with half a waffle, toward her.
"Thanks, Oz."
"Any time," he says, and it's hard to hear him over Xander clattering all the dishes into the sink.
"Xander, we do have a dishwasher," Mom says, touching him lightly on the shoulder.
"Oh-*ho*," he says loudly. "Now that's the life, living in the space age, machines to do your regular daily chores."
Oz's mouth curls up a little and Buffy smiles back. Xander's wordage is something she never thought she'd miss, this torrent of *noise* that's distracting and enthusiastic and half-crazed all at the same time.
"You really here to fix things?" she asks when the table's cleared and Mom's taking Xander into the living room to show him the smashed mantel.
"That's the idea," Oz says, crouching over his tool box.
"Never figured you for the fix-it type," Buffy says, watching Oz select the pointy thing that goes on the end of the drill.
He shrugs and tests the drill. It sounds like the dentist's now and she shivers. "Pick up some skills when you do theater. Sets and stuff."
"You do *theater*?"
Glancing up, he blinks rapidly and she never noticed just how weirdly *green* his eyes are, green and blue and everything in between.
"Guys and Dolls last spring," he says. "Godspell coming up."
"*Musical* theater?"
"Chorus, that's all." He looks around the trashed living room as he straightens up; his pants are loose and for a second, she can see the twist of muscle over his little hipbone. Buffy shivers again and tells herself sternly not to ogle Willow's boyfriend. Who is a werewolf. Into musical theater. Who, anyway, she's seen *all* of a couple times, but this is different. Little hints of skin and body do way more to her than a totally naked person. Right, no ogling. "Where do I start?"
"Anywhere, I guess," Buffy says. The room's so unrecognizable, she's not even sure they can do much to help. "I'll get the broom."
With three people working -- she sends Mom out to the gallery, because she deserves a rest and this mess is, really, Buffy's fault more than anyone else's -- the clean-up goes much faster and smoother than she thought it would. Xander turns on the radio, the volume all the way up, and Oz grimaces and changes the station, and Buffy sweeps while the guys argue about screwdrivers and wood glue.
Xander's surprising her with his skill with his hands. She tries to tell him that when he turns the armchair back up and tests the repaired leg.
"Got a lot of experience, my hands and me." He grins and pushes his hair out of his eyes and waggles his brows. "Like the song says, slow touch. I need a lover with a --"
"Eww, *Xander* --" She tosses her dustrag at him and he ducks, tackling the armchair and breaking it again.
"Now, now, kids," Oz says, helping Xander up.
She hasn't really been able to look at Oz since she ogled him. She makes herself look now, at the long muscles in his skinny arm, hauling Xander up and brushing him off. "Sorry, Dad. Won't happen again."
Oz ducks his head and turns away. "Almost done, you think?"
"Think so," Buffy says. "Unless Xander breaks something else."
Flinging his arms out, Xander shakes his head; his face is going red and if he keeps flailing, he's going to knock a picture off the wall. "Not my fault! Attacked by a slayer, I had to flee and damn the consequences."
Oz is over by the front window, one knee up on the couch. Over his shoulder, he says, "Good to be back."
"You didn't go anywhere," Buffy says.
His waist twists like a ribbon as he turns and collapses on the couch. His hairline's dark with sweat and there's a smudge of dust under his right eye that makes him look like the dog on the Little Rascals. "Same difference."
That's such a weird thing to say that Buffy forgets about it almost immediately. They finish cleaning up and Oz and Xander dispute whose hammer is whose and then they're gone; she showers and goes out to the Pump to buy Willow as many mochas as it will take to be friends again.
It's not until much later that night, when she's lying in bed and pretending to sleep -- she hasn't really slept, not the good kind for a whole night, since Ms. Calendar's funeral -- that she remembers what Oz said.
It still doesn't make sense, except that he did notice she was gone. Noticed and got affected by it. Not that *that* makes much sense at all.
2. The Tree
It's one thing to have a boyfriend no one knows about, something else entirely to be harboring a fugitive. Not that she knows what kind of fugitive Angel is--from a hell dimension? How do you run away from hell? And if you manage to do that, isn't that a *good* thing? Something to be proud of?--but this is more than a usual secret.
This is the kind of thing she promised herself she wouldn't do any more. Not unless she really had to, and finding your supposedly dead boyfriend growling like an animal, she figures, is one of those cases of *have* to.
Like slaying, like going to school and making her mom not worry, this is just one of those things.
Even if she's really tired and these late-*late* nights are starting to get to her.
Buffy zips her sweatshirt up to her neck and makes herself walk faster. For a hellmouth town, Sunnydale really could use adequate lighting on the side streets; she's been walking alone in the dark for a good ten minutes now with only the light from houses and cars to go by.
"You okay?"
"Oz?"
Oz is walking next to her, falling into step, his hands buried in his jacket pockets.
"One and the same. You okay?"
"Never better," she says. Oz never repeats himself; for him, this counts as insistent. She's coming up on the intersection with Crawford, so she slows down and knocks him with her elbow. "What're you doing?"
"Vittles run."
"What?"
"Munchies," he says and scratches his jaw. Past midnight, so his stubble's breaking out and his nails rasp over his skin. "Short straw."
He talks like a telegram. Buffy nods and glances over her shoulder. She brought blood over before patrol tonight; Angel can wait. "You --?"
"Need nourishment and sustenance," Oz says. "Three squares aren't enough."
Like a telegram from Jack Kerouac, really. Nodding, Buffy says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
When he frowns, Oz's face folds up and he looks like a newborn baby. Or a very old man; it's six, half-dozen. "Figured new Slayer around, you're just home. Checking in."
Stab in the dark: "And that gave you the munchies?"
"Huh? Oh, no. Devon gave me the munchies. You're a --" His palm circles in front of her like she's being waxed on, waxed off. "Whole separate. Entity."
He sounds dreamy. Vaguer than usual -- Oz is quiet, but usually *sharp* -- but also happier. "Oz, are you *high*?"
Nodding, smiling, Oz sucks in a breath and squints at her. "Pretty much."
*Does Willow know?* Buffy wants to ask, but she can answer that herself. Probably not. Probably definitely not. Willow's still giddy over the glossy new categories of *boyfriend* and *band member*. Stoner would be way too much.
"It's not safe out here --" she starts to say.
He nods. Patiently. Of course he knows, and he's little, but she's seen Oz fighting. Forget the werewolfness; the guy's fierce when he has to be.
The leaves' shadows are doing funny things over Oz's face, shifting through various harlequin masks. Buffy shakes her head when she realizes she's zoning out.
"Feel good?" she finally asks. Oz seems content just to stand here on the corner of Crawford and Jenkinson, smiling goofily and scuffing one toe in the cracks of the sidewalk, but Buffy figures she should try talking.
"Yes, thank you," Oz says. Weird and polite. Kind of sweet. The shadows move again and now he looks like he's wearing a balaclava.
Buffy laughs -- she can't help it. At the idea of Oz as an urban terrorist, nudging Patty Hearst with his submachine. At his words, sweet, polite, so *deliberate* he could be speaking another language. At the whole situation: her, caught sneaking over her supposed-to-be-dead boyfriend's, him, ambling high as a kite over the *hellmouth*.
"Funny?" Oz asks. "Comma what's so?"
"You, me --" Buffy circles her hand fast. "All of it."
Oz's head tilts to the side. "Nice smile," he says, then steps back and hefts himself up onto the low brick wall. His legs swing in and out of the dark, arrhythmically, invisible, visible. "Haven't seen much of it."
At first, she thinks he's making a crack about her running away. Then she thinks it might a general jab at her crankiness. Then, finally, she's just not sure. Oz is looking at her. Peering. His legs still swing like a little kid's, kicking at the air.
Now that he's up there and she's still here, she realizes they're the same height.
She must have known that already. It's different now, somehow. Strange, though, to learn something not from the outside -- from a book or Giles -- but from inside.
How much else, she wonders, does her body know?
"Haven't answered the question," Oz says, peeling a twig off the tree over his head and rolling it between his palms.
"Hmm?" God, she might as well be the stoned one here, standing like a lost kid and asking weirdo questions.
"You okay. Was the question." Oz pulls one leg up to his chest; wrapping his arms around it, he plants his cheek on his knee and just keeps *watching* her.
This is why Buffy's never talked very much to Oz. He's quiet and smart and watchful and it makes her strangely nervous. Like she's about to get caught doing something.
Not that she's doing anything.
Except hiding Angel.
And, okay, Angel was quiet and stalkery, but that's not quite like Oz. Just kind of.
"No," she says slowly, testing out how that sounds. "I'm not. But -- it's not a big deal."
If she's lucky, he's stoned enough that he won't remember what she said five minutes from now, let alone next morning.
She hopes so, anyway.
Oz spreads out his arms. For half a second, he looks like a Sunday School play of the crucifixion, bony and little and his hair sticking every which way, but now he's reaching up, grabbing a branch and pulling away, upward.
"Oz?"
He flips over, hanging down, and smiles. Upside down, it's a little scribble over his face, illegible and loopy. "Buffy?"
"What are you --. Forget it."
"Climbing," Oz says. His hand drops down out of the dark, like a bird. "C'mon up."
She hasn't climbed a tree since -- in a long time. Somehow, though, she remembers how. Reach and feel, pull herself, push hard from her toes, and pretty soon she's perched in the fork of two branches, facing Oz. He's farther out on the thinner branch, straddling it and leaning forward, his hands wrapped around the branch.
"So," he says. "You're not okay."
She shouldn't have said anything. The way he keeps circling back to different topics -- it's like time's moving differently for him, too, in spirals rather than straight ahead. The funny thing is, Buffy can't be sure if that's because of the pot or just the (sort of) normal state of Oz.
"I'm fine," she says.
Oz bounces experimentally, carefully, on the branch before he looks off to the side. "New Slayer. Got to be freaky."
"Yes. That -- freaky just about covers Faith."
"How's your mom?"
"What?"
"Your mom." He runs his hand through his hair and the tips of the spikes catch the light from somewhere; for a second, he looks like a junior mad scientist. When Buffy smiles at him, Oz's eyes widen and he smiles back. "Joyce?"
"What's she have to do with Faith?"
Oz rubs his cheek against his shoulder. The gesture reminds her of a slo-mo shrug that turns into a thoughtful massage. "I don't know. What does your mom have to do with Faith?"
Talking to someone when he's stoned is an exercise in futility. She should have remembered that; this is like playing Twenty Questions with a mynah bird. "I should get going."
"Okay." Oz sounds sad, almost, but that has to be her imagination. He's just a happy little stoned werewolf in a tree and he's going to forget her as soon as she's gone. Besides, it's not like she can tell emotion from all of two syllables.
Oz doesn't get sad. He has two settings, Xander said once, quiet and really quiet. Even Willow agreed with that. Emotion doesn't quite figure into it.
"Take care," Buffy says. She shouldn't leave him alone. She knows he can take care of himself, and it's not like he's on PCP or something.
"You smell different." He still sounds sad, but curious now, too.
"Sorry?"
Oz scoots forward down the branch until he's within reach. His face, sharp white planes and dark pooling shadows, moves back and forth. It's not like his nostrils are flaring or anything, but she's being sniffed, and Buffy wants to shove him away.
But she's also kind of captivated, watching him do this totally not *human* thing, so she curls her hand in her lap and waits it out.
"Yeah," he says, pulling back a little. "Different. Like you used to."
*Angel*. Oh, crap. "That doesn't make any sense," she says quietly. "And can I just say, *gross*?"
"Sure it does. Different, like before." Oz reaches over and points at her, describing the shape of her head and shoulders with his finger. He bites his nails; she never noticed that before, not underneath the polish. What's a guy like Oz have to be tense about? "It's interesting."
"I should get going," Buffy says. She just wants to get home. Or see Angel. Be somewhere, *anywhere* else, where things are familiar and make sense.
"Don't worry. Won't tell anybody."
That must be relief, the feeling she suddenly has of a breeze passing out of her. She shakes the hair back out of her eyes and nods patiently. Just play the nice pre-K teacher, she tells herself, and humor the little pothead. "Thanks."
"Mostly on account of the gross factor," Oz says. "But on principle, too."
She's not sure what he means, and then it makes a rough kind of sense. He won't tell because people don't like to hear about the wolf senses; she gets that. Faith's been bugging her about what slaying feels like and even with her, with someone who knows, Buffy can't quite admit how damn *good* it feels.
"Thanks," she says again and looks down at the sidewalk. "I really should get going."
Nodding, Oz leans back until he's reclining on the branch, perfectly balanced. "Okay."
"Be careful up here," she says.
"You, too," he says as she grabs a higher branch and turns herself around, then starts shimmying downward. "Down there. Take care."
Twigs in her hair, sticky sap on her scraped palms, and there's a reason she stopped climbing trees. The ground's hard and smooth under her; when she glances back over her shoulder, she sees Oz's dangling, swinging feet. Nothing else, just two battered dark-green Pumas, small enough *she* could probably wear them.
3. Field Trip
After Spike comes and wreaks his obnoxious havoc and leaves again, the group of friends shrinks back to its original size. She sees Oz around, but not much and only the back of his head or the shine of wallet chain.
It's weird, how people can disappear like that. One day, he was here, then the next morning, Cordelia was in the hospital and Oz was gone. It felt like he'd *always* been there, even though it hadn't been quite a year since he started dating Willow.
Maybe it's not that he's gone so much as Willow's still here. Buffy *needs* Willow around, but she's smaller now these days without her Oz-attachment.
She doesn't think of any of this until one Saturday afternoon in the library when Giles says something. Something like "And how's young Oz holding up?" or "What's Oz up to?" and she has to admit that she doesn't know.
"Not sure," she says to Giles, twisting his office chair back and forth until he frowns at her to stop. "Probably okay."
He tips up his chin, then looks at her over the top of his glasses. Buffy scrubs her palms up and down her legs.
"It sucks, though," she says. "Can't fix it. Nothing to do about it. Not a hellmouth kind of weird."
Humming through closed lips, Giles turns the page in his newspaper.
"What?" she asks. "Not like it's a full moon and he's playing hookey on the cage."
"Hmm? No," he says and his eyes tick over to his desk calendar to check. "No, simply curious."
He's so weird. Like her mom sometimes, overly concerned about little social stuff that Buffy's surprised they even notice.
"I'm sure he's fine," Giles says and creases his paper, folding it up so just the crossword puzzle shows. Being a Watcher's a pretty good gig, Buffy thinks. Hang around doing word games and stuff. Nice job if you can get it. "And Faith?"
"What am I, keeper of the slayer's zoo?"
His glasses slip down his nose as Giles glances at her and smiles. "Yes, Buffy. Did I neglect to inform you?"
"Well, I'm not."
"Oh," Giles says and his tone's different. "Oh, *my* --"
He's bent over the paper and flapping it open, pointing at a muddy picture right above the crossword puzzle.
"What?" Buffy's got the feeling he's about to give her something to do.
"A new acquisition at the museum," Giles murmurs without looking up. "I'm not sure I like this --"
"New stuff sucks," Buffy says. "Long live dust and mold?"
Just as she suspected, Giles wants her to go check it out. He thinks the press release in the Sunnydale Shopper is hiding something, and maybe he's right. Buffy's grabbing her purse and jacket from the circulation counter when the library door bangs open and there's Faith. Back from walkabout and a little tanned.
"What're you doing here?" Buffy asks.
"Nice to see you, too." Faith shakes her head, grinning, then claps her on the shoulder. "You know I've got the thirst for -- Giles."
"God, Faith. You promised no more leching after --"
Behind her, Giles coughs. What is it with the guys around her and their sneakiness? Bless Xander and his big clompy feet. "Hey, look what I found, Giles."
"You might take Faith to the museum with you."
Buffy asks, "Do I have to?" at the same time that Faith snorts and says, "Does she have to?"
Giles leans an arm on the counter and raises his eyebrow. "No, of course not. I was just settling in for some artifact cataloging, if you'd like to join me."
"Hot as you are, G., think I'm going on the fieldtrip."
The museum's even more boring than it was when Ampata dropped by. Lots of screaming kids and incomprehensible steel sculptures that look like the Jolly Green Giant dropped his cutlery.
Nothing old, noting scary, nothing even more remotely interesting. So as they meander around the place, Buffy fills Faith in on their own personal soap opera: Willow and Xander, Cordy in the hospital, Oz vanished.
"Didn't think the little red mouse had it in her," Faith says, whistling low and long. "Two guys? *Her*?"
"Hey," Buffy says and she's about to protest. She *should* protest, since Willow's her best friend and defending her comes with the territory, but Faith just straddles an old colonial urn and narrows her eyes at her. Daring her to do the defense thing. "Yeah, it's pretty amazing, actually."
"Magic involved?"
"No!" Now she is indignant. And Faith's laughing at her. Wonderful.
"No magic, two guys, one wanna-be witch. This town's just full of surprises."
"Something like that," Buffy says and can't help wondering at the weirdness of it all. Because, yes, Willow is her best friend and wonderful and sweet and really funny, but she's not exactly the temptress of suburbia. "I don't know what happened. Everything seemed so --"
"Normal?" The twist Faith gives to the words matches her quicksilver sneer and Buffy's not sure whether she should protest some more or just agree. Faith's got this *way* of backing her into corners, making the choices impossible and unlikely.
"They're all pretty stupid, basically."
Laughing so loud the walls boom, Faith slides off the urn and strides away. "You said it, not me."
"You know what I meant." Buffy hurries to catch up with her, and then Faith takes a right and they're back in the lobby.
"Sure I did," Faith says and leans over to tie her shoe. She looks up at Buffy and grins. "Everyone's stupid. Kind of reliable that way."
"No, I mean --"
Straightening up, Faith knocks Buffy with her elbow and pulls her close. She smells like sweat, clean and sharp, and her breath is hot on Buffy's cheek. Buffy holds her breath, waiting, then exhales when all Faith says is, "So the wolfboy's available?"
She pushes Faith away. Gross. "Far as I know, yes. Ew, though. Big old eww."
She's never really thought of Oz as a *guy*. Xander is more of a guy than Oz, and that's kind of saying something. Oz is...thing is, she can't remember any pressing *not* to consider him a guy, but he just isn't.
This is all Faith's fault. "C'mon, Summers," she's saying. "You must've thought about it. Strong little monster boy. Those teeth. Good hands. Right up your alley, your type."
"I don't have a type."
Faith snorts. "Everyone's got a type. Hell, I've got four. Or seven."
If she has a type, Buffy thinks, then he's up in the mansion waiting out the day. And he's *not* her type, he can't be, not anymore. So that leaves jerks like Scott and Billy Ford, and she really hopes she's over guys like that.
"Think about it," Faith says and squeezes her around the waist again. She's so *touchy*, all hands like her mom says, and Buffy tries to repress a shudder. "I'm gonna get going. Let G. know this place is boring and lame, will you?"
And with that, she's gone. Buffy goes outside, slowly, and stands on the front steps to the museum, wondering what to do now. Thanks to Faith, she's got entirely bizarre and unwelcome images of Oz, naked and growling, in the back of her head, and one of Willow doing something X-rated with both Xander and Oz, and there really ought to be bleach for the imagination.
Why's Faith have to make everything so *sexual*? From slaying to -- well, to sex, and friendship, and everything in between. It must be nice inside Faith's head, where everything's porno, all the time, and there's no break. Nice or crazy; either way, it's got to be better than this, where Buffy's just kind of shivering and wondering what to do next.
She's kind of mad at Xander and Willow and she can't tell anyone that. Who would she tell, anyway? They're her best friends. She can't talk to Giles about things like this -- he'd make her go make peace or something stupid -- or to her mom, who'd just cluck her tongue and ask her about applying early decision to Mills.
But they were stupid, and even if Faith's right and people are just normal that way in their stupidity, she's feeling pretty pissy with them. Annoying as Cordy is, strange as Oz is, they were all supposed to be friends. And some things are more important than who you want to kiss.
Not that she's listened to her own advice -- Buffy can admit that, even if it's only to herself -- but it's *true*.
"Custard?"
"*What*?" Buffy whirls and there on the next step is Oz, holding out a dripping cake cone of frozen custard.
"Can't finish it," he says and shrugs. His hair's blonder than it was last time she saw him, though maybe that's just his black hoodie, and he pushes the cone forward. "Have some. Really good. Tangy."
He's right. It *is* good, smoother than ice cream and tangier. Melts faster, too, which is how she ends up sitting on the steps and eating as fast as she can while Oz hands her napkin after napkin.
"Where've you *been*?" she asks when the cone's half gone and Oz is standing up. He can't leave, not yet; he just got here.
"Around. You?"
He's got to be joking. Or playing it cool -- he's probably playing it cool, and it's not as if Buffy can blame him for that.
"Cemeteries and school," she says, crumpling up the last napkin. "Deadly and deadlier."
Oz nods and his mouth creases into something that could be, might be, a smile. Out here in the afternoon sun, he's all blanched out and it's hard to tell what he's thinking and feeling. Harder than usual, that is. Standing up, Buffy takes a chance and touches his arm. Oz doesn't flinch, but he looks at her curiously.
"Where're you off to?" she asks.
His shoulders square out as Oz takes a breath. "Kind of a funny story, actually. Looking for the planetarium. Know it used to be around here somewhere."
"Hard to lose a planetarium."
"That's what I was thinking, yeah. But it's nowhere. No signs, nothing."
At least now she has something to do. Weird and random as it is, Buffy prefers this to nothing. She links her arm through Oz's and starts down the steps. "We'll find it."
*
The planetarium, it seems, is gone, remodelled into a kids' center for fun and education. Everything's bright yellow in here and built low; mobiles of happy ants and grasshoppers hang from the ceiling and twirl lazily. The main theater where, Oz tells her, they used to show all the stars, is showing an unending filmstrip about the water cycle, rain to river to ocean to cloud and back to rain.
Kids are running around and whooping and Buffy hasn't unlinked her arm from his. She's not sure why, but it's like if she lets go too soon, Oz might evaporate like the ocean and vanish all over again.
They're not talking about anything important. No names come up, not Angel or Willow, just titles of songs and the names of the few constellations that, between them, they can remember.
"Why'd you want to come here?" she asks.
When Oz blinks, the light from the screen catches the tips of his lashes and makes them glow orange. "Acoustics. Thought it might be a good place to practice."
"You don't have your guitar."
"No," he says. "Not yet."
Buffy tilts her head back and tries to make out the old patterns of the sky overhead. There's nothing over her but the stream of light coming from the projector, pushing forward, dust spinning inside. But she's comfortable like this, Oz's arm warm against her, and her eyelids droop.
Next to her, his seat creaks and then her cheek is warm from his breath. Buffy turns her head to face him and they're kissing.
Just like that, easy as custard, his lips warm and a little chapped against hers, his arm snaking around her waist. For a split-second she thinks of Faith, how this is just like her but turned inside out, not creepy but gentle, not threatening but almost pleading.
Then she *really* thinks, and pulls back a little.
"This revenge?" she whispers.
Oz's eyes close and he shakes his head slowly, twice. "No."
"Because from here, it looks like it could be revenge." It would make sense and if she wasn't the girl being kissed, Buffy could almost understand what he's doing. Sad and confused and cheated on, he might want to make himself feel better.
Oz purses his lips and opens his eyes. Looking at her, they're dark and wet, the surfaces shining. "Don't work like that."
She should pull away, disengage, make this be over. But his hand's pressing against her back, fingertips circling, and the aftereffects of the kiss, warm and wide, are throbbing faintly across her mouth. "How *do* you work, Oz?"
"Good question."
He doesn't say anything else, but she can see him pulling back into himself. Slowly, like a carapace -- she likes that word, they learned it out in the Hall of Bugs -- is creeping over him, shielding him and hardening him.
"Okay," Buffy says slowly. "Why, then?"
"Why what?"
She doesn't know what to make of him. She's *trying* -- and the effort itself should tell her something -- but she can't make Oz make sense.
They're whispering like they're in church. It's very strange, considering how dark and noisy it is in here. She can't tell if he's playing dumb or actually doesn't know what she's asking.
Then she realizes that it doesn't matter. Not really -- sure, why he kissed her matters in the big picture, in the whole long-term, best friend's boyfriend and Slayer-scale of things -- because kisses aren't things you *explain*.
Some things you know, some things you just do.
Buffy kisses him again. Oz leans back, like he's startled, but then his hand tightens on her shirt and he kisses back, his lips parting and chin rasping against hers and his tongue presses soft and warm against her lips, teeth, then her tongue, and this feels *good*. So good, all warmth and strangeness, and his hair under her hand is surprisingly soft, his scalp superheated, and he kisses like he's trying to tell her something.
She's shivering again, but not from confusion or chill, just from the vibrations of Oz's mouth on hers, the little murmurs he makes into her mouth and tugs on her hair and tickles up her backbone.
When he kisses her ear and shushes her, tells her it's all right, he's lying and telling the truth all at the same time.
She'll kiss him and enjoy it -- she's already there, kissing some more, sucking the tip of his tongue against her teeth and nipping down to make him shake -- and then they'll regret it. Pull apart and not look each other in the eye and things will go back to the way they should be.
He'll be with Willow and she'll be The Celibate Slayer and it won't feel half as good, but it will be much better.
Later.
4. Snowballs
She never would have thought being so happy could make her feels so tired. Maybe it's just the cold -- but she's used to the cold, or she used to be. Ice on her toes, the tip of her nose gone slightly burning and numb, it all reminded her of early mornings at the rink. Running figures until she wasn't *thinking* any more. Just moving, drawing her blades, shifting her weight, moving across the ice, cocking her wrists just so.
She didn't get *that* feeling back until after she'd been called. The first time. in the Ventura Jewish cemetery, that she flipped backward, then sprang up and drove the stake home. Merrick actually *applauded*, then covered it up with a fake cough and rapid dusting-off.
She hadn't done it for him. Even skating wasn't for an audience, not at the heart of it. She'd done it, like skating, because it felt *right*. Because that was where her body wanted to go and how it wanted to move.
So, no. It's not the cold that's making her feel so tired right now. Walking beside Angel, the snow still falling, she's *happy*. And that should be a warm thing, love and hugs and cocoa. Angel's kissing her, his mouth colder than usual, and brushing the snow off her hair, kissing the end of her nose.
She wants, all of a sudden, to lean against him, sleep and get warm and forget the entire day.
She almost lost him.
He doesn't exactly look her in the eye when he says goodbye. Hands on her neck, he kisses her forehead and tells her to get some sleep.
"Going to check on Will," she says. "Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. Sleep like --"
"Me," Angel says and kisses her again.
In front of her, he's so *big*, filling up her field of vision, and the sight is comforting and exhausting all at once.
Sometimes, everything's too big. Not often, but sometimes, she tips a little. Inside herself, like gravity's tilting very slightly.
She's just tired.
One more stop, slipping and sliding down the sidewalk, and after this she can go rest.
The Rosenbergs' house is nice and quiet and Willow hugs her hard. "Snow! Falling from the sky!"
"Snow," Buffy says, shaking off her coat and going into Willow's room.
Oz is there, out on the balcony. He raises one hand and gives the hint of a wave before turning back around and leaning over the railing.
Buffy turns to Willow, smirking as widely as she can. "Why, Miss Rosenberg, I never --"
"We didn't do anything!"
"Right."
"We *didn't*! We talked! And talked and talked and slept. Made popcorn balls. But we didn't --"
Too easy, and pointless besides, to tease Willow too much. Buffy rubs her palms together and says, "It's okay, Will. I believe you."
She's telling the truth, but she's not sure why she feels so *relieved*.
That's *it*. She's not tired so much as emptied out with relief. Willow goes to make her some hot chocolate and Buffy sits on the corner of the bed, scrubbing the melted snow off her face, her breath coming short and fast.
None of her business what Willow and Oz do, none at all, and she's not Xander, sticking her nose into other people's relationships and going all meddling granny on them. Not much, anyway, so why's she feel so relieved about their G-rated Christmas?
And why in the world is her relief over that almost as big and overpowering as her relief over Angel not dying? It's apples and oranges, egg nog and cocoa. High school romance versus life and death.
"Hey," Oz says, coming inside, sliding the door closed behind him. He brings the smell of snow with him, bright and sharp, and when he sits next to her on the bed, she tries not to move away. "Merry, merry."
"Don't have a present for you," Buffy says, fingercombing her wet hair off her face. Oz looks tired, a little hollow-eyed, but happy. His cheeks are red as Valentine's cards and he's smiling.
"Yeah, haven't done my shopping either."
It shouldn't be this easy to talk to him. A couple weeks ago, she was *kissing* him and enjoying it. Now they're lying next to each other on Willow's bed, talking and not-talking, and it feels...okay. Not at all wiggy.
"Angel okay?" Oz asks and she sits up. He can smell Angel on her, and she might be able to handle everything else, but *that's* just a little much.
"Hot chocolate!" Willow calls, backing into the room, holding a tray. "And cookies! They're gluten-free, but they don't taste horrible. Just a little dry, but that's what the hot chocolate's for, right? Dunk and dunk some more and we should be okay."
When Willow talks, everything feels right. Good and bright and if this was a cartoon, there would be little bluebirds flying in circles and chirping happily. Better than hot chocolate, better than Angel not offing himself, better than kissing Oz. Buffy knows she could do the celibate, unloved slaying bit for *decades* if Willow was always around, talking a mile a minute and squeezing her hand and nodding just like this.
Oz is still lying on his back, mug balanced on his skinny chest, occasionally contributing to the chatter, but mostly smiling to himself.
Buffy tells Willow about her fight with Angel, about the visions and guilt, and realizes, mid-story, that she can tell Willow *anything*. Almost anything, anyway, and that's more than she can say about anybody she's ever known. Willow's eyes widen and she asks question after question and *bounces* so hard that Oz's hot chocolate spills when Buffy gets to the part about the snow starting to fall.
"Long dark Christmas of the soul," Oz comments as he strips off his shirt. He's small as anything, just ribs and skin, and here, of all places, Buffy shouldn't be looking.
"Oh, I love that book!" Willow says as she rattles through her closet and pulls out an old sweater, blue and green cables, from her jumper-and-tights days for him. It's the best-fitting thing Buffy's ever seen on him, and she's about to say something about that when a huge yawn, jaw-crackingly big, overtakes her.
"You should sleep," Willow says, patting her shoulder. "It's been a really long day for you."
"Yeah," Buffy says, but doesn't move. It's cold out there and warm in here and she's so *tired*. "Guess I should."
"I can drive you back," Oz says, offering his hand and pulling her up.
"Oz's van has *snowtires*," Willow says and kisses his cheek, like the van's their especially gifted child. Smiling, Buffy just nods.
Willow hugs her goodbye and promises to call in the morning about hitting the mall for the sales and hugs her again and if she wasn't quite so tired and relieved, Buffy would hug her back harder.
As it is, she drags herself behind Oz, down to the front door and back out into the cold. He's got his hands driven deep into his pants pockets and his head down, almost so far she wouldn't be surprised if his chin was touching his chest. At the corner, he pauses and scoops up a handful of snow, working it into a ball.
"Memento?" she asks and he shrugs.
"Something like that," he says, squinting before tossing it down the street and getting the his van's bumper right in the center. "So we've got Angel to thank for the snow, huh?"
"Guess so," she says and pulls her sleeves over her hands.
It's only then that she wonders what the rest of the town is making of the snow. When it started to fall, out on that ridge, Angel raging and her desperation drying out her throat, it was the most amazing *gift*. Cold and white and pure and that's when the relief started falling through her.
Now, though, it feels wrong. Freakish and almost disgusting, burying a whole town in ice just to help one vampire.
"You guys seem good," she says as she slides into the passenger seat.
Turning the key, adjusting the mirror, Oz just nods. "Good, yeah."
She should change the subject. She wishes they could go back, back to when things weren't so weird between them. But when is that? Back on Willow's bed? Before the planetarium? The tree? Before she ever noticed Oz as anything other than Willow's lap-accessory?
"Sorry," she says instead. For the snow, and the kiss, and whatever else he might need an apology for.
He doesn't say anything and she looks at her hands and they drive at a crawl down Main Street.
"You're pretty scary," Oz says much later, as he's pulling into her driveway. He cuts the engine and turns in his seat and Buffy makes herself look at him. "You know that?"
Buffy makes a staking motion with her hand and smiles.
"That, too," he says and leans forward, his hand on her shoulder. Cold but warming up, his fingers tickling up the back of her neck.
"Oz --"
He doesn't move his hand, but his eyes drop. Behind him, around him, she can see the front window, the lights of the tree, all her mom's decorations. It makes his damp hair look like a halo for a second.
"Merry Christmas, Buffy," he says and draws back.
Where his hand was on her neck, the patch is wet and numb now, and Buffy's moving forward, twisting, taking his hand and tilting her head and Oz lets her kiss him, then kisses her back. First, just pressure, then reciprocation, teasing, his lips sliding over hers and hand settling back on her neck.
She's not tired any more.
"Merry Christmas, Oz," she says and bites his lower lip.
Oz grins, his mouth stretching in her teeth, then gently shoves her back.
"See you in the new year," he says as she gets out and he's not smiling any more, but peering at her.
Inside, Mom greets her, hugs her hard, and it smells like turkey and egg nog and Faith's here, and Buffy takes off her coat and tries to forget about the warmth of Oz's mouth, the perfect curve his palm makes around her neck.
It was a weird day -- weird *year* -- but it's almost over now. At least it's almost over.