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i.
Buzz Lightyear has yet to see a day when his newly acquired company shows 100% of reasonable thinking and planning through. Sure, they’re intelligentlife forms, somewhat like him in terms of capability of feelings and thought, but they're not as professed as Buzz in survival. They don't seem to take in much, focusing on the more simple things in life. He doesn’t loathe it - he is a protector, regardless of the subjects he has to care for and their minor vices - his updated commands focus not only on his exploratory work as a space ranger, but guardianship as well.
All in all, he’s significantly better at managing in dire times and leading the distressed. Usually, that is. Usually.
‘Usually’ being quite an ironic word when Buzz by coincidence sleeps an hour or two more then usual on a Tuesday midsummer and wakes up to a gaggle of figures he's grown familiar with strangely bustling about and waffling on about water in fear. The image is not entirely unfamiliar, but he's never seen them so insistent on polishing off the slightest of dust particles from themselves and other shelves. Though his everyday companions are visible somewhere along the crowd - he can clearly see Rex sniveling at a patch of marker black being cleaned on his side - there’s no easy way to get through to them. There are clean places in which pairs of beings roll around in dry, fluffy material, however there are also new, more chaotic locations. Seemingly overnight, Andy's terrain has filled up with cups and jars, and tiny bowls, now filled with liquid and foam.
For a moment Buzz watches as more and more water seems to get out from small jars in which toys are collectivelly pulling out rags and to scrub one another. It’s not the most unpleasant activity to the eye, colorful bubbles floating over many blurring surfaces, but trying to wander in into the waters has him immediately yanked back by Bo Peep.
With one stronger pull he skidds backwards, almost slipping on a wet stain on the wooden floor before Bo fixes him upright. Her smooth pink-ish face is marred with worry and annoyance, which is entirely new to the space ranger.
“Buzz, what are you doing here?”
He blinks at her surprised, quickly righting his posture.
“Trying to see what the ruckus is about, ma'am.”
The ‘ruckus’ being, of course, the absolute chaos happening on every surface of the world Buzz is temporarily inhabiting.
“It’s laundry day. Be careful around all of the cleaning utensils.”
The ‘cleaning utensils’ mentioned, of course, were one of the least dangerous things to Buzz, but, reasonably, he hadn’t said a word to doubt Bo Peep’s certainty.
“What’s laundry day?”
“Nobody told you what laundry day is?”
Bo looks at him with barely disguised concern, distracted from the revelation by the bleating of her sheep. All three tumble into her without damaging porcelain, but their tiny expressions continue to show distress even as she leans down to their level. Whatever wordless sentences they exchange is beyond Buzz, who stands next to the group, puzzled. Still, the confusion doesn’t last long.
From another side of Andy’s room emerges RC, spinning round and round, and covering another fragment of the wooden floor in soapy water. The only thing Buzz hears is a poor, useless revving noise, simultaneously due to which Bo Peep and her sheep sigh and shift to the side.
“God, not again.”
Three things happen at once: RC has a rather safe but unbearably loud crash into another bowl of toys, Bo and her companions sigh once more and the door to Andy's opens for a stray, comet of a bar of soap, with Hamm on it, to fly over everybody's heads.
“SOAP INCOMIIIIING! EVERYBODY DUCK!”
There’s nothing graceful about his truly awful path of destruction leading from the entrance to the darkness under Andy’s bed. The space ranger can barely make out Hamm’s round-shaped figure, legs flailing around uselessly as he can’t get off his back due to the slickness of the surface caused by water.
“Ask Woody,” Buzz momentarily wilts at the name, but Bo’s already set herself off into motion, running towards the scene of the crash. “Help is on the way dear!”
With the quickly fading image of Bo Peep’s back and sheep, Buzz leaves on his own to search for the previously mentioned bane of his existence.
He finds him along the edge of one of Andy’s shelves, sorting the tissues and pieces of cloth apart, putting them apart neatly into clean and unusable piles.
“Sherrif.” Buzz greets evenly.
“Space ranger.” Woody turns to him after sorting out one more rag and picking up his notepad.
“Must be a crazy day even for you experienced lot, huh?” He offers the comment a little sarcastically, obviously unhappy at having his task interrupted. This particular time, Buzz ignores it.
“What’s laundry day exactly?”
The cowboy somehow restrains himself from erupting into side-splitting laughter at the basicness of the question.
“Andy’s mom washes his clothes every week or so, but every three weeks, approximately, she also picks some of us to clean and take into the washing machine.”
“What is that?”
“The washing machine?” Buzz’s confusion this time around makes Woody let out a stifled snort, hiding half of his lower face to regain some composure. "It’s this large, rectangular, white thing with a metal celiner that fills up with water and soap and starts rolling around with whatevers inside it at command.”
The space ranger nods after a moment, visualizing the torture device with clarity, temporarily trusting Woody’s words. If it weren’t true, surely the rest of Andy’s would have been calm since morning like any other day.
“I see. The fear makes sense now. It sounds devilish.”
For all that the data really, really doesn’t make any logical sense — seriously, soapy water is a threat he needs to exercise caution with? — it’s good to know the dangers he may encounter in the future. It’s halfway understandable, to a certain point Buzz can’t pin point, until something else comes up, causing his whole understanding of the way things are to change.
“But that's not all there is to it, is it?”
He leans into Woody’s space, trying to use his bulk to seem a little more intimidating, insistent; to no one’s surprise, his attempt at adding pressure fails completely.
The sherrif’s expression shifts minutely, leaning into an amused, pitying smile, reminding Buzz of how little his own character and position mean to the other. To worsen the situation more so, he’s also ironically reminded of how tall Woody is. Though he’s certain Emperor Zurg would be an opponent with far more imposing height to Woody, this lanky, inferior, shit-eating sherrif ticks Buzz’s temper off more. He has knowledge, confidence and looks - wasting each trait on a rivalry with Buzz doesn’t just seem irrational, it’s entirely pointless.
Woody could do so much more on his own, so much good —
All the potential he has is used for pettiness, regarding somebody who doesn’t even have a strong source of hatred.
That’s half of Buzz’ reason for why him and Woody won’t ever be allies.
It’s a new ache he will never admit to having existed.
As if the space ranger’s own internalized thinking never happened, the other man ignores him for a little bit, taking a step to the side as he looks down at the rest of the, now ‘controlled’, chaos happening. His face pulls together a little, a frown bleaching through the density of Woody’s mask. Buzz turns to glance at what the sherrif is focusing on at the same time Woody chooses to throw his own notepad directly at the distanced mass of green soldiers, flipping back and forth between each other and arguing. Buzz watches the other make a point of staring down the tiny figures after they’re hit with the object, quickly falling into appropriate order.
Buzz tries to ignore what that display of leading makes him think of - a bit of warmth, a misfire in his processing unit - it’s likely a rare event.
At once, Woody and Buzz return to their conversation, disconnecting from the happenings near them.
“Getting washed or thrown around a little won’t kill you - its what could happen to you during the process and afterwards is terrifying.”
The space ranger squints, waiting for some kind of proper exploratory reply to that, but ending up with silence.
“I don’t follow, sheriff.”
Woody visibly starts simmering, additionally, with nothing to hold in his hands, he decides to cross his arms over his chest.
“Your… 'devices’ would not be able to stand the strength of the water. You'd lose your voice.” He glances pointedly at the buttons on Buzz’s suit. “Some of the others from here could have their limbs weakened to the point of tearing. Something could get irreversably smudged or destroyed and in consequence Andy’s mom could get rid of them.”
The space ranger looks over the groups of beings scattered over the surface, seeing fluffy ones, others made from tacky plastic or wood, even a few creatures that resemble animals.
“Not everyone here is built to withstand laundry day and we do what we can to make ourselves squeaky clean so Andy’s mom doesn’t pick more toys than necessary.” Almost like a childish present, Buzz’s expression is unwrapped, revealing the hints of shock at finally revealing a fragment of the bigger picture of Woody’s character.
“You’re making sure everybody gets taken care of in time. All this is for their safety.”
“Obviously.”
Out of Woody’s sight, Buzz twitches at the agreement, regardless of the manner in which it was spit out. His thoughts finally align somewhere, being a new source of surprise and reluctant relief, only slightly shying from respect.
Whatever bad blood the space ranger and sherrif have between each other doesn’t influence their decisions as guardians, guides. Buzz hadn’t considered that the other isn’t just an arrogant man - Woody can be caring. He is loud and selfish, and full of himself, but when it comes to the rest of people residing in Andy’s world, he is shockingly set on keeping them away from harm. All the green soldiers provide support because they are led by the right person, all the familiar beings are rampant and skittish, but not out of order, thanks to his planning, all of the arranged mess meant to save everyone from trouble does as it should because of one person.
The fact that Buzz and Woody are constantly short with each other seems irrelevant now. If the sheriff is doing good, even spitefully, even against his own pride, Buzz has to admit the ill-willed persistence is admirable.
Still, there are parts of him that worry over that stubborness.
“You’re not washing with the rest though.” Buzz fixes his eyes on the gold star pinned to Woody's chest, reflecting a faded light. “You think you could stand such a trial?”
He supposes, in truth, maybe under any different circumstances, they’d be friends. Both the title of sheriff and space ranger are in the category of law enforcement, excelling in times when judgement or timely support is needed. Woody works on influence and guiding words while Buzz is more of an exemplary figure based on his actions - at first glance, it seems like a perfect mix. They’re not some phoney imitations, they are capable of achieving so much by themselves, but together — it’d just be sensible to work alongside each other instead of against.
Buzz truly doesn’t get why Woody is so intent on hating him. They’re both a little too arrogant for their own good, Buzz himself knows he’s not a perfect soldier, but the other hasn’t even once tried to see all of him before making a stone cold opinion.
“Probably not.”
The space ranger is startled out of his thoughts, thankful for the indifference Woody is set on showing. The reply he receives doesn’t fit what he’d initially assumed. If the sheriff is really chock full of assertiveness and confidence, surely he’d-
“- But?”
Surely he’d claim he would survive.
“There’s no ‘but’. If I were to lose what I am cherished for - my voice, face or color - I'd be taken to the trash.” Woody bristled, using a matter of fact tone. Buzz couldn’t sense any pity for himself in the phrase and it made things that little bit more complicated. He couldn’t imagine Woody without his usual characteristic traits. He couldn’t see him without his ridiculous peon hat or his crinkly smiles, or his oddly lanky limbs.
“I’m not exactly sturdy like you.”
The other man flicks the side of Buzz’s glass protective dome, somehow sounding mildly impressed and resigned. He doesn’t seem to notice Buzz’s unease nor his disturbed expression, smoothly moving his gaze over his whole body with prickling focus. His eyes flick over the smoothness of his suit, over the white, shiny color, over the armored patches of Buzz’s arms and mid waist, finally resting on the space ranger’s own eyes.
Woody seems taken by surprise by the direct eye contact, but he doesn’t remotely comment on it. He stares back, some of the usual tension easing from his body as Buzz wonders what exactly he might be thinking. Nothing breaks between them, nothing sets itself into motion; Woody turns away, shifting his gaze onto some faraway point of the floor, barely resembling the spiteful figure Buzz is familiar with. He looks almost afraid.
“Why don’t you join Rocky’s group over at the window? It’s not exactly neat around here and they're the more composed quarter of the bunch meant to manage our resources.” Woody suggests, hiding away the rest of his expression before it becomes wholly identifiable.
Realistically, there’s nothing else for Buzz to do. He has no personal connection to Woody, he’s not a friend or ally, he can’t help with whatever the other is dealing with, and even if he could, Buzz would be turned away harshly. He knows it. He knows probability, he knows likeness, but still- He would have liked to help.
The helplessness gets to him most, frustration overshadowing his lesser emotions.
“I’ll be on my way then, sheriff.”
He gets a tip of the hat as goodbye before moving, heading to the suggested window. Briefly, he wonders if his unusal urge to help was because of his duty or his selfishness. It doesn’t matter anyway. Buzz leaves without glancing back and Woody is alone.