Author: Forget Yesterday
Willow shows up in Tibet, of all places
I own nothing. NOTHING. All of it belongs to Joss Whedon. Etc, etc. Don't sue, all you'll get is eight pairs of toe socks.
This fic isn’t meant at all to negate the wonderfulness that is Gay!Willow. I love Gay!Willow. But I’ve had Willow/Oz on the brain all day now, for some reason, and season two/three isn’t very fresh on my mind right now. So… yes. Review, flame, or just write
He wakes, some nights, when the
moon is full. He doesn’t know if it’s
what’s inside him that wakes him, or simply the knowledge that it’s there. Sometimes, as if to challenge it, he walks
barefoot to the window to stare defiantly at the impersonal moon. What begins as a challenge becomes a
struggle, and he can feel the wolf prowling under his skin. But it has become a challenge he almost
enjoys – provoking the wolf when the moon is full, but knowing full well that
he, Oz, is in control.
One such night, he gazes at the
moon, having has wrestled the wolf down. The wolf is tired and resting. A
calm comes over him, and he watches the patterns of misty clouds passing over
the pale sphere in the sky.
It’s like a dance. It seems to weave its path among the stars,
but it doesn’t. Not really. It’s all a matter of distances and trajectories,
millions of miles away, and completely untouchable.
Sometimes – most times – that’s
when he thinks of her. There used to be nothing but joy in those memories, and
anticipation. Now there is an added
pain, a bitterness. Frustration, which
feeds the wolf. He’s learned to control
One such night, an icy breeze
chills him through the open window, and suddenly, he smells her.
He smells her, and she smells like
high school. Like chaste, careful
kisses, and the Bronze, and making love before the world has a chance to
end. He hears quiet footsteps leading
up to his door, before he ever hears the soft knocking. This is a dream.
But when he pulls the door open in
a haze of uncertain emotion, she’s there. And it’s real.
Her hair is different now – shorter
than it used to be, but longer than the last time he saw her. Her skin is paler in the light of the moon,
but her hair seems a darker red.
He knows it’s real, because she is
more than a memory. She has changed –
profoundly. He doesn’t need his
heightened senses to tell him that. There is a new sadness about her. And strength. Subtle
changes in her expression and the way she holds herself. He only wants to look at her, forever. She
starts to speak – quietly, hesitantly, but with gathering speed. He only catches some of the words.
He hears them but they mean nothing. She’s saying something about an apocolypse –
one that’s passed… something about Buffy, something about Spike, and having a
soul – the latter of which he represses for the moment, being able to deal with
a maximum of one earth-shattering occurrence at a time.
And she talks for so long, and
meets his eyes. Her voice fades,
unsure. “Oz?” He gives himself a shake, trying to see through this haze of
dreamlike disbelief. He can’t speak.
For the first time, she looks afraid. Unsure.
“Oz? I understand that this is
probably a little weird… I know I would be weirded out… what with the showing
up in the middle of the night, and the… Tibetan hut-ness of it all, and, yeah,
there’s the whole me being gay thing, which is still sort of… ambiguous, but…
Oz, just say something, OK? I know
you’re probably mad, now, and I understand if you’ve, you know, met someone,
He gives his head another
shake. “You think I’m mad?”
“Well, no… it’s just that… with the
not talking, and the… oh. You didn’t
used to talk very much. Not that I
forgot! There’s just been a lot of … Xander hang-out time, and Buffy, and Dawn,
and I sort of got used to…” She stops
herself. “Oz, I missed you so much.”
He hugs her. He feels her warmth, and he smells her
hair. “How could I be mad?” he pulls
away gently, and looks at the full moon. Her eyes follow his gaze. “I did
that for you, remember?”
She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he wraps his around her
waist. They stay like that for a tiny
eternity, revolving slowly in a shy sort of dance, nose to nose, and they
whisper. She tells him everything,
about the magic, about Tara, about Warren, and Kennedy. About the First, and the Slayers… and
herself. The power, and the
scythe. She asks him, finally, what he’s
been up to. So casually, as they rub
He realizes that he’s done nothing,
really. Some yoga, and some soul
searching, yes… and he has better control of the wolf than he had before…
“Come on. There must be something,” she coaxes.
“Not really. Not much to do here. Besides yoga. I’m now extremely flexible, by the way. Not that you need to know that…”
The chill of the night air starts
to get to Willow, perhaps; she smiles at his modesty, as she sees it, and asks
if she can come inside.
Inside, they both spend several
minutes pretending to be comfortable, and pretending that neither wants
desperately what they think the other couldn’t possibly want.
“It’s awkward.” Willow says
sadly. “I hoped it wouldn’t be awkward.
I’m a little used to being awkward, but… you were never awkward. You sort of panic when you’re awkward. And I
sort of always panic when I’m awkward, and…”
What happens next, Oz shouldn’t
dare, but a part of him is so afraid that he’s going to wake up and never
finish this wonderful dream.
He’s kissing her. And, oh, thank God She’s kissing him back. Somehow they’re in the bedroom now.
The moonlight flows over the rumpled sheets
that they fall onto.
“What are we doing?” Willow
“Panicking,” Says Oz. “Again.”
“Oh…” She smiles, memories flooding
her with nostalgia and hesitant hope. “Okay, then.”
Morning arrives slowly, with first
pale light casting across the sky, and followed by a pale pink, and then a fierce,
brilliant orange. Oz watches the sky
through the window, and he watches Willow sleeping beside him.
When she’s asleep, she looks the
same as she did when she was in high school. Lips slightly parted, and a look
of utter content smoothing her features. She snores softly and unevenly, her steady breath only occasionally
disrupted by a small snuffling sound. He wants to reach out and touch her cheek, but he’s afraid it will break
Looking around the room, his eyes
fall on an object that the sunlight creeping across the floor has finally
reached; his guitar. With a sudden
excitement, he realizes he has something to tell Willow, after all.
He does touch her cheek. Softly, a light caress with the back of two
fingers. Her eyes open slowly. There’s no confusion when she wakes. She knows exactly where she is, and she
Oz looks at her earnestly. “I’m sorry to wake you. But I remembered.”
”Last night. You asked what I’ve
done. I told you I hadn’t done
anything, but…” He stops for a second.
“I forgot … but I got it.”
Willow laughs softly, and Oz’s
heart glows. “Got what?”
“The e-flat diminished ninth. I finally got it. Fingers intact.”
Willow’s smile is full of
yesterdays. “I love you.”