Monosyllabic Eccentricity

Title: What You Need
Author: wyoluvr
Rating: G
Spoilers: None - AU future fic
Summary: Willow and Oz future fluff
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All belongs to Joss and UPN.

"Honey, have you seen my notebook?"

No answer. Oz frowned as he rifled through the myriad of books, pads of paper, and other indecipherable bits of computer related gibberish covering his wife's desk. He'd just gotten home from the store, his mind full of guitar solos and words to flesh out a song he'd strummed through last night. But, as luck would have it, he had lost his favorite notebook.

Yes, there were many, many legal pads, graph pads, and other things he could write on scattered around their three bedroom Victorian home. Oz, however, did not want just any notebook.

He wanted his notebook. The notebook in a long series of notebooks that contained nothing but song lyrics and music. It had to be the music notebook, or nothing.

Unfortunately, the only person who ever knew where anything was wasn't listening to his problems.

"Will? Where are you?"

His beloved wife's distracted voice floated out of her office in the back of house.

"Back here."

Her desk in the front was for stuff the kids could destroy. The true office had a lock on it and all of the really important stuff for the software company. As Oz made his way to the back of the house, he switched off a few of the unnecessary lights. Entering the dim, tiny office, he stopped dead at what he saw on the screen.

A huge, bubble-gum pink, glistening monster in the process of dying horribly at the hands of a soldier controlled by one Willow Osbourne.

Willow was playing a computer game.

In the midst of her husband's mad dash for the correct notebook, she was so lost in mindlessly killing fake minions of the darkside that she hadn't even heard his request.

A sudden, totally irrational and uncalled for desire to strangle Willow surged in Oz, only to slowly but surely die off as he watched the glee dance over her pale, computer screen lit face. He resigned himself to losing the now almost forgotten song and touched his wife's shoulder. She didn't even pause in her merciless slaughter of a purple, five-tentacled creature to speak to Oz.

"Hi, honey, didja get milk?"

"Yeah, baby, I got milk."

"Cool. Thanks."

The hapless muscian let out a soft grunt. Sitting down on the small couch behind the desk, he tried to imprint a bit of the new song on his brain. Flashes of lyrics sizzled against his eyelids. The humour of the situation hit him then. The song went something along the lines of wanting one thing and getting what you actually needed instead, kind of like that Rusted Root song. He'd wanted a notebook; he needed Willow.


Willow's occasional chortles of joy as she destroyed everything in her path accompanied Oz into a deep, happy sleep.