A Thought Apart
Ghosts in her head, crying out to be heard. She rolled over, stared at the window, put her hands to her ears, across her eyes, in a futile gesture. No, no more words. No more thoughts. Go away, please! Crying. But they didn't hear her, couldn't, because she was only their mirror, drowning slowly beneath their reflections. All down the street, at school, across town, she felt, heard, thought their pain. She wanted to be back on that couch all alone in the dark, where she could look at him and hear nothing, because in her mind, he wasn't there.
Delays
A quick gulp of scalding coffee, keys clattering dully against the mug, while the phone buzzed insistent words into her ear. Why did everyone always manage to call just when you were on your way out the door? Well, en route to the door, if she were honest with herself, because she'd been caught up checking a bit of code, and then a flurry of important-looking e-mails had arrived just as she had realized how late it was. "No, Uncle, I've been watching, really...." Jenny sighed. "Could we talk about this later? I'm going to be late for my class."
Treacherous Me
"Yeah, mom, love you too. Bye." Meaningless words; how could you love someone who was never there? Child's instinct, no more. Willow hung up the phone, stared at the keys she was fiddling with, hand clutching around cool metal, scalloped edges. There were girls who cut themselves with knives; she remembered her parents explaining that such girls had unfulfilled needs for approval and love. Wondered, then, at her parents' blindness to their own shortcomings. And she was curious how even the dulled edge of a key might feel. But she didn't, wouldn't, knowing that, once started, she might never stop.
Traveling
The jukebox was singing, "I am on a lonely road and I am traveling...." She slipped a quarter into the payphone, slammed her palm viciously against the surface as it stuck; cursed out loud (provoking a glare of Southern disapproval from the store clerk) as the coin stayed stubbornly put and she endured pain from the keys looped around her finger. Fuck. Quarter wasted, and where to find another phone at this time of night? Fear slithered up her neck, sighing Kakistos' name, and Faith knew that she and fear didn't mix, which only chilled her heart all the more.
Candles in the Wind
They'd driven out to the coast and headed south a ways, ending up in a small tourist-trap town that had seen friendlier days. All of them, seven without the vampire; and they spread blankets out on the prickly, patchy bluff to await sunset and the dancing glimmer of fireworks. The sullen fog drifted away as dusk fell and bonfires blossomed on the sand below; firecrackers whizzed and popped; sparklers flashed with white incandescence. From the beach, the first firework shot whistling into the air, bursting overhead with a shower of melting color.
"Is the sky's circuitry faulty?" inquired Buffy, brightly.
Christmas Angels
Bells jingled somewhere far off, and snow crunched lightly underfoot. A small knot of carolers sang beneath the steady light of a gas lamp, their breath whitening the air. "Sing me the pretty song about Adam's torture," an imperious and lilting voice demanded, presently. "Sing about death and not being given Christmas presents when you've been naughty." Unsettled by this request, the singers shifted uneasily and grew silent until four shadows melted out of the night's crisp blackness. The frantic, muffled cries ended abruptly, a single crimson drop staining the snow as Drusilla raised her head. "Can we sing carols?"
A Midsummer Night
It was like a dream, with melted-butter sunlight filtering through the trees, the air so hushed that every breath sounded louder than a sigh. Standing naked beneath the summer sky, Willow gently kissed the corner of Tara's mouth, the bridge of her nose. "Just loving how often we can disappear on the Wiccan festival pretext." Tara smiled back, returned the kisses, desire tangled in her eyes; and Willow choked out a heart-rending sob as she woke, knowing it was not like a dream but was a dream; knew that, claims of folklore notwithstanding, this midsummer dream would never come true.
Willow's Adventures in Wonderland
"Take some more tea," Buffy said to Willow, very earnestly.
"I've had nothing yet," Willow replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more."
"You mean you can't take less," said Xander: "it's very easy to take more than nothing."
The Dormouse grew fangs and drained its teapot of treacle, whereupon the teapot became a writing-desk and flew off singing Twinkle, Twinkle.
Willow awoke to her alarm-clock jangling and, tucking her knees up, leaned back against her bed's white wicker headrest. Never read Lewis Carroll before bedtime, she thought to herself. Right, keeping that in mind from now on.
Rituals
It was acceptable not be picked first for a team in P.E. No one laughed, even at the last boy called up by one captain or the other, seated with the remainder of the girls, those about to be chosen and the last resorts. What hurt was waiting on the bench every day until the last minute, swinging your feet just above the asphalt, when the last captain impatiently sighed "Willow," or looked despairingly in your direction. But you tried to ignore it, chanting: "First is the worst, second is the same, last is the one who wins the game."
Diamonds Become Her
There are diamonds in her ears, and the light trembles rainbows from them across her cheek. Satin sheets quietly rustle their promise, echoing an earlier pledge. I'm certain you won't be disappointed with our performance. No, there will be no disappointment here tonight. Now pale silk slides from paler shoulders, leaving Lilah's breasts goose-pimpled and exposed. Throaty laughter. "I suppose there were other intentions, really. You say you like to watch." It is not a question, and Faith gives no reply. Instead, her dark eyes rest on the woman half-naked before her, and a smile begins to curve her lips.
Dream A Little Dream
I always dreamed that we would end up together. The details didn't matter: my parents... his parents... that he would never see me that way. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that we were meant for each other. The day I saw him kissing Cordelia, it hurt so much I nearly retched. But things got complicated, feelings faded, and years intervened. Then Caleb happened, and once again I thought I might die from the agony. Now, my dreams are simpler, and just as unrealistic. I want us to grow old together and both be around when the end comes.
Goodbye's Not Forever
Walking towards the atrium with a bag full of swords, hearing Buffy call her name, Dawn was sure she didn't want to hear whatever her sister had to say. Be careful, good luck, they were all part and parcel of the same idea: there was a possibility that this could be it. The end. So Dawn stopped Buffy before she got any words out, denied her a parting sentence. And she knew, in a flash, why Buffy hadn't bid farewell to her ten-year-old sister when she skipped town for L.A. If she didn't say goodbye, she just might come back.
Requiem For A Dream
Joyce finally understood that Buffy would never leave Sunnydale. She might refuse to accept it, but Buffy had a job to do here. She herself loved to travel; it was why she had originally opened the gallery, planning to visit other countries and cultures. But one daughter and a divorce later, traveling had become a far-off dream and the fond memories of a Parisian honeymoon. And now, she found herself robbed of even the hope that she could at least vicariously revel in her daughter's tales of distant lands. It was a mother's right, and demons just weren't the same.
Tender Is The Night
Just early enough, it's a thrilling gamble: will the game end too soon? "Come out, come out," and I smile, watch from shadows, see beautiful terrible reds and golds hiss lingeringly across cowering flesh. "Yes, whine, puppy, isn't it grand?" Then the dark closes in to stop my fun. "Let's find another game, Xander," I say, "something with a bit of spice. Puppy won't play this evening, and I'm hungry." But everyone's pathetic, cowering in their silly houses. I want screaming and pleading and drawn-out chases that make the blood sing so sweetly in their veins.
"Look-ee there," smirks Xander.
A Perilous Flame
Seven candles line the altar, pooling sluggish wax beneath steady flames. Drusilla watches them, mesmerized. Fire cleanses, like the brimstone of Hell, where she herself, cursed with unholy visions, is bound. The confession father told her this, carefully shaping the dreadful words, caressing them like precious jewels in his mouth. Only the truth.
Rosary beads slide through her fingers, tracing patterns that will never save her. Shamefully, the priest's voice made forbidden places tingle, further confirmation of her darkness. A door whispers shut behind her, air gusts across her cheek, and the candle flames flicker in offset unison. Fire cleanses...
In the Realm of Impossibility
Willow checked her e-mail, for possibly the fiftieth time in the last hour. Still nothing. She chewed the inside of her cheek, feeling impatient, helpless, and generally very cross. Her fingers poked keys aimlessly, randomly, then deleted the nonsensical syllables that had appeared. Not really so difficult, she thought to herself, but I can't do it. And this is the nerd's domain! I want creativity! It wasn't like singing or acting, both of which terrified her. Here she was in her familiarly anonymous milieu, and not even remotely embarrassed. Yet somehow, all attempts defeated her. She just couldn't write fanfic.
What Body?
It was deucedly inconsiderate, thought Lord Peter Wimsey, of a nicely laid-out corpse to wander off of its own accord. Corpses ought to stay put, and it showed signs of ill-breeding that they evidently thought it permissible to take to their heels without a by your leave. And this wasn't the first corpse to do so, either. There had been a clear rash of such behaviour over the last month, and Scotland Yard was beginning to fidget. His real headache, though, was not the vanishing corpses, but the middle-aged gentry of London swearing they'd seen young William, a half-century dead.
In Memoriam
Sunlight gleamed off fresh, glossy pages as Cordelia leafed through the yearbook. Her mind was racing with plans for whom she could get to sign it — and whom she would specifically not have sign it — but her gaze snagged on one particular black-and-white photo. He's gone, said an internal voice. And you weren't even nice to him. "Oh please," she answered herself scornfully. "I danced with him, didn't I?" She would have detailed to herself just how nice she had been, all things considered, but a footfall behind her occasioned the volume's prompt closure. "Was that Jesse's picture?" gasped Harmony.
Our Father
Like so many before them, the pictures appear, dancing in chaotic color before her eyes. Tragedy, happiness, it matters little, for in all of them she can hear the seductive voice of the devil slithering below their surface. Her fingers tighten on the white altar cloth, ragged nails biting into soft palms. Delicate knees, painful on the stone floor. But she deserves it, she deserves it, the more so because this vision is of herself, enacting things sinful beyond imagining, and a man with an angel's beauty. Devil child, the priest's words echo in her head. God is watching you.
"Dieting for Demons, in 10 Easy Lessons"
"Spike!" Clem's voice sailed out cheerily from the shadowed back corner. "Come join us, we're playing a round of poker. Got any ki..." the words broke off hastily with an uneasy chuckle, reconfigured into a new sentence: "...any kibbitzing you want to do? I could use a fresh pair of eyes on this hand. To help me, that is, I'd never..." the sentence trailed off again, as several heads swiveled curiously towards him.
Black duster billowing, Spike sauntered over to the demon's table. "What the bloody hell," he queried amiably, "are you doing playing kitten poker in a human bar?"
Life's Little Games
He wonders, sometimes, if he's someone's little experiment in the great game of life. Let's take a man and see how many ways we can fuck him over. Not like Job, that was too easy. No, let's make it look like karma and see how he copes. Because, really, how many screwed up relationships could anyone have? He stole Willow's barbie, then got passed over by his first real crush for a broody vampire. He cheated on Cordy with Willow and got jack-squat. And then there was Anya, whom he always lost. Once was his fault, and twice was forever.
A Drop of Forever
Sheets tangled, limbs loosely twined, kisses nibbled in moments of languid half-awareness. The sultry heat dredges memories from between nested layers.
"Remember that game you played when you were little, where each person says a word and you all try and tell a story?"
A cozy "mmm" signifies acknowledgement and accord, while a silky head rearranges itself more comfortably, drags up another effortful syllable. "Why?"
"Nothing, just curious." Tara shifts, encircles Willow with her arms, strokes a soft shoulder with her thumb. This night could last an eternity and she would never complain.
Someone begins.
"I."
"Will."
"Always."
"Love."
"You."
In The House Of Our Enemy
There it was. Adrenaline coursing, hearts pounding, and nothing else moving, because the fight was over. Buffy's belly knotted, clawed towards her spine with an almost-audible snarl. And for the first time, she silently acknowledged a second, more primeval hunger; glanced sidelong at Faith.
"You hungry?" she asked, as blithely casual as she could manage.
"Starved," replied the other, and paused. Hazel eyes caught brown, held their gaze, and for a moment, time froze. Then, suddenly, mouth was hot on mouth, while eager hands clawed at cotton and leather, slid under garments, and mingled the sweat of lust and fear.
Wolves in the Woods (apologies to Neil Gaiman)
For two days, Hagrid found shredded corpses of large predators scattering the floor of the Forbidden Forest, and he knew the cause of their demise. Despite werewolf lore being taught in Defense Against the Dark Arts, that didn't keep the beasts from being magical creatures. So on the second day, he asked Professor Lupin to keep watch that night, prowling the forest with human consciousness, thanks to Snape's potion. When, the next morning, Lupin walked out of the Forest, he had an slight smile on his face and was accompanied by a small, blue-haired young man. "Meet Oz," he said.
The Art of Love
Jonathan caught up with his squire as she rounded the corner, a much crumpled and inked piece of parchment clenched in his fist.
"Alan, take a look at this," he pleaded. "Should I compliment the Lady Iria's eyes, or her hair?"
Alanna glanced at her friend with wry amusement. "Jon, I think it wouldn't matter if you called her a slug. You're heir to the throne." She bit back the suggestion that possibly calling Iria a slug would be more appropriate than what the Prince evidently had in mind for his awkward verse; the lady's mannerisms made her flesh crawl.
A Night Gift
The moon scudded along behind piling clouds, bathing the stable-yard in a treacherous silver glow. A shadow slipped along one wall, and a night-owl shrilled. There was a rustling sound from inside the stable, and a sleepy voice murmured, then abruptly became a gasp. "George? Why're you here?"
"Nothin', nothin', go back to sleep, Stefan. I'm not here to cause any harm to yer precious horses, never fear. But bein' as yer awake, point me to where Alan keeps his tack?"
Moments later, a shadow flickered across the wall again, as George returned home to await news of Alan's surprise.
Small Cause For Joy
"Doesn't anyone know where Alan is?" Gary asked his friends worriedly, as they left the dining hall. "I haven't seen him since this afternoon."
One by one, the other boys shook their heads. "You'd think he'd be pleased," Raoul replied. "Did you see Malven's face?" The thought of the small page besting the much larger squire had kept him smiling all evening, but it didn't seem right to celebrate Alan's victory without him.
"He's probably in his room," suggested Alex. "Gary, tell him to come celebrate."
But Jonathan shook his head. "No, I'll go. But I don't think he'll come."
On The Road
Driving down the 101 at night was boring, to say the least, and the white swerve of headlights made you sleepy if you weren't careful. But Fred had sounded almost panicked, and Willow knew that waiting until morning would be both selfish and dangerous. So she endured the switchback turns of the San Marcos Pass in the dark, and her mind wove tapestries of thought to counteract the monotony. I've never driven this way on my own. Re-souling Angel can't be too difficult, can it, I've done it before. My toe itches, but I can't... Kennedy's mouth is really nice.
Fate Is Fate
Sunnydale. Some ancient chill had crept through her bones at the sound of that name, but she had shrugged it off, running a finger across the keen edge of her knife and watching tiny rubies of blood bead on the cut, testing the points on her stakes. Her Watcher had overruled her protests at having to go to some backwater town in the detested state of her birth, so she went, sullen and unwary. She could handle their demons and vampires. She faced the Master, two years after it was written. And then the world shattered and crumbled around her.
Make Of Reality What You Will
Dawn had a very clear memory of Disneyland. Lots of memories, actually, because they'd gone there at least once a year until the divorce when she was nine. Except she knew that, technically, they weren't memories. And she'd never really been to Disneyland. But on July 9th, she went with Xander and Andrew to see "Pirates of the Caribbean," and her worries melted away. Because she, just like everyone else, laughed spontaneously when the scene changed to the jailed pirates and their bone. Suddenly, it didn't matter what was real and what wasn't. She had that warm glow called recognition.
Dangerous Confessions
Oz. A silent mental plea. But Oz was away on a gig, wouldn't be back until tomorrow night. Xander? No, Xander was out selling ice-cream. No one to find her, to stop.... "Faith," she whispered, desperate, "what do you want from me?" And Faith smirked behind her borrowed face, slid a hand up Willow's pale thigh, inched closer along her leg, keeping the witch pinned against the wall. "Not obvious, Red?" She nipped at the girl's soft, shadowed neck, and Willow swallowed a cry, desiring it too much to confess. "You've had it on for us both. Here's your chance."
Literature 101
The books fascinated Xander in a repulsive sort of way; the musty smell of crumbling leather and parchment that clung to them was so foreign that he longed to touch them, to see if they felt any different from the glossy modern textbooks that he shunned with righteous loathing. And once he had cautiously brushed his fingers across the dusty spines, peering cautiously around to make sure he was unwatched, he gingerly cracked open a volume. Boldly inked wood-carvings filled the pages, bare-breasted women flaunting portions of their anatomy he never knew existed. And they were in his school library....
In the Dark
The girl had come to Sunnydale unawares, and Willow had claimed her. But she intended her as a plaything, a distraction, and the vampire was uncertain that she liked the strange, burning emotions which Tara soon provoked. Yet as much as she might snarl and rail against it, there was something more than a temporary obsession here. But now, her teeth gently grazing Tara's smooth skin, she paused, nostrils flaring in distaste. Words came, low and cold.
"You got bitten." No response. "Did you think I couldn't tell? I can smell it." And one more word, uttered with loathing. "Werewolf."
Demon Magnet
"Have a drink with a poor lonesome?" The sultry voice curled around Xander's ears, making him swallow hard and concentrate on a disturbing image, namely Spike in his Hawaiian shirt, before turning around to confirm that the speaker, really quite close by, was directing her request to someone else. But no, she was actually standing right behind him, fluttering dusky lashes and pouting with ruby lips.
He grinned weakly. "Can I ask you something kind of personal, first?" Her eyes, quicksilver, laughed at him. "You're not a demon, are you?"
Those eyes flashed red with anger, and she vanished. "Curses!"
Shades of Grey
Walking along the beach in early morning's grey, fingers twined, they watched trails of pearly mist ghosting over colorless foam and waves. Tara shivered as they slowed and rested on a bleached, bony branch of driftwood. Dragging her hand through the sand's tiny, smooth pebbles, she looked at Willow.
"I don't understand," she commented. "You hear all about the California sun, and there is a lot of it. But this," waving her hand vaguely at the lackluster dawn, "is nearly as common."
Willow smiled and leaned her head against Tara's shoulder. "Must be the Hellmouth a-workin'. No sun, definitely evil."
A Memory of Rain
When it rains, the first drops dark on the dry pavement, she always catches a brief whiff of something hot and burnt and somehow good before it's washed away by the cold spill of water.
But here in England, where it rains more often than not, the spidering black-topped roads are rarely spared from that ceaseless drizzle for long enough to collect the scent of that nostalgia. Instead, wandering through stands of oak and beech, she smells moldering leaves and moonlight, and she thinks of death. Of Tara, of Warren, and of tears. And she hopes it never stops raining.
Always In My Dreams
The first dream was of Istanbul. She doesn't know how she knew, but she did. She's never been to Turkey. One was of Germany, and another of Greece. She's never been there, either. But she's seen them, and so many other places, too. Places where girls died, because they could have been Slayers. Places that are foreign, and strange; sometimes hot, sometimes raining, and always dark. Because although she's never been there at night, she's never seen them during the day. And she wants to. She wonders if she ever will, because here, now, she can feel a storm brewing.
Never Say Goodbye
I itched to be gone. Hanging out with B's little gang, playing the Watchers' ridiculous games; both were necessary, but that didn't make me like them. And I could sense Willow's dislike of me just oozing from her every pore as she carefully tried to ignore my presence, which made me especially want to bail. But I had to pretend. And then B passed by me to get changed, and I couldn't stop myself from reaching out. From touching her arm and wishing her luck. And when I let go, it felt like the light was draining from my world.
Choices
Moonlight turns naked flesh to silver. It streams through windows, pools on floors, limns every edge with razor-fine light. But with moonlight comes shadow, and absence of detail. Spike remembers the moonlight. He saw it night after night for over a century.
He also remembers sunlight, not silver but gold. Highlighting every tiny hair, glittering sharply on motes of dust that drift in its rays. In those hundred years, he stood in sunlight once. But he does remember it. Now he has to make a choice, and he no longer remembers. Does he look better in silver or in gold?
Normal Still
It was one of those rare moments when Buffy was lucid. Hank and Joyce came to the hospital as soon as they heard and sat by her bed, each clasping one of her hands. "It's us, Buffy. We're so pleased to see you." But Buffy's eyes were pained, as they had not been during the summer. She gazed at her surroundings with confusion, then twisted her head away and murmured something into her pillow. All that her anxious parents could make out was "real." There was a nurse, though, waiting in the corner of the room, and she whispered, "Done."
Casting Empty Nets
Gone. Screaming emptiness, a hole ripped in her heart. The constant ache, so recently muted, exploded into a thousand blurred wings of sorrow, until she could stand it no longer. There was bright sun outside, but liquid night oozed into her heart, her mind. Starless, moonless, dreaming dead. So she tried to make her own dreams. Howled them from her mouth, until she floundered in the crystal river that drowned her as she tried to reach the kindly moon, who turned away his face. The fish are dead, the sun burned away their dew. There could be no more wishes.
This Year's Vamp
Drusilla swayed, red dress shifting across hips and belly, and touched the hat perched on her head. "Tsk tsk, grandmummy, I'm still not in the right century. Angelus said I was behind even now."
Darla smiled affectionately. "We'll have to do something about that, I guess." She eyed the corpse at her feet. "Really, I should file a complaint with the manager. Such poor service." Standing, she touched Drusilla's shoulder. "I'll find you some nice modern clothing to party in." She snapped her teeth, lips curling in amusement; fingered her companion's cheek. "But let's get you out of this, first."
Remembered Items Bid During an Apparently Drunken but Lucid Game of High Stakes Verbal "Trivia Poker," as Overheard During Observance of the Leonid Meteor Showers, High Atop Skyline Boulevard in the Hills of Oakland, California
The trouble was, he could actually obtain at least half of what he'd bid. Too drunk to stay strictly in the realms of imaginary or lost items, yet not drunk enough for anyone to forget precisely what had transpired. And there was little chance that Ethan wouldn't hold him precisely to his word. "Chicken, Ripper?" he'd inquire smoothly. "Because a unicorn's horn could be frightfully handy in the near future." No one had mentioned that Ethan would be there, when he'd promised a proper visit after dropping by so hastily in September. But he knows he would have gone anyway.
Items From the Neiman Marcus 2002 Christmas Book
Sometimes catalogues come in the mail. There are catalogues for sporting goods stores, maybe sent because years ago I gave Giles a tweed hat with earflaps for Christmas, and gardening catalogues with bright pictures of flowers that remind me of how Mom used to plant bulbs every spring. But one hefty tome arrives because of me alone. The Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. I haven't bought anything from them in ages, but they send it like clockwork. And this year, I see $65 for a tin of cookies, and all I can think of is how many Potentials that would feed.
Vocabulary Words We Learned by Playing Dungeons & Dragons
"Look at this, it's totally cool!" Andrew sat up and brandished a battered leather volume at Jonathan, then poked at his friend's arm when there wasn't an immediate response.
"What's totally cool?" Jonathan sounded slightly bored.
"This book that Tucker lent me, it talks about glyphs and deliquescing and stuff. It's exactly like reading spells in the Wizard's Spell Compendium! And he says the spells really summon demons."
"That's dee-liquescing, moron." But he pulled the book towards him to see. "Being a mage would be cool." He began leafing through the pages. "Are there any spells to make people taller?"
An extra page of drabbles inspired by the McSweeney's Lists challenge can be found here.
Reflections of Change
"It's rather interesting to know what a pure vampire looks like," Wesley murmured thoughtfully. He ran his thumb down the margin of the book's fine print. "No, nothing here," he muttered to himself, then paused and looked up as a shadow fell across the page. "Ah, Angel, lovely to see you."
The vampire ignored him, prying the book from Wesley's grasp. "It's what's inside me. I'll deal. And strangely enough, I really don't want to find out if it's going to surface again."
Wesley touched his fingers gently to Angel's wrist. "It wasn't for you, Angel. I need to know."
To See the Face of God
"Xander, look!" Andrew's excited whisper was several tones too shrill, thought its recipient, tugging the sleeve of his shirt from the other's grasp. But he followed Andrew's pointing finger anyway, and blinked his good eye. "Hey, isn't that...?"
An enthusiastic nod answered him. "Yes!"
Xander could easily read Andrew's unconscious fidgeting, waited for his question.
"Do you think it's okay to ask for someone's autograph in the supermarket?"
Xander shrugged. "Why not, go ahead." He watched Andrew jackrabbit off towards his quarry, dig paper and pen from his pocket.
"Mr. Whedon, can I get your autograph? I really love Firefly."
A Singer Must Die
"I'm betraying them." His voice was bitter, rough with whiskey and smudged with the dregs of old tears. Was it a crime, if it had to be done? He felt cheap, like a bought traitor. It was blackmail.
The vampire at his side was silent, blue eyes watchful on his face. Then, eventually, "Both betrayed her, we did. Can't ask for mercy."
Darkness spilled through the open doorway, the lamps' artificial glow no protection against the night's gaping maw. He wished it would devour him whole. Self-condemned, with Spike his judge, confidant.
"Sorry," he whispered to no one in particular.
Wolfsong
He doesn't sing. It's Devon who does, his voice a blend of honey and smoke, while Oz's guitar chords beneath him, around him; wild, tender, dissonant as the songs demand. But he has an idea that he might sing sometimes. When he's a wolf, he must tilt his head back, muzzle pointing at the sky that his cage hides, and howl discordant harmonies to the glowing moon that rules him. He's not sure, but he must, because when he wakes up in the morning, naked and human, his bones ache and reverberate with music of which he has no memory.
Ears and No Ears
It's painful. Cast down from cultured theatre-goer to this... iniquity, this injustice against his previously pampered ears. When he can bear it no longer, he leans forward abruptly, forces his face to mould a smile. "Thank you, Cordelia. Tha-that's going to be lovely." He can't quite grasp the lack of appreciation of music in this day and age, but even more so, in this country. He loves Velvet Underground and Pink Floyd, and he enjoys Gilbert and Sullivan. Here, the choice of music baffles him, as does the blitheness of those such as Cordelia, who evidently imagine they can sing.
Reaching for Memories
The air catches rich leather, dryness of dust; reality, or memory sparked by the albums? He stands there, staring, hands wrapped around his sides. He'd been so excited, trying his newly "acquired" camera, all black cloth and flash powder. (Acrid smoke almost tingles his nose.) Then, disappointment, when the dripping paper failed to manifest his dancing princess. But he saved the prints anyway, unlife's empty backdrops. And now, here they are. Tosser would keep them, he thinks. But he can't look at them, only remember them; like smells, sounds. His arms remain firmly folded, covetous fingers twitching against insubstantial flesh.
Night Visitors
Oz cups the joint behind his fingers, takes a drag, passes it to Devon, who follows suit and leans back, closing his eyes, exhaling smoke. His hand makes a lazy, graceful gesture back towards Oz, proffering the small twist of paper, but Oz ignores it. He may pretend, but for a werewolf, the scent is too cloying, and it masks other odors. Like the one manifesting behind them now, faint musk and an edge of danger. He knows that scent, and he doesn't want to. Shifting on the cold concrete, he plucks the joint from Devon's fingers and inhales deeply.
Doorway Glimpse
A slice of room was visible from where she stood, a neat sectioning from top to bottom: shred of ceiling, shred of desk, shred of carpet. Books lay open, partially obscured by the doorframe, and she could see her daughter's hand resting on a page, red hair spilling against her shoulder as she leaned forward to study the text more closely, face flashing into view and out again. As Sheila turned away, content that Willow was mature enough to study without parental jurisdiction, she smelled burnt sage, lavender; chalking it up to an overactive imagination, she continued on her way.
As Time Goes By
Although Oz can control the wolf, now, sometimes he doesn't. Deep in uninhabited fields or forest, he lets the transformation take him, gives in to the lunar cycle that constantly pulls at his being. So he keeps a calendar in his van, one that marks full moons, small white circles in the larger boxes of the days. That way, he doesn't always have to remember the chanting and meditation and the gathering of necessary herbs.
He also saves the old calendars, one for each year since he left Sunnydale. He wonders how many he'll have before he sees her again.
Autumn Nights
Autumn is when the days crisp, sunlight tasting metallic on her tongue. It's when nights smell of smoke, or rain drips into the fallen leaves that dam the gutters, spilling over black asphalt with a layer of crystal. It's when the thin shrill of sirens carries farther, bright pulses of noise cutting across her hearing, and the streetlamps glow, instead of shining.
She begins to wear scarves, long and fashionable; Willow wears woolly mittens; Xander tucks his hands into his coat's worn pockets, hunches his shoulders. And as the nights grow longer, nothing actually changes. In the darkness, she slays.