Summary: Oz's pov, in those last few minutes of
WAH. Not really angsty, but
not really fluffy either.
Spoilers: Through Wild At Heart.
Disclaimer: Joss made the characters. He did it to torture all of us by
making us fall in love with them and then making their lives miserable so
that we would be too. <sigh> Yes, I'm bitter. But the characters are
his.
Rating: PG
Feedback: Pretty pretty please? With all the toppings you want on top?
Thanks to Tracy, beta reader Extraordinare.
This is for Karen, who wanted this sort of thing. So I wrote it for her.
She's putting drugs in my food, I suspect.
by: Amy
* * * * * *
It is a simple question, the kind that held the note
of quiet, heartbroken
pleading. Spoken in the kind of voice I'd hoped to never have to hear come
from Willow's mouth, the kind of voice that she was too special, too good
to
have to speak with. Her eyes were pleading, sad, sparking with tears. I
replayed the question in my head as I watched the tears track down her
face.
"Oz... Don't you... love me?"
There it was. That was it, the question that I didn't really know how to
answer appropriately. So many thoughts flashed through my head. Yes, I love
you, Willow. I love you so much that it hurts me, so much that I want to
die
when I think of not being around you-- even worse than that when I think
about hurting you, because I've sworn to you and myself that I never would.
I love you so much that it's impossible for me to describe. I love your
hair, and your smile... Your sweet, sweet smile, that's so trusting and
hopeful and innocent, the smile that I fell in love with before I even knew
your name. I love the way you cry at sad movies, and I love the way you cry
at sad commercials even more than that. I adore every nuance of you, every
gesture of your hands. I'm jealous of the clothes you wear, because they
get
to be closer to your skin than I will be for hours, until you take them off
to be with me. I hate it when you smile at other guys, not because I don't
trust you, but because you're sharing with them something that I've learned
to love with my whole self, something that makes my heart pound every time
I
see it appear on your face.
I love your laugh. I love it especially when I'm the one who brings that
sound out of you. As much as I love music, and know about music, I love the
sound of your laugh more than that because it's the most beautiful music
in
the world to me. I love it when you giggle lightly, and slap my arm in that
warm, wonderful, affectionate way that you've perfected.
I love it when you talk in your sleep. I love the strange things you say,
about roses and moonlight, and chocolate covered apes. I think you're the
most unique person in the world, and I think that I'm too damn lucky to have
been the one who's discovered it.
I love how innocent you can be, how naive, how warm and funny and brilliant
you are, how much you can convey to me with a single look or touch or even
through the way you brush your hair back nervously from your face.
I love your talent, and loathe it at the same time because I know that one
day, it will take you away from me; it will take you to the place that you
deserve to be, learning things, growing even more than you already have.
A
place covered with men who will want to be with you, because they instantly
notice the light exuding from your eyes.
I think of you every single second I'm not around you, no matter what else
I'm doing. If I'm singing, the song is for you. If I'm playing, I hope you
hear the music, because you're what inspires me. If I'm sleeping, I dream
about you-- when you're in my bed, snuggling next to me, and even when you're
not, so that I won't have to live those sleeping hours alone, without your
presence.
When you touch me, I tremble. My knees get weak, and everything that I am
shakes with such *gratefulness* for your touch that it's amazing. You're
amazing. Everything we have is so completely amazing, that I bless the gods
for giving it to me.
If you've called my house and left a message on the machine, I get nervous
because I missed your call, nervous that it very well could have been the
last time that I could have talked to you. And then I call you back or page
you, and I hear your voice again, and I'm so relieved that you're still
around and that you still love me that my hands start shaking.
I love the way you say my name, with that slight, teasing, playful tone.
"Oz." I smile when I even think about it. "Oz, I love you," is something
I
love even more, because I know at those moments that I'm the luckiest man
in
all the worlds to hear you say those words to me and no one else but me.
I think about what happened last year, with Xander. I think it's amazing
how
much I forgive you, but forgiveness wouldn't-- could never-- be an issue
between us. In fact, I'm so pleased that you allowed me to forgive that
indiscretion that it could make me shed tears.
When you kiss me, I would swear that I see all of the stars in the heavens.
I hear all of the birds, at once, and it's like I'm in an old Tom and Jerry
cartoon, and have just been hit over the head with a wooden sledgehammer--
stars and birds, both circling my head. The smell of your skin, makes me
dizzy, and the smell of your skin when I'm touching you makes me faint,
light-headed, and gives me the biggest dose of self-confidence, because I
know in those moments that you truly love me.
Though I don't know what I ever did to deserve it.
In my life, there has never been someone who's touched me, or moved me, or
made me think, or made me whole, as much as you have. There's not been a
single soul on this planet, save you, who has done anything memorable for
me.
Even things like meeting Buffy, and knowing the group, and being involved
with vampires are things that I credit to knowing you. Memorable, amazing
things, don't get me wrong. Since I met you, nothing else matters. Nothing
could compare. No demon or dark force in the world could lessen the glorious
light that you bring into my life.
So I sigh, and look at you, at those splendid eyes that tell me everything
I've ever wanted to know about the creation of love, and I answer as best
I
can, hoping that you can read everything in my eyes.
"My whole life..." I say, looking directly at her, tears coming into my
voice, "I've never loved anything else."
Her breath is shaky and she's sobbing openly, and all I can do is walk over
to her and take her face in my palms. I put my forehead to hers, trying to
let her know everything I will never be articulate enough to say and
describe, and I look into her beautiful eyes for the last time in I don't
know how long. She whispers my name again, and my heart melts and tightens
at the same time, and I know I have to leave.
I kiss her on the forehead roughly, tenderly, holding back the tears that
are
trying so desperately to escape from my eyes. And then I pick up my bag and
walk out of the room.
I can smell Willow's tears behind me, and I can hear the soft sounds of her
weeping even as I walk to my van. I get in, and start the engine, wishing
with everything that I am for the strength to just *know* and be able to
stay
with her.
Quickly, I turn off the engine, thinking I might break down, and hoping that
if I do, Willow will be there so that we can comfort each other. I could
tell her that I could never leave, and that I would never hurt her again,
that she was all that was special and good and pure to me, and that I was
so
sorry for even having mentioned the thought of being away from her for a
second; that I was sorry for Veruca, for lying, and for everything else she
wanted to blame me for.
I would take the blame. I deserve it.
And then I think of her voice, her voice saying, "I love you, Oz," in that
playful tone, and I know that I have to leave because... If I don't, I might
never be the man that she really, really needs to love, and the man that
she
wants to have. I'll have questions and doubts-- not about her, but that
doesn't matter-- and I'll make her feel less important to me than she is.
So I restart the van and slowly, resolutely, start driving. I don't know
where I'm going. I don't know if it really matters. I'll go somewhere and
think of and miss her, and love her from afar for a while while I figure
things out.
And I'll only hope that when I get back, she'll have figured out some things
too. And that she'll forgive me for all I've done, and all I've thought
about doing, and for leaving her and making her cry even once.
And if she does... I'll never do it again.
The End