"Pretty much now," Oz says.
When he dragged his sorry ass back from Oxnard last fall, Xander spent almost two whole days in his fabulous new basement, flat on his back on top of the sofabed's horizontal bar of death, staring at the pipes criss-crossing the ceiling, trying to convince himself that, one, the ceiling was *not* lowering, *not* pulling a Death-Star trash-compactor on him from above, and, second, to move. To go find his friends, try to slide back into their lives. To stop feeling so damn strongly that they'd forgotten him.
Those were bad days. And he'd prefer not to think about them at all, thanks all the same. But he is anyway, feeling his eyes glazing over, the intricate Scrabble-board pattern of pipes coming back into focus.
And he's thinking about all this because here's Oz, casual as can be, right there in the doorway. How does he do that? He should be scared. Shitting his pants that they don't remember him, that they'll turn him away, stare through him easy as through a window. But he's not, and that's just pissing Xander off.
So why is it, great mysterious brain, that when he opens his mouth he goes all whiny and Super-Yenta? "--you don't call, you don't write."
*He* remembered Oz, remembered him every and wondered where he was, that's why. Maybe he's not mad at Oz for not being scared. Maybe he's just disappointed that Oz isn't scared. Because now Xander has nothing to help him feel better about.
Hence, nagging granny.
Damn it.
Oz's hand slips from his, and it's cool, the way his attention slips away, too, only briefly snagged on Xander, now returning back to what's important. Xander still wants to know what it's like to be able to walk away like that. Come back obviously changed but not afraid.
He'd also like to know what this is like for everyone else. How cool would it be to be able to zip out of his body into a little Tinkerbelle-firefly thing and zoom inside each of them, poke around their brains and feelings. Their hearts? Wherever it is that feelings live, anyway. Fly in and get a good look at what's going on.
Willow first: Grief welling back up, thick like snot after a good crying jag, with this little froth of anger on top, but mostly sadness mixing now with relief. Buffy next: curiosity in little spikes like the grass on a golf course right after reseeding. There's some relief too, but much thinner than Willow's. She probably wants to ask what it feels like off the Hellmouth, how people live without killing and dying. Riley: Baffled and polite. Normal for the guy. Last, Giles: Xander-belle's usually no good at flitting into Giles's head and buzzing around, but this time it's easy. Worry collapsing, demo'd like an ancient warehouse, and Xander never knew until just now, as the dust of relief billows up in Giles, just how much he must care about Oz. That's something to think about later, definitely.
Anya? Xander's pretty sure Oz is the last thing on her mind. Tara, too: Not like she has any idea who Oz is, right?
So everyone's taken care of. That just leaves Xander himself, with this icky mess of pissiness and happiness fogging him up from the inside out. He wishes he could take back the handshake and either deck Oz or hug him really, really hard. Not that he has any choice in the matter, because, looky there, Oz is already gone again.
How the hell does he do that?