Title: The Slacker That Captured My Blood Pump (1/1)
Author: Queena
E-mail: thessulah@aol.com
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Just read it and find out.
Feedback: Muchly appreciated.
Disclaimer: Joss owns these lovely characters.
Author’s Notes: This comes from Buffy’s sad and tormented head. It’s all her POV. WARNING: Jumps around a bit.
Dedication: To my wonderfully slackeresque brother, who was the idiot who came up with this title, so don’t blame me. No, actually I like the title. So there.
Other Notes: Lyrics from the songs “No. 1 Crush” by Garbage and “Closer” by NIN.

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“Ooooomph!” God, this is so not how it’s supposed to be going. I’m supposed to be winning. I’m the Slayer. I always win. Of course, there are six of them and one of me. But I can’t die tonight. I have that ‘Les Miserable’ essay for Holden’s class due tomorrow. Where’s a Slayerette when you need one? Oh yeah, they’re all off at their own colleges. Wesley, the Wimp isn’t doing much good knocked out by the tree. Geez, is it every Watcher’s fate to get knocked out every time their Slayer is in a life or death situation?

“Uuuugghhh!” God, that hurt. Tree, hurt, bad. Okay, let’s party, fangface. Boot to the head. How do you like that? Wow, dust. I didn’t do that. Who the Hell....oh, wait. No time for that. Roundhouse, swing, duck, oomph, side step swing, dust, repeat. One dead vamp, two dead vamps, three dead vamps, no more vamps. Where did all the vamps go? There were still three left and now there’s only....Oz.

God, Oz. I’ve never been this happy to see his mute, little self. Well, that might be a lie. He’s the only Slayerette around now. “You get his feet,” Oz says and grabs Wesley’s wrists. Okay, come on oh fearless Watcher. You’re more of a burden than an asset. Into the back of Oz’s van, nice and snug. And hopefully that propped up guitar case will fall over on you on the way.

“Thanks for the help. Again.” Lately, he’s been the best. Showing up out of nowhere, fighting off some of the beasts that I should be able to take care of myself. I’ve been a spoiled Slayer, relying on my friends for help. It’s hard to get used to not having them around. At least, I still have Oz. Which isn’t as bad as I first thought it would be.

“No problem.” And again he slips one of those tapes into the deck, loud music flooding through the stereo system. Just his way of getting out of an awkward conversation with me. Or anyone, for that matter. So’kay though. I understand the need for comfortable silences. They’re just not so comfortable anymore. They haven’t been since he and Willow broke up. I know he thinks that the only reason for me and him being friends was Willow. Still, he’s here, completely unable to forget what he knows, to ignore the darkness that he’s seen me fight.

He’s gotten a lot better too. Ever since he started hanging with that weird guy with the studded leather jacket. Better at slaying, I mean. He shows up and takes out a fair amount of the offenders. Before he used to get tossed about like a rag doll. Raggedy Andy. Ha!

‘I would die for you, I would die for you.’ I like this song. I like to hear him singing. He has a nice voice. Okay, his singing isn’t like the bestest in the world, but just hearing his voice is nice, he so rarely talks that I have to take what I can get.

“Oooooohhhh.” Long moan from the Watcher guy. Oh, please don’t wake up. Do, just don’t wake up until we get you home. That way it won’t ruin the niceness of being with Oz. Yeah, niceness of being with Oz. I enjoy his company when I can get it. Lately, it’s just me, Giles and Wes, who have gotten oddly closer. Not *close* close, but they do have some things in common. Scary thought. Anyway, I don’t have any friends anymore. Sure, there are the few people that I talk to during the day and sometimes hang with, but they’re not really my friends. They can’t be ‘cause they don’t know. But Oz knows and he’s all I’ve got left, as sad as it may seem.

“Buffy, Buffy, behind you.” Okay. Just Wesley talking in his sleep. It is kinda cute though. He really cares. I know that now. And not because he has to, but because he just does. It might have something to do with Giles’ influence.

“What’s making you smile?” Ohmigod, words from the wordless. Eyes on the road, steering wheel firmly gripped, head bobbing to the beat of the music, he’s the picture of cuteness. I never really noticed until he and Willow broke up. Why did she break up with him anyway? Especially since he was all for a long distance relationship.

“I don’t know. I just felt like smiling. Is that okay with you.” Keep the playful tone to your voice, Buff. Never know when he’s going to take you seriously.

“It’s nice.” Short and sweet sentences. Just like him.

“What’s nice?”

“Your smile. It’s so rare.” Stop blushing, you twit. He’s giving you a friendly compliment. So much better than the open stares of appraisal from the guys in my classes, in the club, at the store. More respectful and true.

“I could say the same about you.” Turning from the road and smiling just for me. Is this what Willow felt like when he saved his smiles only for her? I doubt it. Willow never really knew what she had in Oz. This short, quiet, smart, funny, little man.

I fully admit that my feelings for Oz have become more than friendly. Okay, I admit to myself, but not to anyone else. I could tell him. He would never make fun of me or hurt me purposefully, but..... Oh, I don’t know. He just won’t feel the same way.

I like to watch him move. The pat of his feet hitting the cement as he jumps out of the van. Follow him and I get to watch him move again. Ha, watching him drag Wesley to the edge of the van by his ankles is cute. Isn’t everything he does cute?

“How did I get home?” Wesley’s always so confused when he wakes from hard hits to the head. Shouldn’t he start assuming by now? Oh, Oz wants me to help him get Wesley into his apartment. Mmmm, my fingertips just brushed over Oz’s side as we both wrap supporting arms around Wesley. I could get Wesley into his apartment by myself, but then I wouldn’t get to feel Oz’s warm body pressing against my fingers.

Hmmm, I wonder why Wesley smells like raspberries. Oh, yeah. That tea he drinks. Giles hates it. Says it has a bitter after-taste. Giles likes peppermint tea. He smells like peppermint. Why the Hell didn’t Giles come with us tonight? If he had, I probably wouldn’t have needed Oz’s help, so maybe it’s a good thing that he didn’t. But it is fun to watch Giles work with that small Saber he’s taken to carrying on our patrols. It’s his weapon of choice and he can really do some damage with it.

Plop, bounce, bounce. Wow, Wesley’s bed looks really soft. I wonder if Oz’s bed is soft, or if it doesn’t have a boxspring, or if he sleeps on a couch. Hmmmm, I wonder if he wears boxers or briefs. Definitely boxers. Oh, wait. Mind on injured Watcher. “Are you okay, Wes? You want me to make you some tea?”

“Oh, no thank you, Buffy. Go home and get some rest. Thank you, Oz.” He looks ragged. His hair is stuck up from where his head hit the tree. Well, if he didn’t use a whole tube of Dep every morning, he wouldn’t be stuck looking like Alfalfa.

“See ya tomorrow.”

“Bye, man.” He calls all guys ‘man’. I don’t think he’s ever called me ‘man’. Or any girl. Good. I hate when guys call girls ‘man’.

‘I want to fuck you like an animal’. Okay, bad images. Course, the song is perfect for Oz, being he’s a werewolf and all. I wonder if he likes it doggy-style. Ewwww, now I’m starting to sound like Faith, and that can’t be good.

“So, I haven’t seen you in Holden’s class for a day’s age. Are you slackin’ again, Oz?” Yeah, make conversation about boring stuff and you can stop thinking dirty.

“Yep.”

Okay, scenery. Watch the scenery. Lots of traffic. It’s only around eleven, but LA doesn’t ever seem to lack traffic. Or people or anything. Like that girl wearing the tight black cat-suit, with flame red hair. Weren’t many freaks in Sunnydale, well, other than the obvious Hellmouthy monsters.

I wonder where Angel is. I always wonder. Sometimes he writes me, but it’s not as good as seeing his face every day. But I love his beautiful scripty letters. He’s careful about what he writes. We both decided not to think too much about each other or dwell on our lost love. I know that Angel does though. Dwelling is Angel’s specialty. He always signs his letters ‘Love’. And that’s almost enough to make up for all of the brushes with death he tells me of. And I wonder when the letters are going to stop. I’ll never really know if he’s dead or if he just decided it would be better to stop our correspondence and it’ll plague my thoughts day and night.

All right. Time to start thinking about Oz again. Dangerous, but a lot less depressing than thinking about Angel. Okay, it’s not really dangerous, but I can pretend. Secret crushes always seem so much better when they’re dangerous. And it *is* kinda dangerous for me. I don’t want to care too much about him ‘cause I know I’ll only end up hurt in the end.

“What are you thinking about that makes you look so sad, Buffy?” He seems so sincerely concerned.

“You.” Did I just say that? No, bad Buffy. When are you going to learn that honesty sucks?

“What about me?” Everything.

“Everything.” Again with the honesty. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Everything about me makes you sad?” He can’t keep his gaze on me. Has to watch the road like a responsible driver. But he can throw glances in my direction. And he does.

“No. Everything about you makes me happy. And that makes me sad.” Okay, give up. You can’t lie to him. You never really could. What is it about him that makes me so forth-coming? Maybe it’s his quiet acceptance of everything.

“Why?”

“Why does everything about you make me happy? Or why does that make me sad?”

“Why does it make you sad?” Oh, oh no. Are we at my house already? I wish we weren’t. I wish I could stay with him for a little longer. But not talk, ‘cause this conversation is getting way too deep.

“Because it’s the only thing that makes me happy.” Silence. Long contemplating silence. He’s so good at being quiet.

“Come here.” What? Huh? Why?

“Why?” No answer, just a head nod, gesturing for me to lean closer to him. One inch, two inches, three inches, one inch away. Strong arms pulling me against him. His chin rested on my shoulder. His hand, his perfect hand, guiding my head down to his shoulder. A hug. The most perfect form of affection. Perfect.

“You make me sad too.”

“Why?” Don’t talk. Just hold me like this. Just keep stroking my hair. Just comfort me.

“Because I’m scared for you. Every night. Every day.” The Slayer thing, right? Everyone is scared because I’m the Slayer. But I can handle that now. I’ve dealt with it for four and a half years. What I can’t handle is the loneliness.

“I can take care of myself.” Don’t be harsh, Buffy. He’s just showing concern.

“Can you? You’re so fragile. More than you think.” How does he know that? He hardly knows me. I’ve known him for so long and he knows so little about me. And I know so little about him.

No more talking. Just him holding me. And me clinging to him for dear life. The soft pressure of his cheek pressed against my neck. The coarse feeling of his goatee scratching against my well-moisturized skin. The smell of him filling my nostrils. Like laundry detergent and deodorant and Oz. Just Oz. Callused hands stroking up and down my arms in a comforting rhythm, painted fingernails scratching slightly. His heartbeat drumming a little faster than usual, my own matching his. Perfect, comforting, warm Oz. My friend. My wish.

NO! God, please don’t pull away! But it has to end sooner or later. And how long have we been clinging to each other like this? It seems like only seconds, but common sense tells me it was much longer.

“You’ll never give up will you?” He sounds so hopeful. I want to assure him so badly. Take all of his worries about me away. But how can I know for a fact that I won’t give up. I want to. All the time I just want to fade away. Maybe let one of those demons snap my neck, as they’re always trying to. But if he doesn’t want me to, I won’t.

“No. Never give up.” Proud hazel eyes. So much admiration. How can he admire someone as weak as I am? Who cares. He does. And that’s good enough to keep me going.

“Good night, Buffy.”

“Good night. Thanks for the ride.” And being here for me. And being you. And saving me from myself. And everything.

Thunk! Click, click, click. I really should wear more casual shoes when I’m fighting. I wonder what will be spat out at me tomorrow. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Because I told Oz I could.
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The End