creep
When you were here before / couldn't look you in the eye / you're just like an angel / your skin makes me cry

What Oz has got left is his van and everything inside it.

It doesn't amount to much. A few hundred dollars, maybe; some food, some clothes, someplace to stay. The guitar will have to go, the amp too. He doesn't need them anymore.

Or maybe he does, but doesn't want them.

He's not going to go back. He can't.

He's afraid of what will happen. There is a deep, cutting memory of how Tara's fear had smelled lingering in the back of Oz's mind, winding itself into everything he holds of Willow. Ghost traces of smoke in the color of her eyes and the feel of her skin against his, the oceansalt taste of her and oh. God.

What's inside him rises up and wraps gentle hands around his neck, tugs him down and onto his back until he's belly-up and aching.

It takes more than it should to bring himself back. Crystal moment of knowing Willow beside him, graceful lope, and it rips him up to look over and see the empty seat.

No trees. Desert as far as he can see, dry and brown and dead. Off somewhere, a few miles, something howls. It's not a wolf but it calls him all the same, tugs at something deep down.

Makes him itch until he wants to peel away his skin and see it. He could. Oz can feel the claws slipping out, shredding through his fingers like they're paper. It'd be easy to slip a claw in deep and pull up, cut through and tear. Rend the flesh and just look at everything he's made up of. Lick up the blood.

Very deliberately, he slams his hand against the edge of the dash, lets himself feel the shock all the way up his arm.

It doesn't hurt.

He hasn't taken the herbs in a while. Not since Sunnydale.

The howl comes again, closer and louder. Too high to be a wolf. Probably a coyote. He's in the right place for it.

Oz pulls the van over and slips outside. Feels a tingle on his skin that could be magic but is probably just the dry hot air. And it's so easy, so natural to fall into a crouch, brace a hand against the ground and search out a scent.

He could hunt here.

He wants to.

Curls his fingers into the crumbly dirt and the itch is worse, much much worse under his clothes and he absolutely knows he's sprouting fur where there shouldn't be. His t-shirt has become way too tight.

So've his jeans. So has his skin.

Oz crouches a little lower, settles his weight back and his body is all wrong. Shape and size and useless hairless thing, creeping along and whining. The tide pull in his blood feels strong and hot. Blood scent on the air and he wants so much to go. Running and running and running, clean snap of bone between his jaws, give of muscle under his teeth.

Oz tilts his head back. The bones in his hands are snapping, reknitting, a wash of sound and pain all down his spine, cracking like thunder. He stares at the moon, fat and full and yellow, hanging just above the horizon. Tilts his head back further to look at the pure black sky and the white stars.

Last, silent rush of power and he finally knows that the desert is hardly dead. It chirps and rustles and chuckles with all kinds of noise and smells. Hears the howl again and answers it.

This, then, is happiness.

in limbo
I'm lost at sea / Don't bother me / I've lost my way ... / You're living in a fantasy world / This beautiful world

And it's not really a surprise when he wakes up naked next to his van. The moon still has a hold on him, silver collar and spiderweb leash, tugging and tugging bringing him to heel.

Deep down, he knows this is how it's supposed to be.

Everything needs a chain. Otherwise there'd be anarchy.

Oz's clothes are hopelessly torn, dropped beside the asphalt. He pushes them around with his foot, picks up the shirt and holds it out in front of him. It's almost funny. He has a brief flash of himself in the dark, the shirt ripping along the seams like he's the Incredible Hulk, green and grunting yellow-eyed thing. Science gone horribly wrong.

Nothing convenient for him to blame this on. Everything he becomes is everything he already is, just nine million times more.

He hits the back doors of the van, rattles one of the windows loose and works it out. Climbs up onto the rear bumper and reaches in until he feels the door handle, pulls it open and slips inside. Oz doesn't have many clothes left.

He'll have to stop in a town. Hit the thrift stores, get some new/old things. Style comes not so much out of effort but out of being completely apathetic. It's always been easier to just cut pants short, to buy the older, worn things because he won't have to break them in.

They smell more interesting.

He shivers a little.

It's still kind of cold; there's no weight to the air to hold warmth or cold or anything. The van holds on to the temperature outside and brings it in. Suns itself wherever like a lizard or something else cold-blooded.

His van is a jelly donut.

He laughs, feels the context slam into him until he can't breathe. Could just be whatever he ate coming back. Probably.

He makes a face and searches out a bottle of water, less to drink than to just rinse away the taste of whatever he ate. Blood always leaves a nasty aftertaste, flat and rancid. It never seems to go away. He can taste blood in everything now. Even toothpaste, which is just...sad.

Oz searches out his loaf of bread. Seven grain wheat -- just because he's a monster doesn't mean he has to act like one.

He tells himself that. It's easier to take than the idea that he can taste the preservatives in wonder bread.

Roots out an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Boxers with a nice pot-leaf motif going on and those are definitely a gift from Devon. Pulls it all on, layers and layers of cotton between him and the rest of the world.

He doesn't have to get new clothes.

Oz climbs into t he driver's seat and starts the van. Wrinkles his nose at the stink of exhaust and burning oil.

He doesn't have to go to a town.

The sun is rising on his right. There's no smog or haze to mess up the view. Just bright blue sky on either side and the road in front of him, winding its way further out, black asphalt messing up the landscape.

He'll go north. If he sees a town, that's cool. He'll stop, get some clothes and food. Maybe spend a night in a bed. Take a hot shower. It'll be all civilized. Make him feel like a person again.

That'd be good.

If he doesn't see a town, that'll be better.

the national anthem
Everyone / Everyone is so near / Everyone has got the fear / It's holding on

He's definitely used to getting the fish-eye from people. Oz is little and wears nail polish and jewelry. He dyes his hair.

Yeah. Definitely used to the look.

Small towns are the worst. Suspicious glances and he gets followed when he's in the tiny grocery store getting some peanut butter and more water. Big butch man in a dirty hat and he smells like stale beer and sweat. Oz isn't going to point fingers. He's pretty sure he's not sweet smelling either.

It does make him buy a three-pack of plain white Hanes t-shirts, though. The jeans'll keep.

Butchman brushes up against Oz.

Doesn't imagine tearing out the man's throat, nuzzling into it. Cleaning the blood away.

When he turns around to walk past the guy, he sees that Butchman's eyes are pale, washed out blue in the middle of leathery skin. Red flannel shirt over white cotton, like the package he has in his hands.

Oz just looks at him patiently until the guy moves away, still giving him that look. Moves past him, and is almost by when the guy gives him a shove.

Keep on keeping on.

Oz goes to the counter and pays for his stuff. He's getting low on cash, too. Can't bring himself to care and he grabs the bag the girl gives him and goes to his van.

He drives very carefully away, back on to the state highway and when he can't see the town anymore, he floors it. The van protests like always, but actually starts moving faster, whines a little with the acceleration and starts everything to rattling.

He can't keep it up forever. The van will break down, blow a tire, run out of gas. He'll fall asleep and run off the road. Maybe into a cactus. Maybe he'll just disappear and show up from time to time in Star headlines like: monster in Arizona desert! Claims the lives of innocent rabbits!

Whatever.

It looks to be a pretty hot day. Oz cranks down the window and winces at the smell from outside. He turns up the stereo, cranks the bass higher until he can see everything vibrating a little more. Does nothing for the smell, but it makes him feel better.

Settles back for a long drive. Still heading north but he might swing by Salt Lake. Check out the natural attractions, get lost in the rocks. Maybe Yellowstone. What's a couple hundred miles, anyway? This is all good. Song of the road and this is exactly what everyone expected of him. Drive off into the sunset spreading poetry and cigarettes and he isn't a beatnik. Certainly doesn't wear berets and black turtlenecks. He's not a hippie either. And he never really got the grunge thing, his current clothes aside. Not a Goth, not really into punk. Neo-punk. Slacker skater surfer geek.

He doesn't know what he is, exactly.

Doesn't matter. He's got nothing but time to find out.

Steps on the gas some more and lets the force push him back in his seat. It's like a giant hand pressing against his chest and he takes comfort in it. Likes the knowledge that there's something bigger than he is out there holding on to him.

Gravity's high up on his list of good things. Time. That whole dimension quantum theory thing. He's pretty on board with entropy, too. Held in place by a whole load of natural laws and it's not such a horrible thing, really.

The beads he got in Tibet swing gently from rearview mirror.

treefingers
(instrumental)

He's definitely a city kid.

Nature is great as long as he's far away from it. Bugs and black water and all the dead trees reaching out for him, clutching at his clothes and hair, scratching his face, his feet, his arms.

Keeping him out. Trespasser here, where everything is the way it was intended to be. He's the unnatural in this place, human or otherwise.

The water's clean though. It's quiet.

He hasn't changed in a month, not even during the full moon. And maybe coming out this way was all he really needed. Get in touch with his primitive self. Embrace his inner beast. Bang away on a drum, scream a little. All that new age male stuff.

His jeans are all holey and his shirt has definitely seen better days, but he can't make himself drive down an hour and get new stuff.

All those people piled on top of each other, pressing in on him. Heavy perfume, all that artificial smell, concrete and metal and glass. Smoke and tar. Electric buzz. Cars and cars and more cars.

Maybe he'll go back in the spring. When it's wetter and the animals come back to their dens and kick him out.

Maybe.

everything in its right place
There are two colours in my head / What is that you tried to say?

He's not sure how long he's been here, but definitely longer than a month. Or two. Or like...eight.

His hair's long. Mostly red. He's got the Grizzly Adams thing working for him, but in miniature. Son of Yeti. He'll be one of those folk tales about the wild men up in the mountains. Crazy old hermit guy who mutters to himself and wears dead animals as hats.

It's not so bad.

His van is all covered in leaves and branches and growing things. He lives in it sometimes, when it rains. Most times he'll just sleep outside, let the rain wash him clean.

It burns on his skin. Little sparks of hurt. It didn't used to.

The sky is all weird too. Heavy and red, like a storm is coming out at sea even though he's pretty far from the ocean and it hasn't stormed in weeks. He keeps waiting for it, but nothing ever happens and it's seriously abnormal.

Last time Oz felt anything like this was the year he met Willow.

And. No need to dwell on any of that.

If stuff doesn't go back to normal, he'll go to town. Grab a newspaper. Get caught up.

Go back to Sunnydale and see if he can deal.

If it stays all weird.

He hopes it gets back to normal soon.

idioteque
Ice age coming, ice age coming / Let me hear both sides / Ice age coming, ice age coming / throw me in the fire

The town's deserted when he finally gets there. The cars are still around, and the food in the grocery has gone bad, but no one answers his calls. There are broken windows all around him and when he tries the door to one of the houses, it swings open slowly. He leans in, looks around. No one comes to yell at him for coming in uninvited.

Weird.

He walks inside, sniffing and listening and trying to hear something other than his own heartbeat and the hum of his blood.

Upstairs. Bad smell.

The stairs creak under his feet. The smell gets worse when he gets to the second floor and he tries the doors one by one.

The first leads to a bathroom. Broken windows, broken mirror, and there's stuff growing on the walls. Definite bad scene because even Devon would do something before it got this bad. The next door is the big bedroom and the badness is multiplied.

Nothing wrong just empty.

He's almost afraid to try the third door. The smell is worst here, and that humming maybe isn't his blood after all. Oz puts his hands against the door, braces himself and he really doesn't want to open it.

He's going to regret opening it. Oz knows this the way he knows that Buffy can kick his ass, and the way he knows when something is out of tune.

He does it anyway.

The door stops about halfway open and Oz only catches a quick glance at the room before he slams the door shut and runs out of the house.

Nasty wet-rot smell and the humming had come from a shape on the tiny sleigh bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and it had moved.

Heaved and writhed and Oz is man enough to admit when he's scared stupid. He looks back at the house from across the street, picks out the window to the room with the bad stuff. The window is solid black and he'll bet almost anything that it's not at all dark enough for that to be right.

God.

Oz looks up at the sky, red and angrier looking than ever.

There's a hard, quick wind biting through his clothes and slicing through his skin, tearing off little bits of him and scattering them around like feathers.

No birds singing. No crickets. No radio. Still and quiet except for the far-off buzzing of flies.

It's cold out.

Or maybe it's just him.

motion picture soundtrack
Beautiful angel / Pulled apart at birth / Limbless and helpless / I can't even recognize you / I think you're crazy, maybe / I will see you in the next life.

Sunnydale looks like it's been sucked away.

The buildings are mostly gone, and where they aren't, they've got people huddled in corners and doorways, holloweyed and scared. A few of the braver people venture out to stare at him, probably to shake him down.

They look hungry.

Oz huddles into his heavy jacket, walks faster down the street toward Giles' apartment. Terror is gnawing at him, leaving deep scratches all along his insides and he has to believe that Giles will know what's happening.

Has to because anything else would drive him crazy. More crazy.

Everything will be okay if he can get to Giles'.

Everything will be okay.

Something grabs him from behind, covers his mouth and Oz's body has never really forgotten Sunnydale Survival 101. He slams his elbow back and bites down on the hand against his mouth. Takes off running and doesn't look back. It'll only get him killed and anyway, away is ahead of him.

He's totally on auto-pilot and his body remembers everything to do. Breathe, run, breathe. Turn on Elm. Keep running and Giles' apartment is only a few blocks away.

Oz will make it.

Except--

He has nothing to make it to.

Giles' apartment building is gone. Burnt out rubble, like pictures of the Blitz. And that bad smell.

Oh, God.

And Oz has never been deeply into the praying thing, but he's praying to everything he can think of that he's made a wrong turn somewhere. Or that he's asleep and dreaming.

Or just that he's gone crazy.

He picks his way over the low walls and into what used to be the courtyard outside Giles' door. All the brick has burn marks and the mess is worse the closer he gets to the door. Ivy's started to grow everywhere, dandelions and golden poppies sprouting up in the cracks between paving stones. The burn marks get darker and heavier as he makes his way in. There's a clear spot where Oz vaguely remembers the living room being, and whatever happened, happened right there.

There's a crunch behind him, like footsteps on gravel, and he turns around. It's still daylight. Even here, he should be safe for a few more hours.

No one.

He's imagining things.

He kneels in the middle of the clear spot, tries to find anything that'll let him in on what's going on.

Nothing to be found and it's definitely getting colder. He pulls his jacket close around him and wishes, not for the first time, that he'd just stayed in the forest. It's all so much easier there. Hunt and eat and sleep. None of this dread settling like ice in his stomach.

For the first time in a very long time, Oz feels the wolf inside him clawing to get free.

He lets it out, just a little. It rises in him, waves and waves of panic and distress and god oh oh god he's so hungry and this place makes his skin crawl. Bad place, bad smell. Awareness shivers up his spine and Oz drops to all fours, sniffs out around the ruins of the apartment.

He cowers low to the ground, feeling a whine build up in his throat. Dead reptile smell that he knows is vampire, and the sharp ozone of magic. Big magic done a while ago to leave this much of a trace in concrete and something else. Not magic, not vampire, not dead, not human. Other. And whatever happened here is so far beyond bad that Oz doesn't have a word for it.

Another crunch.

He's forgotten so much living out on his own. Away from the Hellmouth and even though he's got a personal version of the badness inside him, even though he ran as far as he could to put it behind him, he just...forgot. There are worse things than vampires.

He's not going to turn around.