Fic: No Cold and Heat (Oz/Xander) PG
Title: No Cold and Heat
Rating: PG
Pairing: Oz/Xander (just barely; this is mostly an Oz story)
Thanks to: moosesal for the beta.
Written for: ponders_life, who made a donation to Katrina Charity relief and wanted future fic featuring Xander and Oz, and involving a rescue of some kind. She also wanted some idea of what the gang was up to.
*
After a month, Oz stops tracking the passing of days. Time continues moving forward and he exists in a state of pain, in a bare room, on a concrete floor, and after a while it seems easier to retreat.
He floats along in a place that's elsewhere and here he lives Zen Koans. He asks Tozan if there is a place where there is no cold or heat and Tozan tells him that when he is cold, to be thoroughly cold; when he's hot, to be hot through and through.
It's not what he wants to hear, so he leaves Tozan, and he studies with Joshu, tries to wake the meditating girl, and washes his bowl. Here, Oz sits with Seijo, and they speak of her two souls and Oz isn't in much of a hurry to return.
*
The sense of chaos in the real world brings Oz back into himself and it's a harsh, jarring return. The light seems brighter than the last time Oz was aware of it, the air is filled with more stench than he remembers, and the sounds are--not right. Screams. The pounding of feet. Guns firing. Fists connecting with flesh.
Oz knows all of these sounds but not in any context that connects them with this place. He searches for enlightenment amongst it all, struggles to reach it, but then the door to his cell swings open (and perhaps this itself is a form of enlightenment, but Oz is unsure).
There is a girl by the door, a warrior. She beckons Oz forward, and he looks at the open door, at the blood on her hands, and he thinks that if he weren't too weak to move, and if he had a pair of sandals, he would set the sandals upon his head and walk humbly towards her.
*
Oz's mouth won't work to speak, and when he tries to see, delirium and exhaustion make it impossible. But Oz feels the hands that tend him, practical and compassionate, and he hears the voice that speaks to him, calm and reassuring.
The voice whispers to him about fevers and infections, and Oz knows these words, these concepts. He thinks of Tozan, understands and accepts, and when the voice warns him of pain, Oz opens himself to it, feels it so completely that there is no pain, and then he sleeps.
*
Oz doesn't know how many times he drifts upwards out of unconsciousness, but it's often and never lasts long. More often than not he dreams, and in them he swirls through vivid surreal landscapes of things he knows not, places he's been, people he's never met, and those he left behind.
If dreams bring portents, then he is either saved or fated to be eaten by a large monkey in a bear suit. It's really anyone's guess.
*
There comes a point when Oz drifts awake and when he opens his eyes his vision is clear. He knows that he won't be slipping away again and once the world stops blurring and spinning, he looks around.
The room he's in is large and has been converted into a makeshift infirmary. There are several cots and hospital beds on either side of Oz, as well as metal trays that hold neat, tidy lines of sterilized and pre-packaged medical equipment.
The colors in the room are warm and inviting and it's clear that this is meant to be a place of healing, not merely of mending.
He hears a surprised intake of breath and turns his head. There's a man standing at the door across from Oz. His hair is dark, peppered with gray, and he's worn about the face, but Oz sees the boy he used to be in the shape of his smile, the lift of his brows.
Oz smiles faintly at Xander and thinks that, yes, those hands would be capable, and that voice would be soothing.
*
"It was a zoo," Xander tells him.
Oz already knows this from his limited perspective, from the glass wall in his cell, but Xander gives him the full picture of all of the people and creatures that were on display, held against their wills. Though Oz never saw so much as one of his cohort he still closes his eyes in pain when Xander tells him of the many who didn't make it.
"The full moon was last week. We weren't sure if you'd change, since you were so weak."
"I can always change," Oz whispers, slow and broken, still unused to speaking again. "Even when I wish I can't."
Xander blinks at him with one eye, tilts his head to the side, and Oz sees the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, a tale of smiles and laughter amid a life of battle and loss.
"I think that's true for everyone," Xander says after a time and Oz wants to kiss him.
*
Willow bears a scent that's hers, but not. Change, of course. Nothing is impervious to it, not even memories. Every recollection he has of Willow will be different now, touched by this new version of her.
"We all went our own way at first," she says, and her lips twist like she knows how ridiculous it was to think they'd stay apart for long. "But things went a little south. Or, a whole lot south. We're better when we're together."
She tells him about a mutiny in the Slayers ranks five years ago, and there's a cold practicality in her eyes that sits side-by-side with the earnestness of the girl she once was.
"It'll never end," Willow says tiredly. "There's always Slayers who go rogue, who can find others to join them. Sometimes we spend more time fighting them than we do the real baddies."
Down by her scalp, Oz sees sprinkles of gray growing in, a halo at the roots of hair that she still dyes. The same, but different, like her scent, like the feel of her magic, like her.
*
Eventually Oz is moved out of the infirmary, and he walks upstairs from the basement into a veritable mansion.
"Where are we?" Oz asks.
"Cleveland," Xander answers. "There's only so much Slayer insurrection you can deal with before you lose sight of your purpose and need to go back to your beginnings." Oz arches a brow and Xander shrugs. "It's a Hellmouth."
"Ah. Should've guessed that."
Xander walks beside him, up a wide staircase to the second floor, and when Oz stumbles, there's a hand at his elbow to steady him, and a quick assessing glance, before they resume climbing.
"The original gang all lives here. There's always a ton of Slayers around, too, since this is our training ground. We come and go, but not as much as we used to." Xander rubs the back of his neck, sighs softly. "We're getting old, and it gives me a new respect for Giles."
There's a pointed look that comes along with that last statement, but Oz ignores it, focuses on finishing his ascent to the next level, and stops for a rest when he reaches the landing.
*
When Oz has recovered enough, Xander takes him on a full tour of the mansion. As they stand in the center of the massive library on the fourth floor, with its floor to ceiling shelves, sturdy wooden tables and uncomfortable matching chairs, Xander tells him that this is where Giles died.
"It was an aneurysm about two years ago. They say it was quick."
Oz can see that so clearly: Giles, aged and creaking, leaving this world amidst the scent of old books and furniture polish, in a treasured place in the center of this house that is a testament to the dynasty he helped create.
"It's fitting," Oz whispers, and Xander wipes his eyes and nods.
*
Dawn comes and goes in a burst of energy that leaves Oz dizzy and tired. She's still a fount of speech and movement, and her youthful enthusiasm has transcended to an adult passion. She feels deeply, fervently, with a conviction that shines as brightly as her eyes, and he thinks there can't be someone better suited as Senior Field Watcher than her.
"They grow up so fast," Xander comments, coming into Oz's room on the heels of Dawn's departure. "I remember when she was just a ball of green light--wait, I told you about that, right?"
Oz quirks his lips, nods, and reaches for his coat. "You also told me we could go outside today."
Xander rubs his hands together and grins. "So I did. And you told me you'd think of somewhere you wanted to go."
"A park," Oz answers as he buttons his coat. "The bigger the better."
*
It's the sight of Buffy that is the beginning of an end for Oz.
"I heard you were here," she says with a smile. It's tired but genuine, and it's not as freely given as it once was, but she means it as much as she can at the moment.
She's just arriving back from a trip to California, and after they sit at the table with warm drinks in thick ceramic mugs, she tells him, "They were going to rebuild on the Sunnydale site."
"That's...not smart."
Her lips twitch and she laughs a little. "Still a master of understatement. But I bribed them. A lot. We should be good for another few years."
They talk for several hours, and she should seem the most different, the most changed. But what Oz sees on her surface now is what he always saw under skin in the past, and in a way that makes her more the same than any of them. It also makes her a sadder sight, too, but he doesn't let that show.
*
Despite the fact that Xander has been pushing him towards this end, he's hesitant when Oz approaches him.
"Are you sure? You've been pretty against it up until now."
There are words Oz could offer, reassurances in the form of explanations, but all he does is nod and say, "I'm sure."
Xander tucks his hands into his pockets, rocks on his heels slightly. "Who am I to argue, then? How do you want to do this?"
Oz has given this some thought and he can only end and start with himself, so he tells Xander, "I need a mirror."
*
Oz stands just inside the doorway of Xander's room, facing it, while Xander stands to the side with one hand on the door itself.
"On three," Xander says and waits until Oz nods before he begins counting.
The door swings shut on two, and later Oz will decide it was better that way, that it came at him without preparation.
The first thing he notices is his hair. The natural red has bled away, been overtaken by strands that aren't exactly gray, but are the palest auburn; a midway point between the freshness of youth and the brittleness of age. Everything else sinks in slowly after that first shock: his face is older, wrinkled, and rougher, his eyes are duller in hue, and he seems smaller, slighter.
He sees the man he used to be in the width of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils, and he doesn't realize how much he's shaking until Xander steps up behind him, sets his hands on Oz's shoulders, and squeezes tightly.
*
"Do you want me to tell you?"
It's been four days since Oz faced himself again and since then he's spent most of his time in front of mirrors. He and Xander are sitting on a bench in the sprawling back yard of the house, and Oz looks up from contemplation of his hands at Xander's question.
"I'm not sure I want to know."
"You need to, though."
"Yeah."
"You can do it in your own time."
Xander hands him a folded newspaper and Oz settles it on his lap then reaches out when Xander starts to rise. The forearm he grips is dotted with small scars that never used to be there, and he strokes coarse hair with his fingertips.
"Don't go," he says and Xander sits again. Oz can feel the weight of Xander's stare on him when he opens the newspaper, and the expectancy is almost cloying. He ignores it, finds what he's looking for, and doesn't say anything until Xander nudges him.
When Oz speaks, he does so carefully, measures his breath so that when his words leave his mouth they take with them the last of his dissonance.
"I'm forty-two."
*
If Xander's surprised when Oz knocks on his door, he gives no indication. Maybe he was expecting this, or maybe there's just little that can truly surprise him anymore. It doesn't matter, though, so Oz doesn't consider it for long.
They lie on Xander's bed, on their sides, facing one another. They kiss without further intent and their hands touch through clothing that there's no urge to remove. It's an introduction, made with the patient calm of maturity, not the hurried desperation of youth.
A short while later they slide under the covers. Xander reaches out and turns off the light, and Oz finds comfortable dips and curves in the mattress to burrow into for the night.
"Oz? How long were you there?"
In the darkness, Oz smiles. "It doesn't matter."
"No, I guess it doesn't," Xander says after a time, and Oz kisses him softly.
*
.End
Rating: PG
Pairing: Oz/Xander (just barely; this is mostly an Oz story)
Thanks to: moosesal for the beta.
Written for: ponders_life, who made a donation to Katrina Charity relief and wanted future fic featuring Xander and Oz, and involving a rescue of some kind. She also wanted some idea of what the gang was up to.
*
After a month, Oz stops tracking the passing of days. Time continues moving forward and he exists in a state of pain, in a bare room, on a concrete floor, and after a while it seems easier to retreat.
He floats along in a place that's elsewhere and here he lives Zen Koans. He asks Tozan if there is a place where there is no cold or heat and Tozan tells him that when he is cold, to be thoroughly cold; when he's hot, to be hot through and through.
It's not what he wants to hear, so he leaves Tozan, and he studies with Joshu, tries to wake the meditating girl, and washes his bowl. Here, Oz sits with Seijo, and they speak of her two souls and Oz isn't in much of a hurry to return.
*
The sense of chaos in the real world brings Oz back into himself and it's a harsh, jarring return. The light seems brighter than the last time Oz was aware of it, the air is filled with more stench than he remembers, and the sounds are--not right. Screams. The pounding of feet. Guns firing. Fists connecting with flesh.
Oz knows all of these sounds but not in any context that connects them with this place. He searches for enlightenment amongst it all, struggles to reach it, but then the door to his cell swings open (and perhaps this itself is a form of enlightenment, but Oz is unsure).
There is a girl by the door, a warrior. She beckons Oz forward, and he looks at the open door, at the blood on her hands, and he thinks that if he weren't too weak to move, and if he had a pair of sandals, he would set the sandals upon his head and walk humbly towards her.
*
Oz's mouth won't work to speak, and when he tries to see, delirium and exhaustion make it impossible. But Oz feels the hands that tend him, practical and compassionate, and he hears the voice that speaks to him, calm and reassuring.
The voice whispers to him about fevers and infections, and Oz knows these words, these concepts. He thinks of Tozan, understands and accepts, and when the voice warns him of pain, Oz opens himself to it, feels it so completely that there is no pain, and then he sleeps.
*
Oz doesn't know how many times he drifts upwards out of unconsciousness, but it's often and never lasts long. More often than not he dreams, and in them he swirls through vivid surreal landscapes of things he knows not, places he's been, people he's never met, and those he left behind.
If dreams bring portents, then he is either saved or fated to be eaten by a large monkey in a bear suit. It's really anyone's guess.
*
There comes a point when Oz drifts awake and when he opens his eyes his vision is clear. He knows that he won't be slipping away again and once the world stops blurring and spinning, he looks around.
The room he's in is large and has been converted into a makeshift infirmary. There are several cots and hospital beds on either side of Oz, as well as metal trays that hold neat, tidy lines of sterilized and pre-packaged medical equipment.
The colors in the room are warm and inviting and it's clear that this is meant to be a place of healing, not merely of mending.
He hears a surprised intake of breath and turns his head. There's a man standing at the door across from Oz. His hair is dark, peppered with gray, and he's worn about the face, but Oz sees the boy he used to be in the shape of his smile, the lift of his brows.
Oz smiles faintly at Xander and thinks that, yes, those hands would be capable, and that voice would be soothing.
*
"It was a zoo," Xander tells him.
Oz already knows this from his limited perspective, from the glass wall in his cell, but Xander gives him the full picture of all of the people and creatures that were on display, held against their wills. Though Oz never saw so much as one of his cohort he still closes his eyes in pain when Xander tells him of the many who didn't make it.
"The full moon was last week. We weren't sure if you'd change, since you were so weak."
"I can always change," Oz whispers, slow and broken, still unused to speaking again. "Even when I wish I can't."
Xander blinks at him with one eye, tilts his head to the side, and Oz sees the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, a tale of smiles and laughter amid a life of battle and loss.
"I think that's true for everyone," Xander says after a time and Oz wants to kiss him.
*
Willow bears a scent that's hers, but not. Change, of course. Nothing is impervious to it, not even memories. Every recollection he has of Willow will be different now, touched by this new version of her.
"We all went our own way at first," she says, and her lips twist like she knows how ridiculous it was to think they'd stay apart for long. "But things went a little south. Or, a whole lot south. We're better when we're together."
She tells him about a mutiny in the Slayers ranks five years ago, and there's a cold practicality in her eyes that sits side-by-side with the earnestness of the girl she once was.
"It'll never end," Willow says tiredly. "There's always Slayers who go rogue, who can find others to join them. Sometimes we spend more time fighting them than we do the real baddies."
Down by her scalp, Oz sees sprinkles of gray growing in, a halo at the roots of hair that she still dyes. The same, but different, like her scent, like the feel of her magic, like her.
*
Eventually Oz is moved out of the infirmary, and he walks upstairs from the basement into a veritable mansion.
"Where are we?" Oz asks.
"Cleveland," Xander answers. "There's only so much Slayer insurrection you can deal with before you lose sight of your purpose and need to go back to your beginnings." Oz arches a brow and Xander shrugs. "It's a Hellmouth."
"Ah. Should've guessed that."
Xander walks beside him, up a wide staircase to the second floor, and when Oz stumbles, there's a hand at his elbow to steady him, and a quick assessing glance, before they resume climbing.
"The original gang all lives here. There's always a ton of Slayers around, too, since this is our training ground. We come and go, but not as much as we used to." Xander rubs the back of his neck, sighs softly. "We're getting old, and it gives me a new respect for Giles."
There's a pointed look that comes along with that last statement, but Oz ignores it, focuses on finishing his ascent to the next level, and stops for a rest when he reaches the landing.
*
When Oz has recovered enough, Xander takes him on a full tour of the mansion. As they stand in the center of the massive library on the fourth floor, with its floor to ceiling shelves, sturdy wooden tables and uncomfortable matching chairs, Xander tells him that this is where Giles died.
"It was an aneurysm about two years ago. They say it was quick."
Oz can see that so clearly: Giles, aged and creaking, leaving this world amidst the scent of old books and furniture polish, in a treasured place in the center of this house that is a testament to the dynasty he helped create.
"It's fitting," Oz whispers, and Xander wipes his eyes and nods.
*
Dawn comes and goes in a burst of energy that leaves Oz dizzy and tired. She's still a fount of speech and movement, and her youthful enthusiasm has transcended to an adult passion. She feels deeply, fervently, with a conviction that shines as brightly as her eyes, and he thinks there can't be someone better suited as Senior Field Watcher than her.
"They grow up so fast," Xander comments, coming into Oz's room on the heels of Dawn's departure. "I remember when she was just a ball of green light--wait, I told you about that, right?"
Oz quirks his lips, nods, and reaches for his coat. "You also told me we could go outside today."
Xander rubs his hands together and grins. "So I did. And you told me you'd think of somewhere you wanted to go."
"A park," Oz answers as he buttons his coat. "The bigger the better."
*
It's the sight of Buffy that is the beginning of an end for Oz.
"I heard you were here," she says with a smile. It's tired but genuine, and it's not as freely given as it once was, but she means it as much as she can at the moment.
She's just arriving back from a trip to California, and after they sit at the table with warm drinks in thick ceramic mugs, she tells him, "They were going to rebuild on the Sunnydale site."
"That's...not smart."
Her lips twitch and she laughs a little. "Still a master of understatement. But I bribed them. A lot. We should be good for another few years."
They talk for several hours, and she should seem the most different, the most changed. But what Oz sees on her surface now is what he always saw under skin in the past, and in a way that makes her more the same than any of them. It also makes her a sadder sight, too, but he doesn't let that show.
*
Despite the fact that Xander has been pushing him towards this end, he's hesitant when Oz approaches him.
"Are you sure? You've been pretty against it up until now."
There are words Oz could offer, reassurances in the form of explanations, but all he does is nod and say, "I'm sure."
Xander tucks his hands into his pockets, rocks on his heels slightly. "Who am I to argue, then? How do you want to do this?"
Oz has given this some thought and he can only end and start with himself, so he tells Xander, "I need a mirror."
*
Oz stands just inside the doorway of Xander's room, facing it, while Xander stands to the side with one hand on the door itself.
"On three," Xander says and waits until Oz nods before he begins counting.
The door swings shut on two, and later Oz will decide it was better that way, that it came at him without preparation.
The first thing he notices is his hair. The natural red has bled away, been overtaken by strands that aren't exactly gray, but are the palest auburn; a midway point between the freshness of youth and the brittleness of age. Everything else sinks in slowly after that first shock: his face is older, wrinkled, and rougher, his eyes are duller in hue, and he seems smaller, slighter.
He sees the man he used to be in the width of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils, and he doesn't realize how much he's shaking until Xander steps up behind him, sets his hands on Oz's shoulders, and squeezes tightly.
*
"Do you want me to tell you?"
It's been four days since Oz faced himself again and since then he's spent most of his time in front of mirrors. He and Xander are sitting on a bench in the sprawling back yard of the house, and Oz looks up from contemplation of his hands at Xander's question.
"I'm not sure I want to know."
"You need to, though."
"Yeah."
"You can do it in your own time."
Xander hands him a folded newspaper and Oz settles it on his lap then reaches out when Xander starts to rise. The forearm he grips is dotted with small scars that never used to be there, and he strokes coarse hair with his fingertips.
"Don't go," he says and Xander sits again. Oz can feel the weight of Xander's stare on him when he opens the newspaper, and the expectancy is almost cloying. He ignores it, finds what he's looking for, and doesn't say anything until Xander nudges him.
When Oz speaks, he does so carefully, measures his breath so that when his words leave his mouth they take with them the last of his dissonance.
"I'm forty-two."
*
If Xander's surprised when Oz knocks on his door, he gives no indication. Maybe he was expecting this, or maybe there's just little that can truly surprise him anymore. It doesn't matter, though, so Oz doesn't consider it for long.
They lie on Xander's bed, on their sides, facing one another. They kiss without further intent and their hands touch through clothing that there's no urge to remove. It's an introduction, made with the patient calm of maturity, not the hurried desperation of youth.
A short while later they slide under the covers. Xander reaches out and turns off the light, and Oz finds comfortable dips and curves in the mattress to burrow into for the night.
"Oz? How long were you there?"
In the darkness, Oz smiles. "It doesn't matter."
"No, I guess it doesn't," Xander says after a time, and Oz kisses him softly.
*
.End