*****

"Hey."

Willow jerked her head up. "Hey," she said, softly, her whole face brightening.

"We should talk."

She nodded, determined not to make him feel guilty, whatever he said. "We should." She made room for Oz on the bench next to her.

"Not here," he elaborated.

"Oh. Uh, I have a test next period. I can't really ditch . . ."

He smiled. "Didn't expect you to. Tomorrow night. I'll pick you up. Seven?"

Nervous and trying not to show it, she said brightly, "Sounds good."

He started to leave, then turned back suddenly, eyeing her closely. "Your makeup is smudged," he finally volunteered.

She dropped her eyes for a second. "Oh. Uh, where?"

He didn't answer her, just dropped to the bench next to her, studying her face in the sunlight. "You've been crying."

"Yeah."

"Because of . . .?"

She smiled reassuringly at him. "Not really. Whatever you decide, I know that you and I can survive it." She stroked his hand where it had wandered to her arm.

He grinned suddenly. She tilted her head to the side, asking a silent question. He swallowed, and for just a second, she saw a depth of emotion lying just beneath the surface of his carefully constructed facade. "I admire you," Oz said simply.

She smiled. "Where's the mascara?" she asked again, moving her thumb to her mouth to wet it.

He took her hand in his and sucked the tip of her finger between his lips, wetting it thoroughly before applying it to the corner of her eye, effectively removing the black smudge. He never broke eye contact with her once. "There. Now no one will mistake you for a raccoon," he promised, standing and giving her a quick kiss on her nose before walking away.

It took her a full minute to recall the basic mechanics of breathing.

*****

Oz went to see Angel that night, letting himself into the mansion where the soulful vampire lived. Well, would have lived, if he weren't actually dead. "Hey," he began, a little uncomfortable.

Angel blinked up at him, setting aside his book, and stood from his seat by the fireplace. "Oz."

"Gotta ask something."

"I guess I owe you one," Angel agreed. He had, after all, kept a fairly important secret about the werewolf--one he really had no right to keep.

"Did you ever buy Buffy jewelry?" the short teenager asked suddenly.

Surprised, Angel paused for a second. "Well, yes. A necklace, once, and a ring."

"How did you figure her size?"

Angel smiled as understanding dawned. "I see. Well, actually, I stole one of her rings and took it to the shop with me." He shrugged. "I'm good at skulking," he explained.

Oz didn't reply, merely stared at the floor in thought.

"You know, if I hadn't had access to her jewelry," Angel began, slowly, almost musing. "I might have asked Willow to find out for me. Girls are good at that," he added.

"Probably. Enjoy your book." He left.

*****

*Settle!* Willow commanded herself, pacing frantically around her room. She'd been on hundreds of dates with him, and she was more nervous right now than she'd ever been. More nervous even than her Christmas Eve tableau of seduction had made her.

"Willow, dear, are you joining us for dinner?"

Willow stopped dead in her tracks, and tried to stop the shaking of her hands. "No, Mom," she called back.

Her mother knocked on her daughter's bedroom door as she opened it. "Are you going to the Bronze with your friends?"

"Oz is taking me to dinner, Mom." She raised her chin defiantly.

"Oh." Sheila Rosenberg was silent for a moment, searching for something to say. She noticed the tense line of the girl's stance. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Mrs. Rosenberg sighed. "I honestly don't know--" She broke off, and left.

Willow, her whole body deflating, went to sit on her bed, closing her eyes in frustration for a second. She sighed, and, gathering herself, went to her full length mirror to study her reflection. *Hair bouncy and fairly neat, jeans and sweater buttoned properly, mascara and lip gloss on straight,* she catalogued absently, and jumped about eight feet when another knock came at her bedroom door.

Her mother entered again without invitation, and paused mid-step. "Are you wearing that?" she asked.

Willow schooled her face carefully. "He wouldn't tell me where we were going. He just said to dress comfortably."

Sheila smiled just the slightest bit. "Well, this may be a tad too dressy for jeans, but . . ." She moved across the room to stand behind her daughter. "Lift your hair."

Blinking, Willow did as her mother asked. Mrs. Rosenberg proceeded to fasten a delicate gold chain around the redhead's neck, so that the charm, a small tiny opal set in the pounded gold backing, rested just below the dip in her collar bone, framed by the v-necked cardigan sweater she wore. "My mother gave this necklace to me on my first date."

Willow let her hair drop and gazed at the beautiful piece of jewelry for a moment before raising her eyes to meet her mother's in the mirror. Sheila shot her a wistful smile. "You never told me about your first date," she explained somewhat apologetically, apparently aware that the fault was half hers, for never asking.

They were silent for a moment, and Sheila touched her daughter's hair, fussing slightly with it. "You look more like her every day."

"Like Gram?"

"Hmmm. I'll show you a picture of her when she was younger." The sound of a car in the driveway drew their attention. "You get a light jacket and a hair band, if you're not sure where you'll be going. Your father surprised me often enough with picnics that I learned to be prepared, when we were younger. I'll let Oz in," she added, and started to withdraw.

Willow reached up and stopped her mother's hand from leaving her should for a second. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Thank you." Their eyes met, and Willow added, a little haltingly, "The necklace is beautiful."

*****

Willow was grateful for the jacket, as well as the hair tie, when Oz drove them out to Breaker's Point. They arrived just as the sun was setting, and Willow double-checked her pockets for a cross and stake before she got out of the van.

Oz took her hand, carrying a small cooler with blankets folded on top of it in his free hand, and led her toward a small cove of trees that was somewhat sheltered from the wind. They spread out the bigger blanket, and Oz set aside the candles (and emergency flashlight) that had been folded up inside it; the ambient light from the setting sun was plenty for now.

Oz pulled out some sandwiches and cold sodas, and shot her a sheepish grin. "My creativity ran out."

She shook her head, biting into a sandwich; liverwurst, her favorite. "It's wonderful," she assured him.

While they ate, aimless chatter occupied their minds. Willow inquired after Devon and the rest of the band, and Oz asked how she'd done on her Chemistry and English tests. "Oz," Willow finally said, after they'd stowed their trash in the cooler and lit the candles. "I know that you probably feel pressured to make a decision about . . . that thing," she hedged awkwardly. "But I just want you to know that if you aren't sure, we can work things out. I mean, *I'm* not a hundred percent sure if I even want to be a Watcher." He didn't need to know that *he* was the reason she wasn't sure. "I might decide to go to school around here for a year or two, then transfer, or something. Or I might decide to go ahead and plunge straight into it. But you could take some time to think about it, and if you decide you want to, come join me then. My point is, you don't have to decide anything right now. If a powerful enough vampire comes to town, Angel will know, and--"

"Had an interesting conversation with Xander today," Oz interrupted. "He was sportin' a nice shiner," he added, thoughtfully.

Her face paled. "What did he say to you?" Oz just raised an eyebrow at her sudden stillness. "I'll kill him, I really will, Oz. What *right* does he think he has--"

"He said he'd been talking with Giles." Willow snapped her mouth shut, and waited for him to go on. "I was a little confused on the finer points, but I think the gist was that the Watchers' Council needs a serious computer upgrade."

Willow's mouth fell open. "You mean . . ."

"It'd be kinda fun. You'd be taking classes and working on your magic, and I could bring the Council into the twenty-first Century."

"But you don't like jobs," she protested.

He shrugged. "I could deal, for you."

"I--I don't want you to do something that's gonna make you unhappy--"

He put a finger on her lips, shushing her. "I'll be with you."

Her eyes filled with tears. "But am I enough?"

His eyes danced in the candlelight. "Always will be." At her still-worried look, he added, "But you won't need to be. I wasn't big on college, anyway. Other options consist mainly of working. And I'm kinda well-suited toward this kind of work."

She nodded. They'd both been recruited by the world's "leading software concern," whoever that was supposed to be, last year. He was just as talented as she was, when it came to computers. "I--do you feel like you've been forced into this?"

He shook his head. "I make my own decisions. I'm sure about this. Where you go, I go."

She gripped his hand in hers. "That goes both ways. You know that, right?'

His gaze was tender. "I suspected," he admitted, squeezing her back. "Close your eyes," he whispered suddenly.

She would have jumped off a cliff at that point, if he'd asked. "'Kay." Her eyes fluttered shut.

He left her side for a moment, and when he returned, she felt the air displace from his movement, telling her he was crouching in front of her. He pressed a box into her hands. "Open it," he told her, his voice husky with emotion.

She shivered at the things his tone was doing to her, and when she opened her eyes, she spared a glance at his face before looking down into her hands. It was hard to read his eyes against the glare of the candlelight, but she was fairly certain she saw a hint of nervousness. She dropped her eyes to the small box resting in her palm. It was made of white, glossy cardboard, the kind a pair of earrings or a necklace from a gift shop might come in. A smile came across her face. "You got me jewelry?' she asked, incredibly touched. His taste in gifts usually ran to the plastic--candy dispensers, and the such.

He didn't answer, just watched her face carefully, and she finally took the hint and lifted the top off the box. And felt the color drain from her face. "Oh, God," she whispered, lifting the small, delicate ring out of its bed of cotton. Her fingers trembled as she held it closer to the candle nearest her, not quite certain the shadows weren't playing tricks on her.

"Will? Say something," Oz finally pleaded.

She blinked, and stared up at him, where he was kneeling above her, gripping her shoulders. She realized he'd been calling her name for a few minutes. Struggling to find her voice, she swallowed several times, she managed to say again, "Oh, God."

"Besides that," he clarified.

Finally beginning to regain her wits, she said, "I'm sorry. I just . . . uh, I think I faded out for a minute." She looked back down at the ring. A delicate gold band, a tiny chip of a stone (a *diamond*!?) in a simple, classic setting . . . "Does, uh, this mean--what I think--?"

"It means I wanna be with you forever," he told her gently, his voice tender and hoarse.

Her gaze flitted up to his, and she realized just how cruel, however unwittingly, she was being. But, Jeez! He hadn't even really asked. "Uh, is there anything you wanna ask me?"

He smiled. "You're gonna make me, aren't you?" She didn't answer, still in shock. "Doable. Willow, will you marry me?'

Her eyes fell shut. "Oh, God!" Alright. Eyes and ears don't malfunction together very often. Unless you're hallucinating, or dreaming. She pinched herself. "Ow," she muttered.

"Willow? I don't mean now . . . I was thinking a long-term thing--"

"Shh," she whispered; the uncertainty, and something that could have been fear, in his voice and eyes managed to restore her scattered faculties. She pressed her fingers to his lips, mimicking his gesture of only a few minutes ago.

"Will?"

She leaned forward to replace her fingers with her lips, sweetly brushing his mouth with hers. She pulled away to look him in the eye. "Well?"

He was dumbfounded. "Well what?"

"Aren't'cha gonna put it on me?" she demanded.

"Oh." He took the ring from her fingertips and, with a glance into her eyes to be sure, slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. He placed a gentle kiss on her knuckle before pulling back.

She stared at it on her hand, a small, goofy smile coming across her face. "It's funny. Just today Buffy and I were goofing around at lunch, playing with her rings. We did that thing where we put a ring on, and pretend it's a wedding ring, just to see what it looks like--" She broke off, and jerked her gaze up to meet Oz's. "You rat!" she cried, shoving his shoulder.

He tried to look sheepish, but didn't manage very well. "Guilty."

"Oh. Well, I forgive you." She paused. "But Buffy's in big trouble."

Oz shrugged. "She knew what she was doing," he decided, effectively foisting off all blame, and Willow hid a smile. His demeanor sobered quickly. "I'm sorry it's not . . . nicer. I'll--someday--"

She interrupted him. "Don't you dare. It's beautiful, and I love it." Her smile grew slightly evil. "You brought an extra blanket," she observed.

He blinked. "I wasn't sure if you'd bring a jacket . . ."

"Uh-huh." Her lids slid to half-mast, and he swallowed hard at the intent gleaming in her green eyes.

His eyes widened as she started to move toward him, crawling across the blanket, stalking him like a cat. "Woah."

Her eyes flashed, and she pounced, pressing him back onto the blanket. "Giddy-up," she countered, her voice husky.

She bent her head to kiss him tenderly, teasingly, brushing his lips with hers gently. Her hair fell around her face, set afire by the candlelight, and brushing softly against his face and neck. "Oh, boy," he muttered. Then the seemingly innocent kisses lost all pretense of naïveté, and he was utterly lost.

Unable to help himself, he responded eagerly. Willow, in all her innocent gazes, girlish clothes . . . hell, she didn't even wear perfume, and still she managed to excite him more than any of the vastly more experienced groupies he'd been involved with in the past. And when she purposely set out to . . . well, God help him. With a low groan, he reversed their positions, pinning her to the blanket, attacking her mouth fiercely, harshly invading her mouth with his tongue. "Willow," he whispered, groaning again as she threaded her fingers through his hair, gently scratching her nails against his scalp, sending delightful shivers up and down his spine. She pulled his mouth back to hers insistently.

Pulling her closer to him, his hands spanned her waist, teasing the skin there with gentle caresses. Gasping as his tongue darted out to caress the length of her throat, she arched her back, baring more of that long, white expanse to his inventive mouth. Oz wasn't sure how long it all might have gone on if she hadn't chosen that moment to reach between them, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her sweater. It was enough to shock him back into reality, even as she arched her back, shifting her hips to press their pelvises more firmly together.

He jerked away from her, landing on his behind in the dirt beside the blanket, panting for breath and control. She sat up quickly, staring at him in shock. "What's wrong?" she demanded, her eyes confused.

His throat working for a few moments before he was able to produce a sound, Oz replied, "Not here. Not now."

Willow let out a breath; it seemed to him as if she were dealing with a recalcitrant child who kept refusing to eat his vegetables. She sat up fully, and tucked her legs under her in tailor fashion, and didn't bother to re-button her sweater; Oz struggled to keep his gaze on her face. "Oz," she began, her tone filled with restrained annoyance, and he cringed. "We just had a romantic dinner under the stars, by candlelight. You proposed. I'm wearing your ring. We're in the woods, all alone, in one of the most romantic spots within driving distance of Sunnydale. *What* is wrong with here and now?"

"This--you said that this had to be part of the spell," he began, his brow furrowed.

Her eyes widened. "Not our *first* time, Oz," she said finally, a melting smile crossing her face. "We just have to be . . . bound," she euphemized, "in that sense in order for the other binding to be complete."

"Oh." Well, now he felt kinda silly.

"So get your butt back over here," she ordered, crossing her arms over her ribs in mock severity. She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh when he hesitated, and this time didn't bother to hide her frustration. "What!?"

"I don't--have--well, with me--" he mumbled, an actual flush creeping up his neck and face.

Surprised at his uncharacteristic display of . . . flap, Willow lost her annoyance quickly. "S'okay. I'm okay."

Back to his unflappable self, he raised an eyebrow. "You--?"

"It's not an issue," she reiterated.

"Uh, Willow, I don't know--"

She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him toward her. "Shut up, already," she told him firmly, and silenced his protests with a sensual kiss.

Lost in her drugging kisses, Oz barely noticed when she stopped kissing him back, and merely moved to the column of her throat, working one hand inside her sweater. He was, however, very proud of his multi-tasking skills when she began to speak and he actually listened her to. "Oz, sweetie?"

"Hmmm."

"How--oh!--Uh, how mad would you be . . . ohhhh, if, uh, you were right?"

"Right's good." He moved his mouth back to hers for a few moments before continuing absently, "Not a problem. Big ego boost, actually." He realized she wasn't making idle conversation and stopped, pulling away. "Why," he asked warily.

She gave him a pitifully apologetic look. "I--I just thought of something. Magick-wise."

He sighed. One second she was begging--no, *ordering* him to make love to her, and now that he'd finally pushed past his own reluctant hang-ups, *now* she wanted to stop. "You're gonna drive me crazy," he informed her.

She sat up, straightening and buttoning her clothing. "I know, I know. I'm *so* sorry. I just--well, I'm not as strong, magickally speaking, as Helygen was. I've been a little nervous about it--but--"

"But?" he coaxed, sucking it up and turning his attention fully to the spell.

She smiled gratefully at him. "But, in magick, there's a lot to be said for the power of . . . this." She gestured between the two of them, just in case he wasn't sure what she'd meant. "And- -and a virgin's first time . . ."

He nodded, and, amazed at his own control (or foolhardiness; he wasn't quite sure which), pulled her into his arms to reassure her. "I understand."

"Really? You're not mad?"

"Really." And he was a little mad--just a little--but didn't feel like getting into it, so he decided to let it slide. A cold shower, once they got back, should take care of it all. "But we're gonna do this my way."

She pulled away to look at his face, confused. "Your way?" Her eyes widened. "As in, different from the usual way?" she whispered in a small voice.

He chuckled, and tucked her head back under his chin. "Dinner at a nice restaurant. A nice hotel. No parents to worry about, or bugs," he added, looking around at their current surroundings. "No inhibitions," he explained, pressing his lips to her forehead briefly.

"Oh. That way. 'Kay."

*****

"So, he was cool with it? That's amazing."

Willow grinned. "Tell me about it. 'Cause *I* sure wasn't that 'cool' with it. It took every ounce of Will-power I have to tell him about that."

"Wow." Buffy shook her head, smiling. "So, now you're waiting for the next full moon?"

Willow nodded. "Uh-huh. It's on a Saturday, so it works out just right. That Friday could be the last time we ever have to lock him up."

"Very cool."

"Uh, hi, Will," came a hesitant voice behind them.

They both stopped walking down the school hall and turned. "Hello, Xander," Willow replied coolly, not even blinking at the bruise on his cheek.

"I--uh, I just wanna talk."

Buffy gave Willow a look that said, "Do you want me gone?" Willow shook her head. "Buffy and I need to get to class," she told Xander.

Xander sighed and shoved the fingers of one hand through his hair. "You've got a good five minutes," he pointed out, nodding at the clock.

Willow relented. "Fine. I'll meet you there, Buffy." The Slayer fled. "Well? Talk."

He sighed and leaned against the wall, studying his shoes. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I had no right--and it was mean and cruel--and none of my business in the first place."

She nodded, not giving in. "You're right."

"Okay, you've seen fit to punish me. I deserve it. I--I just-- please, Will, tell me what I can do to make it better?" he pleaded.

She softened just the tiniest bit. "Well, talking with Giles and Oz last week helped." He brightened, and she hastened to add, "A little."

He wasn't to be deterred. "Really?"

She sighed, and tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. "Xander, what you said really hurt me. I'm confused enough right now without you--"

"What's that?"

She stiffened at his tone. "What's what?"

"On your hand."

Oops. "Oh. Uh, Xander, I think we should really go somewhere and talk about this . . ." He turned on his heel and started to walk away. "Xander!" she cried, moving after him, grabbing his arm.

He whirled on her. The look in his eyes brought tears to hers. "I need to be . . . somewhere else." He stared at her hand for another moment, and then turned again, walking down the hall and out of the school.

---

Continues