Disclaimer: see prologue.
Oz leaned over his desk, head propped in his hand, and watched the clock. He had long ago discarded the idea of listening to the history lecture and instead focused all his attention on the clock above the chalkboard. He thought that after a full 35 and a half minutes of this he would have gone completely insane, but the torturously slow, muted clicks of the second hand gave him something concrete to hang on to. For Oz, this was a foreign feeling: worry. He had driven to Willow’s house this morning to pick her up for school, the same way he always did since her mother had come to accept “that musician” who was dating her daughter. Today, however, Willow hadn’t been there. Oz had pulled up in front of her house and honked like usual. Well, almost like usual. Usually Willow came running out the front door then. She was always ready before him. When she didn’t come out to the van, he figured that he had beat her to the punch for once, so he shut off the engine with a small smile and rang the front doorbell. Her mother answered.
“Hello, Oz, how are you?” she asked, looking a little confused.
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. . . uh, is Willow ready to go?” he responded a little tentatively. He really wanted his girlfriend’s mom to like him. Sheila Rosenberg had expressed some hesitation at first about her daughter dating a musician, but she really did like the soft-spoken guitarist. Her daughter could easily have done much worse, she had thought when she first met him.
“Oh. . . Willow already left for school, Oz, I thought perhaps she would have told you,” she answered him, sounding a bit bewildered. A worried crease lined the boy’s forehead as he tried to remember if Willow had called him to change plans. . . no. Not that he could recall, anyway. He turned his full attention back to Willow’s mom.
“Well, thanks very much, Mrs. Rosenberg. I’m sure I probably just forgot,” Oz explained without much conviction before nodding in farewell and trudging back to the van. No matter, he’d see Willow after first hour at his locker. She always came to visit him then.
The exception being, of course, today.
The only explanation Oz could come up with was that Will was angry with him over something, hence the avoidance. However, that little voice in the back of his mind told him that something just wasn’t right. Willow never acted like this when she was upset, she either let him know right away or she acted like nothing at all was wrong a little too cheerfully. Oz briefly thought of the Hellmouth’s track record with missing persons. . . then he sent that thought packing. It worried him though. So he watched the clock.
When the bell signaling the end of class sounded, he shot up out of his seat and all but sprinted out of the classroom, headed for the library, much to the amusement and amazement of his classmates. Not a single one of them could remember seeing Oz rush like that. . . he took his time with absolutely everything. It was truly a golden moment for a morning at Sunnydale High.
“Willow?”
Oz remarked to himself how calm his voice sounded, considering how frazzled he was. For one endless moment he was frozen, rooted to the spot, as he walked into the library and cast a glance at the people in it. The scene that unfolded before him numbed him to his fingertips and made his heart skip a few beats in fear. His Willow, focus of his life, was cradled in Buffy’s arms. The two girls sat on top of the old wooden table as his girlfriend wept and wept. A quick jolt of anger flooded his senses as he thought of who or what could have wounded her like this, and what he would do to them if he ever got his hands on the guilty parties. That one flash of rage was all it took to get Oz moving again. In five long strides he was beside her, taking her shaking form into his arms, and planting small kisses on top of her head. However, he took two shocked steps back and away from her in shock at what happened next.
She pushed him away.
He stood there, his features carefully blank, as his frenzied mind ran in furious circles, trying desperately to figure out what he had done wrong. He looked pleadingly at Buffy who could only stare back, a look of fright, sadness, and horrified understanding marking her expressive features.
“Who ARE you?” Willow broke the silence, wiping tears off her face. He promptly forgot to breathe.
“Will-” was all Oz managed to force through his constricting throat.
“No, what IS this?” Willow screamed, the shrill, panicked sound reverberating painfully off of the high walls and domed ceiling of the library. The redhead turned wild and tortured eyes on Oz as she continued her tirade. “Who are you? You know me, but I can’t remember who you are and I can’t remember what class I have next, and. . . and I-I can’t remember m-my phone number. . .” she trailed off into helpless sobs as Buffy grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce hug, rocking her gently and whispering soothing words to the hysterical girl, her face buried in Willow’s tousled red mane. Oz felt like someone had ripped out all his internal organs and proceeded to stomp them into the ground. Willow, his sweet Willow, was out of her mind with fright. She didn’t recognize him. He watched, unable to do anything, as she began to cough and choke with the intensity of her crying and Buffy rubbed a small hand over her back, trying desperately to calm her best friend. The small, blonde slayer looked up at Oz, sympathetic tears streaming down the planes of her face, hanging onto Willow like a lifeline.
“Find Giles and Xander,” Buffy managed in a shaky voice, her watery green eyes, now tinged with red, pleading with him. Oz nodded mutely, feeling numb as waves of grief and panic crashed over him. He stumbled from the library, wondering with ridiculous clarity if this was what drowning felt like.
Xander LaVelle Harris wandered the streets of Sunnydale. He wasn’t at all certain if he was supposed to be taking a walk, but he simply couldn’t remember where he should have been at that moment. There were rules about this sort of thing, he was sure. . . but that didn’t matter to him right now. He didn’t much mind that he couldn’t remember that sort of thing. Rules were no fun, anyway. Smiling peacefully, he let the sun’s rays stream down on him. It was really such a nice day. . .
He looked to his left and started a bit as he regarded Sunnydale High, looming large in his view. He gave a low chuckle and shook his head slightly. Of course, school, he should be in school now. Xander’s brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tried to remember what his classes were. . . and came up with absolutely nothing. He thought idly that it probably wasn’t a good thing to not remember his schedule. Xander thought that maybe he should tell Buffy, Buffy would know what to do. . .
Buffy? He vaguely recalled that he should tell Buffy because there was something different about her, she was special in some way and would be able to help him. What was so special about Buffy? Xander stopped walking, placed one hand on his hip and with the other hand scratched his head, the perfect image of a man who has forgotten something important. Buffy. . . the name brought to mind images of sunlight glinting off of beautiful blonde hair, bell-like laughter sparkling in clear green eyes, and the near-electric response of his body to the soft touch of her hand. . .
Of course! How could he be so stupid? Buffy was obviously his girlfriend, that’s what was so special about her.
“Duh,” Xander said to himself softly, eliciting another chuckle. He strode purposefully into the school in search of his significant other. If only he could remember where to find her. . .