*****

There was no real reason for him to be here now. He should have been on the road, driving hard and fast and looking for an elsewhere to be. Any elsewhere, because the feel and the smell of a Sunnydale night (grass and exhaust and sun-heat lingering in dark brick and that constant slight trace of decay) were so painful he couldn't feel his fingers. Couldn't actually feel much at all, really, though his body knew better than to shut down entirely and his gaze was moving, looking through the windshield, alert to movement that might signify men with guns. Riley was nice and all, but he still had those military eyes and Oz didn't trust him even a little bit. Distracted himself for a brief moment with comparatively pleasant memories of beatings and electroshock and scalpels, before his brain snapped back to its endless litany of *Why why why? Why not me, why didn't you wait, why is she so much more, how could you leave me?* He shook his head but the loop kept running.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting here, in a parked dark van outside Xander's house. The moon was slivering down behind treetops blackened and still in the quiet night, leaves and trunks occasionally jumping into definition in the headlights of a passing car. Sidewalk a pale strip against the dim nap of lawns. Suburbia, wilderness tamed and trammeled, so different from the woods and the mountains and Tibet. It all felt like a dream, now, with the meaning taken out. Like he'd never left. Like he never came back. But she was gone now, not him, and he was still here, here again, and history was getting all jumbled in the unclarity of his mind, and it was time to go inside if he was going to.

Out of the van. Up to the door and his feet felt strange and numb like he wasn't really controlling them. This was maybe not such a good idea, and he felt the weight of history and bitterness and memory pulling him back. But when he knocked and Xander answered, sleepy-eyed and rumpled in boxers, he couldn't make himself regret it.

Xander looked at him, considering, standing backlit in the door with one hand on the knob. Almost-blocking but not. He'd grown up, Oz could see. Calmer, with none of that semi-hysterical desperation to be liked that had been his trademark in high school. Broader through the shoulders and solid on his feet. Still with the pretty dark eyes, pale perfect skin, sweet mouth. They were both staring now.

"Oz." He stepped back from the door, and Oz bent his head and followed him in, down the stairs to the little room with the pull-out couch and one lamp casting dim golden light and the smell of sleep thick in the air. Stood silently in the bare place on the floor, watching Xander move around pulling on a green t-shirt, rubbing his eyes, pushing in the couch (sheets still on) and flopping down on it.

"So." Oz thought HE was supposed to be the terse one, but since he wasn't talking at all yet, maybe Xander was just filling in for him.

"Oz, I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I didn't KNOW..." A frustrated hand through overlong dark hair, and he wasn't looking at Oz, just kind of staring off at concrete blocks and dimness. Oz wandered over, sat beside him balanced on the edge of the couch, delicately, as if relaxation might break him. Maybe it would, who knew.

"I know you didn't." His voice was rusty and hoarse. He hadn't used it since saying goodbye that last time, and it hurt.

"I just wanted to tell you...I'm sorry. Sorry about...everything." He fell silent, and it wasn't comfortable. Xander, with a word for every situation, had no idea what to say. Somewhere in Oz's scrambled brain, that didn't seem right. Maybe he needed a straight man.

"Xander, do you mind if I sleep on your floor tonight? I don't think I can drive now." Canting his head sideways to look at Xander out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh yeah! Of course, Xander's casa su casa, you know that." Silence again. Like it got when someone died and no one knew what to say.

*

Xander was stumped, stymied and lots of other S-words that meant he didn't know what to say. Oz was perched on the edge of his sofabed, looking pale and bruised and so damn fragile. Head tilted like a bird, but not moving. Not that that was surprising, really. Oz had always had the same economy of movement that he'd shown with words, but this seemed brittle. It must have REALLY sucked, hearing about Tara like that, and Xander couldn't help the little flare of anger at Willow that he'd been so completely ignorant himself. They could have avoided all this, the bruises around Oz's neck that look like they came from a collar, the frantic rescue, all of it, if he'd just had a LITTLE advance warning. That train of thought wasn't helping, though. And he had a feeling that Initiative food was somewhere a few rungs below airline fare, on the yumminess ladder.

"Hey." He stood up quick, Oz startled hard, and Xander resolved himself to slow-and-easy forever after. "You hungry, man? I've got ravioli, and...ravioli." Offered a grin, his first of the night. Oz perked up a little, almost smiled back.

"Ravioli is food of the gods."

"Right, and it's done in like four minutes, which is a huge plus for me."

"Xander Harris, Cordon Bleu chef?" Oz was grinning.

"Yeah, as IF. Pasta's about my limit, but boiling water I can do. You real hungry, or just a little hungry?"

"Oh, I don't know. My mind thinks I should be pining, but my stomach hasn't been fed in a long time."

"I vote we listen to the stomach. Always listen to the stomach. Pining's for wimps anyway. Us manly-men, we eat ourselves into comas." He put a pot of water on to boil on the tiny burner, opened a frozen bag of pasta and dumped the whole thing in. Puttered around with plates and forks and tomato sauce, glancing over to see Oz still watching him with those disconcerting old eyes.

"So how was Tibet?" Anything to break the damn silence.

"Tibet was...above." Minimalist shrug.

"Huh. Above what?"

"Everything." It was like pulling teeth. But hey, the ravioli were starting to float.

"Almost done. Lots of sauce?"

"Yes please." Always polite, his Oz. Only not. Not his, Willow's, but not really hers now either. Maybe Oz's Oz? He wondered how that felt, after so long being part of a hyphenate. Wondered if he could really be called Anya's Xander, when he was thinking about leaf-shadows on white skin and narrow hips between his hands and damn, that was a LONG time ago. Forget it.

Two bowls of pasta, and green eyes lighting up to see him coming with them. He settled in comfortably, and for a while they were just two hungry guys hanging out. OK, Xander'd had dinner already, but really, who could resist ravioli? Oz polished his off so quickly he wished he'd made more, but there was some tension gone from those too-thin shoulders, and he actually sat back a bit and almost looked comfortable. Still holding the bowl with lots of leftover marinara in the bottom, and when he let it slip it was so much a surprise that Xander just stared. He'd never seen Oz clumsy before.

"Oh shit, Xander-" Oz jumped up, bowl still in hand, with a trail of red down his pale pink t-shirt. "I think I got some on your couch." And as if it was the last straw, Oz looked at him all bewildered. Xander knew that 'what is the world doing to me, and could you please tell it to stop?' look. It was fairly common on the Hellmouth, after all.

"Oz," he gentled his voice as much as he could, "Don't worry about it. Sit. I'll get paper towels." And Oz sat, still clutching his bowl.

Xander hadn't been this close to Oz since...that time. He was crouched in front of him where he sat on the edge of a cushion, wiping at tomato sauce of all things, concentrating wholly on the piece of t-shirt that he was scrubbing. Oz hadn't let go of his bowl. Xander worked around it. Felt a solid chest under his steadying hand, hard knees against his forearms. Felt Oz staring at the top of his head. Saw knuckles whiten around the empty bowl below his nose. When he'd gotten as much as he could, he sat back on his heels and looked up. Got caught by a memory of that wide, quirky mouth smiling at him from inches away. Kissing him. And that was all they'd done, really, and he hadn't been able to get it out of his head since. God, years ago. Just like yesterday, in his memory, and he'd stopped freaking about it a while back.

It was the wrong time, he knew. He looked up further, green green eyes looking back at him and ginger hair, natural now. Probably a serious shortage of Manic Panic in Tibet. And despite the fact that there were faint traces of henna on his hands and arms, he still had all those cool chunky silver rings that clicked against the bowl when Xander pulled it out of his hands. The quiet was nice, now. Just looking at Oz. Whose face was still, but the eyes were wide and broken.

Couldn't have Oz looking like that. Not OZ. So Xander leaned in, pushed up a little against the balls of his feet, and kissed him. So softly, just a brush. And moved away to the sink, to rinse out the dishes and catch his breath and give himself a little space.

"You might wanna get out of that shirt." His voice was surprisingly calm when he tossed it over his shoulder. "You can borrow one of mine. Second drawer down is clean. Mostly. And hey, it's like three a.m. Mind pulling out the couch again?"

He heard a thump behind him as the legs of the sofabed came down, and was suddenly struck with the crippling embarrassment that had been his SO constant companion for most of his life. Oz hadn't said a word. Probably thought he was a total bastard for kissing him on what had to be the most emotionally traumatic night of his life so far. Jesus, Xander, you're such a moron.

"There are blankets in the closet. Sorry about the cement floor, but if you lie on the rug it shouldn't be too bad." Still not looking at Oz, feeling the dark coolness of the basement and the quiet seep into him again, and he was abruptly very tired. Turned from the sink, looking at the floor, and made his way to the bed. Pulled off his shirt and threw himself down on it and tried to pretend he was alone.

"Xander?"

"Yeah?" He lifted his head, but Oz had snapped off the lamp and he couldn't see a thing.

"My heart hurts." Just that, in a small quiet even voice, and Xander bit his lip HARD to keep the tears from coming.

"C'mere." Nothing. "Oz, c'mere. I'm not gonna molest you in your sleep. Just get over here." Small weight shifting the balance of the springs and a light body settling next to his own. Breathing in the dark. And he rolled to his side, bumping up against warm skin with his arm. Moved the arm, curled it around a bare waist, tangled the other in wiry hair and brought Oz's head down to his shoulder. Skin to skin, just like so long ago...smooth silk against his side, and a mouth resting on his shoulder, and an arm thrown across his chest, and suddenly it was like Oz was trying to crawl into his body. Tangling a leg with his. Holding him hard.

"Shh." Oz was still completely silent, but Xander could feel tension thrumming through the muscles against his own. This was so strange, the subject of so many dreams but so DIFFERENT. "Shh, Oz, I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you remember?" The mouth moving against his collarbone sent a little shiver up and down his spine. Made his scalp prickle. He had no doubt what Oz was talking about.

"Yeah. All the time."

"Me too."

"I think maybe I fucked up there, Oz." It was so easy, talking about it in the darkness.

"No. Wrong timing. You've got to have the timing or the song goes bad."

"Er...right. But I'm still sorry I freaked. It was..." deep breath, out... "SO amazing."

"Yeah."

"Oz?" As he felt the small body burrowing closer. "I think the timing's still wrong."

"I know."

"But please feel free to stay that way all night. And maybe tomorrow, too, though I think if I stay this hard that long I might die. Oxygen deprivation of the brain." A huff of laugh against him, and he dropped a kiss on the top of Oz's head. Smiling. Feeling Oz hard too, and maybe that was enough. To know he was wanted. He flipped over, so that he was facing wide eyes he could barely see in the darkness. Pulled Oz into a real hug, body to body, tight. And then they were kissing, and he tasted incense and tears and the sweetness that was Oz, and felt hands tangling his hair and pulling him closer, white teeth nipping at his tongue, and he never wanted it to stop. The timing. Anya. He pulled back, but held on, one more nibbling kiss, and let his head fall down to the pillow. Grinned when Oz tucked his face into the hollow of his throat and breathed him in, and let his hands indulge themselves in the dips and hollows of Oz's back, just for a minute. They slipped into sleep, all tangled together, and they were smiling.

And the next morning, when Oz was stepping out the door and away from Sunnydale, Xander watched him go. Saw him turn in the light, look at him, so serious.

"Xander? I'll come back."

He nodded.

"I'll be here, Oz."

~fin~