LastTemptation

Disclaimer-All characters and situations relating to Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and the WB Network. I just jumped the gate to play in their garden.

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The wolf is always there, just under his skin. Like his heartbeat, it is a part of him beyond his control. He can ignore it most of the time, but on days like this, when the full moon pulls at his blood, it comes close to the surface, an itch, a hum, a throbbing. The wolf fills his mind, it struggles to get out. Even if he didn't examine the almanacs, pinpointing the hour of the sunset, he knows he could tell the precise moment when the wolf will escape.

His beloved, his Willow, sits beside him in the classroom, turning occasionally to glance at him and smile, but the wolf is a distraction, or worse. It hears sounds in the hallway and outside. The whine of the computer, normally beyond human hearing, crowds his ears. And the scents all around him are overwhelming. Not so long ago this world was silent to him, but now it is as clear as the colors of the clothes the students around him wear. Flowers, fruits, animals scents, and chemicals from the soaps and perfumes, and beneath, less strong but more pure, the salty-sweet scent of their skins. He knows which ones are nervous, which are tired, which are sick. He knows which six girls are currently menstruating, and where in their cycles they are. He knows which students are vegetarians. He knows the teacher had her hair permed over the weekend, and a burly looking athlete three rows back has had a beer in the last 2 hours.

And so close by, the scent of his Willow. She doesn't wear perfume, at his request, though he doesn't think she quite understands why, but her own natural perfume is so much richer than any bottled scent. She smells of wood, nut oils, flowers, chocolate, everything she's eaten or touched today. When he kisses her on the days of the full moon, inhaling her scent, he nearly swoons, he feels so close to her. He knows everything she does on these days, every emotion.

But these gifts come with a price. The wolf won't stay beneath his skin forever, it demands to be released. Its cravings long to be satisfied, putting all around him in danger. He wants to believe his beloved would not be in danger from the wolf, that it understands who she is, but it is so hard to interpret what he remembers of that time when the wolf retreats. Confused images, raw cravings, a total loss of intellect and control. The wolf is a slave to its instinct, as much as he is a slave to the beast.

As the afternoon rushes towards evening, he grows restless as the wolf gets stronger, yet he waits as long as possible to confine himself, unwilling to admit his powerlessness. He steps into the cage just before nightfall, disrobing quickly, partially to protect his clothes, but symbolically, in his mind, as a way of putting aside his human trappings, conceding the fight, at the last possible moment, to the beast within. As the sun slips behind the horizon, he feels the wolf break free, its fur erupting from his skin, its fangs bared in his mouth, its otherness filling his mind, and then, like a candle being extinguished, his consciousness is gone.

Willow never watched Oz's transformation to his wolf-state; it was an intimacy she didn't want to share. She stood quietly, her back turned, until the growls of the beast informed her the change was complete. She turned towards the cage and looked into the yellow eyes of the wolf. There was nothing of her lover in them, but she always looked, always hoped.

The wolf paced inside its small prison, looking for escape, and finding none settled back on its haunches, staring at Willow. "I'm sorry, Oz," Willow whispered, hoping somewhere inside Oz knew she was here, taking care of him. She hoped, even in wolf-form, he knew she loved him. She drew out a book, a text she needed to study, and started to read aloud from it. She had noticed early on that the sound of her voice seemed to soothe him, and always read to him, or spoke softly of love, or even sang if he seemed particularly agitated, until he grew quiet. Some nights she stayed up till dawn, waiting for the terrible transformation to reverse.

Buffy came to relieve her at midnight, but Willow stayed, finally drifting to sleep on the desk, her head cradled in her arms. When she woke up, Giles had replaced Buffy on watch, and he was shaking her gently.

"Willow," he said quietly, "it's almost dawn. Buffy says you've been here all night. Do you want to get home before classes?"

"No, I want to be here for Oz," she said, and Giles didn't argue.

He wakes on the floor of the cage, human once again. He is wrapped in a soft, warm quilt, and Willow holds his head in her lap. Ever since they have become intimate, she has come into the cage each time he returns to human form, to wrap him up, and keep him warm, and stroke his hair until he comes awake. He feigns sleep a few moments longer, trying to capture the last remnants of the wolf's thoughts. They are fleeting, disjointed, and his intellect struggles to grasp their nowness, their instinctiveness.

He can only recall a dull burning (*thirst*), a frantic searching (*escape*), and the warm nutlike scent of Willow (*mate*). Her scent fills his nostrils now, she is tired, and also the smell of mold in the old books, and, fainter, the residual scents of Buffy and Giles; they were here during the night.

He yawns and stretches in Willow's lap, totally unselfconscious, and opens his eyes to look into hers. "Good morning, you," he says.

She smiles down at him. "Good morning, you too."

************

Willow and Oz walked through the streets of the affluent section of town, what Willow's mother called the "Garden District." Cordelia's family lived here, Willow thought she had heard, and it certainly looked like the sort of place Cordy would be right at home. Even in the darkness after twilight, the houses loomed like mountains over their elaborate walled gardens and courtyards.

"When I'm rich and famous," Oz had said a few minutes before, only half-joking, "I'll make sure you live in a beautiful house like that."

"And when I'm the most powerful witch in Sunnydale," she had answered, "the Dingoes will have number one hits every single week."

They hadn't said any more until Oz finally stopped in front of one of the houses. Willow wondered what it was about this one, in particular. It was actually fairly small compared to its neighbors, with a high solid wall with only a narrow gate to admit entrance, and even looking through the gate it was difficult to see, since tall flowers nearly filled the yard.

Even so, Oz was staring intently through the bars of the gate.

"What is it?" Willow asked.

Oz didn't answer right away, but Willow could see he was inhaling deeply; no, not inhaling, smelling.

"Oz, you're scaring me."

"Don't you smell that," he asked.

Willow drew a deep breath. "The flowers?"

"One in particular. It doesn't smell like a regular flower. It smells, I don't know, strange." He turned to her. "It's so powerful, I thought for sure you could smell it."

Willow's brows furrowed with concern. "Are you smelling it you�re your werewolf sense?"

"Maybe," Oz said faintly.

Willow took Oz's hand and pulled him away from the gate. "I think you better take me home now. It's late, and there are, uh, vampires around, and, uh, we have class tomorrow."

Oz left the gate reluctantly, but he was even quieter than usual as he took Willow home and kissed her, and left her on her porch. Willow watched him go, a knot of fear in her stomach. Something was wrong, she knew it.

Oz didn't even stop on his way back to the strange garden house, and it was only a matter of an hour before he stood at its gate again. The house itself was dark, probably empty, though the garden was well tended. Oz recognized one or two plants near the gate, a palm, a rosebush, but the scent that drew him was deeper inside. He tried the gate: locked. He paced back and forth for several minutes before he reached his decision. Quick as thought, he scaled the gate, dropping to the path inside. He raced straight for the maddening scent, and there, not far from the house itself, was a stand of tall, lacy-leafed plants with deep blue flowers at their tops.

He stepped right in among them pressing the flowers to his face and inhaling their strange scent. He felt the wolf moving under his skin, but it was different than usual. It seemed less fierce, less restless. Docile even. And closer than ever to his own consciousness. No mistake, its thoughts were still a confusing jumble of images, but they seemed separated from his own by only a shadowy veil, as though by just emptying his mind he could reach the beast somehow. He drew in the scent of the flowers again, as deeply as he could, then suddenly found himself staggering, faint. He sank to his knees on the soft earth, then he was lying on the ground, the flowers surrounding him like a curtain.

He looked at his hands and saw they were changing, transforming, the palms lengthening. "The wolf," he thought wildly, "it's loose! It will kill someone! I have to get inside!" But when he tried to stand his legs only thrashed weakly.

He looked at the back of his hands again, but it seemed now that the transformation had halted in its tracks. His palms had elongated somewhat, his fingers shortened, and his nails had thickened and darkened, but they were not yet claws. And the fur had only just begun to sprout, his skin was still clearly visible. He managed to get his hand to his face. It was somewhere between human and wolf, as well. His mind cast about in confusion, and Oz suddenly realized the wolf-thought was merging with his own. "There is danger here," the wolf thought clearly, "I have been poisoned and I must escape." Oz's mind added the information that somehow the flowers were responsible, although he wouldn't class it as poison.

He attempted again to stand, but the wolf-brain rebelled, trying to get on all fours, and he fell, helpless. The wolf was in great fear, and Oz heard a low whine escape his lips.

Just then, beside him, a man had approached. He crouched beside Oz, and turned him on his side to get a look at him. Oz looked into the man's eyes. They were full of concern, but Oz noticed, not surprise.

"So," the man said, a British accent in his words, "a creature of the night has wandered into my garden. Are you perhaps the famous teenage werewolf?"

"What's happening," Oz managed to ask.

Instead of answering, the man, with surprising strength, lifted Oz into his arms. "Let's get you away from here," he said. He carried Oz, like a child, into the mansion and laid him on a rug before his fireplace. Oz noted, dismally, that removing him from the flowerbed had not seemed to change his condition. Perhaps the damage was permanent.

The man stroked his head gently. "It'll be alright," he said soothingly, "you should regain your strength in a few moments."

"What's happening," Oz asked again.

"Those flowers have an effect on werewolves," the man said casually, taking a seat in a large wing chair. "They draw the wolf essence to the surface. Don't be concerned, you should be 'yourself' in an hour or two."

Oz sighed with relief, and found he was also able to struggle to his feet.

"Please," the man invited, "sit down."

Oz sat on the sofa opposite the man. "What are those?" he asked.

"The technical name is Aconitum. There are many common names. It has... uses in my work."

"That being?" Oz prompted.

The man smiled ruefully. "I help people. I have certain knowledge that makes my services in some demand here on the hellmouth."

Oz nodded, and the man went on. "I could help you with your own little problem," he said.

"How so?"

"There are treatments to help you control your lycanthropy. You aren't the first unfortunate to be beguiled by the call of the beast. The aconitum, it should not surprise you to hear, is a major component in that particular compound."

Oz shook his head, confused. "I don't mean to contradict you," he said, "but I've researched this, and I haven't found anything..."

"I presume you're speaking of San Cyril's Transformations of Cybele. Or perhaps Le Metamorphoses de Guy Raubenot."

Oz blinked in surprise. "Well, both actually."

The man smiled knowingly. "Have you read any of the Man-fox texts of Vietnam, then? Or the Nepalese Translations?"

Oz's eyes narrowed suspiciously. This guy was a little too familiar.

"Yes," he said warily, "but they described Asian lycanthropes. And they didn't discuss cures."

"Not in the English translations, no," the man said, a little smugly. "But in the original form, there are codes in the text, not immediately apparent. It took a Buddhist monk in the 20s nearly seven years to discover the hidden formulas, and his brothers and apprentices another forty to fully test them. And it isn't a cure, it's a way to control the symptoms."

Oz, though still wary, felt his heart leap in his chest. "What does it do?" he asked, trying not to hope too hard.

The man leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and gazing off into space. "Imagine," he said, "if you had intellectual control of your wolf-form. You would have the shape and senses of a wolf, but your human brain would direct the creature, the same as every other day. In such a circumstance, the werewolf would cease to be any kind of threat whatsoever. An inconvenience, perhaps, but no danger to those you love. If you didn't want to hurt them, there's no reason the wolf would. On the other hand, I'm sure you can imagine the uses you could put the wolf to. The heightened sense of hearing and smell. And you could pick the nights to let the wolf out. If the night of the full moon doesn't work out this month, how about next Thursday? Well, you can see the possibilities."

Indeed Oz could. His life could return to some semblance of normalcy. And Willow would be safe. They could make a life together. "Can you do this?"

The man nodded.

Oz still had his doubts, but the thought of controlling the wolf... "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

The man smiled. "I'm only a simple herbalist, a scholar. Edward Rice, if you insist on a name. And you climbed into my garden, young man. If I hadn't come along, well, who knows what would have happened. Now I only offer to assist a fellow human being who's a bit out of his depth."

"Just out of the goodness of your heart."

The man chuckled. "Of course not. This lovely house doesn't pay for itself, you know. Four hundred dollars. Half in advance. And I don't want a lot of dabblers hanging about, so this is a private matter between the two of us. Is that agreeable."

Oz drew a shuddering breath and sighed it out. "Agreed," he said.

It killed him to keep this secret from Willow, but he knew her. Knew how hard she worked at her magic. If she thought there was a way to help him, it would obsess her. And what could she do, really? This man, Rice, it was clear he wouldn't pass the knowledge along. It was his livelihood. And what did he expect Willow to do? Learn Vietnamese and Tibetan? All for what? To save four hundred bucks. And he didn't even know if it would work. Though it pained him, he said nothing. If it worked, he reasoned, it would be a surprise.

He emptied his meager bank account, and pawned one of his guitars, hoping he'd have time to earn the other two hundred with the band before the final test, during the next full moon. Rice was pleased to see it, and let Oz stay and watch while he mixed the various flowers and leaves, and other strange ingredients Oz couldn't quite identify. Lastly, he added two handfuls of the vibrant blue flowers, the aconitum, and mashed the whole mixture into a paste.

"Now then, Oz," Rice said gravely, "You have to trust me. I want you to rub this over all of your skin. I will be right here, and I have to recite some chants and spells, but you're familiar with that process, and I promise you will be safe."

Oz swallowed hard, anxious and excited. He stripped quickly and grabbed two handfuls of the mixture, rubbing it quickly over his skin. Wherever it touched, his skin stained lightly blue.

Rice started murmuring an incantation in some Asian language, occasionally putting a hand on Oz's head or shoulder. Before long Oz had covered every inch of himself with the blue paste, and Rice had spoken the last of the spell. The room was suddenly silent. After a moment, Oz looked up at the herbalist.

"Is that it?"

Rice nodded gravely.

"I was expecting something to happen."

Rice chuckled. "Sorry, Oz," he said, "this isn't one of those thunder and lightning type spells." He looked the young werewolf up and down. "Would you like to try it out, or would you rather take a shower first."

"Try what out?"

"Try changing into your wolf form. Just concentrate on reaching the beast within."

Oz closed his eyes, reaching down for the wolf-thoughts in the back of his brain. It was easier than ever, and he felt his body start to change form.

But it was different. His consciousness persisted, merging with the wolf instead of being overwhelmed. He fell forward on all fours, as fur erupted from his skin and his limbs twisted back to become wolf-legs. His face lengthened into a muzzle full of sharp teeth, wolf senses flooded in, and his tail sprouted from his back. And then he stood there, his body a wolf's body, but his mind still mostly his own. From his throat erupted a triumphant howl.

Changing back was just as easy for Oz, and then he did accept Rice's offer of a shower. "So, we do this for seven days," he said as he dressed again.

Rice nodded, distractedly fiddling with his herbs, then turned to Oz. "Yes, it's very important we don't break the course of treatment. But then it should be permanent."

"I don't know how to thank you."

Rice waved dismissively. "Thanks aren't necessary. This is a business transaction, and my pleasure."

Oz was at Willow's house early the next morning. He hadn't been as attentive to her as he would have liked, due to Rice's treatment, and he hoped to make it up to her today. Willow packed a picnic basket, and the two of them went to the park. Oz lounged on the blanket in the sun, dozing slightly. He was tired from staying up late with Rice the night before, and was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Suddenly he came awake to the feel of a blow across his face. His eyes snapped open, and he realized with some alarm he had Willow's hand in his mouth and had bitten down hard enough to draw blood. He jerked his head away and sat bolt upright.

"Oh my god, Willow," he shouted, truly alarmed, "are you alright? What happened?"

Willow glared at him accusingly, cradling her wounded hand. "I was stroking your face and you bit me!"

Oz shook his head, bewildered. "I must have been dreaming," he said, "I'm sorry."

"No, Oz," Willow said, "you started to change. Your wolf face." Her eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

Oz told her, stuttering apologies.

Two hours later he repeated his story for Buffy, Giles, and Xander.

"Don't worry, Oz," Buffy said when he finished, "I can handle the evil flower guy."

"Just a moment," Giles said calmly, "let's not jump to conclusions. It's entirely possible this man is exactly what he says he is, and this is only a side-effect of the treatment."

"Gee," said Xander, "I was on the Hellmouth when I woke up this morning..."

"Do you really think Oz can be cured?" Willow asked.

Giles stroked his chin. "What I've heard is intriguing, and as possible as anything else, I suppose. I... uh, haven't really been able to keep up with some of the news out of southeast Asia, concentrating on vampires as I have been."

"My illusions are shattered," Buffy said dryly. "So, who's up for a class field trip..."

A short time later they had assembled on the front steps of the mansion.

Giles knocked on the door, and the man Oz knew as Edward Rice pulled it open. At the sight of the group of them, his jaw dropped open and he spat out the darkest of blasphemies.

At almost the same instant, Giles rushed him, pinning his arm across the man's throat. "You!" Giles growled.

"Oz, no," Willow cried, as the young werewolf leapt toward them and tried to separate the two men.

Buffy joined the fray, as well, throwing off Oz and Giles, then hitting the man in the face, before pinning him herself. "Ethan Rayne," she said, "why the hell does this all make sense, now."

"The band candy guy?" Oz asked, confused.

"I thought you'd done the smart thing and moved to Antarctica," Xander said.

"I should have known the little werewolf was one of yours, Rupert," Ethan said, "trying to collect the whole set, are we?"

"Don't play stupid, Ethan," Giles growled.

"And who are you calling 'little,'" Oz added.

Ethan pushed Buffy's hand off his chest and straightened his jacket.

"Please," he said, "allow me to explain."

"What did you do to Oz?" Willow said, fear evident in her voice.

"Only enhancing the werewolf spell to give him more control," Ethan answered, "I was only in it for the money, I didn't lie to him."

"What werewolf spell?" Giles said.

"The spell he performed to make himself a werewolf," Ethan said, "Haven't you heard, all the kids are doing it?"

"You idiot," Giles shouted, "Oz was bitten and infected. Didn't you even bother to find out the cause before you started mucking about with your bloody potions?"

The color drained out of Ethan's face and a look of shock broke through his smug expression. "I didn't... I just assumed, living on the hellmouth..."

"What's happening to him?" Willow demanded.

Ethan looked over their faces. "I honestly don't know," he said.

Buffy grabbed his shirt and jacked him against the wall again. "I'd give it my best guess, if I were you," she said.

Ethan's eyes narrowed as he glanced back at Giles. "Please, Rupert, can't you..."

"Buffy, please," Giles said calmly, "I think we've properly intimidated him. You know he's terrified of you; all this bravado is only scuffing the paneling."

Buffy lowered Ethan to the floor, slowly. "Well," she said, "as long as everybody's clear."

Ethan glared at Giles, then, resigned, led the group to his workroom, still in disorder from the spell the night before. Giles snatched one of the bright blue flowers, now wilted, from the counter-top. "Wolf's-bane," he exclaimed, "Honestly, Ethan, your stupidity is astounding."

Oz looked at Ethan accusingly. "You called it aconitum."

Ethan took the dying flower from Giles. "That's the scientific name," he said testily, "It's also known commonly as Monk's-hood, Bishop flower, and, occasionally," his voice dropped guiltily, "...Wolf's-bane."

"You mean there really is such a thing as Wolf's-bane?" Xander asked, astounded, "I thought that was something they made up for horror movies."

"Oh, no," Giles said, his voice tense with anger, "it's very real." He turned to Oz and Willow. "I'm sorry," he said, "it's rather rare in this country, but I should have thought to warn you."

Oz looked grave. "It kills werewolves, doesn't it."

Willow gave an involuntary cry of fear, and Giles quickly shook his head. "No, it doesn't kill them. Renders them powerless... temporarily, but I don't know what effect the other herbs..." He turned on Ethan angrily, "for God's sake, what are you standing there for. Get out your notes so I can do this boy some good."

The day wore on slowly. Giles and Willow pored over Ethan's notebooks, questioning him often. Buffy and Xander milled around and explored the house, but Oz was too numbed to move. He had never seen Giles quite like this, so angry. And something was very wrong, something inside. It was how he felt when the moon was full, though it was nowhere near tonight, but more confused. He felt the wolf inside him, agitated, struggling to escape. And he was so tired, but he dared not fall asleep; he sensed that's what the wolf wanted.

Sunset was coming, and something bad was going to happen. As the sky grew red with the fading sunlight, he was suddenly restless, and losing control. He stepped up to the table where the others worked. "Willow," he managed to whisper, his throat suddenly dry.

She turned to him quickly, her face a mask of concern. "Something's happening," she said, "I think he's transforming."

Ethan stood up. "I have some chains," he said, moving towards a closet.

It was too late for that, Oz thought, and he reached out and grabbed a handful of Wolf's-bane, and pressed it to his face.

They stood in a circle around Willow, who crouched on the floor stroking the Oz-wolf's fur. The wolf was conscious, but only barely. It moved weakly, trembling, and Buffy realized with a sinking feeling it was the first time she had ever seen fear in its eyes. It whined pitifully, and snapped at Willow's hand whenever it came close to its face. There was no Oz there, and Buffy could easily understand what had driven her friend to seek help controlling it.

Giles paged madly through Ethan's papers, mumbling the names of plants and cursing his former friend's stupidity. At last he turned to them with a deep sigh. "Well, there is hope," he said, "but it will get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid."

Buffy swallowed hard, unable to meet Willow's frightened eyes. "We can take it," she said. Giles dropped his eyes to the papers. "I think if he can make it to the next full moon, the cycle will... get back on track, so to speak. But until then, the... wolf part of him will be fighting for dominance."

"Every night, you mean," Buffy said.

Giles hesitated, then pressed on. "Every minute, I mean. As far as the wolf is concerned, this is a struggle for survival, and it will push Oz to release him. Whatever advantage it gets, it will take."

Ethan smacked his forehead. "Of course, what a fool I've been."

"You can say that again," Buffy murmured.

Ethan shot her a look, then went on, "What Rupert means is that after sunset is of course the most dangerous time, but every time Oz lets his guard down the wolf could assert dominance."

"Yes," Giles cut in, "When he sleeps, if he loses his temper, anything."

"Well, lucky for us, Oz isn't the emotional type," Xander said.

"But the full moon isn't for days," Willow pointed out, "We'll have to keep him locked up day and night."

"Or sedated with the Wolf's-bane," Ethan suggested.

"No," Willow said, "I won't let you do that to him. And we don't know what the side-effects will be."

"She's right," Giles agreed, "prolonged exposure could have devastating consequences."

Ethan shrugged, indifferent. "I'll get the chains, then."

Oz came back to himself, slumped at the base of the wall, his arms hanging above him from chains. The floor was cold on his naked skin, and he could tell from the light coming in the window it was almost noon. He couldn't have slept much, though, he still felt tired. He tried to piece together what had happened, but the images and impressions were gone completely. He untangled himself and saw Buffy sitting nearby, the tranquilizer gun across her knees.

"Where's Willow," he asked hoarsely.

"I made her go to bed," Buffy answered, "this has been hard on her."

"How long was I out?"

Buffy glanced at the wall clock. "Forty-one hours."

Almost two days! It didn't seem possible. "I was a wolf for two days?" he asked, incredulous.

Buffy nodded.

Oz tried to stretch, but was restrained by the short chains. "Little help?" he said, fiddling with the manacles on his wrists. There was no answer from Buffy. He looked up to find her watching him intently, her hands tensing on the gun. Oz felt his heart begin to pound. "Let me out, Buffy," he said, as calmly as he could.

"I'm sorry," she answered, "I can't do that."

Oz tried to get to his feet, but again the chains restrained him, leaving him crouching against the wall. "What's going on," he said, alarmed now.

"I'm me, I'm okay. Let me loose."

Buffy stood, cradling the gun, ready to raise it and fire. "You said that yesterday," she said levelly, "and then you attacked Giles." Oz must have looked shocked, so she went on more kindly, "your personality seems to be intertwined with the wolf, Oz. I don't know how, or why, but it seems to be able to look like you and talk. Believe me, I want to unchain you, but I can't trust you."

Oz felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach, and as the shock hit his system, he felt the wolf awaken inside. It was in a black rage of frustration, and it was surging up into his consciousness. He only had time to gasp, "No," when oblivion overtook him.

The next several days were a confused tangle in his mind. He would awaken for a few minutes, shivering from the cold, his muscles aching from straining against the chains, only to have the wolf reassert itself.

Once he fought up through a red haze of pain to see Buffy straddling his chest and Giles and Xander pinning his arms as Willow struggled to reclamp the manacles.

Another time, he seemed to wake from a peaceful sleep to find Willow gingerly draping him with a quilt, but when she saw his eyes open, she leapt back with fear, and then he was gone again.

A number of times he found himself looking out through wolf-eyes, straining to see through lenses that seemed cloudy and dim, even as his sense of smell painted a more vivid portrait than his eyes ever did.

He came to himself fully a few minutes before sunset the night of the full moon. Everyone was assembled there; he looked into their eyes, so full of concern. Concern and fear. Giles spoke, rapidly. "I hope you can hear me," he said, "we haven't much time. Ethan and I think the full moon will reset the Werewolf cycle. It won't be long."

"What if it doesn't," Oz croaked hoarsely.

"It has to," Willow insisted, but Oz looked to Giles.

"You're the realist, Giles," he said, his voice barely audible. "I need to know what will happen to me."

Giles regarded Oz with great sadness in his eyes. "I... I don't know," he said, "but if the worst were to occur, and you remained in this state, I think we would have to consider restraining you indefinitely. Humanely, of course, but..." he trailed off.

Oz looked into all their faces, even Ethan, now looking remorseful, stopping at last on Willow. Tears stood in her eyes, but even so she was radiant, trying to look brave for him. "I love you, baby," Oz said quietly.

"I love you, too," was the last thing he heard as the sun set.

He awoke to brilliant dawn light pouring in the windows. A good sign, he thought, untangling his limbs and stretching as well as he could against the chains. He was starving, and, he realized, filthy from having lain on the floor for nearly a week. He looked up to see Willow staring at him, Buffy standing behind her, Xander dozing nearby. Giles and Ethan stood a little apart.

"How do you feel," Willow asked.

Oz took a minute before answering. He certainly felt more like himself.

"Okay, I guess," he said.

Giles stepped forward. "I'm sorry to do this to you," he said, "but perhaps we should wait awhile before releasing you."

Oz nodded. "I understand," he said, "but could I have a blanket or something."

Suddenly self-conscious, all but Willow turned their eyes away. She gathered up a quilt and brought it to him, crouching beside him and draping it over his shoulders. Suddenly, fiercely, she hugged him, the tears in her eyes spilling onto her cheeks, into his hair. He hugged her back, stroking her hair, kissing her soft throat.

He opened his eyes to see Buffy standing over them. "That's enough proof for me," she said, and she took his hand to undo the manacles.

Much later, after a shower and a hot meal, Oz and Willow were alone. She sat in one of Ethan's arm chairs. Ethan himself had managed to disappear again, and Oz sat at her feet, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair absently.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he said, "I thought if I could control this thing somehow..."

"Shhh," Willow soothed, "it's over now."

"Our lives will never by normal," he said bleakly.

"Normal is very overrated," Willow answered.

"I want to give you the world, Will. Not this..."

Willow took his chin, and turned his head to look at her. "You listen to me," she said fiercely, "I love you, all of you. The werewolf and the man. I love your music, your sense of humor, everything." She slipped down beside him, and drew him into her arms. "You could have died trying to change. Died, or worse. Promise me you won't do anything like this again."

Oz was speechless, and could only nod. Willow nodded back, satisfied, then pulled him close. She kissed him deeply, and now he gladly abandoned himself to be one with her.

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