Arrival

Title: Arrival
Author: PuppyPooka
Fandom: BTVS
Pairing: Andrew/Oz (eventually)
Feedback: [e-mail] Please, this is my first fanfic series....
Disclaimer: BTVS belongs to the genius of Joss Whedon and the good people at Mutant Enemy. I’m just borrowing them.
Summary: This is the second in a series of BTVS season seven AU fics.
Spoilers: Up to ‘Potential’ or so... AU but related after that.


         Sunnydale. Oz had stopped a bit early the night before, splurging on a decent hotel room, rather than coast in at two A.M. smelly and burned out. He wanted to be rested before facing an active hellmouth, especially one which came equipped with such intense memories. So now, he was facing an innocent-looking small California town shortly after sunrise.

         Sunnydale didn’t really look any different from how Oz remembered it. The wreckage of the old high school had been cleared away, the new one in its place; maybe a few buildings were different, but the whole place still seemed just like any normal town. Seemed being the operative word. Oz could feel the energy seething beneath the surface of the town, the energy which haunted his dreams and echoed with the refrain ‘from beneath you’. All his noble crap about dying with your friends aside – not that it wasn’t true, it just wasn’t all the truth – he was here because the Hellmouth called to the wolf that was him.

         He’d come to terms with the wolf over the past three years. From that initial step, when he’d come back to Willow convinced of his control and found out how flawed that control actually was, he’d gone back into study. He’d come to realize that the wolf was a part of him, not a curse which had been inflicted and which he had to keep under locks. Now he pretty much used the wolf like he would anything else – rather than keeping it confined, he relied on the wolf’s senses, instincts, and strengths more and more. Now that he was no longer tied to the moon, he could change whenever he wanted.

         It took far more work to want to change. But once he made the breakthrough, learned how to think while still the wolf – well, that was when he’d almost come back to Sunnydale. There wasn’t really a lot of point in doing so, though. He’d brought out the old memories, worn and shiny, and realized that somewhere along the way, he’d moved on from Willow. He’d treasured the memories, sure... the way someone could treasure a childhood keepsake, something once-loved and cherished ever afterwards.

         So he hadn’t come back to Sunnydale. He’d kept in touch with the old gang, through both Willow and Giles, and he’d kept going along his path. Once the dreams had started, he knew it was just a matter of time before he had to return to Sunnydale, but he hadn’t rushed things. If he was needed here, he’d be called.

         Two weeks ago, Willow had emailed him and made it clear: he was needed here. This was the call. And now he was here, having driven from the small apartment he’d been staying at up in Northern Ontario, finding a moment of calm and still before he officially returned. He sniffed the air, carefully, smelling the magical energy on the air. The last time he’d been here, it had been ... background. He hadn’t really been aware of it, hadn’t noticed when it acted up aside from noticing that he was a bit more tense – really, he’d been blind then. And now it was awake, all that energy ready to rise up and flow over the world.

         He’d been a fool to think he was ready for this. There was no way that he, even with his steady alliance with the wolf, would make a difference. No way he’d be any more than a footnote in this one. But he’d agreed to come here... he’d made up his mind. And Oz knew he’d been accused of being many things, but indecisive wasn’t one of them. No point second-guessing his decision now. He shrugged and got back in his car, travelling to Revello Drive and the next step in the plan: get to Sunnydale, and when he got there, find Buffy and offer his help. Not exactly a master plan, and there was a chance that she’d just send him away, but Oz didn’t really think that was all that likely. Both Giles and Willow would probably vouch for him... if it was needed. He had a tendency to overthink things, to worry at a problem before it could be solved.

         A part of him wanted to shift to the wolf: things were cleaner then. He shrugged that off, too. Time for that, later. Maybe not much time (a hint of bitter cynicism here), but time enough.

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         Andrew crept into the bathroom, locking the door behind him firmly. There were too many people around, too many people yelling at him and shoving him and telling him he was worthless. He knew that just fine, didn’t need them to remind him.

         He opened the medicine chest, feeling tears welling up in his eyes, and took deep breaths to keep from crying. He found what he was looking for – antibiotic ointment and bandages – right near the front of the chest; obviously, lots of people needed those ones, in this house.

         He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, placing his prizes next to him, took another deep, shuddering breath, and pushed the edge of his sleeve up. Although they’d granted their hostage the freedom of the house, Andrew hadn’t been allowed to leave on his own, and most of the clothes he had were a bit too large. In this case, that made things easier. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, frowning at the blood on the inside of the cuff, and looked at his left arm. The rope burns Xander had left, tying him up for interrogation, were almost faded away now.

         The blood had come from the three deep cuts, along the older marks, that Andrew had created while doing the dishes that morning. He stared at them, silently, then bit his lower lip and started to cover them with the ointment.

         “Hey sport.” The voice was casual, almost mocking; the tone so familiar that some part of him, deeper than thought, just wanted to throw himself at the voice.

         “You’re not Warren. You’re the First.” Trying to sound calm, trying to sound as cool as Captain Dylan Hunt when faced with Magog hordes, he keeps his voice as even as he could.

         Warren-slash-the-First doesn’t even pause. “And you’re pathetic. Hiding in here, cutting yourself up, do you think that makes you somehow even for what you’ve done? Do you think they’ll forgive you? They’ll never forgive you. They’ll always look at you and see a murderer.” He shrugs. “Of course, they’re right.”

         “I’m not listening to you. Go away.” Andrew turned from his friend, focussing on the cuts on his arm. Even at the time, he knew he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t hurt himself, that was wrong... But he’d watched the blood well up, just as it had poured over his hand when he’d – “I needed to.”

         “Well, not that your self-destructive bent isn’t cute and all...” Warren said, grinning; Andrew couldn’t help it, he looked up at his friend and it was the same grin, the one Warren had saved for him when they were alone. “But I need you whole. You’ve still got a part to play in this one, and you’ll be no help to me if you’re all cut up.”

         “No... you’re not Warren. I’m helping Buffy now.” Andrew tried to sound firm, confident. He picked up the bandage, trapping the edge awkwardly between his wrist and thigh, and began to roll it onto his forearm.

         “You think that’ll help? That if you do a couple good deeds, suddenly they’ll take you in? Maybe Xander will fall in love with you? Damn, you get sadder every minute.” Andrew flinched at each question, the tears he always tried to keep in check starting to come forth again. Warren continued, relentless. “They’ll never give a damn what happens to you, Andrew. You know that. You belong ...” he paused, dark eyes fixed on the smaller boy, then continued, “you belong with me.”

         Andrew bowed his head, hiding the tears, and kept picking at the bandage. There was nothing he could say. In the distance, a doorbell rang. When he looked up, Warren was gone. Andrew finished cleaning the cuts, emptiness inside of him, then tidied himself up and left the bathroom.

         He reached the foot of the stairs in time to see Dawn standing in front of the open door. He couldn’t see who it was that she was staring at, expression of shock and dismay clear on her face. Other people – mostly some of the interchangeable mob of potentials that was slowly filling up the house – were drifting in from the kitchen. Andrew got jostled from behind by someone and rushed off of the stairs before he got pushed down them, a stab of pain running up his arm.

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         Oz had got to the house easily – there wasn’t a lot of traffic in Sunnydale in the early mornings. The place looked a bit different than he’d remembered it: the windows had all been boarded up on the lower floor, the flowerbeds were untended now, and there were three different cars parked in the driveway. With a purely mental shrug, Oz parked on the street and walked up to the house.

         He rang the doorbell, hearing the echoes in his mind of another time he’d stood, uncertain of his reception, on a cold doorstep. He thrust ring-covered hands into his pockets and waited, patiently. Willow knew he was coming, sure, and she was fine with it. But not everyone would be. Eventually, the door opened. Dawn’s voice started to say something, then suddenly cut off.

         She was staring at him. He returned the favour impassively. Dawn had grown up since he saw her last, that was true. She was much taller than him now, and she looked like a typical teenager. Except for her eyes. She looked much older than she ought to, there.

         He knew he looked about the same as he used to, too. He’d bulked out some -- put on more muscle; his hair was blue this week, and he had a nifty new tattoo which coiled around the base of his neck, but he doubted she had trouble recognizing him. No, her hesitation was clearly something different. He wondered if she knew how obvious her emotions were – they were written all over her face for anyone to see, even if they lacked his enhanced sense of smell. And right now, she was fighting shock, relief, and anger; anger was winning. He decided to say something, if only to end the awkward pause. He cleared his throat and said, “Willow didn’t mention I was coming here?”

         Dawn shook her head, slowly, stepping back from blocking the doorway. “Willow!” she shouted. Oz gestured to the doorframe, a casual way of asking if he could come in, and Dawn took another step back. She didn’t invite him in, though... he wondered if that was something about him, or just caution finally learned from living all these years with a slayer.

         He decided to assume it was caution, and stepped through the door, standing just inside the house -- proving that he wasn't a vampire. There were rather a lot of people in the hallway, and only Dawn was a familiar one. Oz looked the group over carefully, his gaze lighting momentarily on a young man standing near the base of the stairs. Another familiar face, though he had no idea where he’d seen the guy before. A small voice inside of himself, one he hadn’t heard in a while, asked Who is that boy? Meanwhile, Dawn was still yelling for Willow to get down there.

         And then, Willow stood at the top of the steps. Oz waited for the familiar clenching to strike his heart, and was kind of confused when it didn’t. Maybe he really was over her after all. She smiled when she saw him; her whole face still lit up.

         And a moment later, she was hugging him. Hard. He wasn’t exactly clear on how she’d got there so quickly – maybe she teleported? And he could smell her... that scent that was uniquely Willow, but different now. He could smell the faintest hint of someone else’s scent on her, too. A new girlfriend, probably. But it didn’t bring a surge of jealousy. Good. So he could handle this. Hopefully.

         When Willow let him go, Dawn smacked her. “So Oz was coming to town and you forgot to mention it?” She sounded angry... colder than he remembered, but that made sense. After all, she’d been through a hell of a lot the past few years.

         Willow sounded almost nervous when she said, “Sorry, Dawnie. I really did mean to, but what with the Ubervamps and all... well, I did get distracted. I wrote to him after we heard what we were up against, and then when we started to find out what we were really up against it was pretty busy, and even if I had wanted to email Oz and tell him what was going on, he was in transit–“ Nice to see that the powers of babble hadn’t been completely destroyed over the past few years. Some things don’t change, Oz figured. He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable under the gaze of so many eyes; and many of the girls around him were looking pretty hostile.

         Suddenly, he heard a voice he recognized, asking “What’s going on here? Why’s everyone staring at the door? New potential?”

         Buffy elbowed her way through the crowd and stopped when she saw Oz. Then she said, in a very calm voice, “Willow?”

         “Yes, Buffy?” Almost too innocent, and Oz wondered if he was about to find himself driving all the way back to Canada. What was going on here? There was a long pause, Willow and Buffy just staring at each other, and Oz felt like he was watching an alpha showdown. Except there was something more going on here than just figuring out who was in charge. That much was already clear. Buffy owned this pack, or at least, she seemed to. A couple of people on the edges were giving her ... glances. The sort Oz was all too familiar with.

         Buffy nodded, slowly, then said, “Ok, this is pointless. Potentials, you go back outside. Train with Spike. Dawn, Willow... Oz. I want to talk to you in the living room.” Her voice was very even, but firm. Oz started to head towards the living room, noticed he was being followed by the vaguely-familiar guy, and turned slightly, giving him a quizzical look. Buffy grabbed the boy by the collar and turned him around easily. “Not you, Andrew. You see what you can do about supper.”

         Maybe it was just proximity, but Oz could smell such despair coming from the young man that it worried him. How could he live with all these people, and yet not one of them noticed that the kid was hurting? Before he could say anything, though, Andrew slumped into himself, nodded, and headed for the kitchen.

         Oz found himself pushed over to the couch by an edgy Slayer, and wondered if he still counted as slay-free in her mind. She looked tired, but ready to face this latest arrival. “Oz,” she said, then paused. She seemed at a loss for words.

         He nodded. Seemed as good a place as any to start. “I’m here to help, Buffy,” he said. “I don’t want to make trouble.” And that about summed it up, as far as he was concerned.

         Oz doubted that would be enough.