Title: Cup of Coffee

Author: iridescentZEN

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.

Rated: Mature

Pairing: Oz/Other, Willow/Oz

Summary: Let this image seal his fate. Not to love, only hate. Warning: As Madonna says before her song, Bye, Bye Baby off of her Erotica album, "This is not a love song." This is not fluffy W/O. Read at your own risk.

Notes: Song title from track 05 on the Garbage album, Beautifulgarbage.

It's over a cooling cup of coffee that sweet, brown-eyed Zoey tells Oz she doesn't want to see him anymore. That things just "aren't working out." And "can't they just be friends?" which is better, he guesses, than finding out she's recently gay, and in love.

"It's not that I don't like you," she shrugs. "It's just that I don't love you."

Oz knows that his stoic countenance is paying off. That she'll never see the volcano erupt, but it still hurts in ways he can't explain.

Giselle tells that she hates him, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee, a cigarette dangling precariously from the edge of her soft, Revlon Burgundy lips. "You suck," she says, "You hardly ever talk. All you do is play in a band and," she does air quotes, and he's momentarily blinded by flamingo pink nails, "Meditate. I have other losers to waste my time on. Losers with money."

At the word 'hate' Oz thinks of Willow. Sangria colored hair by Bronze lighting, sparkling green eyes like radar. Pre-Veruca, Willow's image in his mind would do nothing but warm him. Now it only leaves Oz cold. Not because she loves a girl. Because she loves, and it's not him.

Oz's world crumbles as smoke wisps up to stain the crummy diner's ceiling, as Giselle informs him, "Maybe I'll date a nerd. You can never go wrong with a nerd."

Oz isn't sure about that.

Stormy has blue hair, and only wears cowboy boots even if they don't go with whatever else she's wearing. She has a sweet smile, but not the sweetest he's ever seen. Oz finds her in bed with another man, and is sure he's a masochist, because he meets her for coffee later that night. When he's had time to digest, so that the wolf doesn't have to. Besides, he finds himself unable to love, unable to give all of himself to these women anyway.

Attentively, he listens to all the reasons why she strayed coming out of her mouth in a not so cute stream of babble. Oz sips tentatively at his cup of coffee, letting the bitter flavor coat his tongue. The number of times he's heard, "I don't love you," over regular coffee, one sugar, extra-extra skim milk is rising, and he's beginning to think that it can't be just him. That he's not the one. It's not his fault. He can't be that unlovable. That repulsive. That closed off, and impenetrable.

And maybe he should stop dating women with strange names.

So he dates plain Jane with unspectacular features, but a brilliant, shiny soul and a heart that could melt an iceberg. It's not long before he's tasting coffee, the familiar acidic aftertaste stuck in his throat. There is definitely something wrong. If plain Jane can't love him, who can?

A ball of hate begins to grow in his stomach like a tumor, malignant and slowly killing him.

When Jennifer, who sings off-key and drinks most of his beer before he can have one, says those words, "I don't love you," he's unable to stop his fingers from stretching. He's unable to stop his nails from growing into claws or his knuckles getting furry. So, he hides them beneath a grimy counter top, and prays that she'll leave before he can't take it anymore.

Jennifer blows smoke in his face, and tells him to get guitar lessons. And that hurts just as much if not more.

Sarah tells him she thinks he's queer; she says those words, "I don't love you." Then runs screaming from their table, the waitress and most of the patrons in tow because the beast is unleashed, and all those wolf-cloaking lessons in Tibet are lost like they were never learned to begin with.

Oz can't help it. The tumor has grown, painful and undeniable. It weights him down, a river of hate and he's up over his head with his feet in cement blocks. It's Willow's fault. He knows it, feels it. The same way he's felt since that night he drove off in his van, the scent of her juniper body lotion still thick in the air, and he felt like he'd never shake her. Like she tied a chain around his heart, padlocked it, and threw away the key.

Oz feels drawn to Sunnydale against his will. Drawn to her. Drawn to his judge, jury and executioner. He walks the streets of Sunnydale, thinking that it's so different, and yet still the same.

When he finally lays eyes on Willow, he thinks the same of her. So different, and so the same. Something in her aura has changed. She's on campus walking to her next class. She doesn't smell of juniper anymore. She smells sad, vulnerable, and full of raw power, so overwhelming that it must hurt her. Which is fantastic for him, because he hates, and he dreams her voice at night. Dreams of words he knows were spoken.

I conjure thee by barabbas, by satanas, and the devil. As thou art burning, let Oz and Veruca's deceitful hearts be broken. I conjure thee by the Saracen queen and the name of Hell. Let them find no love or solace. Let them find no peace as well. Let this image seal his fate. Not to love, only hate.

Oz has dreamed his own image. A picture Willow took at the pier. He's smiling, one of the few times it had ever been genuine. He sees Willow's shaky hand dropping it into burning witch flame. Casting the spell that has ruined his life, but he's about to change that for good.

"Dangerous to be out at night in Sunnydale, isn't it, Will?"

Willow stops walking abruptly, her school books clutched tightly to her chest with white-knuckled fingers. Oz tilts his head. She's growing her hair long again. Nice. She gives him a once over, obviously checking for vampirism.

Satisfied, she asks, "Oz, oh my god, it's so good to see you. When did you get here!" Willow's expression is open, warm, her books pushed to one arm so that she can hug him.

Oz lets her familiar arms wrap around him. The only arms that love him, and he nuzzles at her neck, wondering if this is how a vampire feels, as he sniffs at his sweet Willow. She's wearing a denim patch-work jacket, one with a fluffy polyester collar meant to fake fur, and he pushes it aside. He can almost pretend that they never had a falling out, he can almost pretend that he didn't come here to make her hurt as badly as he does.

The moon's not full, and he's Oz. He can smell restrained magic in her, like she's holding back a reservoir of the dark stuff, and he growls, the wolf in him approving.

Willow stiffens at the growl. "Uh- Oz? Whatcha doing?"

"I hate, Will. It's all I know. It's consuming me more than the wolf ever could, and I -" he breaks off, and away, feeling his face change. The structure of Daniel Osbourne's face cracks, and falls to the superior strength of the demon, his eyes blackening with an eternal hunger, the pores of his skin shooting out coarse hair that coats his body, but there's no howl from his throat.

Willow's backing away, text books dropping to the ground with a dull thud, but Oz captures her upper arms in his hands easily. Her hiss of pain when his claws rip through her jacket, cutting her skin lightly upsets him, because as much as there is hate inside him, it's not there when he smells her. Not there now that he holds her.

Oz fights for control, and wins his face back. She's panting heavily, but trying not to run. She will really be prey if she runs. Her eyes are as black as his had been a moment before, but for some reason she's not casting any spells.

While he brings her hand to his lips, he says, "You cursed me, Will. You cursed me. I thought you loved me."

"I-I, I do! I'm sorry! I was really hurt. I did love you. I do love you, Oz but there's Tara, and - and what happened to you!"

Oz kisses her hand gently, then before she can react he sinks his teeth into her flesh, hard. Willow's blood tastes like vinegar, and he's sure he'll vomit it up later. When she lets out an indignant, "Oz!" and flails, it only makes him bite harder, until he hears her blood dripping onto the pavement.

Willow doesn't understand. Doesn't quite realize what she's done to him. If she was trying to make him realize how much he hurt her, he gets it. Totally. He didn't deserve this, anymore than she deserves what he's doing to her now.

Oz never wants to hear those words again. Never wants to hear I don't love you from anyone. "You cursed me." He's done the same to her now. Cursed her back. The first person, and hopefully only person he's ever contaminated. She'll be a wolf on the next full moon, and she'll finally see why he needed to leave, why he couldn't control himself. What it's like to have an animal take control, and make your choices for you.

Willow shakes her head, holding her hand tightly to her chest, her other hand clasped over it. Oz can see her finally realizing what he's done in her eyes, wide and tear filled. "But I love you," she says in a little girl voice, pleading with him to understand, to forgive in a way she hadn't.

Oz thinks of conversations over a cup of coffee, about how many women have told him the opposite. He's mystified by her lack of understanding with exactly what she's cursed him with, and implores her with his eyes to understand, "You're the only one who can."

End.