Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, unfortunately, all Joss'. If I owned the characters, I'd shrink them and put them in my pocket and carry them around with me.

Rating: PG-13 for some slight language

Feedback: Yes please. These are a series of vignettes that I'll try to continue, maybe with other characters if I get enough feedback.

AN: This might be AU, since I've heard that Angel and Cordy found out about Buffy's death in a different way (I didn't watch S2 of AtS). But like I said, this is mostly a piece of character study and how I think each character would respond in the situation I've placed them in.

Oz

I don't know how she found me. I guess it was lucky that she called when we were scheduled to play a gig in Santa Monica. A couple days later and we were off for Germany. I guess Devin gave her the number. A couple years on the road, he said he became totally disillusioned like Kurt or something like that and went back to Sunnydale. He must have seen her around or something. I had just started a new band called the White Hats with my friend Gavin and we had been touring a couple cities, mostly in California. We always skipped over Sunnydale. I don't think it was even about her, the other guys just thought it was such a small, hickish venue. But secretly, I was always more than relieved when we would ignore the exit to Sunnydale. Too much pain. Too many memories.

And then she called. I could almost sense it was she, after all this time, before I picked up the phone. I answered and there was this huge hollow silence and I could almost feel her hold her breath. "Oz?"

"Willow?" God, her voice sounds so soft, so meek. Yet so musical. Her voice always had a lilt to it, this really sweet pitch that wavered somewhere in between a high C and D. I always tried to write something that captured the sound of her voice. Even when she sounded broken like this, she still sounded like a song.

"H-how a-are you . . . h-how a-are t-things?" She sounds so throaty, like she just finished crying or something. I stiffen. I imagine her beautiful emerald eyes glazed over, clear tears spilling over onto her lily-white skin and feel something inside stir.

"Oh . . . um . . .I'm okay, I guess. Still a 20-something year old werewolf who plays killer lead guitar in a rock band . . . so you know . . . the usual." I try to pick my usual uninflected voice up, something to make her feel better. I suddenly wonder why she's calling. I wonder if she's called me to tell me that she's just broken up with Tara and that she wants me back or something. I dreamed so many nights in the bumpy van that she would tell me this; her arms invitingly open wide, a wide smile spreading across her face. She would be towering over me, as usual, wearing one of those long, flowing witchy dresses I love seeing her in. Out in the sunlight, the light playing with the sheen of her auburn hair. I don't want her to tell me this when I'm groggily sitting up in some motel bed with a couple of passed out guys lying all over the room with beer bottles scattered all over the carpet. Not with her pitifully sobbing to herself and to a half-conscious me. "How about you?" I ask this more gingerly, my voice returned to its typical decibel of apathetic softness.

She begins to break down again. I get worried. I want to start screaming at her to tell me what's wrong, how can I fix it, and if I can't, to stop hurting me like this. But of course screaming has never been my style. "I'm o-okay," she lies, but senses that I know. "Not true," she sighs. "I'm not okay. I mean, I-I'm okay as I'm gonna get." I start to get impatient. If this is about Tara, just come out and say it She finally says it: "It's Buffy."

Oh. "Buffy . . . what's wrong with Buffy?"

She pauses and I can hear that small catch in her throat that she does for dramatic effect even when she doesn't know she's doing it. "S-She's d-dead Oz."

I freeze. I stare vacuously into space, I have no idea what to say, how to make Willow feel better, how to make any of them feel better. I feel empty, totally devoid of anything that could be considered comfort. I feel helpless. This is where being taciturn, laconic me sucks. So I say nothing. "Oz?"

"I'm here. When did this happen?"

"A couple days ago. S-she was . . . trying to save the world again." She says it, sounding like a child, like she doesn't understand what it means. That once again, Buffy Summers successfully averted Apocalypse and saved all of mankind from potential fatalism. Through my short time knowing her, she's done it countless times. I never expected she would die because of it.

"God Willow, I'm so sorry," I whisper. Suddenly images of the whole Scooby gang flash through my mind. I think of Giles, probably cleaning his glasses in grief. Or Xander, trying to cover up his sadness with his typical funny. Or Anya, his girlfriend. I wonder if she's even become human enough to really understand what's going on without making some bluntly rude comment. I think about Dawn, the little sister I didn't know very well but who I still feel for. I even think about Tara, mostly a blurry memory of the brief time I saw her. I think about them all in bereavement over their best friend . . . one of my best friends, despite my detached behavior towards her. But I knew and she knew that we were good friends.

But mostly I think about Willow, and the way she scrunches up her chin into wrinkles when she's crying and the way she talks into staccato motions when she's nervous, the way she's doing now. "It's . . . okay. I-I just w-wanted to call to tell you we're having the funeral service this Friday."

"Friday?" I mentally pause. "We're leaving for Germany Thursday night."

"You're telling me you can't go?" Her voice is less throaty now, slightly more high-pitched, growing in anger.

"I wish I could Will, but the band----"

"Screw the band! Buffy was one of your friends! My best friend! You can't skip some lousy trip to say goodbye to her?!!!"

I pause. I don't know how to make this right. "Willow, babe, I just wish I could, but we have a lot banking on this trip. We've been planning this forever."

"We were planning this showdown with Glory forever. Planning how to protect Buffy's sister from a pre-apocalyptic ritual death. But hey, things kind of go haywire you know . . . d-don't g-go as planned? And now Buffy's dead because of it." She definitely sounds angry now, but I'm smart enough to know that some of it isn't necessarily directed at me.

"Willow, I'll try----"

"No. If you're too busy with your really important tour, then fine. I hope y-you and your band a-are v-very successful." Click. Dial tone.

I gape at the phone for a couple seconds, amazed at not only the news she just told me, but also the fact that she hung up. I've rarely seen or heard her so angry that she would do something so un-Willowy impulsive as hanging up on someone. I just put the phone down and continue to stare at it for awhile until Joss, the band's drummer snorts awake in the bed beside mine and tries to wrestle around with me to break me out of my trance. "Oz?" He waves a hand in front of my face. "Earth to Oz. What the hell is wrong with you man? Who died?" Not surprisingly, I don't respond.

The phone rings again minutes later. I grab it, knowing for sure this time that it's her. "Willow." Just as I predicted.

"O-Oz. I'm . . . s-sorry."

"It's okay Willow. I'm sorry I can't be there for the service."

She sniffles. It almost brings a smile to my face. "I-It's ok. I just wish you could, y'know?"

"I wish I could too, Will."

"I mean, we need you, Oz . . . I need you." She says all breathy and I wonder if she can sense how tightly I'm gripping the phone at that moment.

"You don't Willow . . ." I try to say, ignoring the fact that the very words feel like a punch to my gut. "You've got Giles, Xander . . . Tara."

Silence speaks volumes. I never really got old sayings like that, and if I did, I guess it would more of an unconscious knowledge to me, my being Mr. Incommunicable and all. But I think I finally got it. Uncomfortably so, but still. "O-oh. I-I s-see," she sighs deeply. "I . . . uh . . I-I . . . uh . . . y-yeah." She has this habit of never saying what she means, of leaving these long stretches of pauses and hand motions to convey what she means. Too bad I'm not there to see them.

"I'm just saying that you're a lot stronger than you think Willow."

"No, I'm not," she sobs. "B-Buffy was the strong one, I was just the bumbling Scoobette-wannabe-Wiccan who followed her around. I can't do this by myself Oz."

"Yes you can."

"I-I can't."

"You can Willow. You can because you need to. You have to be strong for Dawn and for everyone else. Buffy would want that. That's what she needs."

Pause. And pause again.

"Y-yeah . . ." she agrees softly.

"Willow?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm always here for you."

"I k-know."

I'm the one to hang-up this time. The short conversation had dwindled to a mutual understanding and besides, I've never been one for good-byes. I sit back on the greasy motel pillow and pick by guitar and strum a few progressions that suddenly come to mind. But I stop mid-strum and just kind of lie back. Thinking about it all. I can't believe this happening. Buffy. She's really gone. She was so strong, so fearless. If she couldn't make it in this crazy world, who can?

Willow could, she can. She has to, and I know she has it in her to. I really want to be there for her, but at the same time, I know it would be better for her if I stay away. Sounds selfish maybe, but it's true. It would be tempting for her to have another person to lean on, but in the end it would just complicate life for her too much, not to mention screw with my head. Sure, this band whose usual gigs include seedy bars and half-empty chorus halls might not seem that important, and I'm smart enough to have my priorities straight; it's not. But giving Willow the life she deserves is. And that's a life that includes knowing that she's strong enough to take care of herself. Because I do.