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No matter how many out of town gigs they got, it was always good to be playing the Bronze. Familiar, filled with hometown fans who knew what to expect from Dingoes Ate My Baby, and there was the chance Willow would be there. Something in Oz was electrified when he knew she was watching, as though he performed only for her.

Which he never had, come to think of it. He should do that sometime. She'd like that, he thought, his mind on that while his fingers were busy setting up the amps.

"Man, we need a roadie," Dylan said, growing impatient waiting for Oz to finish. "Other bands have roadies."

"Well, other bands know more than three chords. Your professional bands can play up to six, sometimes seven completely different cords."

Dylan thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. "That's just, like, fruity jazz bands."

Oz turned when someone called his name, and saw Angel emerging from the darkness behind the stage.

"Hey, man," he said. "You lookin' for Buffy?"

"As always." Angel rolled his eyes in acknowledgement of Buffy's ongoing elusiveness.

"Well, no sightings as of yet, but I think she said she'd show." Oz had, in fact, made a point of asking her, hoping if Buffy showed Willow would be brought along in her orbit. Buffy had referenced some kind of spat she and Willow and Xander had had earlier in the courtyard, and he was a little worried that he hadn't had a message from Willow. Usually if she was upset, she'd talk to him.

Before Angel could respond to him, the door opened and entirely the wrong sort of vampires walked in—full vamp face on, and ready to party. Another night in Sunnydale …

People scattered, shrieking, as the vamps made their way through the room. Oz and Angel both stood watching, waiting to see what they were dealing with before they decided what to do. Then a vamp collided with a kid, shoved him, and sent him crashing through a table on the other side of the room. These guys were not in a good mood, it appeared.

"Well, that doesn't look good," Oz muttered.

"Everybody shut up!" shouted one of the vamps. "All right," he said when everyone had done so. "Nobody cause any trouble, or try to leave, and nobody gets hurt."

"Why don't I believe him?" Angel said softly.

"Well, he lacks credibility. Can you get out of here?"

"Skylight in the roof. I can make it."

"Think we need some backup."

"Think I'm needed here," Angel responded.

Oz did a quick count. "Ten to one. Could get pointless." He wished he could count himself in; while mostly he was happy that wolf and self existed in such separate planes, on occasions like this he regretted that his only use to the team as a fighter was when he had lost his own personality so completely.

The vamps had been waiting for someone, it seemed, because they moved out of the way in hushed deference as a woman walked into the room. A woman in a tight leather outfit. A woman with pale skin and red hair …

Oz's blood froze in his veins. That was Willow. His Willow. Or not at all his Willow, not if she was storming the Bronze with a team of vamps.

His worst nightmare come true: He had lost her.

And she was so completely Willow. The tilt of her head, the thoughtful look, the way she studied everything as she walked. But she had a confidence his Willow lacked, a sureness of her power and her sexuality. She was beautiful, Oz had to admit. Sexy and dangerous and tempting. But she wasn't his Willow. That much was clear when her eyes swept over him with no acknowledgement, no recognition.

She planted her feet in the center of the room. "Look. Everyone's all afraid. It's just like old times."

There was no longer any question of Angel staying to take on the entire team of vamps. They needed the big guns.

"Get Buffy," Oz said. "Do it now."