Chapter 9: The Phases of Passion

January 27, 1998 – Monday

Sunnydale High School

"Nowhere!" Willow exclaimed, her voice tinged with a mix of frustration and exasperation. Her hands twitched, as if she wanted to throw her books in the air for emphasis. "I mean, he said he was gonna wait until I was ready, but I'm ready! Honest—I'm good to go here!"

Buffy, seated across from her, rested her chin thoughtfully on her fist, her eyes sympathetic but teasing. "I think it's nice he's not just being an animal."

Willow sighed, her earlier frustration tempered by the truth of Buffy's words. "It is nice," she agreed, a small smile tugging at her lips. "He's great. We have a lot of fun. But I want smoochies!"

Buffy grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Have you dropped any hints?"

Willow threw her hands up in defeat. "I've dropped anvils."

"He'll come around," Buffy reassured her, her tone full of confidence. "What guy could resist your wily, Willow charms?"

Willow's frown deepened, her brow furrowing as she recounted her romantic misfortunes. "At last count? All of them. Maybe more."

Buffy chuckled softly, leaning in with a warm, encouraging smile. "Believe me, he isn't one of them."

For a moment, Willow's eyes brightened, curiosity flickering in her gaze as she remembered that Buffy was from the future. Buffy knew things—important things about their lives. "So we do end up together?" she asked, her voice tinged with hope, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear it out loud.

Buffy's smile softened as her mind wandered to the bittersweet memories of Willow's journey. She nodded, recalling the love and heartbreak that would shape Willow's life. In her mind, Buffy heard Dawn's voice, filled with a gentle nostalgia. 'I remember Oz,' Dawn chimed from the back of her mind. 'He was a good guy. I remember liking him. But I agree, Tara was better for Willow.'

The thought tugged at Buffy's heart, but outwardly, she remained steady, reassuring Willow with a knowing look. "You and Oz will end up together."

"Well, he better hurry," Willow muttered, her frustration bubbling up again. She sank back into her chair with a small pout, her voice taking on a mock-sulking tone. "I don't want to be the only girl in school without a real boyfriend."

Buffy couldn't help but smile at her friend's impatience. She knew all too well the twists and turns of Willow's love life, the moments of joy and sorrow that lay ahead. But she also knew that the journey would be worth it, that love—true love—was waiting for her in ways she couldn't yet imagine. With a gentle laugh, Buffy leaned back in her chair and repeated, "As I said, you and he will end up together."

Makeout Park

Hours later, with the day's chaos tucked away in the back of their minds, Xander and Buffy found themselves parked in a secluded corner of Makeout Park. The air was warm, cradled by the gentle whisper of a breeze that stirred the lush trees surrounding them. Overhead, the sky stretched wide, dotted with stars that shimmered against the velvety backdrop of night, the bright moon casting silver light across the scene. It was peaceful—at least, it would have been.

Inside the car, the atmosphere between Buffy and Xander had been far from tranquil. Their kisses had grown more fervent, a charged mix of passion and teenage heat—but then, as if on cue, Xander pulled away.

"But what could she possibly see in him?" he blurted, breaking the rhythm entirely.

Buffy threw her hands up in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. "Excuse me," she said, her voice dripping with annoyance, "we did not come here to talk about Willow. We came here to do things I can never tell my mom about because she still thinks I'm a good girl, despite finding out I'm the Slayer and that I'm from the future."

Yet, Xander was lost in his own world, barely registering her irritation as he pressed on, completely missing the moment. "I just don't trust Oz with her," he said, his eyes wandering off somewhere as he spoke. "I mean, he's a senior, he's attractive. Okay, not to me, but… Oh, and he's in a band. We all know what element that kind attracts."

Buffy stared at him, her patience wearing thin. "Do you even want to be here?"

Xander blinked, momentarily brought back to reality by her directness. "I'm not running away."

Buffy let out a long, frustrated sigh, trying to hold onto whatever shred of romantic mood had survived. "Because you've been babbling about Willow the whole night," she said, her tone pointed but not without empathy. "I get it, I really do. But you have to remember where I'm from. If I believed Willow and Oz weren't a good couple, I'd step in."

"I do not babble," Xander said, crossing his arms defensively. "I occasionally run-on. And every now and then I yammer—"

"Xander, look around," Buffy interrupted, her voice taking on an exaggerated gentleness, the kind reserved for someone being particularly dense. "We're in my car. It's just the two of us. There's a beautiful, big, full moon. It doesn't get any more romantic than this." Her eyes flickered with amusement as she leaned toward him. "So, shut up!"

And before he could offer any more protests, she grabbed him, yanking him forward with the kind of intensity that left no room for further interruptions.

Xander didn't protest this time, leaning into the kiss and letting the moment carry them both. The warmth between them intensified, the kind of kiss that made everything else melt away. But then, in the middle of a particularly good one, something instinctual jolted Xander, and he pulled back abruptly, his eyes wide as he pointed toward the window.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered; his voice hushed but urgent.

Buffy blinked, her lips still tingling from the abrupt stop. Annoyance flickered across her face, but only for a moment. Xander's concern, though often misplaced, had been right too many times in the past to dismiss. She forced herself to focus, letting her Slayer senses attune to the environment outside the car.

And then, like a cold bucket of reality, it hit her. She had completely forgotten about this night in the other timeline. Her mind raced back—Oz. She remembered now, how he'd been bitten by his cousin during a family visit. The moon outside was full, bright and glaring. Damn. How could she have forgotten? She swore under her breath.

"Shit. I totally forgot he got bitten," she muttered, already shifting from irritation to worry.

Xander blinked in confusion, still scanning the woods outside as if he could see what she was reacting to. "Who got bitten?"

"Oz," Buffy said, her voice clipped as her mind began formulating a plan.

"Oz got bitten?" Xander repeated, his voice rising with alarm. "By what?"

Buffy turned the key in the ignition, the car roaring to life as she glanced back at him. "By his cousin. Who just happens to be a werewolf."

Xander's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief as he turned to look at the darkened forest that surrounded Makeout Park. "A werewolf? You've gotta be kidding me. Our Oz?"

Buffy shot him a grim look as she shifted the car into gear. "I wish I was. But it's real. I need to get Giles' tranq gun and find him before things get messy. Assuming I can even track him down again tonight."

The levity of the evening was long gone, replaced by an anxious weight. Xander swallowed hard as Buffy sped away from their secluded spot, the car bouncing slightly on the uneven dirt road.

Once Buffy dropped Xander off, there was no time to waste. She drove straight to the library, her mind racing as she tried to calculate how much time had passed since she first heard the noise. Every second mattered.

When she arrived, Giles was already waiting, alerted by her hurried call. He handed her the tranq gun without a word, his face set in a determined expression. "Do you know where he might be?"

"Makeout Park," Buffy said quickly, loading the tranq gun as they rushed out the door. "That's where I last heard something."

Together, they piled into her car, speeding back to the park, Buffy's heart pounding in her chest. She knew how dangerous this could be. If Oz was fully transformed and got loose in the woods, things could escalate fast.

But when they returned to the shadowy clearing of Makeout Park, there was only silence. No growling, no rustling of leaves. Oz was gone.

January 28, 1998 – Tuesday

Sunnydale High School

The next morning, the atmosphere in the library was grim as Giles laid out the morning's headlines on the table in front of Buffy, Willow, and Xander. His usual composed demeanor was tinged with unease, the tension palpable. Buffy's eyes quickly scanned the bold print. There it was: 'Wild Dog Attacks Plague Small Town. Several Animal Carcasses Found Mutilated.' The gruesome reality settled in, sending a cold ripple through the room.

Giles tapped the article with a stern finger. "It seems there were a number of other attacks by this 'wild dog' around town last night," he said, his voice grave. "A number of animals—carcasses—were found mutilated."

Willow's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. Her face paled as she connected the dots. "Ohh, you mean like... bunnies and stuff?" Her voice wavered, and she shook her head almost immediately after asking. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

Buffy glanced at her with a sympathetic frown but quickly turned her attention back to Giles. The weight of what they were dealing with hung heavily in the air. "Oz," she said, her voice steady despite the grimness of the situation. "Oz was bitten by his cousin. He's the werewolf. He'll change the day before, the day of, and the day after the full moon." Her brow furrowed with concern. "Until he can get his own cage set up, we need to lock him up in the book cage—for his own protection and everyone else's."

Giles nodded solemnly, adjusting his glasses as he absorbed the information. "Of course," he agreed. "It's the best we can do for now. Until we can help him learn how to manage his transformations."

Buffy exhaled slowly, the reality of her role as protector sinking even deeper. She couldn't help but think of Oz, the quiet, steady guy who had been nothing but kind to all of them. Now he was caught up in a nightmare beyond his control, a nightmare she had the power to help contain. "I'll talk to Oz after school," she said, already mentally preparing herself for the difficult conversation.

"I want to go with you," Willow said suddenly, her voice filled with determination as she looked at Buffy, her eyes shining with both fear and resolve.

Buffy met Willow's gaze and saw the turmoil in her friend's eyes. Willow cared deeply for Oz, maybe even more than she realized. She was scared, but she wasn't going to let that fear stop her from standing by him. Buffy's heart softened. "Okay," she said, giving Willow a small nod. "We'll talk to him together."

Xander shifted in his seat, his arms crossed defensively. "So, Oz is a werewolf. Just when I thought things couldn't get weirder around here," he muttered under his breath, though the usual snark in his voice was laced with concern. He glanced at Willow; his protective instinct clear. "You sure you're up for this, Will?"

Willow's lips trembled into a brave smile as she nodded. "He needs to know he's not alone in this." There was a quiet strength in her voice, a steadiness that made Buffy realize Willow was ready for this conversation, no matter how hard it would be.

Giles closed the newspaper, folding it neatly as if to put the horrors of the previous night behind them for the moment. "Very well," he said, his tone calm yet resolute. "We'll meet here after school. And until then... let's hope Oz made it through the night without further incidents."

Osbourne Residence

That afternoon, Buffy and Willow stood at Oz's doorstep, the weight of the conversation they were about to have hanging heavy in the air. Buffy raised her hand and knocked firmly, and within moments, the door creaked open to reveal Oz, standing there with his usual calm demeanor. His eyes flickered with curiosity when he saw them, though there was a trace of something darker beneath the surface, a hint that he sensed something was off.

"Buffy, Willow," Oz greeted, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty.

"Can we come in?" Buffy asked, her tone soft yet purposeful. Oz nodded and stepped aside, allowing them to enter the quiet stillness of his house. As they crossed the threshold, the silence pressed in on them, amplifying the gravity of the situation.

Once inside, Buffy didn't waste time. She turned to face Oz; her expression serious but filled with compassion. "You woke up this morning in the woods, I'm guessing?"

Oz's face tensed slightly as if a flicker of a memory surfaced, but it was distant, incomplete. "Yeah," he replied, his voice low, a hint of confusion lingering.

"And you don't remember how you got there," Buffy continued, her voice more of a statement than a question. She glanced down at his hand, where a bandage was wrapped tightly around his finger, the edges of it slightly frayed as if hastily applied. "Your cousin bit you, right?" She motioned toward the bandage. Oz's eyes followed her gesture, and he nodded slowly, the realization starting to settle in.

"Your cousin is a werewolf," Buffy said gently but firmly. "And now... so are you."

For a long moment, Oz didn't respond. He stood there, letting her words sink in, his usually calm and composed demeanor faltering ever so slightly. He blinked, absorbing the reality of what Buffy was telling him. "Woah," he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of it hit him, not fully, but enough to rattle his core.

"I know," Buffy said softly, her eyes full of understanding. She knew how overwhelming it could be to learn something about yourself that you never imagined possible. "I've talked to Giles," she continued, her tone firm but supportive. "For now, he'll help you by locking you in the book cage on the nights of the full moon. It's only temporary, though. Eventually, you'll need to construct your own cage, someplace safe."

Oz processed her words, his mind racing yet trying to keep his usual calm exterior. It was hard to reconcile this new reality, but knowing Buffy had a plan gave him some sense of direction.

Willow, who had been standing quietly beside Buffy, suddenly stepped forward. Her eyes were filled with a mix of concern and determination as she looked at Oz. "We're gonna get through this," she said softly but with conviction. There was no hesitation in her voice, just pure loyalty.

Oz glanced at her, and though his face remained stoic, there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "Willow, I don't want you to see me like that," he admitted, his voice low, the idea of her witnessing him in such a primal, uncontrollable state clearly unsettling him.

Willow's expression softened, but there was a stubborn resolve there, too. She wasn't going to let him push her away, not now. "I'm not scared of you," she said quietly, reaching out to touch his arm. Her voice was gentle but unwavering. "I want to help. I want to be there when it happens. I'm not going to abandon you."

Oz looked at her, his normally cool composure cracking just a little. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him in a monstrous state. "I don't want you to get hurt," he said, his voice barely a whisper, the concern in his eyes now unmistakable.

Willow gave him a small, reassuring smile. "I won't. And besides, I know you, Oz. You're still you, no matter what."

Buffy, watching the exchange, felt a pang of admiration for her friend. Willow had always been the heart of their group, the one who held them all together even when things got tough. And now, standing by Oz in his darkest moment, that unwavering strength shone through once again.

Oz sighed, knowing he couldn't win this argument. "Alright," he said, giving in, though his voice carried the weight of his concern. "You win. But only if you promise to stay behind the bars, okay?"

Willow nodded quickly, her face lighting up with a mixture of relief and determination. "Deal."

Sunnydale High School

Thirty minutes before sunset, the sky outside was painted in hues of orange and purple, casting long shadows across the courtyard as Buffy, Willow, and Oz walked through the doors of the library. The tension was palpable, the weight of the coming night heavy on all their shoulders. Buffy's senses were on alert, her mind already strategizing for whatever might unfold, while Willow stayed close to Oz, her concern for him unspoken but evident in her every glance.

"Giles!" Buffy called out, her voice echoing slightly through the vast, dimly lit room. The library felt strangely quiet, the usual hustle of books and research replaced by the gravity of their mission tonight. A few seconds later, Giles emerged from the back, stepping out of the book cage where preparations had already been made.

"Yes?" Giles responded, adjusting his glasses as he approached them, his expression calm but serious. His gaze shifted to Oz, who stood with his hands in his pockets, a quiet acceptance in his stance.

Oz exhaled and glanced briefly at Willow before speaking. "It appears I need to be locked up," he said, his tone dry but laced with an underlying sadness.

"I know," Giles said softly, his voice filled with understanding. "Buffy explained to me what happened—how your cousin bit you and turned you into a werewolf." There was a gravity in Giles' words, as if he understood all too well the burden of such a transformation, though it was Oz who now bore it.

Buffy reached into her bag and pulled out a blanket, her movements purposeful. She handed it to Giles, who took it with a nod. "This will give Oz some privacy when he undresses," Buffy explained, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact. Her eyes met Oz's, and there was a flicker of sympathy in them. "I assume you don't want to ruin your clothes by ripping out of them."

"No," Oz replied with a small, humorless smile, the situation feeling surreal even to him. It was hard to process that this was his reality now, but practicality prevailed. "Clothes are expensive."

Giles, ever meticulous, draped the blanket over the bars of the book cage, creating a makeshift curtain for Oz. The cage, with its heavy iron bars, now felt more like a necessary prison—a place to protect Oz from himself, and everyone else from what he would become.

"I'm going to sit with Oz tonight," Willow announced, her voice steady, though her eyes betrayed the worry she tried to hide. She stepped a little closer to him, her resolve to stay by his side unwavering. This was a part of Oz now, and she wasn't going to leave him to face it alone.

Giles gave her a nod, respecting her decision, but not without a measure of concern. He reached into the cabinet beside him and pulled out the tranquilizer gun. The weight of it seemed to hang between them as he handed it to Willow. "Do you know how to work it?" he asked, his tone careful, almost fatherly.

Buffy, standing beside Willow, answered before her friend could. "It's easy," she said with a shrug. "Just point and pull the trigger, and Oz goes to sleep." There was a levity in Buffy's voice, but it was thinly veiled. The thought of having to use the tranq gun wasn't something any of them wanted to dwell on, especially Willow.

Oz, ever composed, managed a small grin, though there was a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. "Not that I want to get shot," he said lightly, "but it's definitely better to be safe than sorry." The weight of his words hung between them, the reality of the situation settling over the group like a shroud.

Willow nodded, her fingers gripping the tranq gun a little tighter. Giles stepped forward, demonstrating the proper way to hold it and how to aim, his voice calm as he gave instructions. But Willow was barely listening; she was already thinking about the night ahead, about Oz, and about the responsibility she now held in her hands.

As the sun sank lower on the horizon, casting a dim glow through the library windows, the air seemed to thicken with the tension of what was coming. Willow glanced at Oz, her heart aching for him, but her resolve unwavering. She wouldn't let him go through this alone, not tonight, not ever.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

They got through the rest of the nights of the full moon without any problems, though the weight of each night hung heavily on their shoulders. The library became their nightly refuge, a place where the world outside seemed to quiet, if only for a while. With the iron bars of the book cage securely locked and the tranquilizer gun always within reach, they kept watch over Oz as he underwent his transformation. His snarls and growls reverberated through the silence, but nothing escaped those bars. Willow stayed close, her eyes never leaving Oz, her determination unshakable despite the heartache of watching him in such a primal state.

Buffy, on the other hand, stood as their quiet sentinel, always alert, her mind balancing between the present and the memories of the other timeline. She found herself smiling inwardly, knowing that things had already shifted for the better. Teresa had lived this time. In the other timeline, Angel had already lost his soul by now, and because of that, Teresa had died. But not here, not now. Angel was still good, still fighting for redemption, and because of that, Teresa's life had been spared.

That small victory warmed Buffy's heart. There had been no mysterious deaths to pin on Oz, no innocent lives lost to the werewolf's claws. It wasn't just a matter of keeping Oz safe anymore; they had changed the course of events, and in doing so, saved lives.

Buffy's thoughts drifted to the encounter with Gib Cain, the werewolf hunter. In the previous timeline, Cain had been ruthless, ready to mount Oz's head on his wall as a trophy. But Buffy had taken care of that, too. She had intercepted Cain before he could lay eyes on Oz, confronting him in the shadows of Sunnydale's forest. Cain, with his grizzled demeanor and cynical eyes, had underestimated her. He thought her just another girl, not knowing that the Slayer didn't take kindly to threats against her friends. Buffy had sent him packing, made it clear that his hunting days were over as far as Oz was concerned. Cain wouldn't be coming back.

As Buffy stood watch over the cage, her mind wandered back to the subtle changes she had made since her return to this timeline. They were small ripples, but each one was creating a new wave of possibility. Teresa was alive. Oz was safe. Angel hadn't lost his soul. It was enough to make her feel, for the first time in a long while, like she was actually winning. She had been given this second chance, and it was starting to feel like she wasn't going to waste it.

The moon set on the final night of the full moon, and the snarling werewolf in the cage slowly shifted back into the familiar, quiet figure of Oz. Exhausted but safe, Oz emerged, rubbing his temples and smiling faintly at Willow, who was always there for him, waiting. Buffy exchanged a glance with Willow, who looked relieved beyond words, and it made Buffy feel lighter. They had made it through.

February 9 – 13, 1998

Buffy smirked to herself as she leaned in, kissing Xander softly, her lips brushing his as a flood of memories from the other timeline swept through her mind. It was one of those moments when she couldn't help but appreciate how different things were now, how much she had altered just by being here, with him. Another disaster avoided, another memory of chaos that she had subtly nudged away from becoming reality.

She could still vividly remember that other timeline, the one where Xander, heartbroken and desperate, had teamed up with Amy Madison to cast a spell. A spell meant to make Cordelia fall back in love with him after she had broken his heart. Only, like most things in Sunnydale, it had gone wildly wrong. Instead of rekindling Cordelia's feelings, the spell had backfired, turning every girl in Sunnydale—except Cordelia—into a love-crazed maniac. Buffy could still recall the sheer madness, the way she had lost control of herself, practically begging Xander to undress her in a fit of supernatural desire. He hadn't, of course. Even then, with all those girls throwing themselves at him, Xander had stayed true to who he was—loyal, caring, awkwardly noble.

But now, in this timeline, things were different. There was no need for desperate spells or wild, enchanted love triangles. Xander was with her, and that was enough. There had been no heartbreak pushing him into Amy's magical schemes, no need for drastic measures to win back someone's affection. Buffy couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the absurdity of it all. In this reality, their relationship had grown naturally, without the mess of magic clouding their judgment.

As a playful joke, she looked up at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and teased, "Undress me."

The moment the words left her mouth, Buffy saw the flicker of surprise in Xander's eyes, followed by that familiar mixture of awkwardness and sincerity that made him who he was. She remembered this moment too, from the other timeline—how he had refused her, not out of disinterest, but out of respect.

Like before, Xander pulled back, shaking his head with a small, nervous laugh. "I'm not doing that," he said, his voice soft but firm. His gaze held hers, warm and steady. "Not because I don't want to," he added, his expression growing a little more serious, more vulnerable. "But because when it happens… I want it to be special. You deserve that."

Buffy's smirk softened into a genuine smile as her heart warmed. She knew Xander wanted her, just as much as she wanted him, but this was the Xander she had always admired—the guy who, despite all his goofy charm, had a heart of gold. He was waiting, not because he had to, but because he truly cared.

February 24, 1998 – Monday

The Bronze

The sensual rhythm of the music pulsed through the air at the Bronze, a low thrum of bass that seemed to wrap itself around the dancers, coaxing them to move in time with its seductive beat. The soft, flickering candlelight from the glass votives scattered across the tables created an intimate glow, casting warmth across their faces, deepening shadows in all the right places. The space was alive with the quiet electricity of shared glances, languid smiles, and half-whispered promises that lingered in the air like unspoken secrets.

Buffy moved with effortless grace, her body swaying to the rhythm as if the music was an extension of her. She wore a tight T-strap top that hugged her curves, paired with a short skirt that flared just enough to give her movements an added sensuality. Her hair was tousled, not from the dance itself, but as if from a round of intense, passionate kisses, leaving her with that just-wrecked allure that only Buffy could wear so naturally. Her eyes, bright and intent, stayed fixed on Xander, locking onto him with a kind of playful confidence that made him feel like the only person in the crowded room.

Xander, for his part, was entranced. The gentle sway of her hips, the way her body moved in perfect time with his—there was something mesmerizing about it. His gaze drank in the sight of her, but it wasn't just the way she looked. No, there was something more tonight. Something new. His senses, already heightened by the closeness of her, picked up on a new detail—the soft, sweet scent of vanilla that lingered in the air between them. It clung to Buffy, delicate yet intoxicating, swirling around him with every twist and turn they made on the dance floor.

The perfume was new, and it drove him wild in the subtlest way. Each time they moved together, the warm scent of vanilla blended with her natural warmth, wrapping itself around his mind and making it hard to focus on anything else. It was soft and sweet, but underneath it, there was a lingering hint of something sensual, like the way the scent of vanilla lingers in a kitchen after baking something decadent. It fit Buffy perfectly—a mix of sweetness and heat, something comforting but with an edge that made it utterly irresistible.

Buffy's smile deepened as she caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes. She knew he had noticed. She could see it in the way his nostrils flared slightly, in the way his eyes darkened with that unmistakable look of desire. A small, knowing grin tugged at the corner of her lips as she rolled her hips in time with the beat, letting the music guide her movements, her gaze never leaving his. She was fully aware of the effect she was having on him, and she liked it.

Xander leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers as they swayed together. The vanilla scent, mingled with the heat of the moment, created a heady atmosphere between them, one charged with tension and anticipation. His hands rested on her waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her skirt as he pulled her closer. For a moment, everything else seemed to melt away—the crowd, the music, the flickering lights—until there was only Buffy and him, locked in their own world, connected by the rhythm and the closeness of their bodies.

"New perfume?" Xander murmured, his lips brushing just shy of her ear, his voice thick with amusement and something deeper, something more primal.

Buffy chuckled softly, her breath warm against his neck as she swayed. "You noticed."

"How could I not?" Xander replied, his voice low, the scent of vanilla teasing his senses with every breath he took. "It's kind of... driving me crazy."

Buffy pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes glinting with playful mischief. "Good," she said with a teasing smirk, her fingers trailing up his arm as they moved together. "That was the idea."

With that, they fell back into the rhythm of the music, their bodies close, the scent of vanilla and the heat between them creating a heady mix that made the rest of the world feel far away. The night was still young, and in that moment, under the glow of the candles and the pull of the music, everything felt perfect.

February 25, 1998 – Tuesday

Summers Home

Brilliant sunlight streamed through Buffy's window, casting warm, golden streaks across her room as she slowly emerged from sleep. The soft, melodic chirping of birds outside filled the morning air, a gentle accompaniment to the peace that settled over her. She turned her head against the pillow, stretching her arms languidly above her head, and blinked her eyes open to greet the day. The light caught on the corners of her room, making everything seem just a little softer, a little warmer—like a lazy Sunday morning.

As her gaze drifted across the room, it landed on something that hadn't been there the night before. A brown parchment envelope, its color rich and textured, lay propped up neatly on her nightstand. Buffy furrowed her brow slightly, curiosity sparking through the remnants of sleep. She pushed herself upright, the covers sliding down as she reached for the envelope, her fingers brushing its rough surface. The feel of it was almost old-fashioned, elegant in its simplicity, like something out of time.

Sitting up fully now, Buffy carefully opened the envelope, her movements slower than usual, as if savoring the moment. Inside was a thick piece of matching stationery, the kind that felt substantial between your fingers, as though it held something important. Her heart gave a little flutter as she unfolded the paper, revealing a charcoal sketch—a beautifully rendered image that took her breath away.

It was of her.

Her eyes widened as she took in the details, the smooth lines and shading that brought her likeness to life on the page. She recognized the pose immediately—it was undeniably reminiscent of the iconic scene in Titanic, where Leonardo DiCaprio had sketched Kate Winslet's figure with such intimate precision. But unlike the movie, there was something more playful, more personal in this. The way the artist—Xander—had captured her wasn't just about beauty; it was about the warmth in her expression, the soft curl of her lips, the way her hair fell in gentle waves around her shoulders. It was intimate, yes, but also respectful—his affection for her evident in every stroke of charcoal.

Buffy felt her cheeks heat slightly, a flush spreading as she admired the drawing. It wasn't just the likeness that caught her off guard; it was the care with which it had been made, the detail and the thoughtfulness that had gone into it. She could almost feel Xander's presence in the room with her, as if he had been sitting there quietly, watching her sleep as he left the surprise behind.

Then her eyes dropped to the note that accompanied the sketch, written in Xander's unmistakable handwriting. She could almost hear the casual, joking tone in his words as she read:

"You probably never thought I could draw, did you. —Xander."

Buffy smiled, a soft, amused chuckle escaping her lips. She hadn't expected this—had never even imagined Xander sitting down to sketch anything, let alone something as vulnerable and beautiful as this. The surprise of it, the unexpected talent he had revealed, made her heart swell with affection for him.

She traced the edge of the paper lightly with her fingertip, feeling a mix of emotions stirring inside her—amusement, fondness, and something deeper, something she hadn't expected. This simple gesture, this quiet moment of connection, was a reminder of the layers beneath their relationship.

Buffy leaned back against her pillows, holding the sketch and the note in her lap as the sunlight continued to stream through the window, warming her skin. She could already picture teasing Xander about it later, making some playful comment to hide just how much it had touched her. But for now, she let herself savor the sweetness of the moment, feeling the warmth of Xander's thoughtfulness wrapping around her like the sunlight itself.

She smiled to herself, still holding the drawing, and whispered, "You're full of surprises, Xander."

Sunnydale High School

Buffy walked down the sun-drenched hallway of Sunnydale High, a bounce in her step as she approached Xander, who was leaning against a row of lockers, chatting animatedly with Willow. The cheerful chatter around them buzzed in her ears, but her focus was solely on Xander. A playful grin spread across her face as she neared him.

"Hey, Picasso!" she called out, her voice ringing with teasing warmth.

Xander turned, a smile brightening his face at the sight of Buffy. "Hey, Buff! What's up?" He leaned in for a quick hug, but Buffy sidestepped him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Oh, nothing much. Just admiring my beautiful portrait," she said, crossing her arms over her chest dramatically. "I mean, who knew you had such artistic talents hiding in that underachiever's brain of yours?"

Willow giggled beside them, her eyes darting back and forth between her friends, intrigued by the playful banter. "Oh! The sketch! I saw it! It was really good, Xander!"

"Thanks, Will!" Xander rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of embarrassment creeping onto his cheeks. "But, you know, it was just a little doodle. I'm no Michelangelo or anything."

Buffy stepped closer, leaning against the lockers beside him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, Xander. I'm pretty sure you're just trying to keep the ladies off you with your 'humble artist' routine. I mean, you drew me in a pose from Titanic! It was pretty steamy."

Summers Home

At dinner that evening, the warm aroma of baked chicken filled the air, mingling with the fresh scents of a crisp salad and the rich, buttery smell of bread. A generous helping of fluffy mashed potatoes sat beside everything, their surface glistening with a light sheen of melted butter. Joyce had put together a hearty meal, a comforting spread meant to welcome Buffy home after a long day, but as they gathered around the table, the vibrant colors of the food seemed to fade into the background for Buffy.

Buffy absentmindedly pushed her chicken around her plate, her thoughts still swirling with the excitement of the portrait. The memory of Xander's sketch—its careful lines, the way he had captured her essence with a few strokes of charcoal—filled her mind, drowning out the usual chatter of dinner time. It was more than just a drawing to her; it was a reminder of their connection, a secret shared between friends that felt oddly intimate.

Finally, Joyce, looking up from her plate, broke the silence that had settled over the table. "Okay. What's wrong?" Her brow furrowed with motherly concern, her eyes searching Buffy's face for clues.

Caught off guard, Buffy blinked, momentarily losing her train of thought. "It's… nothing." She attempted to deflect, a weak smile creeping onto her lips, but Joyce wasn't convinced.

"Come on, you can tell me anything," Joyce pressed, her voice encouraging yet firm. "I've read all the parenting books. You cannot surprise me." There was a warmth in her tone, the kind that reminded Buffy of home, of safety.

Buffy felt a rush of affection for her mother's unwavering support, and despite her initial reluctance, she knew she couldn't keep this secret to herself. With a resigned sigh, she reached down to her backpack, which lay at her feet. The familiar weight of it felt comforting as she rummaged through the contents. Finally, her fingers brushed against the sketch, and she pulled it out with a flourish.

With a mix of pride and trepidation, she handed the sketch to her mother. As the paper unfolded in Joyce's hands, the room fell silent, and all attention shifted to the artwork.

Joyce's eyes widened, and her mouth fell slightly open as she stared at the sketch of a very naked Buffy. Surprise flickered across her face, a mixture of disbelief and amusement dancing in her eyes. The charcoal lines depicted not just her daughter's form but also the essence of her spirit—strong, beautiful, and undeniably confident.

Buffy shifted in her seat, heat creeping up her cheeks as she watched her mother's reaction. She couldn't help but feel a rush of vulnerability; this was a side of her she hadn't shared with anyone, not even with Joyce.

"Well…" Joyce began, her voice laced with a mix of awe and humor. "This is… certainly something." She looked back up at Buffy, her expression softening. "It's beautiful, sweetie. You look… well, you look like a work of art."

Buffy couldn't help but laugh nervously, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. "Uh, thanks. Xander just got a little carried away, I guess."

Joyce chuckled, shaking her head slightly as she examined the sketch again. "Carried away? I'd say he captured you quite well. Just… don't let him do this during art class. I don't want to have to explain anything to the school board."

Buffy smirked, her laughter mixing with her mother's. The moment felt like a breath of fresh air; the tension she had felt earlier melted away, replaced by warmth and understanding. "Don't worry, I won't make it a regular thing."

February 26, 1998 – Wednesday

Dragon's Cove

The brass bells hanging over the door to the Dragon's Cove magic store tinkled softly as Jenny Calendar entered, their light chime fading into the warm ambiance of the shop. She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light that filtered through the windows, illuminating the myriad of enchanting objects scattered around the room. The store was a treasure trove of oddities and mystical items, filled with colorful beads that glimmered in the soft light, delicate suncatchers that cast playful shadows on the walls, and bottles of murky liquids containing preserved specimens, including eerie fetal pigs, curiosities, and various other monstrosities that sparked a sense of wonder and unease in equal measure.

As Jenny walked further inside, the air thickened with the rich scent of spicy incense wafting from an ornate burner, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that felt both inviting and mysterious. Black candles flickered on the shelves, their flames casting a warm, scarlet glow that danced across the items on display, enhancing the store's allure and imbuing the space with a sense of the arcane.

"Welcome," a balding store clerk greeted her, his voice smooth yet tinged with a hint of theatricality. He looked and sounded vaguely Middle Eastern, dressed in a simple white shirt and pants, accented with an amulet that hung heavily around his neck, alongside strings of yellow beads that added a splash of color to his otherwise understated outfit. "How may I serve you today? Love potion? Perhaps a voodoo doll for that unfaithful—"

Cutting him off with a firm tone, she interjected, "I need an orb of Thesulah." Her intent was clear, and she didn't have time for the usual banter.

Immediately, the clerk's demeanor shifted; the playful facade he had donned melted away as he straightened, recognizing her as someone in the know. "Oh, you're in the trade," he said, his accent disappearing completely. "Follow me. Sorry about the spiel, but during February, you know, usually for Valentine's Day, I get a lot of tourists shopping for love potions and mystical revenge on past lovers." He shrugged philosophically, his expression shifting to one of resignation. "Sad fact is, Ouija boards and rabbits' feet—that's what pays the rent here."

He gestured for her to follow, leading her behind a case filled with pristine white china decanters brimming with vibrant herbs and powders. He pulled back a curtain that revealed a spacious pantry, shelves lining the walls and laden with various arcane supplies. As he rummaged through the items, Jenny's curiosity sparked; the store was a wonderland of magical possibilities.

"So, how'd you hear about us?" he asked, his voice still tinged with casual friendliness as he searched for the item she sought.

Idly, Ms. Calendar examined a nearby display of crystals and runestones, their facets glinting enticingly in the muted light. "My uncle, Enyos, told me about you," she replied, her tone casual yet purposeful.

The clerk glanced over at her, interest piqued as he picked up a mahogany container, its surface polished and gleaming. "So, you're Janna, then. He's a good customer," he added frankly, setting the box on the glass counter with a soft thud. "Well, here you go, one Thesulan orb."

With a flourish, he lifted the lid from the container, revealing a small, crystal sphere nestled snugly within a soft blanket of velvet. "Spirit vault for the Rituals of the Undead," he announced, his voice dropping slightly to emphasize the significance of the item.

Ms. Calendar gave the orb a quick glance, her heart racing slightly; it was exactly what she wanted. She handed him her credit card, excitement bubbling beneath her composed exterior as he continued chattering away, seemingly unfazed by the importance of her request.

"I don't get much call for those lately," he mused, his hands deftly running the card through the machine. "Sold a couple as 'new age' paperweights last year." He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, I just love the 'new agers.' They helped send my youngest to college." His tone brightened as he spoke of his family, yet he remained focused on the transaction at hand.

As he wrote up the bill of sale, his demeanor turned more businesslike. "By the way, you do know that the transliteration annals for the Ritual of the Undead were lost. Without the annals, the surviving text is gibberish." He looked up at her, his expression serious as he handed her the paperwork, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them.

Ms. Calendar looked up from signing the receipt, her expression shifting from casual to thoughtful. "And without a translated text, the orbs of Thesulah are pretty much useless. I know." She tore off his copy and handed it to him, the crisp paper crinkling slightly as she did so.

"I only mention it because I have a strict policy of no refunds," he said, his tone serious but with an undercurrent of understanding. The implication hung between them; a reminder of the stakes involved in her quest.

"It's okay," Ms. Calendar replied with a reassuring smile, tucking her copy into her purse with a sense of finality. He carefully replaced the lid on the mahogany container for her, the soft click of the lid punctuating their exchange.

She cradled the container gently against her chest, feeling its weight—a tangible reminder of her mission. "I'm working on a computer program to translate the Romanian liturgy to English, based on a random sampling of the text." Her eyes sparkled with determination; a fire ignited by the challenges ahead.

He folded his hands on the counter, a faint frown creasing his forehead. "Ahh. I don't like computers. They give me the willies." There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice, perhaps a longing for a simpler time before technology took over, leaving behind a world steeped in the mystical and the unknown.

She gave him a small, amused smile, the corner of her lips curling as she realized how different their perspectives were. "Well, thank you," she said, her voice warm with appreciation.

Just as she was almost out the door, his voice called after her, pulling her back momentarily. "By the way, not that it's any of my business, really, but what are you planning to conjure up if you can decipher the text?" His curiosity was evident, a glimmer of interest in his eyes that urged her to share.

Ms. Calendar paused, taking a moment to consider her words. She took off the lid and lifted the orb to the sunlight streaming through the window, its surface catching the light and refracting it in a dazzling display. "A present for someone who could do a lot of good in the future." The orb sparkled in her hands, the light dancing off its surface and illuminating her features, giving her an ethereal quality.

"Really?" His interest piqued further. "What are you going to give him?" His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued by her enigmatic answer.

In her hand, the orb began to glow, its soft luminescence casting a warm glow against her skin and gleaming in her eyes, illuminating the depths of her intention. Ms. Calendar's expression softened, her voice low and earnest as she answered simply, "His soul."

Sunnydale High School

Like any other good computer person, Ms. Calendar had lost track of time as she immersed herself in the intricacies of translating the annals for the Rituals of the Undead. The dim glow of her monitor illuminated the otherwise shadowy room, creating an intimate cocoon of focus around her. She sat in her worn chair, fingers flying over the keyboard, oblivious to the outside world as if it had faded away. The soft click of keys punctuated the silence, a rhythm that matched her racing heartbeat.

As she hit Select All and pressed Save As, a pencil rolled nervously between her fingers, its worn surface a testament to her restless energy. "Come on, come on," she murmured under her breath, willing the computer to cooperate as if her thoughts could somehow influence the technology before her.

Her anticipation mounted as the right-hand side of the screen began filling up with new text, the words shimmering like precious jewels emerging from the darkness. She skimmed through the content, her heart racing with each line, and in that moment, she knew she had it. "That's it!" A burst of laughter escaped her lips, pure joy spilling forth as she realized her hard work had paid off. She quickly copied her achievement onto a diskette, her fingers dancing over the keyboard with newfound confidence. "It's going to work. This will work."

'Can I code or not?' she thought happily, an exhilarated grin stretching across her face as she started a printout. The old-fashioned tractor-feed printer whirred to life, its mechanical clatter filling the room as characters began to emerge from the depths of the machine. She rolled her chair over, leaning forward to watch the paper feed through, each line a step closer to her goal.

"So, you found it?" Buffy's voice broke through the haze of concentration as she walked into the classroom, her presence a burst of energy that momentarily pulled Ms. Calendar from her technological trance.

"Yes," Ms. Calendar replied, her voice tinged with excitement. "I've finally got it. How did…" Her question trailed off as she caught the knowing look in Buffy's eyes.

"In the other timeline, this is the night that Angelus would have killed you to keep you from giving him his soul back," Buffy said, her expression grave but resolute. "Put two and two together." The urgency in her tone was palpable, a reminder of the stakes they were facing.

"Do you have the supplies?" Buffy pressed, her mind racing ahead to the necessary preparations.

"I do at home," Ms. Calendar confirmed, her heart still racing from the thrill of discovery. "Tomorrow Willow and I will perform it." She felt a swell of determination rising within her, a sense of purpose fueling her every thought.

"To be on the safe side," Buffy said, stepping closer, her gaze intense and unwavering. "You and I are going to be best of buddies for the next twenty-four hours until you cast that spell. I'm taking no chances Spike might not try and come after you just like Angelus did." The protectiveness in her voice wrapped around Ms. Calendar like a warm blanket, a comforting reassurance amid the chaos.

"Alright," Ms. Calendar agreed, feeling a surge of gratitude for Buffy's commitment.

Ms. Calendar's Apartment

That night, a sense of urgency lingered in the air as Buffy drove Ms. Calendar home. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the quiet streets of Sunnydale, where shadows danced along the pavement. Buffy's mind raced with the weight of their task, thoughts of Angel and the impending ritual swirling together like a storm. When they finally arrived, Ms. Calendar stepped inside her house, her face set with determination and a flicker of anxiety.

After the door closed behind her, Buffy took a place on the couch, the exhaustion from the day's events washing over her. The moment her head hit the cushions, she surrendered to sleep, her body relaxing into the soft fabric as she drifted into a peaceful slumber. The night unfolded uneventfully, the hours slipping by unnoticed as the world outside lay in quiet anticipation of the dawn.

February 27, 1998 – Thursday

Ms. Calendar's Apartment

When morning light crept through the windows, the soft rays of the sun illuminated the room, painting everything in warm golds and yellows. Ms. Calendar stirred awake, the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her, but the sunlight filled her with a sense of hope. She quickly called Willow, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and urgency.

Within moments, Willow arrived, her usual brightness complemented by a sense of purpose. Together, they set up the spell, transforming the living room into a makeshift sanctuary for their ritual. The air was charged with energy, a heady mixture of anticipation and anxiety as they prepared for the moment that could change everything.

Buffy stood among them, herbs clutched in one hand, a copy of the ritual tightly held in the other. She glanced around, feeling the significance of what they were about to do, the weight of history resting on their shoulders. "Quod perditum est, invenietur," Buffy began, her voice steady despite the tremor of adrenaline coursing through her.

"Not dead, nor not of the living …" Ms. Calendar and Willow echoed, their voices intertwining, the rhythm of their words like a heartbeat. "Gods, bind him, cast his heart from the demon… realm… return his… I call on… I…"

Buffy watched in awe as Ms. Calendar and Willow's heads snapped up, a silent communication passing between them. She had been caught up with Angel during her previous timeline, busy with the chaos that had unfolded, and had missed this moment. But now, as she observed, she felt a tingle of recognition; Willow had told her about this part of the spell months later, recounting it with wide eyes and an excitement that bubbled over.

Suddenly, Ms. Calendar and Willow stared at the ceiling, their bodies tensing, a powerful energy radiating from them. The air crackled with intensity, and just as abruptly as the tension had built, their heads snapped back down. Their voices shifted into rapid, powerful incantations, the words flowing from their lips in Romanian with a fervor that made the hairs on Buffy's arms stand on end.

"Te implor Doamne, nu ignora accasta rugaminte! Lasa orbita sa fie vasul care-I va transporta sufletul la el!" Willow and Ms. Calendar cried out in unison, their energy surging as they spoke the words of power.

"I call on you, Gods, do not ignore this supplication! Let the orb be the vessel to carry his soul to him!" Buffy echoed, her heart racing as she read the English translation Ms. Calendar had printed off the night before. The words felt alive in her mouth, each syllable a step toward Spike's redemption.

"Este scris, aceasta putere este dreptul poporului meu de a conduce ..." Ms. Calendar continued, her voice growing stronger with each chant.

"It is written, this power is my people's right to wield ..." Buffy repeated, her gaze fixed on the glowing orb between Willow and Ms. Calendar.

"Asa sa fie! Acum!" they chanted, their voices ringing with conviction.

"Let it be so! Now!" Buffy read aloud, and the orb pulsed with a brilliant light, growing brighter until it seemed to consume the very air around them. Then, in a dazzling flash, it disappeared, leaving a sense of stillness in its wake.

The Factory

Shadows danced across the crumbling walls, casting eerie silhouettes that flickered in the dim light. Spike leaned against a metal support beam, his lean figure exuding a dangerous charm that belied the chaos swirling within him. His trademark leather jacket hugged his frame, the silver studs glinting in the meager light as he surveyed his surroundings. But today was different. Today, something monumental was about to unfold.

A peculiar energy began to crackle in the air, palpable and electric. The weight of it pressed against him, tightening like a vice around his chest. His usually cool demeanor gave way to an intensity that coursed through his veins, igniting a hunger that he could neither ignore nor understand.

Suddenly, a surge of power erupted within him, and his eyes glowed with an otherworldly light. It was a moment of pure chaos, as if the universe itself had decided to realign his very essence. Spike clenched his jaw, the raw force of the binding coursing through him, twisting his insides with both agony and ecstasy.

He could feel it, the flickering remnants of humanity reawakening within him.

Ms. Calendar's Apartment

Willow and Ms. Calendar fell back onto pillows, panting and exhausted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of the ritual.

"Did it?" Buffy asked, her voice a whisper tinged with hope and uncertainty.

Ms. Calendar nodded, a weary smile spreading across her face. "His soul is bound," she confirmed, a wave of relief washing over them like a soothing balm.