Title: Erase/Rewind (2/?)
Authors: Dolores Labouchere and Faithtastic
This part: Dolores
Email: dolores_l@hotmail.com & inaneway@hotmail.com
Summary: Faith adjusts to life after jail and meets a familiar face.
Rating: R for strong language and scenes of drug-taking. There may be future slashy content/subtext, or maybe not…
Spoilers: If it happened to Faith or Oz, it’s probably here. So general season three Buffy, season four episodes up to ‘Wild At Heart’, then ‘This Year’s Girl,’ ‘Who Are You’ and ‘New Moon Rising’ plus first season Angel episodes ‘Sanctuary’ and ‘Five by Five.’
Distribution: UCSL, Dolores’s Domain. Anywhere else, ask and you shall receive.
Feedback: We should bloody think so! Otherwise, what’s the point?
Disclaimer: Faith and Oz are copyright to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Productions, Warner Brothers and presumably numerous other faceless corporations. We intend to make no gain from this fic, we’re just trying to redress the balance of the fates of, in our humble opinion, the most neglected Buffy characters.
Notes: This is a joint effort, our first such project so please be kind. This part is written from Oz’s point of view and is set about six months after Faith’s ‘Angel’ episodes. The title is from the Cardigan’s song on the Gran Turismo album, with // denoting lyrics. This part is dedicated to Kate Bolin and her crusade to get Faith on TV with a cigarette.

***

// no, it’s not that I don’t know/
I just don’t want it to grow/
it’s not that I don’t know/
I’ve changed my mind/
I take it back/

Erase and Rewind//

For a moment, the red haze clouds my vision, and a wash of pinpricks buzzes just under the surface of my skin.

For a moment I can’t do or say anything, except breathe heavy, try to force myself to be calm, try not to let the balance tip in favour of my other self.

For a moment I have the battle between instinct and control.

For a fraction of that moment, I’m tempted to let instinct win.

But then she speaks. “Hey… long time no see,” she says, frowning for a second, casting her eyes to the ceiling, as if that wasn’t what she intended to say. Then she looks back at me, her expression a mixture of the old cocky Faith and something that resembles nervousness. Nothing outwardly homicidal, so far as I can discern. She’s dressed in typical Faith gear, provocative yet functional. If your function is the killing of vampires and…

But there is no reason for her to kill me.

But then, does she need one?

But I’d given her ample opportunity to make her move, and she hasn’t. Whatever Faith wants, my being alive appeared to be a given. With that in mind, the red haze clears, but I hold her gaze.

She swallows, then puts on a fake smile. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d just pay my respects. The band was good, y’know. But I’d better go. People to see, places to go.” With a shrug she turns, and starts to walk back down the little corridor. I watch her go, and the walk… is different, somehow. Less cocky. Resigned. My chest suddenly feels tight, my mouth dry, and I know I have to call her back.

“Faith…”

She stops, but doesn’t turn.

“Look, I’ve got to finish the set, but…”

Her head turns slightly. “But what?”

“Would I risk personal injury or death in continuing my association with you?”

A snort. “Nah. Not unless you insult my grandmother, or somethin’.”

“I’ll be in the band room after, if you want conversation that avoids the subject of your extended family.”

“Maybe. If I don’t get a better offer, of course.”

Then she’s gone, hips swaying with renewed confidence. The rest of the band are behind me, clamouring to get on stage and we’ve got songs to sing and chords to play. And I’ve got Faith to think about.

***

I watch the smoke drift up toward the ceiling, then take another toke of the joint. Before I discovered my “cure” grass was just something I did on the weekends with Devon, leaning out of his bedroom window so that the smoke didn’t get into his room where his mom might smell it. Now it’s medicinal. Clams me down, chills me out, helps me cope with the wolf. But I miss the conversation with Devon, when we would talk about music and politics and religion and cartoons and all the stuff that clutters up your head when you’re stoned. I smoke alone now, and it’s not the same.

Nothing in my life is anymore. I mean, I was never the one to conform to whatever was expected of me, whether I was listening to Bowie when everyone else was into Nirvana, or painting my nails with Black Cherry and dying my hair blond when half the girls in my classes wouldn’t dare do either, or dating Willow to Dev’s incomprehension, I did what I wanted to do and didn’t care what other people thought. But I had my constants. People who were there whatever happened. Devon, the Dingoes, school, Willow, even my Mom and Dad. And now… I have none of them.

It feels like I’ve lost them all, like I should be grieving for my dearly departed. But none of them are dead, just lost to me in a worse way - by my own isolation. For two years I had been drifting away from my parents, and from Devon and the Dingoes. The lycanthropy had a lot to do with that, plus the fact I was helping Buffy and the others and that was a world they couldn’t be a part of. I hated separating my friends and family like that, but it seemed necessary. For their protection, I would tell myself. Then college, and that changes things even when you’re a “normal” kid. But not noticeably, you can carry on and gloss over the cracks that appear. It’s what I had done since Jordy bit me in any case - until Veruca came along, and the wolf finally asserted himself in a way I couldn’t control. Didn’t want to control, in all truthfulness. When I killed her, I enjoyed it, because there was still enough human-Oz left to be aware of what was going on, caught up in the bloodlust, but not enough so that my conscience could counter it, stop me from taking a life. So I had to leave, because I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t get the taste for it. Even fully human Oz had flashes of rage that left me wondering just how far beneath the skin the wolf lay.

In driving off that day, in leaving my former life so completely, I destroyed the veneer I created to convince myself that everything was fine, that allowed me to ignore the fact that all of the Scoobies were drifting apart, that Devon and I hardly talked properly anymore. I didn’t see it then, I couldn’t see that much of the bigger picture.

Even then though, I knew that there was too much damage to my relationship with Willow. All the time I traveled the world I clung to the hope that I would go back, and that it everything would click back into place, except with the new improved Oz.  Deep down I knew it to be a false hope, that even if Willow was still waiting for me – and in a way she was – things couldn’t be anything like the same. It didn’t matter, in the end. Willow had moved on to something – someone – else and I had lost her. Probably I had lost her when Veruca and I… probably then. I just didn’t accept it until later.

So I couldn’t stay with the Scoobies. And I couldn’t stay with the Dingoes, either. Devon had found a new bass player. Not as good as me, he said, couldn’t write songs like I used to, he said. However, this one turned up for practice and for gigs. He told me that I was always, *always* his friend, but that when it came to the band he couldn’t let things coast along in the hope I would get my act together. The Dingoes were going somewhere, he was sure. He needed commitment. Something I couldn’t give, certainly not to a band based in Sunnydale, not then. Not now.

As for my folks, they just gave me their concerned looks and stern lectures about responsibility and my future and about running away. Then they gave me tear-stained hugs and soft whispers that they were so glad to have me back, so glad. Then I left them again. I’ve caused them so much pain, and I wish I could make it up to them, but I can’t. They don’t really know where I am now, and I don’t have the courage to face them. Not yet. Maybe never. I’m lost to them as well, now.

So gone are all the constants I had.

Which is maybe, probably why I called Faith back tonight. She represented a constant. Something from my past I could cling to. And for a little moment, when she walked away, she looked as lost as I feel.

***

I stub out the joint in the ugly orange ashtray, and examine my fingernails for chips in the polish. There’s a knock on the door and, without waiting for an invitation, Faith pushes it open. She sways in, a bottle of beer in each hand and a cigarette between two fingers. She throws herself onto the elderly leather sofa next to me and hands me a bottle before taking a long drag from the cigarette.  I take a slug from the bottle.

She turns her head and looks at me; pupils dilated and drink on her breath.  “Angel said you’d disappeared,” she says, hiccuping and exhaling smoke a she does so.

“Yeah, I had.”

“Same old talkative Oz.  Give me *details,* man.” She stabs the cigarette in my direction for emphasis.

“What did Angel tell you?”

She shrugs.  “That you and Willow had had some fight, that you’d gone off.  He said Cordelia knew more, but she and I aren’t really talking.  What with me giving her a good smack the last time we met”

I raise an eyebrow – hey, I can’t help it – and wonder what exactly went on when she met Angel.  “Wolf me mated with another werewolf, Willow found us.  The other werewolf tried to kill Willow, so I had to kill her.”

She gives me a puzzled look that could also be an attempt to focus.  “You killed Willow?”

I smile.  “No.  I killed the other werewolf.”

“Oh.  Shame.”  Another drag on the cigarette.

I ignore the insult to Willow.  “I wasn’t sure I could control the wolf so I left.”

“And you came to fucking *LA*?  Yeah, cos that makes sense.”

“No, I’m in LA now.  I traveled all over before.  Tibet, Rumania, places like that.”

Her eyes widen and a look that resembles… respect, I suppose, flits across her features.  “You’re ‘shitting me, right?”  I shake my head.  “Wicked.”

“It was pretty intense.”

“Have you been back to Sunnydale?”  I nod.  She gives me a mischievous grin, leans over and whispers, “So is Red really a bean?”

“She chose Tara over me.”  It’s not something I like to think about, but there’s no point in denying it to her.  Cigarette between her harlot red lips, she smiles smugly and mutters something like, ‘oh yeah’.  I decide to change the subject, “So what about you?”

“Me?  Nothing much.”

“Last I heard you’d swapped bodies with Buffy and slept with her boyfriend.”

For a moment she grins, then the smile fades.

“Yeah, I guess I did.  Not proud of it though.”  I don’t know if I believe her, not quite.

“Then what?”

Another shrug.  “I met Angel, we had… words.  I handed myself in to the fuzz, it turns out Mayor Wilkins had got me cleared of most of the charges, and they couldn’t pin anything else on me.  So, I’m a free agent, mostly.”

There’s more to that, I’m certain, but I’m not about to push.  “Cool.”

“Yeah, it is.  Like… like, I’m trying to be a good guy now.  I fucked up way much, but I want to make it up.  But I can’t go back to Sunnydale, cos B still hates my guts, and I can’t help Angel cos Wesley still hates my guts, and the Watcher’s Council just want me locked up in Tea and Scones City jail.  So… I dunno.  I’m not doing much just now.  I don’t know what to do.  Which is not cool.”

She actually seems earnest.  I should probably know better than to trust Faith, but I do anyway.  “You and me both.”

Now she raises an eyebrow.

“Not knowing what to do is a specialty of mine also.”

She gives me an affectionate but painful thump on the shoulder.  “Rebels without a clue, huh?  Y’know, it’s a shame I never got to know you better, Oz.  I bet we coulda had a lot of fun.”

“Fun?  Like the fun you had with Xander?”

“Maybe.”  She looks at me and grins. “But I think the fun would be better with you.”

I say nothing – I don’t know what *to* say.  Then she leans over, the cigarette free hand on my thigh and lunges towards my lips.  Realizing too late that my silence was interpreted as something else I quickly turn my head and she meets stubble.  She jumps away, leaving a streak of red up my cheek.

“Faith, I didn’t mean…” I trail off as words fail me again.

As she gets up she doesn’t reply, but gives me a look that is a mixture of anger at her rejection and embarrassment at her mistake.  Without another word she turns and runs for the door, throwing it open with such force that it nearly comes off its hinges.  Her bottle wobbles on the table and tips over, and cold beer sloshes to the floor.  I get up and jump into the doorframe, shouting “Faith!” at her receding back.

She doesn’t reply.

***

Continued in Part 3