Mating Rituals on the Hellmouth: The Non-Date -- Buffy/Oz
Okay, yes, fine, yes, I'm late. I am big with the lateness. But! Here is a carefully crafted, completely unbetaed tender coming of age story about a girl and her wolf. Or something. Buffy/Oz for the Oz/Anyone ficathon at year_of_oz. glossing requested Buffy/Oz with sex and laughter, and I... am taking the long way getting there, okay? We'll call this Part One. Set during Season Four, post "New Moon Rising."
Mating Rituals on the Hellmouth: The Non-Date
The kiss... okay, the kiss had been unexpected. No point being all denial-y about it. Buffy had never actually thought of Oz that way, and it'd kinda seemed like that whole thing with Riley might be heading in good direction, and she'd decided to be more careful about kissing type behaviors and their possible aftermath post-Parker, and... whoops? So while the kiss was way, way less shocking than, say, having Riley dump her for Forrest, or having Willow and Tara come out of the closet after Oz's return from Learning to be Zenville, kissing Oz was still many celtic knots away from reality as Buffy knew it.
Still, to continue with the anti-denial theme...
Good kiss.
"Good kiss," Buffy said, dazed, when Oz finally broke away.
"Yeah," Oz turned an odd shade of red, that kinda clashed with his hair. "You, too," he said, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, looking about to bolt. Hey, at least it wasn't the morning after, yet. Score one for Team Buffy. Weed 'em out before the heartbreak.
“So...” Buffy fiddled with her stake. Where were all the creepy evil creatures of the night when you needed a decent distraction?
“So.”
“I should probably go... kill something now.”
“Yeah,” Oz said, and left.
“Well, that was in no way awkward,” Buffy muttered to herself, turning just in time to slam her stake into the vamp that had been sneaking up on them. She brushed the dust off and strolled deeper into the cemetery.
**
They successfully avoided the topic for a week, until a particularly messy fight with a couple of Grak’p demons got Buffy a facefull of blue goop and a killer case of dry mouth. She reached blindly for Oz’s nearby water bottle, sprayed some on her face, and greedily drank down the rest. Praise be to the mighty gods of water.
“You know,” Oz said, handing her a towel, “in some cultures, when a Slayer drinks out of a musician's cup, it means she's inviting him for dinner. So I was thinking, eight o'clock?”
Buffy blinked, wiped away the goop the blink had dislodged, and blinked again. She stared at the water bottle, sitting innocently emptied of its thirst-quenching goodness. “Does it count if it’s a bottle instead of a cup?”
“Oh, judgement calls like that are really up to the Slayer in question. Although some dinner invitations have been issued by means of a gourd or coconut shell in cup-free situations.”
Buffy couldn’t be sure, but it kinda felt like that was the most Oz had ever said to her at any one time.
**
“Okay, but this is not a date, right?” Buffy smoothed down her little skirt and frowned. Maybe she should have worn something less pink? Pink said “date,” didn’t it? She should have worn pants. Strict, no nonsense, hanging out with your platonic co-dumpee trousers. Maybe in tweed.
“Not a date,” Oz agreed, not holding out her chair for her. “Just bowing to tradition.”
“Oh, good,” Buffy said. “No more dates for Buffy. Buffy and dating are unmixy things.”
Oz nodded, his face unnaturally serious.
No, wait. He always looked like that, didn’t he?
**
“You’re sure it isn’t evil?” Buffy frowned, assessing her quarry. “Cause all my slayer-y instincts are pretty much doing the rumba, here.”
“Well, we are on the Hellmouth,” Oz conceded. “Evil might be lurking. But I will say injera usually just looks like that.”
“Oh.”
The sickly greenish mush was offset by the sickly brownish mush. Buffy was trying to avoid really looking at the yellow mush, for the moment. She'd work her way up to it.
Oz tore off a piece of the gigantic spongy wheel o’ flatbread on his plate, used it scoop up some of the mush--mixing! He was mixing mushes! Buffy watched suspiciously as the mush-bedecked piece of flatbread travelled to Oz’s mouth and was summarily consumed.
“How are you feeling?” She’d given it about a minute. Surely the effects would have set in by now.
“Well, I won’t lie.” Oz tore off another piece of flatbread and... yes. Ventured into the land of the yellow mush. “Still hungry. But I’m pacing myself.” He folded the bread around the mush and offered her the gruesome little packet.
One of these days Buffy was going to have to develop a decent poker face.
**
"Okay, that? Was fantastic." Buffy confided as Oz led her into the club he'd told her about, a forty-five minute drive from town.
"Really?" Oz stopped to nod hello to some guys in jeans and dress shirts, then turned back to Buffy. "'Cause I was feeling a strong anti-Ethiopian food vibe for a while there."
"It was a new thing," Buffy admitted. "There was a period of adjustment. But I am now fully adjusted and ready to take on the cuisine of your choice."
"Well, that's good to hear, because Norwegian food is next on the list and that is not for beginners."
"It involves raw fish and whale blubber, doesn't it?"
The music started up, cutting off whatever comeback Oz might've been planning. Instead, he smiled and took gentle hold of Buffy's elbow, leading her onto the dance floor. The club was small but crowded with people chatting loudly in Spanish.
Oz took hold of Buffy's right hand, guitar callouses on the tips of his fingers rough against her skin, and set her left hand on his shoulder in a classic dance position. "You ever dance merengue?" he asked.
"Back in Hemery," she said. "About a million years ago. Just don't challenge me with salsa and we should be okay."
"Deal," he said, and started dancing.
Really dancing, respectably.
"I didn't know you could dance!" Buffy exclaimed as he spun her in a little turn without losing track of the beat. Her feet were remembering this already, and she grinned as she felt the music set her hips swinging.
"I'm gonna have to ask you to keep that information strictly confidential," he said, and spun her around again.
**
They snagged a table by means of a cunning plan involving flirting and a small measure of deceit. Buffy slumped back in her chair, sweaty and winded and a little buzzed from all the dancing. Like after a good bout of slaying, but, she was pleased to note, without all the messy death.
"I'd have to say that must have been the most successful non-date in history," Buffy sighed into her fruity umbrella drink. "Plus, fruity umbrella drinks! Mine tastes like coconut."
"Having more of a rum top note over here," Oz commented.
Their eyes met across the table for a long and awkward beat.
Deliberately, Buffy reached over, snagged Oz's cup, and took a sip.
"Norwegian food, huh?" she said.
Oz smiled.
A/N: So I says to tesla321, I says, "tesla321, I need Oz to ask Buffy out. How would he do that?" And lo, she told me, for she is Connected to the Oz Muse. And then she read the eensy bits of story as I dribbled them out, doling out encouragement for each part. And then she gave me the title. What did I do, you ask? That's actually not a bad question. ::ponders::
Mating Rituals on the Hellmouth: The Non-Date
The kiss... okay, the kiss had been unexpected. No point being all denial-y about it. Buffy had never actually thought of Oz that way, and it'd kinda seemed like that whole thing with Riley might be heading in good direction, and she'd decided to be more careful about kissing type behaviors and their possible aftermath post-Parker, and... whoops? So while the kiss was way, way less shocking than, say, having Riley dump her for Forrest, or having Willow and Tara come out of the closet after Oz's return from Learning to be Zenville, kissing Oz was still many celtic knots away from reality as Buffy knew it.
Still, to continue with the anti-denial theme...
Good kiss.
"Good kiss," Buffy said, dazed, when Oz finally broke away.
"Yeah," Oz turned an odd shade of red, that kinda clashed with his hair. "You, too," he said, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, looking about to bolt. Hey, at least it wasn't the morning after, yet. Score one for Team Buffy. Weed 'em out before the heartbreak.
“So...” Buffy fiddled with her stake. Where were all the creepy evil creatures of the night when you needed a decent distraction?
“So.”
“I should probably go... kill something now.”
“Yeah,” Oz said, and left.
“Well, that was in no way awkward,” Buffy muttered to herself, turning just in time to slam her stake into the vamp that had been sneaking up on them. She brushed the dust off and strolled deeper into the cemetery.
**
They successfully avoided the topic for a week, until a particularly messy fight with a couple of Grak’p demons got Buffy a facefull of blue goop and a killer case of dry mouth. She reached blindly for Oz’s nearby water bottle, sprayed some on her face, and greedily drank down the rest. Praise be to the mighty gods of water.
“You know,” Oz said, handing her a towel, “in some cultures, when a Slayer drinks out of a musician's cup, it means she's inviting him for dinner. So I was thinking, eight o'clock?”
Buffy blinked, wiped away the goop the blink had dislodged, and blinked again. She stared at the water bottle, sitting innocently emptied of its thirst-quenching goodness. “Does it count if it’s a bottle instead of a cup?”
“Oh, judgement calls like that are really up to the Slayer in question. Although some dinner invitations have been issued by means of a gourd or coconut shell in cup-free situations.”
Buffy couldn’t be sure, but it kinda felt like that was the most Oz had ever said to her at any one time.
**
“Okay, but this is not a date, right?” Buffy smoothed down her little skirt and frowned. Maybe she should have worn something less pink? Pink said “date,” didn’t it? She should have worn pants. Strict, no nonsense, hanging out with your platonic co-dumpee trousers. Maybe in tweed.
“Not a date,” Oz agreed, not holding out her chair for her. “Just bowing to tradition.”
“Oh, good,” Buffy said. “No more dates for Buffy. Buffy and dating are unmixy things.”
Oz nodded, his face unnaturally serious.
No, wait. He always looked like that, didn’t he?
**
“You’re sure it isn’t evil?” Buffy frowned, assessing her quarry. “Cause all my slayer-y instincts are pretty much doing the rumba, here.”
“Well, we are on the Hellmouth,” Oz conceded. “Evil might be lurking. But I will say injera usually just looks like that.”
“Oh.”
The sickly greenish mush was offset by the sickly brownish mush. Buffy was trying to avoid really looking at the yellow mush, for the moment. She'd work her way up to it.
Oz tore off a piece of the gigantic spongy wheel o’ flatbread on his plate, used it scoop up some of the mush--mixing! He was mixing mushes! Buffy watched suspiciously as the mush-bedecked piece of flatbread travelled to Oz’s mouth and was summarily consumed.
“How are you feeling?” She’d given it about a minute. Surely the effects would have set in by now.
“Well, I won’t lie.” Oz tore off another piece of flatbread and... yes. Ventured into the land of the yellow mush. “Still hungry. But I’m pacing myself.” He folded the bread around the mush and offered her the gruesome little packet.
One of these days Buffy was going to have to develop a decent poker face.
**
"Okay, that? Was fantastic." Buffy confided as Oz led her into the club he'd told her about, a forty-five minute drive from town.
"Really?" Oz stopped to nod hello to some guys in jeans and dress shirts, then turned back to Buffy. "'Cause I was feeling a strong anti-Ethiopian food vibe for a while there."
"It was a new thing," Buffy admitted. "There was a period of adjustment. But I am now fully adjusted and ready to take on the cuisine of your choice."
"Well, that's good to hear, because Norwegian food is next on the list and that is not for beginners."
"It involves raw fish and whale blubber, doesn't it?"
The music started up, cutting off whatever comeback Oz might've been planning. Instead, he smiled and took gentle hold of Buffy's elbow, leading her onto the dance floor. The club was small but crowded with people chatting loudly in Spanish.
Oz took hold of Buffy's right hand, guitar callouses on the tips of his fingers rough against her skin, and set her left hand on his shoulder in a classic dance position. "You ever dance merengue?" he asked.
"Back in Hemery," she said. "About a million years ago. Just don't challenge me with salsa and we should be okay."
"Deal," he said, and started dancing.
Really dancing, respectably.
"I didn't know you could dance!" Buffy exclaimed as he spun her in a little turn without losing track of the beat. Her feet were remembering this already, and she grinned as she felt the music set her hips swinging.
"I'm gonna have to ask you to keep that information strictly confidential," he said, and spun her around again.
**
They snagged a table by means of a cunning plan involving flirting and a small measure of deceit. Buffy slumped back in her chair, sweaty and winded and a little buzzed from all the dancing. Like after a good bout of slaying, but, she was pleased to note, without all the messy death.
"I'd have to say that must have been the most successful non-date in history," Buffy sighed into her fruity umbrella drink. "Plus, fruity umbrella drinks! Mine tastes like coconut."
"Having more of a rum top note over here," Oz commented.
Their eyes met across the table for a long and awkward beat.
Deliberately, Buffy reached over, snagged Oz's cup, and took a sip.
"Norwegian food, huh?" she said.
Oz smiled.
A/N: So I says to tesla321, I says, "tesla321, I need Oz to ask Buffy out. How would he do that?" And lo, she told me, for she is Connected to the Oz Muse. And then she read the eensy bits of story as I dribbled them out, doling out encouragement for each part. And then she gave me the title. What did I do, you ask? That's actually not a bad question. ::ponders::