Still Grrr

Fletcher’s Used Books stood almost empty on a hot, lazy Tuesday afternoon. Willow emerged from the aisle containing the occult section empty handed. Nothing new had come in since last week but a dog-eared copy of The Spiral Dance, which she already owned. For a place as freaky-deaky as Sunnydale, you’d think people would read more about strange stuff, she thought.

Crouching on the floor in front of her, Oz leaned over a book splayed across his thighs. He didn’t look up as she moved past him.

The foreign language section took up three shelves on a dusty old bookcase in the back of the store with the divisions of languages more suggestion than true organization, peeling pieces of masking tape creating faded categories for ‘Latin,’ ‘Spanish,’ ‘Mandarin.’  Willow knew it was a long shot, but occasionally something interesting turned up. Grinning, she thought, Besides, it’s crazy that Ms. Fletcher sticks everything she doesn’t recognize under Mandarin. As if one language could look like twenty completely different things!

Fingers moving across spines, she scanned all three shelves methodically, but as expected, it was the so-called Mandarin category that yielded results – a heavy red-leather tome with an embossed cover that seemed to catch at her fingertips. The designs stamped in the leather could be words or decoration; they appeared more foreign than any human tongue. Cracking open the text only confirmed it – a demon language she wasn’t familiar with. Her heart leaped against her ribs as she thought, I bet Giles doesn’t have this. It could be important stuff – Buffy saving stuff, world saving stuff!

Bouncing a little, she walked back to Oz and squatted next to him.

It was the same book, though he’d changed pages. She now saw a large photo of Jimi Hendrix with … a guitar held up to his mouth. Squinting, she tried to make out exactly what he was doing.

After a few moments, her eyes and her attention wandered to Oz, who still hunched over the book, arms cradling it possessively.

The hair curling just around the edge of Oz’s ear, for some inexplicable reason, always drew her. Reaching out, she ran her fingers around the shell of his ear, enjoying the contrast of soft skin and crisp, springy hair bouncing back into place as soon as her touch passed.

He trembled faintly, a vibration she only detected via the fingers still pressed to his jaw, and his eyes drifted shut.

Stroking softly, she repeated the motion twice more.

When Oz’s eyes opened and turned to her, they were dark and hot. The book closed with a snap, and his hand brushed hair from her cheek, dragged thumb across her lower lip, pulling it down slightly before releasing.

Warmth pooled low, and her heart sped, this time to race continually.

That must be why I like touching him there, she thought as they hurried the sale and almost ran to the van. I become his whole world.