Oz was the one to mention the Big Bad Wolf.

"No," he said to Xander, a grin curving the edge of his lip. "The Big Bad Werewolf." Then he made a little 'grr' sound, bending his fingers into what were probably supposed to be claws. He curled his lip up, too, baring dull teeth, and Xander, well.

Xander didn't shiver, although he felt like he should—because it was creepy, right? For Oz to be joking about something like that. Because, well, werewolf. A guy who spent three nights of the month locked in a cage, covered in fur, howling at the moon, wanting to eat people.

But it was a joke, Xander knew it was, so he did laugh, a little nervously. He laughed, and Oz's smile moved a step away from ironic and became, well, softer. Like he was glad that he'd been able to make Xander laugh, and it was an expression that said more than Xander should want from Oz so he babbled his excuses, left, and pretended that he couldn't feel Oz's eyes on him, watching him go.

Pretended he didn't hear the sigh that followed him, a crackling whisper in his ear, like a breeze rustling through dry leaves.

*

Sometimes Xander thought in fairytales.

He blamed his familiarity of them on Willow, who had worked her way through most of The Brothers Grimm during the summer before second grade, and then had made their trio act all of the stories out in whomever's backyard they'd happened to be in that day. He and Jesse had spent many happy hours arguing over who got to be the ogre, the giant. Over which one of them had to be the white knight, rescuing the damsel in distress.

He had actual occasion to think of them nowadays, though, what with the way they kept appearing in his daily life. What with the way that they kept ending up being real and all. Granted, so there weren't a lot of vampires or demons or preying mantis ladies in The Brothers Grimm, but Hansel and Gretel, straight out of the yellowed pages of Willow's old book, had certainly made an appearance.

Sometimes when he dreamed of the future, he thought in terms of damsels in distress, of white knights, of himself in a starring role, riding to the rescue.

They always began with the words 'once upon a time.'
 

They always ended with the proverbial happy ending: guy gets the girl, the kingdom, lives happily ever after.

Real life wasn't a fairytale, though, because fairytales didn't end with Little Red Riding Hood's best friend hanging out in the back of the Big Bad Wolf's van, drinking lukewarm Pepsi while watching the wolf strum his guitar, black-painted fingernails picking out chord after chord over and over again.

They didn't end with the wolf looking at Little Red Riding Hood's best friend with too-bright, too-knowing eyes, saying, "Once upon a time there was a boy. And a wolf," with something that sounded like a promise in his tone.

*

Xander wasn't quite sure what he'd expected would happen when Willow and Oz broke up—mainly because he hadn't ever really thought they'd break up. Again. Because Oz had come and he'd stayed, stayed, stayed, until it was hard for Xander to remember a world when Oz hadn't been there, a satellite riding an ever tightening orbit into their group.

But the breakup had come, with all of the suddenness and violence of a shattered mirror, and suddenly they'd all found themselves in a post-Willow and Oz world.

So while it was true that Xander hadn't been quite sure what to expect if Willow and Oz broke up, this was what he hadn't expected: for Oz to stick around, for Oz to be there, just like nothing had changed.

Actually, to be around more than he had been before, because unlike Buffy and Willow, Oz hadn't gotten into the whole college social life thing, and then he had all of his Willow-time free, too.

No, he was the one who usually had Xander's odd (and rare) off-hours off too. Who always seemed to have time: never had to go to a library, never had a dorm thing, never had to organize study groups.

He was the one who was there when Xander's fairytales stopped starring damsels in distress. When the white knight started wondering why he wasn't sill running from the wolves, even though he knew that he should be.

Even though he knew that he would have—had—once upon a time, not so very long ago.

*

If the Brothers Grimm had told a different sort of fairytale:

Little Red Riding Hood would have shown up at her best friend's house one evening, a smile on her face, and she would have come in without waiting for him to invite her. She would have said, "I feel like I never get to see you anymore. I thought maybe we could have a— a movie night, something."

And the best friend would have been forced to say, "I can't. I already, um, have plans, with— I have plans and actually, I need to be leaving now, so—"

He wouldn't have told her that the plans were with the wolf. That the wolf had invited him to come see his band perform, to do something after. That the only reason the best friend had the night off was because he'd asked for it, specifically so that he could do this.

He wouldn't have asked her to come, no matter that she'd said, "Oh really," and then with a little eyebrow wiggle, "Do I know this person that you have plans with?" No matter how hopefully she'd looked at him.

This wasn't a fairytale, though, and so it was just Xander who was left watching Willow leave, something resembling hurt in her eyes, a small frown of something that was maybe suspicion marring the curve of her lips.

*

The third full moon of the post-Willow and Oz world, Xander asked, "Who's been making sure you get locked in at night? Who's been letting you out in the morning?" and Oz shrugged, said, "Willow. Still. She offered."

They were sitting in the back of Oz's van, the guitar resting across both of their knees now, Oz watching Xander's hands as he plucked at the strings, Xander watching Oz's fingers as he stilled them again.

Xander said, "I could do it. If you wanted," and there wasn't even a moments hesitation before Oz said, "Okay."

*

Willow was already in the basement when they walked in, laughing, Oz's hand hovering at the small of Xander's back, guiding him. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the bars of the cage, and Xander knew that that couldn't be comfortable. Knew that her spine had to be aching if she'd been there for any length of time.

She said, "You're cutting it pretty close, aren't you?"

They stopped just inside the door, Oz's hand falling back to his side, but that was the only sign that he gave that he noticed the rising tension in the room, because the tension was rising.

Willow was looking back and forth between them, her head moving slowly, eyes gradually widening, never seeming to blink, and she was more than Little Red Riding Hood in this fairytale, Xander realized. She was also the witch, and the witch was always able to figure things out.

The witch always knew.

Everything.

Even things that had never been said, like the things that the wolf and the best friend—the boy—had never said to each other, not yet anyway. The things that they were just figuring out for themselves.

He watched the play of emotions across her face: the puzzle pieces of the last several months beginning to click together, the dawning realization, the flash of hurt betrayal.

When she spoke, her voice was edged. "What are you—?" she started, but Oz took another step forward and said, "We really don't have time for this, Willow."

For a moment, she looked as if she might protest, but then she was moving, standing and Oz was stepping around her and into the cage, pulling the door closed behind him. Xander couldn't help but flinch as the lock clicked into place, at the finality of it all.

Then Willow tried again. She said, "What are you—?" and Oz said, his voice just as steady as before, "Xander offered, just like you did. To make sure that I got in okay, to let me out in the morning."

And now Willow was looking at Xander, her gaze hurt, accusing, and he shrugged, said, "It's not like I've got anything more exciting to do."

But she knew there was more to it than that, because she knew.

For a moment, he thought that she was going to call them on it, to say something, but even though Xander could see her trembling slightly, she bit at her bottom lip and said, her voice bordering on cold, "Okay. Okay. Well then, I guess you don't need me here."

She moved sharply, suddenly, turning on her heel and exiting the basement. Xander could hear the quick stomping of her feet running up the stairs.

Then it was Oz who was looking at Xander, his eyes as bright as ever, all of those things that they hadn't yet said visible there. He was silent for a long moment and then he said, "I'm sorry. You should— She's your best frie—"

He never got to finish his sentence, though, because in the next moment the transformation began, and Xander had seen it before, yes, but it didn't stop him from shuddering. Didn't make him want to turn away any less.

He watched, though. Watched until the wolf began pacing the cage, and then he backed up, sat, and tried to remember a fairytale where the wolf, the witch, and the boy had all lived happily ever after.

*

He stayed, sitting on the hard cement floor of Giles' basement, his legs bent up to his chest, arms curled around his knees. He stayed, shoulders hunched, unconsciously rocking back and forth in the chill of the dark, watching Oz as he paced the confines of his cage, turning, turning, before ending each circuit back where he started, staring at Xander. The eyes were inhuman, but Xander could see Oz's nostrils flaring, tasting the air, and he thought there was recognition there.

He stayed until the first rays of sunlight edged up over the sill of the basement window, until the darkness became shadows creeping back to where they'd come from, hiding from the day.

Until Oz collapsed on the floor, shuddering, and Xander still didn't want to watch, but he did; he couldn't force his eyes away.

He stayed until Oz lifted his head far enough off of the ground so that he could turn it, so that he was looking at Xander, his face sweaty and pale, dark circles ringing his normally bright eyes. He blinked once, twice, then pushed himself up onto his elbows, shifting towards the door of the cage.

At that, Xander stood. His legs had gone to sleep hours before, and as the blood rushed back downwards, upwards, through his body in a torrent of pins and needles and oh, god, ow, he nearly stumbled. He balanced himself against the wall, one hand on cement, watching Oz watch him. Watching as Oz rolled himself up into the sitting position. As Oz said, "You're still here," like he hadn't though he would be.

Xander nodded, because the decision had been made when the white knight, the best friend, the boy had first decided not to run from the wolves.

He knew that he should walk over to the cage, let Oz out, but he didn't. Instead he said, "Once upon a time there was a boy. And a werewolf. And a witch who wasn't too happy with them. But the boy, at least, didn't really care."

He sounded exhausted, even to his own ears. His voice rough, strained, a little rusty, as if it had been more than a few hours since he'd last uttered a word.

Inside his cage, Oz's eyes widened briefly in surprise, as much surprise as he ever showed anyway, and then he nodded. Nodded in understanding, a brief smile playing on his lips.

"Once upon a time," he said in turn. Then, after a moment, quietly: "Werewolves aren't notorious for getting the happy endings, you know. What do you think the odds are of this story having one?"

And Xander, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, said, "I don't know."

The End.