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The first night in the new house, Andy carries both Buzz and Woody to the bathroom and sits them on the counter while he brushes his teeth. They're surrounded by a forest of cardboard boxes waiting to be unpacked, but Woody doesn't mind. It is so good to be home. He will never take home for granted again.

Woody leans against the mirror, keeping himself carefully floppy, and watches Andy's familiar motions. This used to be routine, accompanying Andy through his bedtime rituals: pajamas, toothbrushing, goodnight kisses. (Once upon a time there were bedtime stories. These days Andy either just goes right to sleep, or he reads silently to himself; his mom doesn't read to him anymore.) But it's a while since Woody's had the chance to take this in. Now that he knows what it's like to be banished from Andy's company, he feels greedy for it, as though he can't get enough.

It's funny. A while ago he would have said that all he wanted in the world was to be Andy's favorite again, and for Buzz to -- well, buzz off. But now, having Buzz propped against the mirror next to him makes the whole thing sweeter. Woody's always been on good terms with every toy in the room, but he's never had a friend like Buzz before.

Next Andy brings both of them downstairs, one squashed under each arm, to show his mom that he's ready for bed. Dangling sideways, Woody catches sight of Buzz, who winks at him behind Andy's back. Woody winks back, feeling warm and contented.

Once Andy's walking back up to the room with his mom, a frisson of anxiety slides up Woody's spine. He tells himself that he won't mind if Andy leaves him in the toy chest tonight. It's a lie, but he tries to convince himself that it's true. Andy's probably going to choose Buzz, like he did before. And who could blame him? Buzz has buttons and lights and wings and a spacesuit.

Besides, where Woody is floppy, Buzz is solid and strong. There's got to be comfort in going to sleep with a Buzz Lightyear at your side.

Woody's chest fills with an inchoate yearning.

Yearning for Andy, of course. He's yearning for the approval of the kid who gives his life meaning. That's what he's here for: to be Andy's toy. But he can't help casting a wistful glance at Buzz, with whom Andy gets to cuddle all night

Is he wishing he were Buzz, or is he wishing he were Andy?

Before he can disentangle his thoughts, Andy climbs into his bed with both of them. Outwardly Woody remains perfectly still, of course, but inside he's exulting. He's back in the bed! And Buzz is, too.

"Got both of your favorites with you, I see," Andy's mom says with a smile in her voice. She's turned out the lights and she's tucking them all in. Woody can see Buzz's gentle glow coming from Andy's far side.

"Yep," Andy says, sounding happy as can be.

"Makes your new room feel just like home," says Andy's mom, and kisses Andy on the forehead. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

With Woody on one side of him and Buzz on the other, Andy falls asleep almost instantly. Being near his warmth and the rhythm of his breathing is so comforting it makes Woody's heart catch in his chest. Being wanted again. There's nothing like it in the world.

And this time he gets to share it with Buzz. That's something he couldn't have imagined wanting, before, but it makes him happy now.

Just as Woody's about to drift off, Andy stirs in his sleep. He's always been a restless sleeper. He thrashes a bit, then cuddles around Woody protectively, turning toward the wall. The next time Andy shifts and squirms, Woody can hear the soft susurration of Buzz sliding against the sheets and over the edge, and then the thud of his hard plastic landing. The sound wakes Andy.

"Wait, where's my -- oh, there he is," Andy says sleepily, reaching for the floor and grabbing Buzz by one leg. This time he puts both of them between him and the wall and curls around them, drawing both Woody and Buzz close to his chest.

It's cosy. It also means that Buzz is lying right on top of Woody, his space helmet pressed against Woody's neck.

"You okay?" Woody murmurs too quietly for Andy to hear.

"Fine, fine," Buzz assures him. "I've taken worse falls."

"Yeah, thanks to me," Woody mutters, feeling a pang of guilt.

"All's well that ends well," Buzz says blithely.


There's a pause. Woody listens to Andy's breathing. It's the best sound he knows.

"Well, goodnight, Woody," Buzz whispers.

"G'night, Buzz." Woody closes his eyes. He can't think of a better way to fall asleep.


Buzz finds Woody sitting on Andy's new desk, looking out of his new window at the new neighbor's yard. Buzz gives it a cursory survey glance. There are bushes of some kind. There's patio furniture. There doesn't appear to be a neighbor kid at all.

Buzz can't help feeling glad about that. No one ever warned him about sadistic children who pull the limbs off of their toys. Then again, no one ever told him he was actually a toy, either. Not until Woody. Woody's been willing to tell him truths of which no one else ever breathed a word. Buzz wants to return the favor.

When he clambers up onto the desk, Woody smiles at him. "Howdy."

"Howdy yourself," Buzz replies. The word is funny in his mouth, but it makes Woody's smile broader, and he likes that. "Listen -- there's something I've been wanting to talk with you about."

"Sure thing, Buzz. Shoot."

Now that he's on the desk with Woody, about to make the speech he's been mentally rehearsing, his words feel trapped behind his tongue. "Back at --" Buzz hesitates, then plunges on. "At Sid's house."

He sees Woody's shudder, but he doesn't remark on it. Any space ranger knows you don't comment on another man's reactions after the kind of trauma they went through. That kid "operating" on his sister's doll -- it would be enough to give anybody nightmares.

"The night before the move, you said some things."

"I probably did," Woody agrees.

"You said any other toy would give up his moving parts to be me." The words have been echoing in Buzz's mind ever since they jolted him out of his funk of self-pity. The words, and the way Woody said them. The admiration.

"And I meant it," Woody says, giving Buzz a lopsided smile.

"Then you meant the other things you said, too."

It's not really a question, but Woody answers it as though it were. "Did I say other things?" Either he really doesn't remember, or he's trying to keep Buzz from talking about it, but Buzz is a man on a mission and will not be deterred.

"You said you don't know why Andy would want to play with you when he's got me."

Woody doesn't meet Buzz's gaze this time.

"Of course he wants to play with you." It's so obvious to Buzz that he can't imagine why Woody wouldn't know it.

Woody gives a little half-shrug. He brushes a speck of lint off of his shiny sheriff's badge, still not looking at Buzz.

"He's been sleeping with both of us," Buzz points out.

"And that's great. It's amazing. Don't get me wrong -- I'm thrilled," Woody says. "But I know which way the wind is blowing."

"The wind?" Buzz isn't sure he quite follows. What do meteorological conditions have to do with anything? They're talking about Woody.

Woody sighs. "I was his favorite toy for a long time. But I don't have buttons. Or a space suit."

"Who cares," Buzz argues. He's not sure why he feels so strongly about this, but he does. Hearing Woody deprecate himself makes his chest twist too tight. "Gadgetry isn't everything." If his instructors at the Academy could hear him referring to his spacesuit as gadgetry, they would be horrified. Then again, there never was an Academy, was there? Those are all artificial memories, and they don't matter as much as Woody does.

"I'm from the Old West," Woody points out. "It's right there in the name: old. Old and dusty and over. You're from space. It's the final frontier. It's what every kid wants. You're the future; I'm history."

The conversation feels like it's spiralling out of Buzz's grip. He changes tack. "You know, every toy in this house looks up to you."

Woody turns to look at him, startled. "Excuse me?"

"You're the heart and soul of Andy's room," Buzz proclaims. He can see that he has Woody's attention now, and that makes him feel more sure of himself. "You always know just what to say to get everyone working together, despite our differences. I'd bet you fifty Galactic credits there are other rooms out there where the Mr. Potato Head and the T-Rex don't even speak to each other."

"That might be true," Woody admits. "They don't have much in common, on their own."

"You have a big heart and everyone knows it. You're the glue that holds this family together."

"" Woody looks at him quizzically.

"The Andy's room family," Buzz says.

"Ah," Woody says, and looks down again. Buzz has the haunting feeling that he's said something wrong, but he isn't sure what it is.

He tries one more time. "I'm glad I landed in Andy's room, because you're here."

That brings a smile back to Woody's face. "Thanks, Buzz," Woody says quietly, and they sit side by side for a while, watching the birds.


Woody's checking in with all of Andy's toys, because it helps them feel that everything is back to normal. It helps him feel that way, too.

The weebles on the Playschool fire truck are busy polishing its sides, but they take a break to answer Woody's questions; it sounds like they're doing okay. Etch-a-sketch draws a picture of a house and writes "all's well." Next on his list: Slinky dog. Slinky's hanging out on the bookshelf, resting his head on his paws in a patch of sun. Woody clambers up to his shelf.

"Say, Slink."

The dog turns to Woody, smiling his doggy smile. "What's up, Woody?"

Woody shrugs. "Not a lot. Just making the rounds. Wanted to see how you're settling in."

"Just fine," Slinky assures him. "I like the new room. Spacious."

"And the best part is, we're not sharing it with the baby," Mr. Potato Head adds, sounding self-satisfied as usual. He's balanced atop the books like Humpty Dumpty on his wall.

"Yeah, that is a plus, isn't it," Woody agrees.

"Hey, what's it like sleeping with Andy and Buzz?" Slinky asks. "You guys have enough room up there?"

Woody can feel his cheeks turning pink. "Plenty of room."

"I don't know, Andy's bed isn't as spacious as his new room," Potato Head says with a smirk.

"We're fine," Woody says firmly.

"I'm glad," Slinky says earnestly. "I'm happy for you, Woody." He noses at Woody's leg and Woody scritches his head. His tail wags happily.

"Thanks, Slink. You're the best pal a guy could have." Woody means it, too. There's a reason everyone says a dog is a man's best friend.

Potato Head removes his eyes and replaces them upside-down, his best attempt at an eye-roll. Woody pretends he doesn't notice.

And then Buzz calls. "Woody, where are you?" His voice comes from across the room.

Woody's heart races and he has to clear his throat before calling back. "Right here, talking to Slinky and Mr. Potato Head."

"Watch this!"

Woody looks over and sees Buzz balanced at the top of Andy's bedside lamp, wings outspread like an angel. Buzz gives a jaunty wave. "To infinity and beyond!" he calls as he leaps.

Woody's seen him preparing for this maneuver. There's a bouncy ball on the floor beside the bedside table, and Andy's extra pillow is placed on the floor exactly where Buzz expects his trajectory to take him. Most of the bucket of soldiers is in position on the floor around the pillow, ready to grab the pillowcase and yank it across the floor as needed.

Still, Woody's heart is in his throat when Buzz jumps.

Buzz soars for an instant, then falls. He does a somersault, lands on the ball with both feet planted, flies again and then angles his hips to skid to a seated landing on the pillow. It's stunning.

"Wow, Buzz, that was amazing!" Woody's jumping down from the bookshelf and running toward Buzz before he even registers that he's moving. Half of the toys in the room are clapping, calling out compliments, but Woody barely even hears them. All he can see is Buzz's broad shoulders, Buzz's excited smile.

"Thanks, Woody," Buzz says, as Woody runs over and pulls him to standing. It always surprises Woody that he's taller than Buzz. Buzz seems to take up more space than he does, somehow. And right now Buzz is taking up space right in front of Woody, their chests almost touching, Buzz's wingspan gleaming on both sides. Woody feels dizzy, as though he were the one who had just done a flip in mid-air.

And everyone in the room is watching. Woody drops Buzz's hands and takes a step back. "Way to go," he says, moving his gaze away from Buzz's eyes. (He winds up looking at Buzz's lips, which arguably isn't much safer.) "I should keep checking in with everybody."

"Good work, Sheriff." Buzz's smile makes Woody want to --

-- to do things he isn't even sure he understands. And he's pretty sure Buzz wouldn't understand, either.

He wants to interlink their fingers. To spoon behind Buzz in an embrace. To feel Buzz's arms around him again, like the day they flew. To take the time to touch every crevice in Buzz's spacesuit, to lovingly press Buzz's buttons, to rub each one until his wings pop free. He wants to have permission to do those things. He wants for Buzz to want him to do them.

And Buzz isn't going to want any of that. What would he say if Woody dared to ask? Unbidden, remembered words float up in Woody's consciousness: You are a sad, strange little man. That's exactly what Buzz would think of him again.

And now it's been too long and he hasn't moved and everybody's staring at them.

"I'll get right on that," he says, keeping his voice as bright as he can manage, and he makes himself turn and walk away.


When Buzz hears Bo Peep talking to Woody, he knows he should announce his presence somehow -- cough loudly, start singing, thump across the floor, something. There's little enough privacy in Andy's room; everyone is always in each other's business. It reminds him of being a first-year cadet, crammed into the dorm pods with a hundred other wannabe space rangers.

He should make some noise. But he doesn't. He tells himself it's no big deal, he's just busy repairing his spaceship. He knows it won't fly. But even if his memories of learning how to care for his ship aren't real, they're a part of him. He could no more ignore the maintenance of his spacecraft than he could be someone other than Buzz Lightyear.

"It's been hard to get you alone," Bo says. "Have you been avoiding me?"

"What? No, no, of course, not! No -- not me. I wouldn't do that. Just busy, you know, getting everybody settled, new room, new responsibilities --"

Woody's babbling. Which means he's nervous. Why is he nervous with Bo?

"We need to talk," Bo says.

Maybe that's why. Buzz knows those are words no man ever particularly wants to hear.

"What's up, Bo?"

There's a long pause. "I think we should see other toys," Bo says finally. Buzz can hear the sadness in her voice.

"What?" Woody sounds stunned, and Buzz's heart goes out to him.

"We had some good times," Bo says gently. "And I think for a while you were honestly sweet on me."

"I was," Woody protests. "I mean, I am!"

"You care about me," Bo corrects him. "And I care about you. You're a good friend."

"But," Woody says. He sounds defeated. Buzz's heart clenches.

"But I think we all know who you're sweet on these days."

Buzz's head is spinning. Who is Woody sweet on? How did he miss this? Why does he feel as though there are butterflies dancing the fandango in his stomach?

"Does everybody know?" Woody's voice cracks on the word 'everybody.'

Bo gives a little laugh. "I'm not sure T-Rex has figured it out. He's awfully young for somebody so prehistoric. But everyone else -- you have hearts in your eyes, Woody."

"I know I do," Woody says glumly.

"He's a good man," Bo says gently. "Everybody here loves him, just like we love you. It's okay."

A good man?

What other men are there in Andy's room? The green soldiers, sure, but Bo can't mean one of them. Can she? Surely not Potato Head. Buzz's hands form fists without his conscious volition. Potato Head isn't nice enough to Woody. Woody deserves better. Does he really think so little of himself?

"Thank you, Bo," Woody says. His voice is muffled, as though they might be embracing. "You're an incredible woman. I'm sorry I didn't say something myself. I guess I just thought, until you and I break things off at least I know someone wants me." There's one short sob, quickly curtailed.

Buzz has never felt empathy like this. Who is breaking Woody's heart, and when can Buzz karate-chop him into submission?

"Oh, Woody," Peep chides. Buzz can hear a rustle of fabric, and then a honk as Woody blows his nose. "You think he'd say no?"

"I think I can't afford to ask."

"I think you're wrong." Bo's voice is gentle but firm.

Woody takes a great heaving breath. "You would think that; you have an inexplicable fondness for me even though I'm the worst boyfriend in the world and I should've broken up with you the minute I realized I'd fallen for someone else."

"You should have," Bo agrees. There's a pause. "He obviously cares about you."

"We're buddies. That's not -- it's not the same." Woody sounds so dejected that Buzz wants to round the corner and hug him, right now.

"For whatever it's worth, you and Buzz have my blessing," Bo says, and Buzz's heart seems to stop.

He doesn't hear the end of their conversation. He doesn't hear anything but the recorded sound of breathing resonating in the echo chamber of his spacesuit. He isn't sure how much time passes before he comes to himself and realizes that he's been standing stock-still next to his ship, a piece of bonding strip dangling from his hand. He doesn't remember what he had been planning to reinforce. He presses the tape to the wing mechanically, on autopilot, his mind racing.

Woody's in love with him. What in the galaxy is he supposed to do? Nothing in his memories of the Academy, or his brief self-aware life as a toy, has prepared him for this.

This new information casts his recent interactions with Woody in a different light. This is why Woody has been by turns eager and distant. What can he say to Woody, now that he knows? What does he want to say?

He never knew Woody was -- like that. The whole time Buzz has been in Andy's room, Woody's been flirting with Bo Peep. He'd assumed that they had always been together. But all of a sudden he's uncomfortably aware that Woody had a whole life here before Buzz awoke upon removal from his spacecraft. For all Buzz knows, maybe Woody's had a boyfriend before, too.

Buzz has never had a relationship. From their first year as cadets, it's drilled into them that space rangers aren't encouraged to partner up. Fighting the evil Emperor Zurg needs to be first and foremost on their minds, and that's not possible if they're enmeshed in romantic entanglements. "Serve the Galactic Alliance with heart, mind, and body." "We serve so that others can live and love." Those mottoes were emblazoned on the walls of the Academy.

Then again, Emperor Zurg isn't real, is he? And neither is the Academy. Which means Buzz doesn't have to abide by those fraternization rules any longer.

Besides, when Buzz imagines rebuffing Woody's affections, a lump threatens to close off his throat. He can picture the way Woody would slump when he thinks no one is looking. He can imagine Woody's long and lanky body folded in on itself with sadness, his elegant cheekbones streaked with tears. It's enough to solidify Buzz's resolve once and for all. He won't be the cause of Woody's sorrow. He couldn't live with himself if he were.

He isn't sure what exactly Woody wants from him, but whatever it is, he'll give it.


Now that Woody's single again, sleeping in Andy's bed becomes a kind of torture.

It's not only torture, of course. It's wonderful, because nothing makes a toy happier than being loved by his kid, and what deeper sign of love than this could there be? But it's excruciating because Buzz is right there, so close and yet unreachable in all the ways that matter. Andy always folds them up in his arms together now, pressing them against each other, and although Woody loves it, he hates it, too. He's afraid of losing this; what if Andy relegates him to the toy chest again? But even more than that, he's afraid of what Buzz would say if he had any idea what goes through Woody's mind at night.

Some nights Woody lies awake and watches both of them sleep, Andy like a giant beside them and Buzz's handsome profile limned by moonlight. The jawline Woody wants to cup with his hands. The lips he wants so desperately to kiss.

Woody remembers grinning giddily under the press of Bo's sweet pink lips. It was great, while it lasted. But when he imagines what it might be like if Buzz were kissing him, he swoons. To mold himself against Buzz's spacesuit, to whisper his secret yearnings into a willing ear -- it's the thing he wants most in the world. And it's the one thing he knows he can't possibly have. Sometimes Woody feels guilty for even indulging in the fantasy. As though even imagining it were an infringement on Buzz's honor.

Tonight is one of the sleepless nights. Woody can't stop thinking: about what he has, about what he wants, about what he could lose. The numbers on Andy's bedside clock read 2:34. Everyone in the room is sleeping. Except for Woody, who's lying awake thinking about the space ranger right beside him, confined just like he is by Andy's warm arm.

When Buzz clears his throat, Woody almost jumps out of his skin.

"Woody. You awake?" Buzz whispers.

Toys can hear much better than people can, Woody knows. Smaller ears; better hearing. Andy can't hear them. Still, it always feels transgressive, whispering a conversation right next to their boy.

"Yeah, I'm up. I'm sorry, was I fidgeting -- did I wake you?"

"No, no," Buzz assures him. "I've been awake a lot lately."

Not for the same reasons I have, Woody thinks glumly, but instead he asks, "What's on your mind?"

Before responding, Buzz presses the button that glides his helmet open. The vulnerability inherent in the gesture makes Woody's heart clench.

"I've heard some of the toys talking," Buzz says quietly. His voice sounds different without the distancing effect of his globe of plastic.

Woody flinches, then immediately worries that Buzz might have noticed his nervous motion. "Oh?" His voice breaks on the question; damn his lousy voicebox. "About what?"

"About you and me."

"About our ordeal during the move?" Woody says desperately, racking his brains for plausible deniability. "Because wow, that really was something, you know, with the rocket, and the --"

"Not about that." Buzz's eyes are serious. There's only one thing he could mean.

Woody closes his eyes for an instant. His heart is in his throat. This is it: the end of their friendship, or at least the end of the easy, comfortable friendship they've had from the day of the move until now. The thought makes him want to sob. He hadn't thought anything could be worse than being out of Andy's favor, but the prospect of losing Buzz's friendship is more terrible.

He owes Buzz his honesty, at least.

When he opens his eyes, Buzz is looking at him steadily. He doesn't look angry. Maybe he's disappointed in Woody. That would be worse.

Woody swallows hard. "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to know."

A faint crease appears between Buzz's brows. "Why not?"

"I was never going to say anything," Woody presses on. "It isn't fair to you."

"Why isn't it?"

Buzz and his sweet cluelessness. Woody yearns for him even more. "Because I don't want to put you in that position."

"This position isn't so bad." Buzz's smile is confident. He's beautiful. Woody tries to memorize that smile in case he doesn't get to see it again.

"You're not hearing me." Woody can hear the hopelessness in his own voice. "The reason I haven't said anything is, I know how this is going to go, and it doesn't end well. I tell you I'm in love with you, you tell me men don't do that on your planet, things are never the same between us again."

Buzz hasn't pulled away. He's still smiling, and there's no malice in it, only kindness. "You may be right; men probably don't do that on my planet."

Woody closes his eyes. He can't bear it.

Buzz shifts beside him, and the next words come from right beside his ear, which makes him shiver involuntarily. "Something occurs to me, though."

He seems to be waiting for a response. "Hm?" is all Woody can manage.

"We're not on my planet, are we?" There is fondness in Buzz's voice, and a smile, and something Woody can't quite name. His eyes fly open. Buzz is right there, and he's looking at Woody with promise in his eyes.

Hope slams into Woody, shaking him as thoroughly as Buzz's fist outside of the gas station a lifetime ago. Willing his hand not to tremble, he reaches toward Buzz's face, still half-expecting Buzz to rebuff the advance, to push him away. Instead Buzz leans into his touch. It's a small gesture, but it speaks volumes. It's permission. It's yes.

When they kiss, Woody melts. It is everything he imagined and more. Being toys, they don't actually require air, so they kiss for a very long time.

When Andy stirs and mumbles something in his sleep, they break apart. Woody feels giddy. Buzz looks gobsmacked. His eyes are unfocused and his lips are reddened and Woody can't wait to do that again.

"That was," Buzz begins, and then doesn't say anything for a long moment.

A sliver of doubt worms its way into Woody's chest. Maybe Buzz didn't like it. Maybe he's trying to find a way to let Woody down gently.

"Amazing," Buzz breathes, finally.

Woody wants to whoop with joy. He settles for beaming at Buzz. Bo said he had hearts in his eyes; maybe Buzz can see them. "Yeah," he agrees, not even caring if he sounds dorky.

"You know, a space ranger's primary job is to explore." Buzz's tone is light and conversational, but his eyes are dancing.

Woody represses a shiver of excitement. "Oh?"

And then he feels Buzz's hand tracing the circle of his pull-string, tugging ever-so-gently, and he gasps, going weak.

"I think I have some exploring to do," Buzz informs him, and moves to kiss him again. Buzz is toying with his string, pulling and then releasing, and Woody can feel pressure building inside his body, rising and cresting like the waves on the white noise machine Andy used to need in order to fall asleep.

He is going to touch every button Buzz has, he vows to himself. He is going to find out how to make Buzz shudder unil his wings pop free; he is going to make Buzz feel exactly this good. But right now all he can do is groan helplessly into Buzz's mouth.

No one's ever done this to him before, and he feels as though he's on the verge of coming apart at the seams. He doesn't know how long Buzz keeps him there before he gives one last deft tug and Woody loses control. His voicebox springs to life without his conscious intent. "You're my favorite deputy!" comes out as loud as his tinny speakers will allow.

Andy shifts and they both freeze. Woody's mortified. Oh no, oh no, what if they woke Andy up, what are they going to do --

But Andy just murmurs in his sleep, his arms releasing them, and rolls over to face the wall. They're left lying on the bed beside him, no longer guarded in the circle of his embrace. There's always the danger of the bed's edge, of course, but if they're careful they have plenty of room, and Andy's snoring lightly now.

Both toys slump with relief.

"I've never done that before," Buzz murmurs. "But you seemed to enjoy it, so I guess those were good instincts."

"The best," Woody agrees. He's still tingling as he props himself up on one elbow, his other hand beginning a leisurely exploration of Buzz's spacesuit. "How did you know --" He can feel his cheeks turning pink. "I mean, that thing you did, with my string, how did you know it would --"

"I didn't," Buzz admits. "It was just something I thought about."

"Thought about," Woody repeats, nibbling at Buzz's ear, which produces a gratifying shiver. Buzz tips his head back, displaying more neck, and Woody mouths it through the thin fabric of his cowl.

"When I imagined this," Buzz clarifies. Just then Woody finds a tender place at the joint where his breastplate gives way to the ridges beneath, and Buzz closes his eyes and sighs, his chiseled features illuminated with bliss.

Buzz imagined this. With him.

The thought makes joy spread through his batting. These long nights while he's been lying here yearning hopelessly for Buzz, apparently Buzz has been thinking about...him.

"Here's to infinity," Woody murmurs into the shell of his ear, "and beyond."