The plane ride lasted longer than Angelus had believed. But then every minute without Buffy grated on his nerves like holy water across his skin. 

Should he have been furious that one being could make him feel this way? Possibly. But he wasn’t. No, all he cared about was bringing that one being back. Buffy was all that mattered. She was his, the only thing in this world he truly cared about. 

Connor shifted uneasily beside him as the plane began its descent, anxious to release some of the tension and anger bubbling within him, anxious to find his sire. Africa presented the perfect opportunity for that release, even though Angelus knew that his family was handling him, that they ‘suggested’ this trip so he didn’t destroy all they’d worked years to build. And so he wouldn’t kill any more members of their happy home. 

Like Faith mattered. 

They didn’t understand. They could and had survived without their loved one in their lives, Giles and Willow, and even Spike, had managed to live while Buffy was dead. Angelus still wasn’t sure how he – or the soul – had succeeded in accomplishing that. But then the months after his beloved’s death, and even after her resurrection, couldn’t exactly be called living per se. 

No, they could survive without her. Even Willow, who had defied fate and the Powers, and God Himself to bring her friend back. Angelus knew he couldn’t. 

The one time she’d been seriously injured as they were solidifying their control over this world had sent him into a panic. Angelus vividly remembered the terror that clouded his mind, that twisted his heart as he held Buffy’s bleeding body against his. The claw marks along her back from the Dacca Demon had healed, hadn’t even scared, but that wasn’t the point. 

He’d been frantic when she’d been injured, cutting a path to get to her, killing enemies and allies alike in his haste. Buffy was all that mattered; she was it, the only thing in his life he cared about. Nothing else mattered. Not even his son. 

Ah, yes, Connor and his place in his life. Angelus leaned back in the plush leather seat and watched his son through hooded eyes. Did he care for his son? Yes. Would he sacrifice Connor for Buffy? Without another thought. 

Buffy might hate him for that, might rant and rage and rail at him for giving up her childe her child, but Angelus found that he could live with it. So long as she was alive and with him, he could live with anything.

“We’ll be landing in less than thirty minutes, sir,” the disembodied voice of the pilot announced. 

Looking out the window, Angelus watched the African jungle speed past them. Humans and animals alike hid beneath that canopy, so protected. So deluded in their protection. 

“Get ready son,” Angelus said as the plane touched down on the dirt runway. “Your first lesson is about to begin.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Connor grinned, and it was that crazy, wild grin of his. He’d been wrong. 

He’d argued with Angelus for some time about the lessons Angelus wanted to teach him. Growing up in a hell dimension had taught him a lot, everything he’d needed to know about hunting and killing. So when Angelus had informed Connor that he was going to teach his son the finer aspects of vampire hunting, Connor hadn’t believed that he needed them, hadn’t believed that they were necessary. 

He was wrong. 

This was fun. And informative. And Connor hadn’t realized that he could, indeed, learn something from his father. He never would have guessed that before Angelus’ reemergence. 

The three rebels they’d taken as night had fallen, currently gagged and struggling against their bonds, looked haggard, undernourished, and almost ill. They were dirty, despite some nameless stream wandering at the eastern edge of their camp, and sickly. And they didn’t seem to like the fact that the people they were fighting against had taken this new and personal interest in them. 

“They don’t seem to appreciate their place in the grander scheme, do they?” Connor asked as he waited for Angelus to begin. 

The initial three they’d taken hadn’t lasted long; but then when Angelus had first disembarked, he wasn’t into taking prisoners. He’d been in an uncontrolled rage that ripped through trees and animals and those three humans alike; taking his anger and fear for Buffy’s safety out on whatever lay in his path. The scar that cut across the land was testament to his rage, and his love for her. 

Connor figured that, considering his father wasn’t one to deal well with Buffy’s absence at all, that that was pretty good. Those first three didn’t appreciate the quickness of their deaths. 

“Of course not,” Angelus smiled now as he held the sharpened knife before him, examining the blade. “But then did you really think they would?” 

“Don’t know,” Connor shrugged. “Never thought about it. Didn’t care enough to.” 

“Now then, son,” Angelus changed the subject, and moved to Connor’s side. “Lesson number one: Terror is best when it’s caused by you. Direct or indirect, it doesn’t matter.” He looked behind him, towards the unsuspecting camp. “Just wait.” 

The knife, so newly sharpened, made one clean slice down the first man’s cheek. His scream was never heard.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t like the quiet,” Ethan said as he and Gunn handed out their rapidly dwindling medical supplies. 

“Yesterday,” Gunn said as he continually scanned the area for anything amiss, “You said you didn’t like all the noise.” But he didn’t like the quiet, either, and he had a sinking feeling he knew the reason for it. 

“That was before we started disappearing,” the Englishman muttered. 

Gunn just scowled. He didn’t know when Ethan Rayne had become such a part of their inner circle, but he didn’t like it. For so long it’d been he, Fred, and Wesley. Then Oz, joined their little band, and Gunn could accept the other man for his past fights, if not the fact that he’d basically hid during the most important fight of the world. Oz made up for it now, and frankly that was all Gunn cared about. 

They’d held their group together from the cold planes of Russia westward and then south. Running, always running from their former leaders, their former friends. They’d lost some of their more trusted allies, of course they did. The war hadn’t ended just because the battlefield moved. Their once magnificent army had dwindled to just a few thousand, then a few hundred.

But they’d gained, too. 

Their camp, while not nearly as large as it once was, survived. Life was hard, but at least they were free. Or, Gunn grimaced as his eyes tracked a strangely colored bird as it flew overhead, they weren’t under Family Rule. 

Live Free or Die. 

It was the motto of New Hampshire, Fred had once told him, coined right after the American Revolution. Live free or die. Gunn had a feeling that their freedom was running low, but as long as there were a few of them left, there was hope. 

It was like Star Wars, he thought as he and Ethan made their way back towards the medical tent. The Rebel Alliance fighting under the evil Emperor and Darth Vader. Except Princess Leia and Han Solo were slightly better funded than they were…and had more places to hide than they did. All those worlds… 

Ethan was still muttering about the wrongness of the quiet jungle, but Gunn ignored him. He was nothing more than a two-bit con who could do some magick; and, okay yes, he was good at, ah, bartering, for what their camp lacked, but he wasn’t good for much else. He couldn’t magickally protect their camp from outsiders, he couldn’t fight Angelus or Buffy, he couldn’t even heal those who were seriously sick or wounded. 

Said his magicks weren’t aimed that way, that he didn’t know any good healing spells. Something about chaos demons… 

And yet Ethan had somehow conned his way into being one of the nominal leaders of their resistance. Did he really think that being the leader was going to somehow save him from the Family’s wrath? From what Gunn understood from Oz, Rupert Giles hated Ethan enough to make a special trip to Africa just to torture and kill him. 

And that information was from when the werewolf was in the know…who knew what had happened between then and now? 

“Fred,” Gunn said as he spotted her, and went to his lover’s side. 

Over the years they’d had their ups and downs, their split-ups and makeups, but since retreating to Africa, they both decided that their lives weren’t worth the arguments. It didn’t stop the arguments, but it did bring them back together. 

“Baby, you shouldn’t be standing,” he gently scolded. “You have to rest.” 

“I’m fine, Charles,” Fred insisted with a smile for him. Her small hand drifted up to his cheek, caressing him for a moment. “And they need me here.” 

“They need a lot of things here,” Gunn frowned without looking around the crowded tent. He already knew what lay there: The sick and dying, those who had arrived injured or ill, and those who had succumbed to one of the many some things that haunted the jungle while trying to eek out their meager existence. 

“Our little one doesn’t need you becoming another casualty,” he insisted, one hand drifting to her enlarged belly, the other guiding her out into the humid day. 

“I know,” she sighed as he lifted her and carried her to their tent. It was one of the private ones, but Gunn had insisted when she’d become pregnant. There’d been envy around the camp, especially from the very few other expectant mothers, but Wesley had ignored it. 

“But-” 

“No buts, baby,” Gunn said and laid her on the bed. “You need to rest; you’re due in five weeks. Let’s not take any chances now.” 

“I know,” Fred nodded, and leaned up to kiss him. “Stay with me?” 

“Of course.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Did you hear?” 

“Yeah, another person disappeared last night.” 

“What animal can do this?” 

“I heard,” the whisper dropped even more, “That it wasn’t an animal.” 

“Then what?” 

The whispers continued as Oz carried the wood for their cooking fires. He’d volunteered for the job just to get away from camp for a little bit. And while it was well over a hundred degrees in the jungle, the shiver that raced up his spine sent chills through his blood. Their time was running out. It wasn’t an animal. Oz knew that with certainty. 

It was no animal. 

He ignored the suspicious stares from some of their camp, knew that they believed it was he, or rather his werewolf alter ego, that committed these crimes. That it was the wolf that took their near and dear, that deposited their bodies just outside camp. Mangled, cut and torn in a rage that Oz doubted even his trapped wolf had. That left the corpses of those unlucky enough to be taken just far enough outside the camp so as not to be noticed, and yet close enough for the bodies to be found within the day. 

They didn’t understand, those who accused him with their silent stares and their heavy frowns. They didn’t understand the changes Oz had forced his nature to undergo just to keep the wolf at bay, didn’t understand that there were more dangerous things out there than one lone werewolf. 

Like a pissed off vampire. 

“They’re still talking,” Wesley stated, falling into step with Oz. The former watcher was haggard, tired and malnourished, and at the end of his rope. One of the few things that kept him going any more was his firm belief that so long as there were people – human or demon, it didn’t matter – willing to fight Angelus and Buffy, then it was worth it.

That and his new relationship with Oz. Wesley had realized several things about himself over the years: gender didn’t matter when it came to finding comfort.  At one time, Wes had believed that he and Fred had a chance, but she and Gunn were too much in love for that. Then he and Cordelia had a brief affair, based more on comfort than anything else. With her disappearance and certain death, Wesley had fallen into a deep depression.

Oz’s arrival had jerked him out of that, had given Wesley renewed hope that something could still be done to save this planet. And, strangely enough, had also given him a sense of comfort. It wasn’t deep; certainly not love, but it was affection. Fondness and friendliness, and a sense of peace after the long days and even longer nights they were forced to spend fighting for their very lives. 

“People always talk,” Oz shrugged it off, though it grated. Still, after all this time, it hurt to know that he was judged for something that wasn’t his fault. “It’s just the way they are, humans or demons.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?” Wesley asked as he helped Oz stack the wood, his eyes holding the younger man’s for a moment. “Knowing that they blame you?” Oz just shrugged again and Wesley sighed. “Then you’re a better person than I, Oz.” 

“No I’m not,” he countered. “I’ve just had more practice in dealing with it.” 

Wesley nodded at that, found himself chuckling in surprise. Maybe Oz had, maybe Oz knew what it was like to already be talked about and whispered over. Wesley couldn’t remember much about him from their days in Sunnydale, but had a vague recollection of him being on the fringes of the group, even of the ultimate fringe group of the Slayer’s inner circle. 

“How is it that you remember so much about that time, Oz?” Wesley asked instead as his gaze wandered to the deep jungle. When they first arrived in the middle of Africa, he’d thought them safe. Nominally safe, but that was years ago, and Angelus hadn’t bothered to come after them. It was almost as if the vampire had forgotten about them, though everyone knew he hadn’t. 

What made Angelus decide that now was the best time for revenge? They definitely weren’t a threat to his new world order, they barely survived here. So why was Angelus here, now, killing them off? For it could be no other doing these deeds, no matter what anyone else in the camp thought. 

“What do you mean?” 

“It was years ago, long before even The Wars began,” Wes clarified. “All that happened was in high school, and yet you tell the stories as if it had happened just yesterday. How do you remember so much from your time in Sunnydale?” 

“I didn’t,” Oz admitted as his gaze followed Wesley’s as his preternatural senses strained for any hint of a vaguely familiar vampire. Looking back at his lover, Oz added, “I’d forgotten a lot of it, actually. But when faced with the reality of our current situation, when I realized…” he trailed off, his nostrils flaring. 

Nothing. Just a starving jungle cat of some kind moving closer to a source of potential food. 

“When you’re the only one who’s really face Angelus,” Oz continued, “You force yourself to remember things. And even then, it wasn’t like we took the brunt of his campaign to annihilate us. Buffy did. So even then, those memories are limited.” 

Shaking his head to rid himself of the memory flash of Willow in the hospital doing the spell to recurse Angel, Oz added, “Still I remember enough to recognize the pattern again. Giles was the one who originally pointed it out all those years ago: Nights when Buffy wasn’t out there patrolling, or a visible presence, he was more active, more vicious. No, by the end, the only one who had a chance predicting Angelus was Buffy…and she never spoke of those times. Not that I knew of; if she had Willow would have said something.”

He smiled sadly at that, “Willow never could keep a secret.” 

Now Wesley was intrigued. Tilting his head to the side, looking very much the watcher from so very long ago, he asked, “I see. How? How do you remember? Are they real memories, or false? Do you truly remember, or is it something else?” 

“Meditation.” 

“Ah,” Wes nodded when Oz said nothing more. 

“And this meditation, what else is it good for?” 

“Sleeping at nights.” 

“I might try that some time,” Wesley mumbled as they moved away from camp’s edge. Though lately, he’d discovered that nothing helped him sleep anymore. 

“You know what’s doing this,” Wesley stated as they drew further away from the jungle’s edge. He knew as well. “You know the reason.” 

“I know we’re going to be lucky if we die quickly, and this time, there’s no Buffy to protect us, to run interference. To ride to our rescue and save us from him.” Oz said, but didn’t look at him. He wasn’t lying when he told Wesley that he hadn’t remembered Sunnydale in a long time, he hadn’t for a variety of reasons. But now that he was, now that he forced himself to remember as much as he could, he was just as scared as the rest. More so. 

Because he knew what was coming. The others only thought they did, but whatever their imaginations conjured up, it wasn’t as bad as the reality of Angelus. Nothing was. 

“I know that this is just the beginning. And I know that when Angelus comes for us, it won’t be nearly as fast as it is for these others.” 

“Have you heard anything more about Buffy?” Wes asked instead, after a few minutes. He turned towards his tent, expecting Oz to follow. 

“No. Why?” 

“If Angelus is here,” Wesley said slowly, as if he was thinking it out. “Without Buffy, then where is she? The rumors are true then, and she’s missing.” 

“I don’t know,” again, Oz shrugged. It seemed all he did anymore. Whenever people asked him about Buffy and Angelus, about Willow or Giles. He didn’t know. Not anymore. That life was long over, that chapter of his past closed. 

“If he can’t find her,” Wesley said, though it was clear that he wasn’t talking to Oz, but himself. “Then where is she? If Angelus knew where Buffy was, then he’d have already found her. So that means that he has no idea where she’s at, and…” 

Oz watched him enter his tent, with his books and maps and journals, still muttering. Wesley probably didn’t know what he was talking about, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right. It also didn’t mean that it was smart to barter with Angelus. 

“Suicide,” Oz said aloud, eyes trained on Wesley’s tent. “But then so is fighting against them.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Another day, another night. Another lesson. 

Connor watched as Angelus prowled around their makeshift camp, a growl rumbling in his chest. Spike’s words often came back to haunt him, ‘He’s on the edge without her.’ Well, Connor already knew that, even before they left London for Africa. Knew that Angelus was losing it, knew his father was going mad without Buffy.  

His six calls a day to Spike only served to reinforce that.  

Clint, their pilot, seemed resigned to Angelus’ constant calls, but then he was being paid handsomely to not say a word. He was being paid, and he was being allowed to live with his family; really, Clint had no say in anything. Still, Connor found it amusing that even Clint realized the extent of Angelus’ obsession…and slightly scary. If an outsider could see how Angelus reacted, then it was…bad.  

Really bad.  

Without a word, Angelus turned and headed back towards the plane. With a sigh, Connor followed him. “Dad,” he called.

“Don’t,” Angelus growled, not breaking stride.  

“But you just called! If you keep calling, then Spike and Giles won’t be able to work.” 

“They’d better work,” Angelus threatened. “And I’ll call as often as I damn well please until they do find her.” 

Connor just nodded, but Angelus didn’t see, already on the path back to the plane. Following him, Connor resigned himself to another night of obsession. Sure, it was fun terrorizing the camp, but Angelus was only half here, only half paying attention to his son and the lessons he’d promised. It was getting annoying.  

Actually, it was like Angel was back, like the soul was in charge and didn’t know how to deal with his own child. 

Buffy had changed so much of that. Connor faltered in his step as a thought flashed through his mind. 

“What if we can’t find her?” He hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud, but Angelus heard him. 

“We will.” 

Looking up at his father with large, frightened eyes, Connor begged him to lie. “But dad,” he whispered, truly scared. “Why haven’t they yet? What if they can’t? What happens then?” 

Moving faster than even Connor could see, Angelus grabbed his son by the shoulders. Shifting into his vampiric face, he said tersely, “We will find her, Connor. Don’t even think we won’t. Understand?” 

Connor wasn’t sure he did, but he nodded anyway. The fear that settled in his gut couldn’t be moved, but what if…? 

Angelus released Connor as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, and continued on his way to the plane. By the time Connor shook himself out of his stupor and caught up with his father, Clint was already handing the headphones over to Angelus. Watching from outside the plane, Connor looked not at Angelus, but at Clint. 

The human seemed just as frightened of Angelus as Connor was, probably for different reasons. There was something to say for job security on Clint’s part – none of them knew how to fly the plane, and it was improbable that they’d find someone in this jungle to do so. 

“Spike,” Connor heard Angelus bark into the two-way. Then there was silence, and Connor could only imagine what the other vampire was saying.

“I don’t care,” Angelus warned his grandchilde. “Don’t make me return there just to show you what difficult really is. The difficult part is: will I simply dust you, or torture you to within an inch of your pathetic life?” 

Angelus listened for another moment before making an impatient gesture with his hand and obviously cutting into whatever Spike was saying. “You have two days. I expect you to have a way to get to Buffy by then. Or find me someone who can. Tell Willow to get off her miserable ass, and find her sire. She did it once; she’s going to do it again. She’s inconvenienced us enough with her weakness.” 

Without a word to the pilot, Angelus stalked out of the plane and back towards their camp. The anger pounded off him with every step he took, causing more than one animal to flee the area. There was something scarier than they in the jungle now. 

“Dad,” Connor called, racing to catch up with the fast moving vampire. “Dad, wait.” 

Angelus turned to his son, murder in his black eyes, but Connor didn’t back down. He couldn’t lose his father as well as the only mother he’d ever known. So he let a smile slowly form, let his eyes show only the thrill of the hunt, the taste of prey. Didn’t let on the fear that even now roiled within him. All he let his father see was what he wanted to see. 

“You still have lessons to teach,” Connor laughed, low and malicious. “I think we should get back to them, don’t you?” 

Angelus paused in his automatic reply, checked his impulse to lash out and slit Connor’s throat. Instead he nodded, slowly letting some of the tension in his shoulders and neck ease out. Buffy was so good at that, her lithe hands always knew the exact places to massage, always knew the best way to ease his stress 

“You’re right, son,” Angelus nodded, letting visions of death and destruction ease him somewhat. Buffy loomed just to the side; a constant presence that drove him even as it beckoned him. Clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder, Angelus steered his son in the direction of their camp. 

“And the next lesson is silence.” 

“Silence?” Connor repeated, confused. 

“When there’s no noise to keep the mind occupied, then the imagination tends to run wild. And no matter what you do to provoke, to cause and to stir the flames, it’s never as horrible as they’ve already imagined.” 

Connor smiled, understanding. “And this Lesson in Silence,” he asked. “Who’ll be first?”
~~~~~~~~~~
Oz woke up in the middle of the night, growling. He couldn’t seem to stop the noise, though he desperately tried to. His stomach clenched in hunger, and he could hear the wolf howl within him. 

There was fresh meat out there. 

Standing quietly so as not to disturb Wesley, who finally slept, Oz carefully opened the flap to his tent. There was nothing there. He moved outside, breathing deeply of the night. Humans, demons, their lives and deaths. Fire from their meals, the sick tent downwind, and the birthing tent at the opposite end. 

Turning to his left, Oz allowed his senses to lead him. He didn’t realize that there were no guards securing the perimeter, that he walked, unscathed, past the boundary of their camp and into the jungle proper without seeing – or sensing – another being. 

Looking up, the wolf within him to broke free for just a moment, screaming in freedom and release, and absolute delight at the sight and scent and feel of it all. While the wolf rejoiced, Oz recoiled, nauseated; sickened by both the sight before him, and the wolf’s joy in that sight.

Tied between two trees was the guard Oz now realized he hadn’t seen. He was disemboweled, his eyes wide-open in terror as if Angelus had purposely left him alive as long as possible. Appalled, Oz stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the soft ground, eyes still glued to the horror before him. Sick, he retched into the foliage that grew riotously in the moist tropical forest. 

Falling to the side, weak and still nauseated, Oz closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory. He couldn’t look back, couldn’t see that man again. Time passed, but he wasn’t sure how much, before Oz willed himself to move. He walked back to camp slowly, his limbs feeling weak and clumsy. 

“Wesley,” he whispered, crouching down against the bed. “Wake up.” 

“Oz?” Wes asked, groggy. God, he was tired. “What is it?” 

“Angelus,” Oz said, doing his best not to breathe. The recollection of the scent, alternating appealing and appalling, still haunted him.
~~~~~~~~~~
“So easy,” Angelus laughed as he watched the camp scramble to take down the guard. They had only found the one, there were four others scattered around the perimeter they were so proud of. 

Beside him, Connor shared in his mirth, but was more cautious than his father. But then he was worried about two people, Buffy and Angelus. Angelus didn’t seem to care at all for himself, focused solely on Buffy’s safety and well being…on finding her before he lost it. 

Oh, this was ridiculously repetitive. Connor was tired of worrying, tired of seeing Angelus descend deeper and deeper into the abyss, tired of wondering when his father would snap and destroy the world. Destroy their family. He was close, but just how close? Connor didn’t know, he wasn’t that good at reading Angelus. Buffy was. 

Buffy. Swallowing past the knot at the thought of his sire and mother, Connor forced his attention back to the chaos in the resistance camp. 

“They know it’s you,” Connor laughed. “They keep looking out here as if we’re going to attack now.” 

“Of course,” Angelus was smug. “They think that this is a ruse to lure them out, when it’s so very simple to get them. There are no barriers, no walls to climb, no alarms to worry about, and no magick sensors. The only thing blocking us is their tents are home. But it’s outrageously easy to get past that.” 

Connor nodded, “Fire.” 

“Exactly. But then there’s the creative way, too,” Angelus told his son, laughing at the surprised look on Connor’s face. 

“How creative?”
~~~~~~~~~~
Fred looked at her lover from the safety of their tent. Gunn had insisted she stay indoors while they took down that poor man. Poor man…panicked, Fred sat on the lone chair in their tent.

“I don’t know his name,” she muttered to herself. “He lives here, he works here, he guards…guarded the camp, and I don’t even know his name.” She was hyperventilating by now, and tears leaked from her large, expressive eyes. She didn’t know his name, didn’t know any of their names. Not the ones who had died, none of them. 

“Worried about my own life,” she gasped, her hands going to her belly. “My baby. Oh, God, what’s happening?” 

Still gasping for breath, she didn’t hear Gunn enter. “Baby?” Worry colored his voice as Gunn raced to the chair. “Fred, what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know his name,” she wailed, clinging to Gunn, feeling his strong arms circle her, enfolding her in his safe embrace. 

“What? Whose name?” 

“That man’s,” Fred sobbed. “I don’t know his name!” 

“Gregory,” Gunn whispered. “His name was Gregory.” 

“Why is he doing this?” Her tears were unabated, and she refused to move from her position, half in the chair and half in Gunn’s arms. “I’m so scared, Charles, and I know that’s what he wants, but why is he doing this? He’s left us alone for years, and all of a sudden he’s terrorizing the camp!” 

“Wesley thinks that Ethan may be onto something, baby,” Gunn sighed. He hadn’t told her of the rumors Ethan heard, hadn’t told her of the many rumors circulating about why Angelus had chosen now to kill them all off. 

“What about Ethan?” 

“Buffy’s missing,” Gunn sighed. “He heard that she was dead, but since the world is still spinning, that’s unlikely. So we think she’s missing, and Angelus doesn’t know who took her or where they’re keeping her.” 

“So he’s decided that he’s going to wipe out a camp that can barely sustain itself, let alone actually foil any of his plans?” Fred leaned back, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. She smiled at Gunn when he gave her a handkerchief, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I love you, Charles,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he grinned. “As for why now, I don’t know. No one seems to. Oz has this theory that Angelus is going crazy, that he can’t live without Buffy, and so is taking that…whatever, rage, anger, helplessness, loss…out on the rest of us.” 

“So he’s just going to kill us all off one by one?” 

“No,” Gunn sighed, lifting Fred into his arms and resettling her onto their bed. Stretching out beside her, he added, “I think he’s building up to something.” 

“What about our baby?” Her voice was small, her eyes wide with fear, not for herself, but for Charles and their unborn child. 

Gunn had no answer for her. Kissing her, he held her tightly, whispering words of love and devotion as daylight finally penetrated the thick canopy overhead. The sounds of the jungle started, slow and cautious, but they were there. Not as numerous as before, but it was comforting to know that even that routine was there. 

Because Gunn had a bad, bad feeling that Angelus was going to get to them sooner rather than later. If Ethan was right, if Oz’s recollections were accurate, then Angelus was only going to get more vicious in his rampage. 

And they were very high on his list.

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