Oz stood in the entrance to the mansion's courtyard and sipped his hot foul-tasting coffee. The rainy night had lifted to reveal a gloomy dawn. A light breeze blew fine pieces of soot and scraps of paper danced like dervishes. The air held the acrid odor of burning flesh. Oz decided not to speculate on the specifics of that fact.
Instead he was mentally playing yesterday on an endless loop, frame by agonizing frame. Willow researching in the library. Pause. Willow loading supplies in the van. Pause. Willow in his arms, her face flushed with sexual pleasure. Pause. Willow slipping into her seat at Graduation. Pause. Willow on her knees, a vampire at her neck. Pause. Willow dead. Stop. Rewind. Willow researching in the library. Pause. Willow loading supplies in the van. Pause.
Oz had slept fitfully excluding the interruptions of Buffy, then Angel, and finally Buffy and Angel together. The last interruption had prompted him to crawl out of the semi-comfortable bed and assume a sentry position in the hallway outside of Angel's room. Buffy had tripped over his sleeping body on her way to the bathroom. She had gently cupped his cheek as she pulled the stake out of his clenched hands.
"It's all right," she had whispered. "He's all right. Go back to bed."
Oz had been somewhat skeptical. "You sure? Cuz, if it's a choice between your homicidal boyfriend and the apocalyptic Mayor, I want the Mayor to kill me. Your boyfriend's got this thing about torture."
He had meant to make her smile. Instead, Buffy had begun to cry. Large salty tears silently rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the silk shirt she was wearing. Oz's instinct was to envelope her in a comforting hug. At the last moment, his brain had processed some key information: she's just wearing Angel's shirt.
Buffy and Oz had locked gazes as the same thought occurred to the Slayer. "Hugging would not be a good idea," she had admitted with a smile. "My 'homicidal boyfriend' is the jealous type even when he's not the Scourge of Europe." She had giggled and pecked her friend on the cheek before continuing to the bathroom.
Oz had returned to his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He had eventually fallen asleep only to awaken an hour later. Something furry had tickled his face. His first thought had been This doesn't smell like Willow's hair. His second, and more coherent, thought was Angel has rats? His third, and most sobering, thought was Oh, no, I'm changing again.
He had scrambled out of bed in a blind panic and tripped on one of its legs when he turned the lamp on. In the light he could see the fur on his arms and elongated nails. He touched his face and felt the whiskers that had partially sprouted. His transformation from human to werewolf was incomplete. For whatever reason, he was only half a werewolf or half a human.
He had walked into the great room to ask Wesley for a theory. The ex-Watcher was still sitting on the couch staring into the fire. Oz had moved into his line of vision, but Wesley didn't blink or otherwise acknowledge that someone was obstructing his view. As the teenager drew closer, he realized why. Wesley had died sometime during the night. His body was cold.
Oz had closed Wesley's eyes and entered the kitchen. What he really wanted was some alcohol but Angel had steadfastly refused to get any the night before. So Oz made a large pot of bad coffee, poured himself a cup, and watched the black rain fall from the sky. Eventually he would have to inform Buffy and Angel that someone else was dead. Right now, he just needed to breathe.
Angel pulled on his pants and grabbed a shirt when he heard Oz's soft knock on the door. He silently opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He was shocked by the teenager's physical appearance.
"Wesley's dead. You should probably tell Buffy." There was something about speaking the words that made the ex-Watcher's death seem more final to Oz. He took another sip of his coffee.
"How much of that stuff have you had?" Angel wrinkled his nose at the formidable smell.
"Not enough, apparently," said Oz. "It still tastes okay." His wry comment was met with a quizzical smile from the vampire. "Translation: my stomach doesn't have any holes in it."
"Yet," rejoined Angel. "I'll wake Buffy. We'll be down in a little while."
When Angel opened the door, he found a panic-stricken Buffy sobbing hysterically in his bed. She couldn't have heard us through the door. In a flash he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.
"What's wrong? What happened?" he repeated the words in a soothing voice as he stroked her hair. Something had scared her. A nightmare? Memories of yesterday?
"You. You. You. You weren't. You weren't here. I. I. I woke up. And you. You weren't here. Like. Like last. Last time. And. And. And it's raining." She hiccupped the words. Try a nightmare and memories. He could've sworn she was deeply asleep. Angel had not wanted her to wake alone again. He tried to calm her by rocking her and planting soft kisses over her face and hair. Nothing helped. If she didn't stop soon, she was going to be sick.
Angel didn't have a choice. He slapped his lover hard across her face. Her crying ceased abruptly. She backed off the bed, pulling the sheet with her, horror etched in her face.
"You promised," she whispered hoarsely. "You told me to trust you. You promised it would be alright." She searched frantically for a piece of wood, a weapon, anything to protect herself. As she backed into the wall, her shoulder bumped a painting. She ripped the canvas from its frame. Then she broke the frame to make a primitive stake. "Don't come near me. Don't even speak to me."
"Buffy, I'm not Angelus," Angel pleaded. Please believe me. "You were hysterical. I didn't hit you because I'm him. I just… You needed to calm down." He remained on the bed with his hands out in plain view. Buffy was clearly in shock. Still, with her bed-tousled hair and form-fitting bedsheet, she was also incredibly attractive. Angel unsuccessfully stifled his growl of desire and lust as his eyes swept up and down her body. His features shifted unconsciously. Trust me. He saw the determination in her eyes right before she threw the stake.