Premise: Begins on what should be the day after the events inAtS episode S1.8"I Will Remember You." Angel has to live that day over and over again. On the first day, he doesn't know what's going on yet. I stole the idea for this fic from the movie Groundhog's Day (or that episode of Star Trek where the Enterprise keeps blowing up, if you want me to be Andrew).

Angel didn't want to wake up. He didn't want his senses to begin processing and not smell her, to open his eyes and not see her, to sit up and put his hand beside him and not feel her there, not even feel the evidence that she had been there at all. He lay there in the hazy place between sleeping and waking and wondered if it would have been better had the Powers That Be left evidence that the day They had swallowed might have happened after all. Would it be easier had the kitchen table been broken, had the sheets been sullied with melted ice cream and his dried seed?

Probably not at that, he decided, and wearily opened his eyes.

The nice thing about ceilings, unlike every other surface and article of furniture most people own, is you can't make love on them. You can't look at them and remember her lying there, beneath you, or standing there, between you and the wall, or straddled there, in some funny position across a chair because getting a woman from up against a refrigerator over to the bed had never had so many stops on the way.

Angel closed his eyes again, threw off the covers, and stood up. He was good at tucking thoughts away, at sealing them off so he didn't have to deal with them, so he could survive. He was good at forgetting.

I'll never forget.

He padded over to the bathroom and turned on the shower. They hadn't gotten to the part where either of them had had enough of each other for her to announce she was going to the shower to wash him off of her—an explicit invitation to join her and put him back on her. They hadn't gotten to the shower, period. Angel was glad of that little respite. He would take what he could get.

He showered and went about his business, trying to forget what had happened—and what the Powers That Be had made not happen—yesterday. He had told Buffy to forget what they had had, to forget him, to forget the past three years. The least he could do was forget one day. He went to his closet to find something to wear, and scowled when he saw a black shirt hanging there that his mind told him shouldn't be there. He'd worn it yesterday, he thought. But then again, most of his clothes looked alike—something which constantly peeved Cordelia, which was one of the reasons he liked having them—and he could easily be confused.

Or his mind could be playing tricks on him because, as much as he felt he had spent a perfect day with Buffy, it hadn't happened, not really. Those tiny golden hands hadn't tugged at the fabric impatiently, hadn't torn, hadn't ripped until they got inside to feel the heartbeat skin to skin. They hadn't tugged on his waist band, or snaked beneath it, or touched him there; her eyes hadn't widened at the heat of him and her lips hadn't desperately tried to steal the breath from him that then, for the first time in centuries, he'd needed. She hadn't, in fact, touched him at all.

Pursing his lips, Angel selected something and proceeded to dress. When he was done, it was almost nine a.m. He heated some blood and sat down to drink it, knowing he should go upstairs. Usually he was up there by eight, though yesterday morning it had been more like eight-thirty. He'd come back from Sunnydale late the night before last, and it had taken a while to get his bearings. To brood, Cordelia would have said. Seeing Buffy on Thanksgiving had been far less traumatic than it could have been, but he had still needed time to recover.

But yesterday, seeing Buffy had been the worst it possibly could have been, and now he felt like he needed an eternity to recover. Cordelia and Doyle had understood when he had come up late after seeing Buffy in Sunnydale, and they had also understood when he had refused to talk to anyone after Buffy's brief visit. He'd spent the whole rest of the day shutting himself off and looking for things to kill, and that had been fine with them. They would understand if he came up a little late this morning as well. He wouldn't even need to think of an excuse.

Angel washed out the mug and went over to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling by the stairs. Instead of hitting it, he touched it thoughtfully. Cordelia had tried to mention something about a commercial for Angel Investigations yesterday, after Buffy left. When she'd seen the look in his eyes, she'd backed down, but Cordelia was stubborn. He loved that about her. It made her one of the best allies he could have ever chosen on his own—but most of the time it just annoyed the hell out of him. She'd said she was going to point a camera at him, and by the PTB, she was going to do it.

Angel used the punching bag to hold part of his weight, partially hanging there, thinking he should go upstairs, because there could be trouble. Doyle could have had a vision. If not, well, he could handle Cordelia, even Cordelia holding a camera. Maybe he would sit there and force himself to listen to her stupid ideas as punishment for procrastinating about going upstairs. Then he could come back down and punch the living shit out of this bag. He abruptly let go of the bag and set his mouth, decision made. It made him feel a little better. He headed for the elevator—and stopped.

Buffy.

It took a moment to catch his breath. He hadn't needed to do that in a long time, but he'd been breathing that day that hadn't happened yesterday—real, human breath. It'd been surprisingly easy to get into the habit, and surprisingly difficult to forget again.

I'll never forget.

She was standing on his stairs, and she didn't look happy. "Your . . . friends showed me down," she said simply.

"I thought you left," Angel stuttered.

Buffy stepped down the final two steps. "I just got here."

"I meant, left . . . ." He trailed off, and suddenly his hand shot out to still the swinging punch bag. He turned his back on her, using it again to help him hold his weight. "I can't do this," he said finally.

"You can't do this," she repeated, stepping closer, her voice harsh and disdainful. "What about me? You can see me but I can't see you?" she grabbed his arm and pulled, forcing him to turn her. "What are we playing?"

Angel jerked away from her touch, remembering what had happened last time she had touched him—except that what had happened hadn't happened. The Powers That Be had made it unhappen. And yet he remembered . . . .

His eyes scanned her quickly, unsure why she'd come back when he'd arranged to have everything squared away so neatly for her visit the morning before. "We've been over this," Angel said carefully.

"Yes," she agreed. "I thought we had. So what is this? Some new torment you cooked up for me?"

"I didn't . . . ."

"Didn't what? Come to my town? Follow me around behind my back?"

She was still talking about Thanksgiving, he realized abruptly. For the world, it had only been two days ago, but in Angel's memories, it had been three, and in Angel's soul, it had been a lifetime. And yet, the day after that—the next day, the day that hadn't really happened—was imprinted so freshly into his being that it felt almost as though it was still happening, almost as though he still needed to concentrate very hard not to pull her into his arms and begin to touch her in ways that could only have one ending. "I already told you I was sorry," Angel said slowly, very carefully. "What else am I supposed to do?"

He could tell Buffy was trying to contain her rage. "I don't seem to remember you telling me any thing at all. You didn't even feel that I was important enough to tell me that you were there."

"What is this, Buffy?" Angel said wearily. "Why do you keep driving it home? Like I said before, it's because you're important that I didn't . . ." He trailed off. If she couldn't understand the first time . . .

Buffy took a step back. "Driving it home?" she repeated incredulously. "Don't you think that's a little . . . unreasonable?" Her voice was cool, a clear sign that she was angrier and hurting deeper than she could bear at the moment. "I was dealing. Then you come and drive it home to me that you still get to control everything that happens between us, that you think I'm still in high school, that you think nothing's changed in my life since you left."

"Yeah, and you're acting really grown up right now," Angel said sarcastically, letting anger and frustration win out over the sweetness of seeing her and the confusion of why they were still talking about this. Buffy could be a brat—he'd told her so himself—but to return here and rehash this all over again displayed an immaturity that he did not associate with the woman he loved at all.

Yesterday, she'd been snippy and a little unfair when she had walked into his office, all hurt, all accusations, but after that she had shown both poise and wisdom—something that had hurt him and made him proud and made him want her more than ever, all at once. She had explained quite clearly why what he had done was something he couldn't do: he couldn't see her because it threw her. She had pointed out that even though she hadn't had a say in his decision to leave her, she would accept it, if he could hold to the decisions she made in return. Lastly, she had had the dignity to admit that she had needed help, and thanked him for it. She had proven quite eloquently that she was growing up, just as she said she was—yet another reason she didn't need him still trying to protect her. But she was still his girl, the hard, clear part of his mind told him, even after the turmoil of facing her after the swallowed day as if nothing had happened. She was his girl, and that—that woman holding her head up high and accepting she had to forget him because this was what mature people did—that was his woman.

This—this wasn't his Buffy, back again the next day just to make the same accusations she'd made already—for what? To make sure he felt guilty? To make him face her again because she'd learned it threw him, too? To whine about not getting what she wanted, because the mature course of acceptance she'd decided on was something she couldn't follow through? This wasn't his Buffy; she wouldn't . . . she wouldn't wear the same skirt two days in a row.

"I don't think I'm the one behaving like a child, Angel," Buffy was saying slowly. "I'm not here because my feelings are hurt—though they are. I'm not here because I think this can be in any way easy for us—it can't. I'm here because I know for a fact that this can't work if you try to be near me. When you are, whether I see you or not, I feel you, inside, and it . . . Angel . . . ?"

Angel was only half paying attention, his gaze focussed on the skirt. He'd only seen her wearing it for a few minutes both yesterday and the day that was swallowed, but it was definitely the same skirt. He would have noticed the garment right away had he not been so distracted by memories resting just under the surface of his every thought . . .

. . . pulling that soft white sweater over her head, nipping at the satin encasing her breasts and keeping them away from him, jerking at the lacey straps of her panties and hoping she hadn't particularly liked that pair . . .

He always paid attention to what Buffy was wearing. And wasn't wearing. It was the same skirt; he was positive.

"Angel?" Buffy said again, into the silence. The coolness was no longer present in her tone, replaced now with a slight tremor. Dimly, part of Angel was aware Buffy wanted to cry—he always knew just when she wanted that, and usually he was very good at preventing it . . . . Except the last time, he'd been crying too . . . .

I'll never forget.

"Angel, are you even going to look at me?"

Angel kept his eyes on her skirt and took a step backward. "No," he said slowly. "I don't think so."

Of course, it could be that she had only packed a few outfits for her trip to L.A., so few that she'd have to wear the skirt again—but that wasn't like Buffy either. The Buffy Summers he knew would have packed three bags for two nights.

Her clothes, her behavior—so Buffy and yet so not Buffy—could have any number of explanations, but there were a hundred times as many because they were only hours away from a Hellmouth. Some spells and demons had far reaching effects and powers, and there had been one—a particularly powerful one—who had taken on the shape of his victims.

No, Angel told himself steadily, resisting the urge to meet her eyes. Buffy was not a victim.

I'll never forget, she'd said.

And she'd forgotten. One victim, coming right up . . . .

A great darkness is coming. The End of Days has begun and can't be stopped . . . .

The idea that the First Evil was here in L.A. and haunting him in the form of Buffy was not so very far-fetched, considering what the Mohra demon had said, Angel thought. And the First had picked the perfect form to take, if this really was the First and torturing Angel was once again its goal. Having to face Buffy after what had happened on the day that was swallowed inspired just as much guilt as Jenny Calendar or any other of his victims. That day with Buffy had shown him what could have been his redemption, and thus what he could truly never have, even had his decision to have the day swallowed been different. He did not deserve the gift that day had promised. He did not deserve . . . anything.

"Angel?" Buffy asked again.

"Stay away," Angel muttered raggedly.

A crash, then a scream drifted down from somewhere above. Angel heard it and processed it wearily. Buffy's eyes widened, and then she was moving, taking the steps two at a time.

"Angel!" The yell was hoarse, desperate.

Doyle.

Angel surged up the stairs, faster than a human eye would have been able to see. First Evil or no, those were his friends up there, and they sounded like they were in trouble.

Angel was nearly abreast of Buffy when they burst into the office. Cordelia was locked behind the green arm of a Mohra demon, and Doyle, in his demon face, was viciously tearing at the arm. Cordelia, uncertain whether to be more afraid of the Mohra or Doyle, wouldn't stop screaming. Buffy lunged, but not quick enough—

Not quick enough—

For anyone of us that falls, ten shall rise—

And Cordelia was falling—

Falling—

Angel, leaping into the fray almost simultaneously with Buffy—though she was still closer—never knew how he got the words out of his throat. A little thing in the midst of the other millions of things that might have hindered his speech, but wasn't he still convinced Buffy was actually the First? Still, the words poured out, loud and crystal clear: "Buffy, smash the jewel!"

With strength that was superhuman even for a superhuman, the kind of strength borne of watching a beautiful, often frivolous girl you'd known since high school bend her neck in that way—Buffy jerked on the Mohra's sword, and, while it was still in the demon's own hands, used the blade to smash the jewel on the demon's forehead. There was a burst of white light, and Cordelia was dead on the floor.

Angel, who should have been on his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms, looked at the clock, and saw that it was only several minutes after nine.

To Be Continued . . .
Disclaimer: Lines stolen from S1.8 "I Will Remember You."