When Angel got back to the office, the coroners were there. An ambulance had come, but by now was obviously not needed. The place was crawling with police. Doyle and Buffy were giving statements. Angel saw Kate, and wondered when she would die. He cared about her, and he was certain by now that must single her out to die soon.

"How many are we dealing with?" Buffy asked, breaking away from a police officer and coming toward him.

Angel just looked at her, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he realized that Buffy thought he had gone to do recon, to check whether there were more demons coming. "I don't think there are any more," he told her quietly. "Or at least, not today."

"But there will be. And we'll find them. And we'll kill them. What was it?"

"A Mohra demon. Could be a problem. Prophecy about the End of Days. For every one that dies there'll be ten more. Something like that."

"We'll kill those, too. Know where they hang?"

He shook his head. "No. Is Giles coming?"

"Yeah. And Willow. And . . . Xander." She set her jaw in that stubborn way of hers. He watched her physically tamp down the pain in her eyes. "We'll get them," she said. "We'll stop this. I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. And no jewels. I want it to be slow. I want to feed them their entrails." She said all of this very calmly. "I want to—"

"Buffy."

"Angel?" Her voice was high, for the first time revealing strain.

He was uncertain. He still remembered what had happened when he touched her when the day was swallowed, despite the image of Cordelia's body burned into his brain. And he even still remembered that Buffy had come here explicitly to tell him to stay away from her, that being near him made the decision he had made too difficult to bear. And so, it was with infinite care and a thread of doubt that he said,"Let me hold you."

She was in his arms. He was struck again by how well she fit there, by all the things her petite body, mass of golden hair, and wildly beating heart did to him. Of course, he desired her, but it was so much more than that. Holding her was reestablishing himself, a promise of redemption, the memory that there could be hope in the world. Holding her told him that even though he had killed Cordelia he couldn't just collapse into a pile of dust. He had to go on; he had to fight; he still had to pretend he could atone, because this little Slayer believed he could, because this Slayer would never give up; because this woman was proof that there was light and beauty in the world worth atoning for.

"There's something I have to tell you," he said quietly, into her hair. Doyle had finished talking to the police, and was coming over toward them. Angel glanced up, and then his eyes flicked back to Buffy. His arms were still around her. "Later," he whispered. "What's the story?"

"Burglar," she said simply, her voice back to steely. "Wearing black. Masked, and medium everything. You were out trying to chase him. He got away."

Angel nodded, and broke away to talk to the policeman coming toward him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Buffy lead Doyle to a chair, and when she sat down beside him saw Doyle's hand touch her knee. He didn't know whether he was glad that she was there for Doyle or that Doyle was there for her; he only knew that he could not have withstood this had both of them not been there for him.

Angel told the cop the story Buffy had given him to tell, but paused when Kate came toward him. "I got this one," she said. The policeman looked from one to the other, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away. Angel stood silently and watched Kate take off her blue latex crime-scene gloves. "I bet you were going to tell him medium height, medium build, medium weight, and oh yeah, you didn't catch his face," she said, scanning his features.

"Actually," Angel said, "I already told him that."

"Anything you didn't tell him?" Kate asked, raising a brow.

Angel remained expressionless. "Such as?"

"I've seen you in action," she replied, looking him over and then looking back at the broken glass spread all over the floor. "You're pretty fast."

"He got away," Angel replied shortly. His gaze drifted over to where Doyle sat beside Buffy, Doyle's head in his hands. His voice was hoarse when he said, "I was downstairs when . . . it happened."

Kate touched his shoulder, her lips pursed in protest. "It wasn't your fault," she said gently.

The muscles of Angel's face tightened, almost imperceptibly, but he didn't turn to face her. Kate's hand fell away, and she turned her head to follow his gaze. She stared at Buffy and Doyle for a moment, then turned back to look speculatively into Angel's face. "I'll try to get us out of here as soon as possible," she said, turning away. "Give you guys some room."

"Kate," he said, halting her where she stood. She half turned back, her large, expressive eyes beautiful and bright. "Thanks," he said.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she replied softly, and moved away.

Angel walked over to where Buffy and Doyle sat, his large hand drifting down to cover Buffy's where it rested on Doyle's back. Buffy looked up at him questioningly. Angel's eyes flicked to the CSI crew, shaking his head slightly. Buffy nodded and stood. Angel lightly tugged on Doyle's arm. "We need to go downstairs," he murmured.

Doyle looked up, stricken, and followed them to the elevator.

"Alright guys," Kate was announcing, her voice drifting out from the inner office. "Let's get this ball rolling. We don't want to be in here any longer than we have to."

Doyle and Buffy were sitting on his couch while Angel paced his apartment. Suddenly, he stopped, and turned to them. "They're gone," he said, and all three of them looked up. There were no more sounds above them, and Angel could hear cars driving away. Kate had gotten the crew out in record time.

"I shoulda had a vision," Doyle said, gritting his teeth and pressing his palms hard into the sides of his skull. "Dammit! Why wouldn't it work when it matters? It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Buffy's mouth opened, but she looked over at Angel and bit back whatever she was going to say. Even though there were a thousand of other thoughts turning over in his head, Angel knew what she was thinking. Doyle didn't know her. He couldn't trust her, and so it was not her place to comfort him. It was Angel's.

Instead, Angel merely stood there, looking at Doyle. "He's right," Angel said. "This wasn't supposed to happen." Buffy's eyes widened minutely, and she turned to look at Doyle. Angel's partner—and . . . friend—lifted his head to look at the vampire. Angel turned his gaze away from those pain-filled eyes and instead focussed on Buffy. "But it's not his fault," Angel went on. "It's mine."

Buffy didn't say anything for a moment, but Angel knew her. This was the silence before the storm. "Now wait a minute," she said, as if on cue, her voice high and querrelsome. "Before we go assigning blame—"

"I'm not finished yet," Angel snapped, more harshly than he meant to, because he kept seeing the angle of Cordelia's neck in his mind, because a part of himself he refused to acknowledge was intoxicated by the pain in his lover's voice. "Something's happened today," he said, more gently, and Buffy shut her mouth. "Something . . . I'm not going to be able to explain very well."

"Try us," Buffy said quietly, and looked over at Doyle for confirmation.

Doyle swallowed hard. He just looked shattered.

Doyle hadn't experienced the death of a friend before, Angel realized, his dead heart twisting with pity. Oh, this was going to be fun, Angelus acknowledged, and Angel had to clamp down hard on a laugh he knew that neither Buffy or Doyle would understand or forgive.

Angel swallowed hard and looked at Buffy. He knew that she and Cordelia had not been good friends. He also knew that Buffy had had a grudging respect for the other woman's strength and stubborness. Most of all, he knew that watching someone you knew—someone you had fought beside—die when you thought you should've been able to save them ripped you up inside. It was enough to eat away a man's soul.

But looking at Buffy, at the way she converted rage and grief into righteousness, at the way she was going to face what was coming without blinking an eye and use all that hate to make the world a better place—looking at that was what Angel needed. It was all he had ever needed.

"This morning," Angel began, "when I went to get dressed . . . there was a shirt. I was sure I'd worn it yesterday, but it was there, hanging in my closet. And then you got here, and you were wearing that skirt," he went on, nodding at Buffy. "And I thought . . . Well, I thought you were evil." At the confusion in Buffy's face, he held up his hands. "But I know you're not," he hurriedly explained. "See, when the Mohra demon came—after he came—I . . . looked at the clock. And, according to . . . Well, he must've jumped through the window at nine o' two." Doyle and Buffy merely looked at him, and he looked from one to the other. "On the dot," he added, as if that explained everything.

There was a small silence, then Doyle looked from one to the other. "Mohra demon?" he asked.

"Here," Angel said, gritting his teeth in frustration and walking over to the book case. He pulled out the book of Kelsor and flipped to the woodcut print of the demon. "It's this," he said, handing the book to Doyle.

Both his co-worker and Buffy scanned the page. "Soldier of darkness kinda thing," Doyle said dully.

"They take out warriors," Buffy said, reading. She glanced up quickly at Angel. "Like me." She paused and her eyes widened. "Or you. You think it was—"

"After us? Yes."

"Is this what you meant by it being your fault?" Buffy asked softly. "Because . . . you lost me on the whole shirt thing."

"'To kill the beast one must bring darkness to one thousand eyes,'" Doyle read, looking up at Angel in realization. "The jewel. How did you know?"

"Because you told me," Angel replied, ignoring Buffy's question. "The Mohra attacked yesterday. We wounded it, and it ran away. You looked it up, and found the way to kill it. I went after it. You came too," Angel added, turning to Buffy. "You're the one who killed it."

"Um, Angel?" Buffy said, as if afraid to say what he already knew she was going to say. "I was in Sunnydale yesterday. And . . . according to Xander, you were in Sunnydale yesterday. And we were fighting vengeance spirit Thanksgiving guys. Not mutant ninja demon things."

"I know," Angel said. "I know it seems that way to you, but it's . . . not. It's just . . ."

"Maybe you should start from the beginning," Buffy suggested.

"Okay," Angel replied, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides in frustration. "On Thanksgiving, I was in Sunnydale. True. I got back late at night. I woke up the next morning, and went upstairs to the office at around eight-forty."

"But—" Doyle interrupted.

Buffy's eyes didn't move from Angel's. "Let him finish," she said tightly.

"You and . . . Cordelia were there," Angel said, nodding at Doyle, only stumbling over her name a very little. "She was . . . was telling you about—about Buffy and me. Wasn't she?"

"This morning?" Doyle asked. He looked stricken for a moment. That morning, when Cordelia was still alive, must already seem an age ago. "Yeah, she was," Doyle confirmed. "How did you . . .?"

"Like I said, I was in my office," Angel replied, not expecting him to understand. "And then you walked in the office," he went on, turning to Buffy, "wearing that skirt. And you were mad about me coming to Sunnydale. You said . . ." He swallowed thickly and glanced at Doyle, then fixed his eyes on Buffy again. "You said when I was near you you could feel it. And it threw you. And that's why I shouldn't come to your town."

Buffy merely looked at him, her wide, hazel eyes trying to process the fact that he had known what she was thinking earlier that morning, even though she hadn't said it, even though it wasn't something she had even meant to think. And despite everything that had happened that morning, Angel saw the ache in her eyes, saw that she wanted him to acknowledge what being around him did to her, that she wanted to hear it said back.

He couldn't. Not now, not when visions of her naked and under him were still so raw, especially now that he needed what those images promised so much, because her love was the only thing that could take away his guilt, take away the vision of Cordelia twisted and broken. "Then the Mohra jumped through the window," Angel went on hoarsely. "Buffy and I fought it, but we only injured it. Like I said, it ran away. I tracked it; I killed it, some of its blood mixed with mine. It . . ."

"Has the blood of eternity," Doyle finished for him.

Buffy's nose wrinkled and she finally turned from Angel. "What?"

"Says here," Doyle said. "It's 'veins flow with the blood of eternity.'" He looked up at Angel, bright blue eyes narrowing. "It's regenerative."

"You mean he'll be back?" Buffy demanded.

"Not that one," Angel replied.

Doyle was still looking at Angel. "It . . ." he began.

"Made me mortal," Angel said.

Buffy blinked. "What?"

"I was human," Angel replied, more loudly. "But the Mohra came back to life. You killed it—again," Angel went on, nodding at Buffy, "but I realized I wasn't much good to anyone as a . . . a . . ." Buffy was looking at him, and he couldn't bear the pain and longing in her eyes. He turned away, and forced the words out. "I wasn't any good as an . . . average Joe. So I went to the Powers That Be—and they . . . They swallowed the day."

"They what?" Doyle asked. "You went to the Powers That Be?" There was a pause. "Did I . . .?"

Angel swung back around, avoiding Buffy's eyes. "You showed me how to contact them," he said to Doyle.

"And you're saying they . . . what, turned back time?"

"Yes. They sent me back to before the Mohra demon came, with only me remembering what happened. Since we had figured out how to destroy the demon, I could kill it without ever touching its blood, without ever becoming human." Angel's voice almost broke over the last word. He wanted to glance at Buffy, but he didn't dare. He could smell the tears she was desperately swallowing.

Doyle was up out of his seat, moving fast towards Angel. Then he was turning away, then coming at him again, teeth grit. "If you knew what was going to happen, why weren't you there? If the Powers turned back time so only you could remember it, then you knew when the demon would come; you knew how to kill it; you knew we were in your office and Cordelia—Cor—Cordel . . ." His voice trailed off, choking.

"I did," Angel said thickly. "The Powers That Be returned me to the very moment the Mohra jumped through the window. I was talking to Buffy; the Mohra jumped through; I bashed its jewel with my clock at nine o' two."

Doyle's face moved through several expressions before he could speak again. "What?"

"I killed the Mohra demon," Angel repeated. "After that, I finished talking to Buffy. She said what she had to say and . . ." He faltered, almost glancing over at her again. "And then she left. You and . . . and Cordelia were safe," he said, turning back to Doyle. "We lived out the rest of the day, and we all went to sleep. But when I woke up this morning . . ."

"It was the same day," Buffy said, standing up, and finally speaking. "You didn't expect it to repeat again, so you didn't know the Mohra would be coming again."

"I should have," Angel said, still not looking at her. "I should have known. Folding time . . ." he shook his head. "It's bound to come with complications. I should have been prepared for anything. Instead I just . . . I just . . ." He trailed off, again seeing Cordelia's body in his mind's eye.

"But can't the Powers That Be . . . They swallowed the same day before, right?" Doyle asked, his voice gaining momentum. "Can't we ask Them again?"

Angel, unable to bear the eager hope in Doyle's eyes, looked away.

"He already tried," Buffy said softly, realizing it as she said it.

"But . . ." Doyle trailed off, his shoulders slumping.

"Something to do with paradoxes," Angel muttered. "I don't know. I only know I pissed them off, and they weren't about to do what I asked."

"So it's . . ." Doyle looked around. "She's gone."

"We might be able to do something," Angel said, hope lost to his voice. "Giles might be able to . . ."

"Yeah," Doyle said, sitting down heavily.

Angel could feel the weight of Buffy's stare grow heavier every moment he avoided her eyes. "Doyle," he started, "I'm going to . . . Buffy and I are going to . . . to talk. Are you . . . ?"

"Yeah," Doyle repeated dully. "Yeah. It's okay."

Angel, for the first time since telling her he'd asked to be remade into a vampire after being a human a whole day, turned to look at Buffy. The pain in her eyes topped anything he'd seen yet that day, and the demon trapped beneath his soul positively basked in ecstasy.

To Be Continued. . .

Disclaimer: Lines stolen from S1.8 "I Will Remember You" and 9 "Heroes"